The Immortelles (10 page)

Yancy left her alone. On the second day of the voyage, Damita left her cabin and saw him standing in the prow of the ship. She took a deep breath and walked over. He nodded, saying, “We'll be in New Orleans by late afternoon.”

“That will be good.”

“It's been an unpleasant voyage.”

“It hasn't been all bad, and I thank you for coming with me.” He did not answer, and she leaned against the rail. “I can't stop thinking about my aunt. She was so good to me,” she said, describing some of her aunt's qualities.

Yancy said quietly, “It's hard to lose someone like that. I'm sorry.”

The silence continued, and Damita said, “I can't put the McCains out of my mind.”

“I've thought about them a lot too.”

“Esther was so happy. She had her future completely planned out. Now it's all over.”

Yancy studied Damita's face. He knew she was a girl with great vitality and imagination, and he saw now her will and the pride in the corners of her eyes. He was also aware of the clean-running, physical lines of her body. He well understood the reserve that had come between them since that day in the barn, and he realized it would always be there. “They were happy for a while,” he answered.

“But such a short while. What was it? Only five or six days.”

“I think it was longer than that. He courted her for more than a year. That was a happy time for them.”

“But still, Yancy, it's so short.”

Something was in his eyes that she could not read. He shrugged. “We don't have any guarantees.”

His answer was enigmatic. He himself was a man she could not understand, and abruptly she asked him, “When we thought we were going to die, were you afraid?”

“Of course I was.”

“I'm surprised. You don't seem to be afraid of anything.”

“You're wrong about that, Damita.”

Damita studied him even more carefully. “What are you afraid of, Yancy?”

“Growing old. Getting helpless. Being alone with no one to care.” He hesitated, then added, “What comes after death.”

Damita suddenly realized that she was afraid of those things, too. She said as much, and he nodded.

“I think most people are, but my mother wasn't.”

“Your mother?”

“After my father died, life was hard. We had no money, but she was a happy woman. She had a joy inside her I've never seen in anyone else. She went about the house singing songs about Jesus. I'll never forget that. And when she came to death,” he added, “it was as if she were going on a vacation. She couldn't wait to get on ‘the other side,' as she called it.”

“That's wonderful.”

“You know, Damita, I've met a few atheists. Some of them were pretty smart men, but my mother's the answer I have for them. I saw God in my mother.”

Somehow Yancy's simple words touched Damita. “What was her name?” she asked.

“Her name was Kate. I wrote a poem about her once—the only poem I ever wrote.”

“You wrote a poem?”

Yancy looked embarrassed. “Yep, I did.”

“I'd like to read it.”

“I don't have it written down.”

“But you know it.”

“Oh, yes, I know it.”

“Would you say it for me, please?”

Yancy was taken aback. “I've never said it for anybody.”

“I'd like to hear it.”

The wind was not strong, but it blew Yancy's auburn hair over his face. He looked embarrassed but said, “All right.” He stared at the sea and said:

When she was thirty-three Kate Devereaux slipped
Away from earth, and I was there to see
Her debut into immortality.
Death for her—a fine wine to be sipped
Before her voyage on a darkling sea.

So deep she lay in downy feather bed,
Beneath the handmade quilt I saw no form,
But lightly swelled the patterns cuneiform
Of orange circles squared in turkey-red—
Primly gay, her deathbed uniform!

First light, Kate willed away her best:
Husband, children, home, to God's defense.
And then her heart, in spritely cadence,
Drummed, then slowed—then settled down to rest.
So well she endured her going hence.

“That's . . . that's beautiful.”

Yancy saw that Damita had tears in her eyes. “Why, it's nothing to cry about,” he said gently.

She could not answer but dashed the tears away. “I think your mother must have been a wonderful woman.” The poem had moved her, and Yancy Devereaux had become even more of an enigma.
How could a man like this write words like that?

One thing turned out well: Word of the ship's going down had not yet reached Damita's parents. When she had appeared at the door with Yancy at her side, Alfredo and Elena had stared at them in shock. She explained quickly what had happened, and they expressed grief and sadness over the loss of Juanita, mingled with rejoicing that Damita had survived.

Alfredo had almost swamped Yancy with his thankfulness. When Damita had told him how he saved her, Alfredo hugged the young man, something neither his wife nor his daughter had ever seen him do. Elena also had taken Yancy's hand and kissed it in the Latin manner. This had embarrassed Yancy.

“You must stay with us for a time. You must give me a chance to show my gratitude,” Alfredo had said. And at his and his wife's insistence, Yancy had agreed to stay for a few days, at least until he could find a ship to Savannah.

In the days that followed, Damita felt an almost crippling discomfort when she was near Yancy. She had insisted that her father give him a reward, which Alfredo tried to do, but Yancy firmly refused it.

No ship was headed for Savannah for five days, and during those days, Damita saw a great deal of the tall visitor she had brought into their lives. She saw how quickly her mother and father accepted him. They told her separately they were shocked that an American could be so nice. Elena said, “Why, with a little training in manners, he could pass for one of us.”

Damita smiled. “I doubt he would like to do that, Mother.”

Damita also noticed how well Yancy got along with the servants. Within a day's time, he knew each one of them by name and most of their histories. He had become a favorite of Ernestine, the cook, and also of Dolores Aznar, the housekeeper.

Damita noticed more than once that Charissa seemed to be taken with Yancy. She once saw them sitting together in the kitchen, cracking pecans, and when she entered, Yancy said, “We're going to make some pralines. Charissa's going to show me how.”

“I'm sure she makes very good ones.”

“We have a lot in common, Charissa and I. We've both picked lots of cotton, haven't we, Charissa?”

“Yes, we have,” Charissa said, smiling at him. “I've picked enough to last me a lifetime.”

“So have I. I'd rather make pralines with a pretty girl anytime.”

Something about the scene had disturbed Damita. She could not put her finger on it, but she filed it away in her mind.

On the day before he was to leave, Yancy visited the garden market with Charissa. He helped her carry the packages back, and the two deposited the groceries in the kitchen with Ernestine. Then they went outside to the courtyard, where Charissa asked him to tell her what life was like where he grew up in Virginia.

The two of them stood beside a wall, and Yancy began to describe bear hunting to her. Charissa's eyes glowed as he talked.

“One time, my friend Ed and I were hunting bear, and we hadn't had any luck tracking one at all. Then suddenly, one came roaring out of nowhere. He reached out just like this, and he grabbed me, and I knew I was a goner.”

To illustrate his point, Yancy put his arms around Charissa. “He had big, long, white teeth, and I just knew he was going to bite my head off.”

“What are you doing?”

Yancy turned and saw that Damita had come out into the courtyard. He stepped back and smiled. “Why, I was just telling Charissa—”

“I could see what you were doing. Mr. Devereaux, I would appreciate it if you would not trouble the female servants.”

“He was just telling me a story,” Charissa said.

“You keep out of this, Rissa.”

“My name is Charissa.”

“You be quiet, or I'll have you whipped!”

“You've done it before, haven't you?” Charissa stared at her mistress for a moment, then turned and walked away, her back stiff.

Yancy glared at Damita. “You had that girl beaten?”

“That's none of your business.”

Yancy's smile had disappeared. “That's your way, isn't it? Somebody doesn't do what you like, you have them punished! If you don't own them, then you take it out in other ways. You're nothing but a spoiled brat, Damita! Other people who went down on that ship were more fit to live than you are.” He walked briskly out of the courtyard and back into the house.

Damita stood silently. She began to tremble and turned to go talk to Charissa, but she knew that would be useless. She looked at the door into which Yancy had disappeared.
It's all his fault,
she thought angrily.
Everything he does hurts me somehow. I'll never have anything to do with another Kaintock as long as I live!

PART TWO
• SPRING 1832 •
Charissa

Chapter seven

From the surgical viewing area, Dr. Aaron Goldman watched the operation that took place below him with avid interest. He was a small man with coal-black hair despite his sixty years, and he exuded a certain elegance. All of the other doctors who had gathered to watch the operation wore black, but Goldman gave the Prince Albert coat he wore a special sort of dignity. He ran his hand over his hair, then shook his head in wonder. Turning to the man who sat beside him, he said, “Dr. Pryor,
that
is what I call a fine piece of work.”

John Pryor was much younger. He was also much larger. As the two stood up to leave, he towered over Goldman. He took one more look at the patient being wheeled out and at the surgeon walking toward the door of the operating room. “I've never seen a better man with a knife,” he admitted. Pryor was a broad, tall man with blunt features, red hair, and direct brown eyes. He wore a beard and now he stroked it thoughtfully. “He's very young to be so good.”

“Yes, he's only twenty-six. Come along. Let's be on our way,” Goldman said. “I want to find out how his father's doing.”

“You know the family, then?”

“Yes, his father is Irving Whitman. I've known him since we were young men in medical school together.” He turned, and the two men joined the others filing out of the balcony that circled the operating room. They made their way into the hall, and as they turned toward the stairs, Pryor asked, “What sort of training did he have, Dr. Goldman?”

“His father is one of the finest physicians I've ever known—a skillful surgeon and all-around physician. His wife died years ago, and they never had any children. Irving missed her terribly. We were afraid, for a while, that he might take his own life, his loss so devastated him. I don't know how he ran across him, but he adopted this boy and named him Jefferson. The two were inseparable, and I suppose Jeff just soaked up everything his father taught him. He's a bright young man with a brilliant future.”

“Will he stay here in the hospital?”

“I suppose he will. His father is very closely tied to this place. Oh, there he is. Come on, I want you to meet him.”

Pryor hurried along with Aaron Goldman, who walked fast for a man his age. As they approached the young physician, Pryor studied him and thought,
Well, he'll never take any prizes for beauty
. He waited as Goldman approached first, and the young surgeon turned to greet him. Jefferson's eyes lit up with pleasure as he shook hands with the older man. Jefferson had coarse black hair and expressive brown eyes and was quite tall: six feet, three inches, Pryor guessed. There was nothing fine about the tall, lanky body, or the face itself. Whitman's face was craggy, with deep-set eyes, high cheekbones, and hollow cheeks. He was very lean, but when he was introduced and Pryor took his hand, he felt the strength of the young man's grasp.

“How's your father, Jefferson?”

“Not much improved, I'm afraid, Dr. Goldman. He has his good days and his bad ones.”

“I was hoping he'd gotten better. Does he go out at all?” Goldman asked.

“Yes, sir. On his better days, I take him riding in the carriage. Sometimes we walk a little, if the weather's fine. Last week was good for him, but now he's very weak.”

“Give him my best wishes, and tell him I'll be by to see him later this week, to beat him at chess again.”

A smile spread across Whitman's face. “I don't think you've beaten him in fifty years—at least, so he tells it.”

“I let him win just to make him feel better,” Goldman said, his eyes sparkling. “Say, that was a fine job you did in there.”

“Thank you, Dr. Goldman. I'll look forward to your visit.”

Whitman departed, and John Pryor murmured, “He doesn't look like a doctor, does he?”

“No, he looks more like an outdoorsman, which he is, as a matter of fact. He loves hunting and fishing and goes every chance he gets.”

“He's an amazing surgeon, if what I saw was any sample, and I suppose he has a good thing here with his father's influence.”

Goldman shook his head and said firmly, “Jefferson Whitman's made his own way. His father may have had some input in getting him into this hospital, but the rest he did on his own. He's a fine young fellow.”

Spring of 1832 brought St. Louis the mildest of warm, soft breezes. As Jefferson Whitman guided the mare to a stop beside the tall three-story brownstone, he waved at Marcus Stoner, the free black man who was kneeling in the garden that stretched beside the house. “Hello, Marcus,” he called out. “What are you planting now?”