Trouble's Child (11 page)

The service ended and the members left, their stares burning in Martha's mind. She walked home, shouldering her wounded dreams, wondering how she would ever redeem herself and leave Blue Isle with her grandmother's blessing.

Martha slept late. She woke with a start. The silence around her was like that in a deep cave, and for a moment she thought she was still asleep. Then she heard the Gulf, like the heartbeat of a giant, coming through the momentary silence.

For days now no one had come or passed close to their house. Titay would remain in her room most of the day. At twilight she would walk down to the edge of the Gulf. Martha grieved for her grandmother and wished she could undo the shame she had brought upon them.

Martha lay still, thinking it must be almost noon. Her mind told her that she should eat, but her body rejected food. She was full all the way up into her throat.
What a fool I was. Never shoulda gone that far jus t' see im
. She tried to bring back the warm feeling she had known when Hal gave her the mirror; to recall the sheer joy on the boat, but all that came was a feeling of shame. It had been so wonderful, and it had turned so ugly.

In her mind she saw Hal as he had been the last time she saw him—hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. The shame crowded in on her again.
How could he say he'd marry? He knowed I wanted t' leave this place
.

She remembered that he had said he would help her go away. But how could she face him again? Did he now think, like some on the island, that she was brazen, without manners, conniving? No, she could never look at him again.
How could I be stupid nuff t' think he liked me? Never shoulda gone t' the Gulf. Then nobody'd knowed how I felt and it coulda last foever
.

She sighed and looked at her rope-burned hands. The swelling was gone, but they were still a little sore. Titay demanded nothing from her, and Martha was grateful she could stay indoors, mostly in her own little room.

How would she face the cold stares, the ugly whispers and the self-righteous indignation of the women? She knew well what was in store. The silent isolation meted out on Blue Isle was worse than flogging. Maybe she should have repented, asked redemption and been restored.

Noise from nearby houses—the sound of singing mixed with the rattle of dishes being washed—let her know the meal was over. Martha turned out of bed and opened her window wider. Then she heard movement in the front of her house and footsteps coming toward her room. She scrambled back into bed.

A knock put her on guard. She did not answer. She raised up just as Titay peered in the room. The look on Titay's face forced Martha out of bed. “What is it?” she asked in dismay, taking her grandmother's arm leading her to the bed.

“And t' think I brung er in this world. She talk t' me like I'm a … oh.” Titay's breathing came in gasps. Martha had never seen her in such state.

“Who, Granma? Who?”

“That girl, Ocie. Called me a old woman … say I ain't got no order in m' own house, so I ain't fit to birth no baby o' hers.”

The hurt in Titay's voice shocked Martha. “What she mean, no order …”

“Tis that Cora,” Titay interrupted. “She'll midwife Ocie. All the women gather round er now. Her way is won.”

“Don't say that, Granma.”

“Tis true. Oh Mat, I'm old and tired.”

Martha looked at her grandmother. Her thin shoulders were covered with a worn black shawl. Wisps of white hair showed beneath her head scarf, messily tied. A rush of anguish flooded Martha. Why not ask forgiveness and go back to the rounds with Titay?

Her grandmother broke the silence. “Fogit yo way, Mat. Marry the stranger and take m' place. Don't let Cora put er way on this island.” Then Titay was quiet. The silence thickened. Finally Titay pleaded, “Say yuh do it, Mat … bring peace to us.”

Martha still said nothing. She sat, knowing they were miles apart. Her mind flashed to another time when they had been at serious odds. She was then almost twelve, being pressured to confess her sins and be born again. Martha did not know what that meant and would not confess. Then she had spent nights on the mourners' bench as if she were alone in the world, with prayers and rebukes around her. For days the women, including Titay, avoided her as if she were a leper. Still she had waited. She had to know that some change had come in her and in her world.

But that storm had passed when on faith she had been baptized and restored to the good graces of the island.

Now she felt the tears burning in the back of her eyes and stinging her nose as she realized that she had always been a thorn in her grandmother's side. What would save her this time? She could not rely on faith for she
knew
. She had not sinned. She had acted to save her life and the
Marraine
. That was good. She would not marry Hal. If Ocie and the women chose Cora to deliver their babies that was their right. She would leave this island one day soon, she hoped, with her grandmother's blessing.

Martha was so set on this idea that she was startled when Titay pleaded again. “Say it, Mat, say you'll fogit yo way and marry.”

“Granma, I don't want t' marry now. I wanna go way t' school.”

“Who fill you wid all this crazy notions? Where yuh git yo ways?”

“From m' own heart.”

“Girl, don't yuh know, you can be fooled tryin t' learn yo ownself?”

“Who can I go t', Granma, t' ast things?”

“Tis not our way, t' ast why or what be.”

“Ways change.”

“You done come t' a lot o' knowin all a sudden,” Titay said. “Whyn't yuh say you'll marry?”

“Cause they'll think me a liar. I didn't do nothin wrong.”

Titay lost her patience. “Yuh go gainst the island, be lone wid a man and say yuh do nothin wrong?”

“I saved m' life.”

“N played in the hand o' the wicked.”

“Aw, Granma …”

“Girl, don't yuh know yuh can't tear down the walls and the roof o' a house and the ceilin stay? If you don't marry that man you know what'll happen to yuh? Nobody'll want yuh. Who'll want sich a hand? What'll yuh do?”

“In time somebody'll want me fuh what I am. Things change, Granma.”

“You's a woman,” Titay shouted angrily. “That yuh can't change. A man want a woman that keep
his
way. And where yuh think yuh gon go? Mongst strangers?”

Martha said nothing. The only sound in the room was that of Titay's labored breathing. “Alone and lonely be fuh ole women like me,” Titay said as if talking to herself. “Mat, yuh young. Yuh needs arms fuh shelter.”

“Oh, Granma, listen, I heah you, yoself, say, ‘A woman who got no place t' put er hand fuh support, put it on er own knee!'”

“You say words in the right place, but tis doin the right way that count, Mat.”

“You want too much from me, Granma.”

“Tis too much t' keep the way? T' marry that man?” Titay sat still for a moment. Then she said, “Yuh know, you think yuh wise, don't yuh? But mind you, Mat, no one wise is wiser'n er own people.”

The silence in the room now was more ominous than any that had yet fallen between them.

In a voice full of tears Martha said, “I never thought mahself wise. I only want t' know.” She turned onto her stomach and covered her head in her arms. She fought to hold back her tears until Titay left the room.

THIRTEEN

Martha dressed carefully. Looking in her mirror she tied and retied her head scarf before settling on a style that gave her a carefree air. All eyes would be on her, and she wanted the women to know she had not lost the will to live. It was time that she got out of the house and it was impossible to live on the island and not see the women and their stares.

When she reached the path that led to the Gulf, the sun was already aglow and the dew fast drying. Martha walked briskly, not knowing exactly where she was going, just that she wanted to get to the water's edge.

She glanced back at the village and was caught in the peacefulness. The houses in rows looked asleep. Black iron pots for boiling laundry were cold now, with gray ashes almost touching their bottoms. A lone child in a white shirt, probably his father's, was drawing water from the outdoor pump and white smoke was rising, indicating the beginning of a fire for the breakfast meal.

It was a quiet scene that belied the feelings of fear and distrust that were now rampant on the island. Martha sighed and turned away, feeling remorse for her part in that fear and distrust. The women needed her for their midwife, but they wanted her only on their terms: just like them—happy keeping the customs of the island.

Martha hurried toward the water's edge. To her surprise, she was not the only one who had sought the comfort of the constant rhythm of the rolling sea. The man's back was to her and at first she didn't know whether to go ahead or turn around. If only he were farther up shore away from the trail. Then she could slip by in the opposite direction and indicate her desire to be alone with the swiftness of her walk.

She stood on the trail listening to the waves, watching him pitch pebbles out to sea with a fast hard throw. She waited, wanting to go closer to the water's edge. She hoped he had as little interest in talking to her as she had in talking to him.

Before she had moved, he turned to pick up more pebbles and saw her on the trail. The surprise showed in his face that was now a golden tan from the summer sun.

“Mornin, cha,” he called. “C'mon, I'm leavin directly.”

“Mornin, Beau,” she said softly as she approached him near the water.

“I often come early,” he said. “I feel close t' Tee heah in the mornins.”

A sadness flooded Martha. She felt ashamed that she had not realized that Beau would be as lonely and grieved as she was about losing Tee. She suddenly knew how separate men and women were on Blue Isle—and now she was uneasy because she knew if someone saw them there, it would be said that she had connived to meet him.

He must have sensed her distress. “I won't stay, though there is somethin I gotta say t' yuh.”

She lowered her eyes hoping that he, unlike the others, would not condemn her.

“Word is out yuh won't take the stranger in marriage. I'm glad. I loved yuh, Mat, since I can remember. I fear, though, you won't consider the likes o' me. But I still care.”

It hurt to have him talk this way. She didn't know how to respond.

He went on. “Have yo quiltin and I'll take m' chance.” He waited, then started toward the trail.

“Wait.” Her eyes on the sand, she said, “I don't think I'll have a quiltin. I don't think I'll marry … nobody, Beau.”

He started to walk away and she moved closer. “Please. Wait,” she said, still not looking at him. “I knowed you liked me, Beau, and I'm glad I got the chance t' hear yuh say it. I hope we can talk sometimes and be friends.” She looked at him. “Can we?”

The seriousness on his face eased into a smile. “Oh, cha, of course. We friends.”

She watched him until he disappeared. Then she walked along the shore, thinking that she had a lot to learn about the men of her island. She thought of Tee, who had dared suggest that she consider leaving, and now Beau, who, in spite of what some people thought of her, would take his chance when she presented her quilt pattern.

Then she remembered Titay's words:
Who'll want sich a hand? Where you go? Mongst strangers?

Beau wanted her hand. Maybe she should forget about going to school.
A man want a woman that keep his way
. What was a man's way? What was Beau's way? What if she showed her pattern? Would Beau's father let him bid for a woman who wanted to go on learning? She knew she would take her lessons as long as the teacher gave them. Would Beau laugh and find her crazy if she sometimes spoke like Hal?

The thought of Hal made her angry and Titay's words hit Martha hard:
Mongst strangers?
Would people away from here laugh at her? At the way she talked? At the way she looked? She ran down the shore as if to get away from herself and her confusing thoughts. She ran until she came to the path that led to home through the woods. She slowed as she neared the chinaberry tree. The loud talk and shouts of the women startled her.

“I don't care what y'all say,” Ocie shouted. “I know what Mat done.”

I jus don't want no Cora midwifin m' granbaby,” Gert shouted.

“Tis m' granbaby too,” Ode's mother said.

“And nobody like Mat gon touch this chile. She always thought erself better'n us,” Ocie said. “So smart, lordin o'er us. And so uppity with that stranger. They say she leavin Blue Isle. I hope she do.”

Martha wanted to show herself to stop the talk, but she hesitated.

“Don't talk sich trash,” Alicia shouted.

“She trash,” Ocie shouted back. “Let Titay say somethin t' er and see if she listen t' er own granma. Let Titay put er house in order. Tis like Cora say, Mat found somethin new wid that stranger, she'll never be tame. No man'll tame
her
.”

“Don't
bring
that Cora filth heah, no,” Cam said angrily.

“I ain't fuh fendin that Mat, no, but I don't talk bout Titay,” Ocie's mother said.

“Mat er own woman, yes,” Alicia said. “Titay can't take Mat's sins on her head, no.”

“You bes come t' yo senses, Ocie, girl. That woman Cora no midwife, no,” Cam said.

“And no old woman who can't handle er own grandaughter can't do nothin fuh me. C'mon, Mama, le's go.” They left, Ocie heavy with her unborn child.

Martha was too ashamed to let the women see her. She stayed on the edge of the woods, listening.

“I fear fuh that daughter-in-law o' yourn, Gert,” Cam said. “Cora ain't measure her yet, one time; she eat all wrong, yes. Nothin but sugar cane. No greens, no liver, no oranges. Titay make you eat all them things, yes.”