Darkest Hour (23 page)

"You'd better go, Tottie, before Emily hears you in here and you get fired too," I said.

"I don't have to be fired, Miss Lillian," she replied. "I'm gonna leave this dark place and soon, too." Her eyes were full of tears. "I just hate seeing you suffer so and I know Louella and old Henry would just bust their hearts if they heard about it."

"Well, don't tell them, Tottie. I don't want to bring any more pain to anyone else," I said. "And don't do anything else to make things easier for me, Tottie. Things must be hard for me. I must be punished." She shook her head and left me.

Poor Miss Walker, I thought. I missed her, missed the schoolroom, missed the excitement of learning, but I also knew how horrible it would be for me to take my seat in that classroom and then look behind myself and see Niles's empty desk. No, Papa was doing me a favor keeping me away from school, I thought, and prayed he wouldn't cause Miss Walker to lose her job.

But a storm of economic troubles caused Papa to forget everything else, including the threats he made to Miss Walker. A few days later, Papa had to appear in court because he was being sued by one of our creditors for his failure to pay his debt. For the first time ever, there was a real possibility The Meadows might be lost. The crisis was the sole topic of conversation on the grounds and in the house. Everyone was on pins and needles awaiting the outcome. The end result was Papa had to do something he had feared most—he had to sell off a piece of The Meadows and he even had to auction off some of our farm equipment.

The loss of a part of the plantation, even a small part, was something Papa could hardly face. It changed him dramatically. He no longer walked as tall or as confidently and arrogantly. Instead, he lowered his head when he entered his office as if he was ashamed to face the portraits of his father and grand-father. The Meadows had survived the worst thing any Southern plantation had to confront—the Civil War—but it couldn't survive its economic problems.

Papa's drinking increased. I almost never saw him without a glass of whiskey in his hand or beside him on his desk. He always reeked of the odor. I would hear his ponderous footsteps at night when he finally came up from his office work. He would plod along the corridor, pause at my door, sometimes for nearly a minute, and then plod on. One night, he walked into a table and knocked over a lamp. I heard it crash to the floor, but I was too afraid to open my door and look out. I heard him curse and then stumble on.

No one mentioned Papa's whiskey drinking, although everyone knew about it. Even Emily ignored or excused it. One time he returned from a business trip so drunk he had to be escorted up to his room by Charles, and one morning Vera and Tottie found him sprawled on the floor by his desk, sleeping off a drunken stupor, but no one dared criticize him.

Of course, Mamma never noticed, or if she did, she pretended it wasn't happening. Drinking usually made Papa even meaner. It was as though the bourbon nudged all the monsters sleeping in his mind and caused them to rage. There was the night he went wild and broke things in his office and there was the night we all heard him shouting and thought he was fighting with someone. The someone turned out to be the portrait of his father, who, we heard him say, had accused him of being a bad businessman.

One dreadful night after Papa had been drinking in his office and going over his papers, he started up the stairway, pulling himself along the balustrade until he reached the upstairs landing, but once there, he released his grip on the banister and teetered until he lost his balance and went rolling head over heels down the stairway, crashing to the floor with such a bang, the house shook. Everyone came rushing out of their rooms, everyone except Mamma that is.

There was Papa sprawled out below, moaning and groaning. His right leg was twisted so far under him, it looked as if it had snapped off. Charles had to get help to lift Papa from the floor, but the moment they touched his leg, he howled with pain and they left him there until the doctor was sent for.

Papa had broken his leg just above the knee. It was a bad break and required weeks and weeks of bed rest. The doctor set the cast and Papa was carried up, but because he would require special attention and needed the added room, he was placed in the bedroom beside his and Mamma's rooms.

I stood by Mamma, who stood there twisting her silk handkerchief and saying over and over, "Oh my, what will we do, what will we do?"

"He'll be in some pain for a while," the doctor told all of us, "and he needs to be kept quiet. I'll stop by from time to time to look in on him."

Mamma quickly retreated to her suite and Emily went in to see to Papa.

I couldn't imagine Papa confined to a bed. Sure enough, when he awoke and realized all that had occurred, he roared with anger. Tottie and Vera were loath to go in with his trays of food. The first time Tottie brought a tray, he threw it at the door and she had to clean up the mess. I was sure he and Emily would find a way to blame the accident on me, so I remained in my room, just trembling in anticipation.

One afternoon, two days after the accident, Emily came to me. I had eaten my lunch and returned to my room to read my assigned sections of the Bible. Emily hoisted her shoulders sharply, looking like a metal rod had been slipped down her spine. She smirked and pursed her lips, tightening her thin face.

"Papa wants to see you," she said. "Right now."

"Papa?" My heart began to thump. What new penance would he impose on me as a result of what had happened to him?

"March yourself right in there," she ordered.

I rose slowly and, head down, I walked past her and down the corridor. When I got to the doors of Papa's room, 1 looked back and saw Emily glaring at me. I knocked on his door and waited.

"Come on in here," he shouted.

I opened the door and stepped into the bedroom, which had been turned into a hospital room for him. On the table beside the bed were his bedpan and his urine bottle. His breakfast tray was on the bed table. He was sitting up, his back against two large fluffy pillows. The quilt was over his legs and torso, but his cast poked out on the end and side. There were papers and books beside him on the bed.

Papa's hair fell wildly over his forehead. He wore a nightshirt, open at the collar. He looked unshaven, his eyes bleary, but when I entered, he sat up straighter.

"Well, come on in here. Don't stand there like some little idiot," he snapped.

I walked to the bed..

"How do you feel, Papa?" I asked. "Terrible—how'd you expect I'd feel?"

"I'm sorry, Papa."

"Everyone's sorry, but I'm the one laid up in this bed with all that's got to be done." He studied me harder, his eyes moving from my legs up slowly. "You've been doin' real well with your penance, Lillian. Even Emily's got to admit that," he said.

"I'm trying, Papa."

"Good," he said. "Anyway, this accident has put me in a pickle and I'm surrounded by incompetents, plus your Mamma is of absolutely no value in times like these. She doesn't even poke her head in to see if I'm alive or dead."

"Oh, I'm sure she's . . ."

"I don't care about that now, Lillian. I'm probably better off she doesn't come around. She'd only upset me more. What I've decided is you're going to be the one to take care of me and help me with my work," he declared quickly. I looked up, surprised.

"Me, Papa?"

"Yeah, you. Think of it as just another part of your penance. For all I know . . . the way Emily goes on, it might just be. But that's not important now. What's important," he said, looking at me sharply again, "is I get good care and I have someone I can trust to do what has to be done. Emily's busy with her religious studies and besides," he said, lowering his voice, "you were always better at ciphering. I've got these figures to do," he said, seizing a handful of papers. "And my mind's like a sieve. Nothing stays in it long. I want you to add up the totals and do my books, understand. You'll figure it out quickly, I'm sure."

"Me, Papa?" I repeated. His eyes widened.

"Yes, you. Who in tarnation do you think I've been talking about all this time here? Now then," he continued, "I want you to bring up my food. I'll tell you what I want and you'll tell Vera, understand. You come in here every morning and empty my waste and you keep this room clean.

"At night," he said in a softer voice, "you come in and read me the papers and some Bible. You listening to me, Lillian?"

"Yes, Papa," I said quickly.

"Good. All right. First take this breakfast tray down. After that, come up here and change my linen. I feel like I've been sleeping in my own sweat for days. I need a clean night shirt, too. When that's done, I want you to sit yourself over there by that table and do the ciphering of these bills. I need to know what I got to pay out this month. Well," he said when I didn't move, "get to it, girl."

"Yes, Papa," I said, and took his breakfast tray. "Oh, and on the way up, go into my office and get me a dozen of my cigars."

"Yes, Papa."

"And Lillian . . ."

"Yes, Papa?"

"Bring up that bottle of bourbon I have in the left-hand drawer and a glass. From time to time, I need something medicinal."

"Yes, Papa," I said. I paused for a moment to see if there would be anything else. He closed his eyes so I hurried out of the room, my mind spinning. I thought Papa hated me and here he was asking me to do all these important and personal things for him. He must have concluded I was well on my way toward redemption, I thought. He certainly showed me he respected my abilities. With a little pride in my gait for the first time in months, I hurried down the corridor to the stairway. Emily was waiting for me at the bottom.

"He's not choosing you over me because he likes you any better," she assured me. "He has decided and I have agreed that added burdens are what you need at this time. Do what he asks promptly and efficiently, but when you're finished, don't neglect your other penance," she said.

"Yes, Emily."

She looked at the empty tray.

"Go on," she said. "Do what you were told to do."

I nodded and hurried to the kitchen. On my return, I gathered all the things Papa wanted and brought them to his room. Then I went down to the linen closet and got fresh sheets. Changing Papa's bed was hard because I had to help him turn while I tugged at the linen beneath him. He groaned and shouted with pain and twice I stopped, expecting him to strike me for causing him discomfort. But he caught his breath and urged me on. I got the dirty sheet off and the clean sheet on. Then I changed his quilt and pillowcases. When that was over, I fetched him a clean nightshirt.

"I need you to help me with this, Lillian," he said. He pulled the covers back and started to lift his nightshirt. "Come on now," he said. "I don't think you'll be surprised by what you see."

I couldn't help but be embarrassed about it. Papa was naked underneath his shirt. I helped him lift the dirty one off, trying not to look, but except for the pictures I had seen in his books downstairs, I had never seen a man's naked form before and I couldn't help but be a bit curious. He caught my glance and stared at me a moment.

"That's the way the good Lord made us, Lillian," he said in a strange, soft voice. I felt the heat rise into my neck and face and started to turn away to reach for his clean nightshirt, but he seized my arm so hard, I nearly screamed. "Take a good look, Lillian. You gonna see it again and again, for I want you to give me my sponge baths, understand."

"Yes, Papa," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. Papa reached over to pour himself some bourbon. He swallowed about two fingers of it quickly and then nodded toward the clean nightshirt.

"Okay, help me put that on," he said. I did so. After that, Papa sat back in his clean bed and looked a lot more comfortable.

"You can work on those papers now, Lillian," he said. He nodded toward them and the desk. I scooped them up quickly and went to the desk. I didn't realize how much my body was trembling until I started to jot down some numbers. My fingers shook so hard, I had to wait. When I turned, I caught Papa looking at me. He had lit one of his cigars and poured himself some more bourbon.

A half hour later, he fell asleep and snored. I put all the totals down neatly in his books next to the proper categories and then rose slowly and tiptoed toward the door. I heard him moan and waited, but he didn't open his eyes.

He was still sleeping when I brought up his lunch. I waited at his bedside until his eyes snapped open. He looked confused for a moment and then pulled himself up, groaning.

"If you want, Papa," I said. "I'll feed this to you."

He stared at me a moment and then nodded. I spooned the hot soup to him and he took it like a baby. I even wiped his lips with the napkin. Then I buttered his bread and poured him his coffee. He ate and drank silently, staring strangely at me all the while.

"I've been thinking," he said. "It's too much trouble for me to go shouting every time I need something, especially if I need it in the middle of the night."

I waited, not understanding.

"I want you to sleep in here with me," he said. "Until I'm able to get around myself," he added quickly.

"Sleep here, Papa?"

"Yeah," he said. "You can make a bed out of that settee there. Go on, see to it," he ordered. I rose slowly, amazed. "I looked over the paperwork you did, Lillian. It's real good, real good."

"Thank you, Papa." I started away, my mind full of muddled thoughts.

"And Lillian," Papa said when I reached the door.

"Yes, Papa?"

"Tonight, after dinner, you'll give me my first sponge bath," he said. Then he poured himself another bourbon and lit a cigar.

I left, not sure whether I should be sad or happy about the turn of events. I no longer trusted fate and thought destiny was an imp that toyed with my heart and soul.

11

After dinner that night, I read Papa his newspaper. He sat up smoking his cigar and sipping his bourbon as I read, and every once in a while he would make a comment about this or that, cursing a senator or a governor, complaining about another country or another state. He hated Wall Street and at one point ranted and raved about the power of a small group of Northern businessmen who were strangling the country and especially strangling the farmers. The angrier he got, the more bourbon he drank.

When he had had enough news, he declared it was time I gave him his sponge bath. I filled a large basin with warm water, got a cake of soap and a sponge and returned. He had already managed to pull off his nightshirt.

"All right, Lillian," he warned. "Try not to splash the water all over the bed sheets."

"Yes, Papa." I wasn't sure where or how to begin. He lowered himself to his pillow, put his arms down his sides, and closed his eyes. He had the blanket up to his waist. I started on his arms and shoulders.