The Gilda Stories (3 page)

“Go on if you understand the words, stop if you do not,” Bird said with her back to the room.

She pulled the curtain aside and tied it with a sash, then fingered the small bits of pearlized quill stitched onto the leather band around her neck. Outside, the stableman was raking out hay for the horses of the evening visitors. Bird was pleased with the comfort she felt at the normal movements around the house and at the sound of the Girl's voice, which in the past year had lightened to seem more like a child's than when she'd first come. Bird turned when she heard a question.

“Tell me again of this
pox
please?” the Girl asked, pointing at the word on the paper.

“It came with the traders. They stole many things and breathed the disease into my people and sold it to us in their cloth. It makes the body feverish and causes spots over the body and many deaths.”

“Why did you not die?” the Girl asked, carefully matching her words to the rhythm she had heard in Gilda's voice, just as she often imitated her walk when no one watched. She wondered if Bird's escape from the pox was connected to the rumors that she and Gilda were conjure women. She had seen many oddities since coming to the house, but none of them seemed near to conjuring to the Girl so she generally dismissed the talk.

Bird stared at her silently, startled for a moment to hear the familiar inflections from the Girl. “When the deaths came, some members of my clan moved away from the others. My mother and her brothers thought we could escape the air that was killing us. We came south to the warmth to burn away the disease from our spirits. I was sick for a time as we traveled, but we left it on the trail behind us.” Bird ached as she spoke, remembering the brothers who'd become fearful of her when she'd fallen ill with the disease and then suspicious when she recovered.

In the end they were convinced she was a witch because she had survived. They chased her away from their small band into the night that had become her friend.

“Do you still have the spots?”

Bird laughed, and the small scar that lanced her eyebrow rose slightly. “Yes, there are some on my back. There is no more infection, simply the mark. Did you not have this disease before…” Bird's voice trailed off. She did not want to remind the Girl of past sadness.

“No disease with spots. Some fevers came, through the waters my mother said. Can I see your spots?”

Bird undid the tiny buttons at her wrists and down the front of her shirtwaist, shrugged her shoulders from the cotton dress, then turned her back toward the lamp. The Girl's eyes widened at the small raised circles that sprayed across the brown skin. She let her fingers brush the places where disease had come and placed a small finger gently atop one spot, fitting it into the indentation at its center.

“Your skin is smooth like a baby's,” she said.

“Gilda has a lotion she used to rub into my back when I first came here. It makes the skin soft.”

“Can I have some for my hands?”

Bird reached down and took the Girl's two hands in her own. Their fingertips were calloused in a way that Bird knew was not the result of the light cleaning and washing done at the house. She nodded and pressed the small hard hands to her face quickly, then let them go.

“Why white people feel they got to mark us?” the Girl asked, slipping back into her own vocal rhythm. Bird pushed her arms back into her sleeves as she thought for a moment.

“Maybe they're afraid they'll be forgotten.” She gathered the papers from the table, then added, “They don't know that we easily forget them, who they might be. All we ever remember is their scars.”

The Girl saw the deeply etched whip marks that had striped her mother's legs as she looked down at her own thin, hardened fingers. She remained silent as Bird put the papers into the wooden box holding all their lessons.

Bird wanted to tell just one more story, a happy one, but saw that the Girl, a meticulous worker, was becoming anxious. Her chores for the evening still lay ahead of her, and guests would be arriving in several hours. Or, Bird thought, anxiety might be her natural state.

The Girl left and Bird followed, locking her door behind her. Upstairs at Gilda's door she used the same key to enter. She opened the drapes slightly once inside its blackness, to let the twilight seep in, and then lay down beside the still figure. Even at its cool temperature Gilda's body had warmed the satin that lay over the soft earth. Bird didn't sleep. She watched the shadows, enjoying the familiar quiet of the room, thinking about the Girl and Gilda.

Bird enjoyed the days more since the Girl's arrival. She was grateful for her earnest curiosity and she saw Gilda responding similarly. Yet Bird was uneasy with the new way of things. Gilda was, indeed, more open and relaxed, but she was also less fully present, as if her mind were in a future none of them would know. When she tried to draw her back, Gilda only talked of the true death, how soon her time might come. Then they argued.

Even after their new routine had become old and their futures seemed secure, Bird was certain Gilda still held thoughts of true death but would speak of them to her only obliquely. When Bird asked her about the Girl and what might become of her should they decide to leave Woodard's, Gilda remained cryptic.

“She will always be with us, just as I'll always be with you,” Gilda answered with a smile.

“How can that be so?” Bird asked, certain Gilda was making a joke.

“She is as strong as either of us and knows our ways.”

“She's a child; she can't make the decision you'd ask of her!” Bird said with alarm when she realized it was no jest.

“We were all children at one time. And time passes. I expect she will be ready when I am.”

“Ready?” Bird responded, still not able to grasp the idea of the Girl becoming one of them.

Gilda understood Bird's reluctance and lightened her voice. “Yes, ready to challenge you, my dear one. She'll be the best student you've ever had, perhaps even a scholar. We will then turn Woodard's into a college for girls!” Gilda laughed loudly, steering the conversation away from anything Bird might pursue.

In remembering that talk, Bird decided not to broach the questions now, even with herself. She simply wanted to feel Gilda near, listen to the sound of her heart as she awakened. They would go out to find their share of the blood later, perhaps together, when there was darkness.

After her second year at Woodard's the Girl began to look upon it as a home. She had grown three inches by the end of her third year and had the rounded calves and breasts of a woman. Each morning she scrubbed herself clean with cool water before coming down to the kitchen and to Bernice, who had become accustomed to her solemn, shining face. She watched the Girl closely until it seemed to her that she had gained enough weight. And the women of the house teased her gently and asked her about her lessons. Most of them were, in spite of their paint, simple farm girls and sometimes liked having a younger one to look after.

When the Girl was not doing chores or studying with Bird she stayed to herself, working in the garden. Minta sometimes joined her there, her thin, pale skin hidden under a large hat. She was only two years older than the Girl, although she had been at Woodard's for several years and carried herself as if she had always lived in a brothel.

On Minta's twentieth birthday Gilda took her into town to buy her a new dress. Not an unusual event, but the party Gilda and Bird planned was. Everyone at Woodard's dressed for dinner that evening. The kitchen was filled with teasing laughter which continued in the salon late that evening. A few of the clients who came brought Minta flowers or small trinkets, but Minta was most pleased by the simple cotton blouse the Girl had sewn especially for her.

Pride suffused Gilda's smile as she watched the girls, all of whom were women now. Even her young foundling had become Bird's assistant in the management of the house. They all had the manners of ladies, could read, write, and shoot. Rachel, to whom Minta had been closest, left for California just before Minta's birthday, hoping to start a fresh life and find a husband. The talk heard most often in the salon now was about abolition and the rising temperatures of the North and South. Even at Minta's party the passion of politics couldn't be resisted.

An older Creole man, a frequent visitor to the house, was pounding the piano ineptly but with enthusiasm as a circle of women cheered him on. The Girl served a tray of champagne and stood by the settee near the door in order to listen for Bernice calling her to the kitchen. She placed herself so she would be able to overhear the many conversations in the salon.

But it was Gilda's voice, raised slightly at the other side of the room, that came to her. “I'll say this just once tonight. The years of bartering in human flesh are near their end. And any civilized man will be grateful for it.” She peered sternly at a pinched-faced man standing against the window. “You may discuss Lincoln's election in your own parlors, but I will listen to no talk of war in my house tonight.”

Fanny tried to turn the conversation to horses, a subject she was most familiar with, but two men cut her off. “Horses! Nigras! It's the same damn thing, more trouble than they're worth. I say we just ship…”

The man at the piano stopped playing.

“As I've said gentlemen, the only name on the deed to this place is mine.” After a beat of deep silence, the piano music started again and the Girl began to gather empty glasses. She backed out of the room with a full tray.

In the kitchen Bernice asked, “What that ruckus 'bout in there?”

“War talk.”

“Umph, men got nothin' but war talk. Like it more'n they like hoppin' on top 'a these girls.” She sucked the air through her teeth as she poured more wine into the glasses. She passed one to the Girl, and they both drank quickly.

Bernice looked more like her mother than anyone the Girl had met since running away, but she seemed like a sister too.

“What you think… if they get freedom?” Bernice asked as she slid her tongue around the rim of the champagne glass.

“We free already, Bernice. Won't mean so much over here, you think?”

“Gal, they's whole lot of us ain't free, just down the road!”

“Think they gonna come here?” the Girl asked, having a difficult time making the full picture of the world take shape in her head. The memory of the women and men, her sisters still at the plantation, made her feel slightly faint.

“Who know what they do. If they got no work, who know. With nobody to take care 'bout and nobody to pay them like Miss Gilda do us. Who know.” Bernice poured more champagne into their glittering crystal.

A surge of fear welled up in the Girl. “We gotta keep this place safe, Bernice, no matter how the war goes. They'll be people needin' to come here I 'spect,” the Girl said, remembering the smell of the dark earth of the root cellar where she'd taken refuge.

“Umph,” Bernice said, letting her voice drop slightly, “we keep our eye out, maybe some folks need to take to root, if you knows what I mean. Me an' you can do that. I been figurin' on something like that. It's not the war, it's the freedom we got to keep our eye on.”

“I remember how to do that,” the Girl said, taking the last sip from her glass.

As the Girl hurried back into the salon Minta stopped her at the door, taking two glasses from the tray and setting one behind her on the mantle. She whispered in the Girl's ear conspiratorially, “You'd think these gents would give up arguin' with Miss Gilda. She's stubborner than a crow. I can't says I blame her.”

“Why you say that? Don't you think there's gonna be war?”

“Sure, for certain sure. Just ain't no need talkin' it up. Be here soon enough. They always got to spoil somethin'. I'll be goddamned if one of 'em is gonna spoil my birthday!”

The Girl was full of questions but was afraid to ask them here. Sarah and Fanny came over to them, Fanny saying, “You gonna drink 'em all just cause it's your birthday?”

“If that's my desire,” Minta said, draining her glass with a flourish.

She turned on her heel, picked up her other drink from the mantle, and strode to the far side of the room.

“She's a terrible slut. I can't understand why Miss Gilda keeps her here,” Fanny said.

“Oh, she's alright,” Sarah responded, tickling Fanny under her breast. “You jes' jealous 'cause she got a special handmade blouse for her birthday.” Fanny refused to smile as she took a glass from the tray.

The Girl smiled shyly. “Aw, Miss Fanny ain't got nothin' to worry 'bout. She gets presents everyday.” Fanny tried to look remote and superior, but a tiny smile turned up the corners of her mouth.

Sarah threw her arm around Fanny's waist and pulled her away saying, “Yes, and if she's lucky I'll get to wear her new brooch this Saturday.” The two women, who seemed to the Girl not much more than girls themselves, made their way to the piano. Gilda and Bird stood apart at the far end of the room.

The Girl approached them with the last two glasses on her tray. “Miss Gilda?” she said in a low voice.

Gilda took a glass and gave it to Bird. Then she said, “You have that one, child.”

Bird tapped the rim of the Girl's glass with her own before sipping. She turned to Gilda. “I think we're ready to move on to French.”

“So soon!” Gilda was surprised and pleased.

“If we're learning one grammar, it might as well be two.”

The Girl's head buzzed with excitement. She was still shocked that she could put letters and words together and make sense of them in English and that Bird had been able to teach her to understand the words of her nation. Sometimes when they were shopping in town she and Bird confused the shopkeepers along Rue Bourbon by switching back and forth between languages.