surprises. For although the interior life of a small colored girl was far beyond their ken, the love of parents for their children was not, and in their own way they hoped this child would emerge from the woods to fulfill her life’s potential, however obscure it seemed to their old, pitying, prejudiced eyes.
Every passing hour pushed Corinne closer to the moment she most dreaded, the moment when she would have to telephone Clark in the city and tell him—the man who asked nothing more of her than that she take good care of his children—that somehow a child had gotten mislaid while she slept more soundly than a mother had a right to, and that all the police and all the town could not find her. She knew that Clark would clear his office of patients and sit behind the locked door waiting for her next call or for the next island-bound plane, whichever came first. His nurse would be beside him, Rachel, the other half of him, his wife without a ring. She would wait beside him as she was so used to waiting, childless who wanted children, faithful who did not have to be, patient who schooled herself in patience, knowing she was neither the first woman nor the last to love a married man who could not cut his wife and watch his children bleed.
Corinne’s trembling hand tried to steady itself enough to reach the telephone. With more miles between herself andClark than any man-made miracle could bridge, she saw without need of second sight his stunned recoil from the torrent of her terror to the quiet waters of Rachel’s calm reassurance.
In his agony of spirit, his blood and flesh would turn to her, going deep into the never dry well of her incredible brown body. He would go to her bed, to the flat that he paid for, not to possess her at such a cheap price, but to convince her that this was his home away from home much more than was the summer place where he spent the month of August missing her and taking his only delight in his children.
Corinne had the telephone in her hand, but her mouth had grown chalky and her tongue felt dry and swollen. The number would not form in her mind, for she had been suddenly overwhelmed by the thought that it would be Rachel who would answer the phone, Rachel who would with brittle formality say that Dr. Coles was out, did Mrs. Coles want to leave a message? She would have to tell Rachel her terrible story, and they, the haters, would have to speak to each other intimately. For they were both bound to the father of that lost child until the day came in some far future when Shelby was old enough to fall in love and free her father to marry the love of his own. But Corinne knew from past experience that Rachel’s first wave of sympathy and concern would quickly abate, and that her next thought would be fueled by her resentment that in her ripe and willing womb no seed had ever been allowed to germinate, in keeping with Clark’s code that no one of his blood would ever have a child they had to hide. She, who would have given Clark the ultimate manifestation of love, was forced to wash her childrenaway, while Corinne—whose womb had been made safe for self-indulgence with the men who were dark enough to excite her—could never replace a lost child for a living one, or bear the son for Clark that lived its useless hour in Rachel’s loins.
It was true that in the nighttime of love Corinne desired and was possessed by the very darkness that repelled her in the day. Her repulsion was grounded in a suspicion that, given her forebears, only chance had given her the proper, fair color. Chance had smiled again and given her two daughters in her likeness, but Hannibal’s half of her makeup still had to be heard from, and the chance of that pattern continuing unbroken was too slight for her to risk a third try at bearing Clark a son. Her fear that she might reject her child as Josephine had rejected her was too deeply rooted in her psyche for her to drag it up to the surface and damn the
Every passing hour pushed Corinne closer to the moment she most dreaded, the moment when she would have to telephone Clark in the city and tell him—the man who asked nothing more of her than that she take good care of his children—that somehow a child had gotten mislaid while she slept more soundly than a mother had a right to, and that all the police and all the town could not find her. She knew that Clark would clear his office of patients and sit behind the locked door waiting for her next call or for the next island-bound plane, whichever came first. His nurse would be beside him, Rachel, the other half of him, his wife without a ring. She would wait beside him as she was so used to waiting, childless who wanted children, faithful who did not have to be, patient who schooled herself in patience, knowing she was neither the first woman nor the last to love a married man who could not cut his wife and watch his children bleed.
Corinne’s trembling hand tried to steady itself enough to reach the telephone. With more miles between herself andClark than any man-made miracle could bridge, she saw without need of second sight his stunned recoil from the torrent of her terror to the quiet waters of Rachel’s calm reassurance.
In his agony of spirit, his blood and flesh would turn to her, going deep into the never dry well of her incredible brown body. He would go to her bed, to the flat that he paid for, not to possess her at such a cheap price, but to convince her that this was his home away from home much more than was the summer place where he spent the month of August missing her and taking his only delight in his children.
Corinne had the telephone in her hand, but her mouth had grown chalky and her tongue felt dry and swollen. The number would not form in her mind, for she had been suddenly overwhelmed by the thought that it would be Rachel who would answer the phone, Rachel who would with brittle formality say that Dr. Coles was out, did Mrs. Coles want to leave a message? She would have to tell Rachel her terrible story, and they, the haters, would have to speak to each other intimately. For they were both bound to the father of that lost child until the day came in some far future when Shelby was old enough to fall in love and free her father to marry the love of his own. But Corinne knew from past experience that Rachel’s first wave of sympathy and concern would quickly abate, and that her next thought would be fueled by her resentment that in her ripe and willing womb no seed had ever been allowed to germinate, in keeping with Clark’s code that no one of his blood would ever have a child they had to hide. She, who would have given Clark the ultimate manifestation of love, was forced to wash her childrenaway, while Corinne—whose womb had been made safe for self-indulgence with the men who were dark enough to excite her—could never replace a lost child for a living one, or bear the son for Clark that lived its useless hour in Rachel’s loins.
It was true that in the nighttime of love Corinne desired and was possessed by the very darkness that repelled her in the day. Her repulsion was grounded in a suspicion that, given her forebears, only chance had given her the proper, fair color. Chance had smiled again and given her two daughters in her likeness, but Hannibal’s half of her makeup still had to be heard from, and the chance of that pattern continuing unbroken was too slight for her to risk a third try at bearing Clark a son. Her fear that she might reject her child as Josephine had rejected her was too deeply rooted in her psyche for her to drag it up to the surface and damn the
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