In Search of Satisfaction (15 page)

Yin was a young woman at thirty. Old for some in those times, but if you could afford to take care of yourself, pamper your skin and body as Yin had, a woman could still look good at thirty. “I am tired before I have even begun.” Her thoughts made her turn again. “On my own. I must do all my own thinking. Not with, but against everyone else. Oh, God, why am I alone? I’m not ugly. I’m not mean … and evil like some.” She sighed. “Why should I ask you? You may not even be there. And if you are there, you surely don’t even know me.” She opened her eyes. “I wish that priest Paul was here. He would know what I’m supposed to do. I want my house. My home. My own. My own everything!” With these sad thoughts in her mind, she finally drifted off into restless sleep.

Now she was awake early and her natural exuberance tried to overcome her sadness. She rose, bathed as best she could. Then she looked over her wonderful, fabulous wardrobe. She did not want these small town folks to think she had too much money, “They will charge me out of it!” A wave of emotion swept through her. “I’m alone, dammit! Alone, alone, alone, alone. I’m thinking against people I don’t even know. Where is somebody for me? Is he here? Is he here, or did I leave him behind in New Orleans without even knowing him yet?” Sitting down slowly, she felt sad and sorry for herself. Tears formed in her eyes and slowly rolled down the fresh, pretty cheeks. “I am not loved. By anybody.” Yin laughed a sad, little laugh. “Well, at least I do not love anyone. I don’t have that kind of pain. And I almost have a house.” The tears dried. She stood up again. “I am going to get my house! Now,” she began sorting her clothes again. “What shall I wear? Something soft and feminine, yet businesslike. Something muted or dark to imply I am serious. And very rich in feel and looks and value.” She clapped her hands together like a child, once. “I have just the thing … I think.” She opened a different trunk and found what she wanted. “And a hat! Yes, that little pert ‘you can’t beat me!’ hat! Dark, with a bit of no-nonsense
veil.” She was breathing heavily when she finished finding gloves, stockings and all the things she wanted to go with the chosen outfit, but she was smiling. “I got as much right as anybody to get out here and get what I want. I have to be satisfied, too!” She dressed and was gone with hardly a word to anyone but Mazel, who handed her a hot cup of coffee. “I don’t want it. I may spill it, and I don’t want to have to change.”

It was still early, looking like the beginning of a beautiful day. She walked, enjoying it. She remembered the way to the old Krupt house. With every step she said to herself, “I will do it. No matter what I have to do, I will get my house! I will do it, I will do it!”

The landscape around the Krupt house was in deplorable condition. Yin could have cried. Everywhere she looked she saw weeds, uncut bushes taking over the yard and lawns, a board hanging, a door off its hinge, steps broken, even some wood torn away, taken away. Dollar signs floated before her eyes at the thought of the costs. Hers!

The door to the house was locked, and she broke the lock with a rock. She went through the house touching and remembering. It had been a very rich house. Had been very well built to last. It needed work, but … She almost cried again as each room reminded her of times past. Josephus, her mother. “Oh, what has kept me away so long? Why didn’t I come back sooner to see what really happened? Oh, my mother, my poor mother.” Yin thought of the happy few days when other people looked after her. She went to her mother’s room, studying it a long time, remembering her childhood. Then to her own bedroom. Everything all over the house was covered with cloth and dust. Food left in containers, long dried up or mouse-tracked, ridden with dead bugs. It was a huge amount of work … and another huge amount of money. She did cry, but she stopped herself soon. “Even with the house like this, I feel a little bit secure. This is my home.” She knew she would have to do most of the cleaning work herself. “You bet I will!” she declared to the empty house. Then pulling the door to the yard closed, she left, walking down the same long road she had left there on with Josephus. “Well, I’m back.”

Thinking it being perhaps too early to try to see Mrs. Befoe, Yin decided to find the shack where the gold was. It was, in fact, uppermost in her mind. She took off in the direction she remembered Josephus telling her about.

• • •

o
n the same early morning, Mrs. Befoe lay in her bed thinking. She was feeling old and wondering where her life had gone. She didn’t ring for Minna, her maid, to bring her morning coffee right away. She just lay still. Her body felt like crying, but she hated people who were criers. Her mind kept repeating to itself, “I am alone.” Her mind began to go back over the past—all her life and what it had been.

b
ut now as she reminisced, a visitor was on the way.

The foliage surrounding the old Befoe mansion was lush and deep with years of closely attended care. Moss and ivy were yet everywhere, hanging from trees, sheds, even from parts of the house. There were many communities of insects beneath all the green beauty at this time of year—living, birthing, dying of old age. Some can live a long time if left alone, not sprayed or, if lucky, not caught by some predator.

In foliage very near the house was a young black widow spider—newly courted, newly loved and impregnated. She had just had a huge meal, her lover, and was sitting quietly on the earth. Before her ran a river of water from the drain spouts attached to the main house. Ahhh, she was so full. She was pregnant now, she knew. She should have been happy, but she already missed the closeness and attention of her lover. He had even brought her food while they courted. Well, he was gone now, and she must carry on alone, give birth to their brood alone.

The spider looked beneath the brush around her, watching carefully lest something catch her and end the cycle that was started. She looked at the wet end of the drain pipe and, for no reason at all, she decided to climb into the dark, damp inside. She must find a place to birth her young. She liked the dark, damp dirt, but she was sleepy and wanted to be away from harm, so she climbed.

She began the ascent, slowly, carefully, looking for natural enemies along her way. She could handle most, but a small spider a half-inch long had to be wary. She climbed straight up, zigzagged a bit, then straight up again. Past the first story of the house, she felt as though she had put in a full day’s work, and here it was all slimy, still dark and no
nest to sit in and wait for the birth. Then, too, the babies must be fed. I have chosen badly, she thought to herself. She looked straight up, thinking, how far does this hole go? Ah, but there, up ahead, was a shaft of light shining into the darkness of the pipe. With renewed energy, she continued her almost content but still hesitant ascent up inside the drain pipe. Her concern was that what might be up there could destroy her and her young.

When she reached the hole where the light shone, she crawled out, still cautious, through a rusty hole to the outdoors. She looked around carefully, thinking. Tall tree branches were there, no brush and just a ledge. Deciding to go on, she continued across the siding and up to the window ledge. The spider climbed to the glass. It was warm, ahhhhh. There were small chinks in the wood around the window and the paint was chipped. She darted anxiously into and out of the chinks, but the short tunnels ended before crossing over to the other side of the glass. In her excitement, she crossed over to the next window close by. Ahhh, this one was open, showing a huge tunnel. The plump black spider scurried in. Ah, oh! There was movement inside this space. A huge movement for something she had no name for, but she knew it could kill her. She froze. She did not realize she was black and easily seen in this white room with white curtains which moved softly in the breeze. Instinct moved her to a side corner of the wide ledge. She pressed herself into the darkness of the corner and, tired now, decided to wait, to watch awhile. To wait and to sleep. She was, she remembered, going to have babies. She must be quiet now.

As the spider sat staring at her, Mrs. Carlene Befoe began her day.

Old Mrs. Richard Befoe, Carlene, heard the sound of her maid quietly opening the bedroom door. The strong smell of her morning coffee filled the large bedroom in this huge, old house. As she had planned, there was no other sound to be heard. She had arranged that her daughter and grandchildren were in other, far parts of the house. Her son-in-law, Arthur, had long been gone. She did not like to think of her family until she was ready. Not to hear them was not to think of them.

She watched as her maid set the tray down with the usual “mornin, mam” and opened wide the curtains and drapes at the windows. Rising slowly because of hip pains, she moved her plump legs and feet over the side of the bed and held her hand out for her morning robe, which was at the foot of her bed within her reach. The maid stopped what she was
doing and, going to the bed, handed Mrs. Befoe her robe. There was no “good morning,” but the maid was used to that. Mrs. Befoe pointed to her desk by the windows overlooking the land surrounding her home. She wanted to have her coffee there. She liked to look at her possessions. She didn’t really see the true landscape; she just knew it was there.

A sunrise or sunset was wasted on Mrs. Befoe. There were beautiful mountains, as mountains are always beautiful, off in the distance—purplish-gray with the sunlight catching glints of the green trees growing richly on the smooth, graceful shapes. She didn’t see them either. Of course, she didn’t own them, all of them, but a little, a little. She did like to look at the river flowing about a mile in the distance. She was always glad she had not allowed her father or her husband to let the railroads come through here. It might be inconvenient for her, but this way she did not have to deal with all those dreadful people who would have come, too.

This morning the river was sparkling with the fire of the sun-filled morning. She did not see that either. She just knew it was there.

Without looking at her maid, she spoke in a low, steely voice, “Where is my cane? That damned thing is always disappearing.” The maid found the cane for her. Mrs. Befoe did not say “thank you.” She continued in her crochety voice. “You did not check with me to see if I would want anything different.”

The maid blinked with surprise and her eyes opened wide. “You never, in all the years I been here, want anything different, mam.”

“I know that. But I want you to check with me.”

The maid took a deep breath. “Does you want anything else this mornin, mam?”

“No. But I want you to check. Do your job. I shall wash my face first, you dumb woman. My coffee will be cold. I should have let my husband bring the railroad through here, then I would have more help to choose from and would not have to put up with such as I have.” She stood balancing on the cane looking at the tray. Mornings were the hardest on her hips. She would not use the cane outside of her rooms and not even there if anyone but Minna was around. She detested the age the cane indicated. “Here now, go back and heat the coffee again. I detest cold coffee.”

“But this coffee is scalding, mam. I saw to it myself.”

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes, mam.”

“Then, do it!”

m
rs. Befoe looked in her mirror a moment. She frowned, then sighed. Turning, she went to the bathroom built especially for her. Inside water. Even long ago. Her father, Carl Befoe, could get anything done anywhere. All it takes is money, he used to say. Someone, the maid usually, had to light the mechanism down in the basement for the water to be hot and turn it off after a certain time, but hot water right in your bedroom was a luxury in the little town of Yoville. A few of the other rich families had had the mechanism installed soon after the Befoes, using the engineer while he was there. “But we were first!” the Befoes said loudly.

Finishing her morning toilette, she returned to her room, yanked the bellpull for her maid to hurry and went to sit at her all-purpose desk-table. “Ahhhh, what I must endure!”

She seemed to be looking out of the window. Musing. But she was not looking out of the window. She was still looking into her life and those lives around her. The past. When the maid returned with her morning tray, Mrs. Befoe asked, “Is my … Mr. Befoe up yet?”

“Yes, mam.”

“Has he taken his medicine? Is he almost out of it? Is it time for more?”

“I don’t know, mam. I didn’t talk to Baily yet.”

“I suppose he is going to want to sit out in the garden and drink his … coffee.”

“Yes, mam.” The maid was through and wanted to leave.

Mrs. Befoe turned to her, “Yes mam what? You silly woman! See if he has taken his medicine, let me know, then leave me alone until I call you again! And see if he needs his prescription filled again.”

“Yes, mam.” The maid fairly flew from the room. She had been working for Mrs. Befoe several years now. They were not the slightest of friends. Mrs. Befoe wanted a French maid, but none would stay. “Putting up with that ole bitch and the isolation of Yoville. No men! It is too much for me!” were their parting thoughts.

• • •

a
lone, Mrs. Befoe sipped her coffee and looked at her room. She had sent for or brought back all this splendor from her travels to Europe and other far places. Her rooms were quite elegant and luxurious. Crystal lamps, Aubusson and Brussels rugs and carpets. Huge white furniture, glowing, gleaming from daily polishing over the years. Lace and satin coverlets and quilts, satin settees and deep, soft chairs. A white, marble fireplace, yellowed from polishing with poor wax, held a fire burning small but bright, for winter was just leaving and the morning chill still clung to the air.

In these rich rooms, in this rich house, a profound melancholy had long settled on everything. And almost everybody. Especially Mrs. Befoe.

t
he maid returned with the newspapers that Mrs. Befoe saw first every morning. “Mr. Befoe has took his medicine and I blive he is going out to the garden. Baily wasn’t sure if he needed more pills, mam.” Mrs. Befoe took the papers, looked at the maid and smiled, not at the woman, but at her own thoughts. Then she waved her hand and said, “Send for more of his pills anyway. Bring them directly to me. I’ll call you when I am finished.”