Destiny (26 page)

162 • SALLY BEAUMAN

white dress—"and countin' up on your fingers how many screws it took your mama to pay for it. ..."

"Shut your dirty lying mouth!" Helene sprang forward, but Priscilla-Anne was too quick for her. She ducked away out of reach of Helene's upraised hand. Into the cubicle. The door slammed; the bolt was rammed into place. From inside, Priscilla-Anne laughed a horrible nervous excited laugh.

"Oh, come on, Helene, don't get mad at me. Don't try telling me you didn't know. I mean, didn't you ever ask yourself why you never had a date? You must have known. Billy Tanner, okay. But what decent boy wants to go with the daughter of a slut?"

There was a silence. Helene stared at the locked door. She knew if she didn't get out fast, she'd cry, and if she didn't cry, she'd vomit. She got back to the table somehow; the room was a blur. Dale had another beer in front of him now; his handsome face was flushed, and he was laughing.

"Oh, come on. Tanner. You can tell me. I mean, we all know. When a man wants a good time—and I mean a good time—there's nothin', but nothin', warms him up like black—"

"Billy. Get me out of here." She spoke softly, but Billy had already seen her face and was on his feet. There was a little plastic tray on the table, and on the tray was the check. Billy fumbled with his billfold. Note after note; he hesitated, then added one more. The billfold was empty. Dale was leaning back, watching, a broad smile on his face. "You-all leaving us now? That's a shame. A real shame ..."

Billy leaned across the table. He was taller than Dale, and bigger. The smile froze on Dale's face.

"One word," Billy said softly. "You just say one more word, college boy, and I'll knock your teeth right down your throat. You got that?" Then he took Helene's arm, and they walked out.

They got a ride as far as Orangeburg, then they walked. Just before they reached the trailer park, Billy stopped. There was a moon, on the wane but still quite full. It lit the dirt road, and the trees, and the pallor of Billy's face. His eyes were glittering blue, as if he were angry. He didn't look at Helene, he just stared straight past her at the trees.

"It's going to change." He jerked out suddenly. "It's going to change. Someday soon. He can't see it. Most of them can't see it. But it will." He lifted his hand and let it fall. "He's been to college. He probably reads more books in a week than I get through in a year, and he can't see it. No more'n my daddy can, and most of the folks 'round here. But it will

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change—it's wrong, so it's got to, that's all. I didn't always think that way. Not when I was a kid. And if I said what I thought now, my daddy'd smash me in the face. But I think it just the same. I look around here—and all I see is hate. All I've ever seen is hate. Hate and fear. Everybody scratching, scratching, just to keep their little place on the heap, just to keep from slipping a little bit lower. I'm way down near the bottom, so I can see, I can see what it does to people. My daddy now. My daddy hasn't worked in thirteen years, and he drinks more liquor than is good for him, but you know what? My daddy thinks he's okay. Because he knows, whatever happens, he's a white man, so no matter what, he can't go down to the bottom of the heap. That's for colored folks. My daddy thinks he hates them, but he doesn't, not really. He needs them, do you see? He needs them, because they're the only thing my daddy has left, the only thing he can look down on. . . ." His voice died away, and he turned back and looked down into her face.

"I wanted so much. . . ."He frowned. "I wanted so much for you to have a good time tonight. I wanted, and I planned, and it got all messed up. And . . ."

"Oh, Billy. Hold me. Just hold me tight. . . ." Helene stepped forward blindly, and his arms came around her hard. She bent her head against his chest and the hammer of his heart, and she cried. It seemed to her she cried for a long time; cried for herself and her mother and Billy and his daddy; cried for Alabama, and for being fifteen years old; cried because the moon shone on, and the trees moved in the breeze. All the time she cried Billy never said a word. He just held her steadily, and rested his face against her hair. When, finally, she stopped, he lifted her face gently up to his, and looked down into her eyes.

"I wish you were for me," he said, his voice very gentle and very sad. "I wish I could believe you would be—ever. I've wished for it, and even prayed for it, for just as long as I can remember. And tonight—I'd planned on telling you. How I felt. I thought ... I hoped. But I was kidding myself all along. I knew it all the time, maybe." He frowned, and the kingfisher-blue eyes were like stars. "I wished I could see into the future sometimes. See what will happen—to you. Because I don't know where you're going, but it's going to be a long way from here. That I know. And I'd like for you to be safe, and happy, wherever it is. And I'd like to think you'd remember. Remember me. The things we did . . ."

"Billy?"

"I care for you." He took her hand, and held it, just for a moment. "Ever since you first came here. Ever since you were a little kid. You're beautiful. And you're special. There's no one else like you. When I look at you, it's like the sun and the moon were shining up there in the same sky.

164 • SALLY BEAUMAN

That's all. I just wanted you to know. It won't change nothing. I don't expect you to feel the same way. But I wanted you to know."

Helene bent her head. She felt the tears start up behind her eyes.

"You know what Priscilla-Anne said tonight?" She couldn't look at him. "She said . . . she said my mother was a whore." She forced the word out, and Billy's head went up, quick, like an animal scenting danger. He took a step forward, and Helene held up her hand. "She did. That's what she said. She said everyone in Orangeburg knew it except maybe me. All the men. She said ..."

Billy's arms came around her. "Never mind what she said. Put it out of your mind. She's jealous."

"I can't put it out of my mind. I'll never forget it. Not as long as I hve. And I want you to tell me. Please, Billy. I can't ask anyone else. I want to know. Is that the truth? Is that what they say?"

"Folks say a lot of things." He sounded awkward and embarrassed. "Your mother's different, hke you, and they don't like that, they can't bear that. . . ."

"Is it trueT'

Billy's eyes dropped for a second, and Helene felt her heart grow cold and still within her. After a while, Billy looked up. Then he stepped forward and gripped her arms tight. "You just listen to me," he said. "Listen. People do things—all kinds of things—if they have no money. If they're lonely. If they're running out of hope. You going to condemn them for that? I wouldn't. Because who knows what you'd do if you found yourself in their shoes? If you got desperate." He broke off. "She loves you, Helene. She's looked after you, the best she could. And no matter what she did—"

"But what does that make meT'

"It doesn't make you anything. You're you. You're the most beautiful thing I ever saw in all my life. You're Helene. And I think ... I think you could be just about anything you wanted. You understand? Anything." He gave her a little shake, then let her go.

"Come on now. It's late. I don't want you to cry no more. I'll walk you home."

They walked in silence through the trees, across the thin grass, past the other trailers, all dark. Then Helene gave a little cry, and started to run. The green trailer's door was open; light spilled out in a yellow patch onto the grass; the radio was playing, very low, and right from the little picket gate they could see her mother's body lying in a heap on the floor.

Billy was up the steps and into the trailer ahead of her. Helene stepped in after him, her eyes blinking after the dark. She stared around her stupidly, confusedly, then knelt. The trailer smelled of vomit. She hfted her

DESTINY • 165

mother's head gently, and the violet eyes opened, then closed. Her mother groaned. Billy was standing stock still in the middle of the tiny room.

"Billy—what's happened? What is it?"

"Liquor." His voice was matter-of-fact. He lifted a bottle from the floor. It was empty. "She take all this—tonight?"

"Tonight? I don't know. She doesn't drink. I thought she didn't drink. That is . . ."

"Here. I'll lift her." Billy bent down. His blue eyes met hers, and he gave a grim httle smile. "It's all right. She'll be okay. I know just what to do."

Afterward, Helene couldn't bear to think of the scene that followed, it was so degrading. Her mother's legs wouldn't hold her up, and Billy had to support her and hold her head. Somehow he got her outside, into the air. There were horrible retching sounds, and Helene covered her ears with her hands.

"You clean up in there meanwhile," Billy called in through the door. He sounded almost amused, quite cheerful. "She'll be okay soon. Let her get it up. Then she can sleep."

When he finally brought her mother back inside, Helene stared at her in horror. Her face was chalk-white. There were black shadows under her eyes. She smelled horrible. Her eyes were open now, but it was as if she couldn't see. They fixed on Helene for a moment, then on Billy, then on clear air. She moaned.

"I've fixed the bed." Helene looked at Billy uncertainly.

"Fine." He lifted her mother and carried her hke a rag doll into the bedroom. Then he laid her tenderly down on the bed as if she were a child. He turned her on her side and removed the pillow. Then he drew the sheet over her and tucked her in.

"Should I give her anything?"

"Nothing. It'll only make her throw up. She'll have a headache in the morning. You can give her some seltzer then." The grin faded from his features. He took her arm and drew Helene gently into the next room.

"She never done that before?"

"No. Never."

"Something happen to upset her, or what?"

"Nothing. She was fine when I left. I thought she was fine. She seemed very happy—oh, Billy!"

"Don't fret. It's probably a one-time thing. Maybe she just felt down about something, and you were out. She took a drink to cheer herself up, then didn't know when to stop. . . ."He was trying to comfort her, Helene could see that. She could also see the doubt and the unease way back in his eyes.

166 • SALLY BEAUMAN

"You want me to stay?"

"No, Billy. It's all right. You've got to go to work in the morning. I'll stay with her. Don't worry about me."

Billy smiled, an odd, crooked smile.

"But I do," he said. "I guess I'll always worry about you."

In the doorway, Helene reached awkwardly for his hand. She squeezed it tight.

"Thank you, Billy," she whispered. "For everything."

He didn't touch her. He didn't kiss her. He just went down the steps and out into the Uttle yard. Helene watched him in the moonlight, his tall lithe figure.

"I will remember, Billy," she called suddenly after him. "I will. . . . Everything you said. Always ..."

But Billy didn't turn, or look back, and so she never knew if he heard her.

When he was out of sight, Helene shut the door. Slowly she went back into the bedroom and sat down on her bed. She looked at her mother's thin shoulders, at the graying hair against the sheet, the pale face. Her mother was breathing heavily.

After a little while, her mother suddenly opened her eyes. She stared straight at Helene, though Helene thought she didn't see her.

"Oh, God," she said quite distinctly. "Sweet Jesus. What have I done with my life?"

Then she closed her eyes again, and slept.

Two days later, Helene was walking home from school along the Orangeburg road, when a big, black open-topped Cadillac came alongside. A man in a white shirt was driving; a white linen jacket was tossed on the backseat. The Cadillac came to a halt; Helene stopped. She ghmpsed a flashing smile, a tanned hand extended.

"Helene Craig. Well now. How do you do?"

"Hi." Helene took the hand, and let it go again quickly. "Major Calvert?"

"Ned. Call me Ned." Again the smile. "It's a long while since I was in uniform." He swung back the passenger door. "It's hot. You want a ride?"

Helene hesitated. Deep within her she felt something stir, a forbidden excitement, like a note struck against a glass, there and then gone. She had never been in a Cadillac. She walked around the car and got in.

He looked at his watch, a gold Rolex on a leather strap, then back at Helene.

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"It's early yet. You'd like to see the plantation now? It's a fine evening."

He spoke as if there had been no time gap, as if the past three years had telescoped, and the previous invitation had been made no more than a few days ago. He spoke as if quite certain she would remember it.

"All right." She folded her hands on her lap.

He gunned the accelerator; the Cadillac pulled away fast and smooth, and cool air gusted through her hair. She gave an involuntary cry of pleasure, and Ned Calvert smiled. Helene looked at him sideways. A handsome man, a real southern gentleman—that was what they said about Ned Calvert. When she was younger, she'd thought he looked like Clark Gable in Gone With the Wind, and she hadn't been so wrong, either. That very dark hair, drawn back from the broad, tanned face; the dark clipped moustache; wide shoulders; powerful tanned arms; a thick-set muscular frame; one gold signet ring on his left hand. The nearest thing to an English gentleman in Orangeburg County. Only she didn't beUeve so much in Enghsh gentlemen anymore.

"I'm forty-three years old." He was still smiling, eyes on the road ahead. "You're fifteen now. My, but it's a fine evening. Just drivin' along feels fine. Don't you think, Helene Craig?"

"It feels cool."

He turned his head for a second; one quick glance of the dark brown eyes. His foot came down hard on the pedal, and the car surged. Straight past the dirt track that led up to the trailer park. "It does. Cool and fast and free. I like drivin'."

He cut off" the highway a few miles farther on, around the north side of the plantation, through the flat hot cotton fields. At intervals there were trees, clumps of southern pine or cottonwood that provided the only shade in the flat landscape. The pickers used to take their morning breaks there, he said, in the days when the crop was all picked by hand. "Hard work, pickin' cotton." He grinned. "I did it once, when I was a Uttle boy. Wheedled away at my old daddy, said I wanted to know how it felt. So in the end he let me. Lasted twenty minutes maybe, no more. Never wanted to try it since . . . cotton's a mean plant. Scratches your hands to pieces. Cuts you apart. Breaks your back, bending. Gets up your nose so you think you'll never breathe clear again." He shrugged. "Machines do it better. Quicker, cleaner. Expensive to begin with, but cheaper in the long run. I started the switchover a few years back. Another couple of years, and none of it'll be picked by hand. . . ."He stopped the car. "My great-great-granddaddy started this place. Slave labor then, back in the bad old days. He had five hundred pickin' cotton. I won't need more than forty, forty-five maybe, a year or two on." He sighed. "Things are changing.