The Gilda Stories Read online

  It was like the first time her mother had been able to give her a real bath. She’d heated water in the cauldron for what seemed like hours on a night that the family was away, then filled a wooden barrel whose staves had been packed with sealing wax. She lowered the Girl, small and narrow, into the luxuriant warmth of the tub and lathered her with soap as she sang an unnamed tune.

  The intimacy of her mother’s hands and the warmth of the water lulled the Girl into a trance of sensuality she never forgot. Now the blood washing slowly down her breastbone and soaking into the floor below was like that bath—a cleansing. She lay still, letting the life flow over her, then slid gently from beneath the red-faced man whose cheeks had paled. The Girl moved quietly, as if he had really been her lover and she was afraid to wake him.

  Looking down at the blood soaking her shirt and trousers she felt no disgust. It was the blood signaling the death of a beast and her continued life. The Girl held the slippery wood of the knife in her hand as her body began to shake in the dream/memory. She sobbed, trying to understand what she should do next. How to hide the blood and still move on. She was young and had never killed anyone.

  She trembled, unable to tell if this was really happening to her all over again or if she was dreaming it—again. She held one dirty hand up to her broad, brown face and cried heartily.

  That was how Gilda found her, huddled in the root cellar of her small farmhouse on the road outside of New Orleans in 1850. The Girl clutched the knife to her breast and struggled to escape her dream.

  “Wake up, gal!” Gilda shook the thin shoulder gently, as if afraid to pull loose one of the shuddering limbs. Her voice was whiskey rough, her rouged face seemed young as she raised the smoky lantern.

  The Girl woke with her heart pounding, desperate to leave the dream behind but seized with white fear. The pale face above her was a woman’s, but the Girl had learned that they, too, could be as dangerous as their men.

  Gilda shook the Girl whose eyes were now open but unseeing. The night was long, and Gilda did not have time for a hysterical child. The brown of her eyes darkened in impatience.

  “Come on, gal, what you doin’ in my root cellar?” The Girl’s silence deepened. Gilda looked at the stained, torn shirt, the too-big pants tied tightly at her waist, and the wood-handled knife in the Girl’s grip. Gilda saw in her eyes the impulse to use it.

  “You don’t have to do that. I’m not going to hurt you. Come on.” With that Gilda pulled the Girl to her feet, careful not to be too rough; she could see the Girl was weak with hunger and wound tight around her fear. Gilda had seen a runaway slave only once. Before she’d recognized the look and smell of terror, the runaway had been captured and hauled off. Alone with the Girl, and that look bouncing around the low-ceilinged cellar, Gilda almost felt she should duck. She stared deeply into the Girl’s dark eyes and said silently, You needn’t be afraid. I’ll take care of you. The night hides many things.

  The Girl loosened her grip on the knife under the persuasive touch of Gilda’s thoughts. She had heard of people who could talk without speaking but never expected a white to be able to do it. This one was a puzzlement to her: the dark eyes and pale skin. Her face was painted in colors like a mask, but she wore men’s breeches and a heavy jacket.

  Gilda moved in her small-boned frame like a team of horses pulling a load on a sodden road: gentle and relentless. “I could use you, gal, come on!” was all Gilda said as she lifted the Girl and carried her out to the buggy. She wrapped a thick shawl around the Girl’s shoulders and held tightly to her with one hand as she drew the horse back onto the dark road.

  After almost an hour they pulled up to a large building on the edge of the city—not a plantation house, but with the look of a hotel. The Girl blinked in surprise at the light which glowed in every room as if there were a great party. Several buggies stood at the side of the house with liveried men in attendance. A small open shed at the left held a few single, saddled horses that munched hay. They inclined their heads toward Gilda’s horse. The swiftness of its approach was urgent, and the smell the buggy left behind was a perfumed wake of fear. The horses all shifted slightly, then snorted, unconcerned. They were eating, rested and unburdened for the moment. Gilda held the Girl’s arm firmly as she moved around to the back of the house past the satisfied, sentient horses. She entered a huge kitchen in which two women—one black, one white-prepared platters of sliced ham and turkey.

  Gilda spoke quietly to the cook’s assistant. “Macey, please bring a tray to my room. Warm wine, too. Hot water first though. Not breaking her stride, she tugged the Girl up the back stairs to the two rooms that were hers. They entered a thickly furnished sitting room with books lining the small bookshelf on the north wall. Paintings and a few line drawings hung on the south wall. In front of them sat a deep couch, surrounded by a richly colored hanging fabric.

  This room did not have the urgency of those below it. Few of the patrons who visited the Woodard place—as it was still known although that family had not owned it in years—had ever been invited into the private domain of its mistress. This was where Gilda retreated at the end of the night, where she spent most of the day reading, alone except for a few of the girls or Bird. Woodard’s was the most prosperous establishment in the area and enjoyed the patronage of some of the most esteemed men and women of the county. The gambling, musical divertissements, and the private rooms were all well attended. Gilda employed eight girls, none yet twenty, who lived in the house and worked hard hours being what others imagined women should be. After running Woodard’s for fifteen years, Gilda loved her home and her girls. It had been a wonderfully comfortable and relatively tiny segment of the 300 years she’d lived. Her private rooms held the treasures of several lifetimes.

  She raised the lid of a chest and pulled out a towel and nightshirt. The Girl’s open stare brushed over her, nudging at the weight of the years on her shoulders. Under that puzzled gaze the years didn’t seem so grotesque. Gilda listened a moment to the throaty laughter floating up from the rooms below, where the musical entertainment had begun without her, and could just barely hear Bird introducing the evening in her deep voice. Woodard’s was the only house with an “Indian girl,” as her loyal patrons bragged. Although Bird now only helped to manage the house, many came just to see her, dressed in the soft cotton, sparely adorned dress that most of the women at Woodard’s wore. Thin strips of leather bearing beading or quill were sometimes braided into her hair or sewn onto her dress. Townsmen ranked her among their local curiosities.

  Gilda was laying out clothes when Macey entered the room lugging two buckets of water—one warm and one hot. While stealing glances at the Girl, she poured the water into a tin tub that sat in a corner of the room next to an ornate folding screen.

  Gilda said, “Take off those clothes and wash. Put those others on.” She spoke slowly, deliberately, knowing she was breaking through one reality into another. The words she did not speak were more important: Rest. Trust. Home.

  The Girl dropped her dusty, blood-encrusted clothes by the couch. Before climbing into the warm water, she looked up at Gilda, who gazed discreetly somewhere above her head. Gilda then picked up the clothes, ignoring the filth, and clasped them to her as she left the room. When the Girl emerged she dressed in the nightshirt and curled up on the settee, pulling a fringed shawl from its back down around her shoulders. She’d unbraided and washed the thickness of her hair and wrapped it tightly in the damp towel.

  Curling her legs underneath her to keep off the night chill, she listened to the piano below and stared into the still shadows cast by the lamp. Soon Gilda entered, with Macey following sullenly behind holding a tray of food. Gilda pulled a large, overstuffed chair close to the settee while Macey put the tray on a small table. She lit another lamp near them, glancing backward over her shoulder at the strange, thin black girl with the African look to her. Macey made it her business to mind her own business, particularly when it came to Miss Gilda, but she knew the
look in Gilda’s eyes. It was something she saw too rarely: living in the present, or maybe just curiosity. Macey and the laundress, neither of whom lived in the house with the others, spoke many times of the anxious look weighing in Gilda’s eyes. It was as if she saw something that existed only in her own head. But Macey, who dealt mostly with Bernice and some with Bird, left her imagination at home. Besides, she had no belief in voodoo magic and just barely held on to her Catholicism.

  Of course there was talk around most dinner tables in the parish, especially after Bird had come to stay at the house. Macey was certain that if there was a faith Gilda held, it was not one she knew. The lively look that filled her employer’s eyes now usually only appeared when she and Bird spent their evenings talking and writing together.

  Some things were best not pondered, so Macey turned and hurried back down to her card game with Bernice, the cook. Gilda prepared a plate and poured from the decanter of red wine. The Girl looked furtively in her direction but was preoccupied with the cleanliness of the room and the spicy smell of the food. Her body relaxed while her mind still raced, filled with the unknowns: how far she was from the plantation, who this woman might be, how she could get away from her.

  Gilda was barely able to draw her excitement back inside herself as she watched the girl. It was the clear purpose in the Girl’s dark eyes that first caught her. A child’s single-mindedness shone through. Deeper still was an adult perseverance. Gilda remembered that look many years before in Bird’s eyes when she had returned from her one visit to her people, the Lakota. There was an intensity, curiosity, and vulnerability blended together behind a tight mask of resolve.

  More importantly, Gilda saw herself behind those eyes—a younger self she barely remembered, one who would never be comfortable with having decisions made for her. Or with following a path she’d not laid herself. Gilda also saw a need for family that matched her own. She closed her eyes, and in her mind the musky smell of her mother’s garments rose. She almost reached out to the phantom of her past there in the lamplit room but caught her breath and shook her head slightly. Gilda knew then she wanted the Girl to stay.

  Answers to her questions slipped in among her thoughts as the Girl ate. She was startled to discover the understanding of where she was and who this woman might be. She set her glass down abruptly and stared at Gilda’s narrow face which glowed with excitement even in the shadows of the lamplight. Her dark brown hair was wound low at the back of her neck leaving her tiny features exposed. Even within the tight bodice of the blue beaded dress she now wore, Gilda moved in her own deliberate way. The brown cigar she lit seemed too delicate for her broad gestures.

  The Girl thought for a moment: This is a man! A little man!

  Gilda laughed out loud at the idea in the Girl’s head and said, “No, I’m a woman.” Then without speaking aloud she said, I am a woman, you know that. And you know I am a woman as no other you have known, nor has your mother known, in life or death. I am a woman as you are, and more.

  The Girl opened her mouth to speak, but her throat was too raw, her nerves too tight. She bent her mouth in recognition and puzzlement. This was a woman, and her face was not unlike her mother’s despite the colors painted on it.

  Its unwavering gaze was hard-edged yet full of concern. But behind the dark brown of Gilda’s eyes the Girl recognized forests, ancient roots and arrows, images she had never seen before. She blinked quickly and looked again through the lamplight. There she simply saw a small woman who did not eat, who sipped slowly from a glass of wine and watched with a piercing gaze through eyes that seemed both dark and light at the same time.

  When the Girl finished eating and sat back again on the settee, Gilda spoke aloud. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I’ll tell you. You just listen and remember when anyone asks: You’re new in the house. My sister sent you over here to me as a present. You’ve been living in Mississippi. Now you live here and work for me. Nothing else, do you understand?” The Girl remained silent but understood the words and the reasons behind them. She didn’t question. She was tired, and the more she saw of this white world, the more afraid she became that she could no longer hide from the plantation owners and the bounty hunters.

  “There is linen in that chest against the wall. The chaise longue is quite comfortable. Go to sleep. We will rise early, my girl.” With that, Gilda’s thin face radiated an abundant smile as youthful as the Girl’s. She turned out one of the lamps and left the room quickly. The Girl unfolded a clean sheet and thick blanket and spread them out smoothly, marveling at their freshness and the comforting way they clung to the bowed and carved wood of the chaise’s legs. She disturbed the placid surface almost regretfully and slipped in between the covers, trying to settle into sleep.

  This woman, Gilda, could see into her mind. That was clear. The Girl was not frightened though, because it seemed she could see into Gilda’s as well. That made them even.

  The Girl thought a little about what she had seen when the woman opened herself to her, what had made her trust her: an expanse of road stretching narrowly into the horizon, curving gently away from her; the lulling noise of rushing wind and the rustling of leaves that sounded like the soft brush of the hem of a dress on carpet. She stared down the road with her eyes closed until she lost the dream in deep sleep.

  Gilda stood outside the door, listening for a moment to the Girl’s restless movement. She easily quieted the Girl’s turmoil with the energy of her thoughts. The music and talking from below intruded on Gilda, but she resisted, searching out the glimmerings of her past instead. How unnerving to have stumbled upon them in that moment of recognition while watching the Girl eat her supper. The memory was vague, more like a fog than a tide after so many years in which Gilda had deliberately turned away from the past.

  With her eyes closed she could slip backward to the place whose name she had long since forgotten, to when she was a girl. She saw a gathering of people with burnished skin. She was among them. The spiced scent of their bodies was an aura moving alongside them as they crossed an arid expanse of land. She couldn’t see much beyond the curved backs and dust-covered sandals of those walking in front of her. She held the hand of a woman she knew was her mother, and somewhere ahead was her father. Where were they all now? Dead, of course. Less than ashes, and Gilda could not remember their faces. She couldn’t remember when their eyes and mouths had slipped away from her. Where had the sound of their voices gone? All that seemed left was the memory of a scented passage that had dragged her along in its wake and the dark color of blood as it seeped into sand.

  She grimaced at the sense of movement, the thing she most longed to be free of. Even there, in that mythical past she could no longer see clearly, she had moved nomadically from one home to another. Through first one war then another. Which sovereign? Whose nation? She had left those things behind sometime in the past three hundred years—perhaps even longer.

  She opened her eyes and looked back toward the door to the room where the Girl slept, smiling as her own past dissolved. She no longer needed those diaphanous memories. She wanted to look only forward, to the future of the Girl and Bird, and to her own resting place where she would finally have stillness.

  Again the music broke into her thoughts. For the first time in a long while she was eager to join the girls in the downstairs parlor for the evening, to watch Bird moving quickly among the rooms, and to listen to the languidly told stories the girls perfected to entertain the gentlemen and make the time pass for themselves. And when the night was edged by dawn she would gratefully lie down next to Bird, welcoming the weight of her limbs stretched across her body and the smell of her hair permeating her day of rest.

  During her first few months at Woodard’s the Girl barely spoke but did the chores she was directed to in the house. She began to accompany Bird or Gilda some months after, to shop for the house or buy presents for members of the household, which Gilda did quite frequently. The Girl carried the packages and straightened u
p Gilda’s suite of rooms, carefully dusting the tiny vases and figurines, the shelves of books, and rearranging fresh flowers, which she picked from the garden once she became comfortable enough to venture outside alone.

  Sometimes she would sit in the pantry while the girls were around the table in the kitchen eating, talking over previous evenings, laughing at stories, or discussing their problems.

  “Don’t tell me I’m ungrateful. I’m grown. I want what I want and I ain’t nobody’s mama!” Rachel shouted at Fanny, who always had an opinion.

  “Not that we know of,” was Fanny’s vinegary retort. Rachel only stared at her coldly, so Fanny went on. “You always want something, Rachel, and you ain’t coming to nothing with this dream stuff. Running off, leavin’ everythin’ just ’cause you had a dream to do something you don’t know nothin’ ’bout.”

  “It’s my dream an’ my life, ain’t it Miss Bird? You know ’bout dreams an’ such.”

  Bird became the center of their attention as she tried to remember what would mean the most to these girls, who were really women, who had made their home with her and Gilda.

  “Dreaming is not something to be ignored.”

  “But going to a place like that, next to the water—ready to fall in ’cording to her dream, mind you, not mine—is just foolish,” Fanny insisted.

  “It’s a dream, not a fact. Maybe the dream just means change, change for the better. If Rachel has a dream, she reads it. Nobody else here can do that for her,” Bird said.

  “Anyway, I ain’t packed nothin’. I’m just tellin’ you my dream, is all. Damn you, Fanny, you a stone in my soup every time!”

  The women laughed because Rachel always had a way with words when they got her excited.

  Occasionally Gilda sat with them, as if they did not work for her, chiming in with stories and laughter just the same as Bernice, the dark, wary cook, or Rachel, the one full of ambition. There were also Rose, kind to a fault; Minta, the youngest; and the unlikely pair who were inseparable—Fanny, the opinionated, and Sarah, the appeaser. Mostly the Girl kept apart from them. She had never seen white women such as these before, and it was frightening not to know where she fit in. She had heard of bawdy houses from her mother who had heard from the men who sipped brandy in the library after dinner. But the picture had never added up to what she saw now.