Read Online The Wind Done Gone by Alice Randall - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alice Randall
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R. would never have thought of marrying me.
When his father was living, he felt the spit of paternal hypocrisy falling down on his city, on Charleston, like rain. He grew leery of the hypocrisy of the old place, the citizens who loved the oldness of their town but denounced with silence the vigorous sinners who had built it. They were an old family, and R. was descended from the best of the original line of bold sinners. He had not changed but he kept hoping the town would, that it would reach back beyond its proper present and allow him place. Somehow, with his father's death, R. seemed to think all his critics had vanished. All his longing glances were backward. Well, let him go to Charleston and see what he finds.
38
No sooner was R. out my door than I sent a message 'round to Jeems, asking him to come by the house to take some cakes back to Garlic. Then I ransacked my cookbooks for Excellency cake or Bonaparte cake or Presidential cakeâsomething that would taste just like who I now knew Garlic to be, Garlic's position. Finding nothing equal to my new understanding of the man, I adapted a cake, exchanging bourbon and adding walnutsâa little bow to his hard outside and strength. I covered my confection with a golden brown maple-flavored icing and called it Empire cake. Cook was taking more golden layers out of the oven when the messenger returned, note in hand, having looked all over for Jeems. Figuring Jeems must a set off for home, he gave up.
I beat butter for the icing all afternoon long, it seemed. One of my tears slipped into the butter and I beat it in. The salt of the tear was a perfect foil to the sweetness of the butter. I smiled to think of how I had achieved perfection of the flavor.
When had R. grown old? When did he stop being Other's husband? How will I know? How will I let myself know? When did I start loving R.? Had it stopped? Could it stop? Had I ever really loved him, or had I just wanted what was hers? Was he mine before he was hers? Was it me he saw when he first saw her walking down the steps of Twelve Slaves Strong as Trees? We had been lovers for over a year then. When did I first hear that he had met her? I remember all the pages I had covered with my name changed to end with his. All the fake letters I signed Mrs. RâBâ, never thinking one day my name might change. Now, with a tear of a blue velvet riding habit, muddied, bloodied, never to be cleaned, all is possible. Was no more wanted than this extraordinary cake drawing ants?
39
I wonder if Jeems can read. I've decided to write him a letter. It's going to say:
Â
Dear Jeems,
Â
Thank you for riding me to town. It's nice to remember old friends.
Â
I was wondering how to close the letter when Jeems knocked right on the front door. I must have looked surprised. "This here's yo' front do', ain't it? This ain't Cap'n B house, is it?"
"It's my house."
I had never before had colored company of
my own
in the front room; now Jeems sat on my sofa visiting
me.
For a moment I stopped to wonder what Jeems would think, seeing me surrounded by such wealth. Then I remembered myself. We had exchanged our earliest confidences in silk-wallpapered halls and richly furnished corners. We had both dusted and mopped and washed too many fine things, too much Limoge, too much Wedgwood, too many times, to retain awe. The former field slaves will have different relations to wealth (the wealth they see and the wealth they attain) than we, who, like Jeems and me, worked in the house. Familiarity, even with things, breeds contempt.
"Our Congressman from Alabama came for dinner the other night."
"Sure like to meet him. Wonder if he knows Smalls."
"Smalls?"
"The colored Congressman who seized
Planter
in '62. Sailed the ship right over to the Union Army."
"How do you know that?"
"I was
in
the Confederate Army. I was all tore up when it happened." For a fleeting moment Jeems let his face-o-woe mask distort his features. But it just
When his father was living, he felt the spit of paternal hypocrisy falling down on his city, on Charleston, like rain. He grew leery of the hypocrisy of the old place, the citizens who loved the oldness of their town but denounced with silence the vigorous sinners who had built it. They were an old family, and R. was descended from the best of the original line of bold sinners. He had not changed but he kept hoping the town would, that it would reach back beyond its proper present and allow him place. Somehow, with his father's death, R. seemed to think all his critics had vanished. All his longing glances were backward. Well, let him go to Charleston and see what he finds.
38
No sooner was R. out my door than I sent a message 'round to Jeems, asking him to come by the house to take some cakes back to Garlic. Then I ransacked my cookbooks for Excellency cake or Bonaparte cake or Presidential cakeâsomething that would taste just like who I now knew Garlic to be, Garlic's position. Finding nothing equal to my new understanding of the man, I adapted a cake, exchanging bourbon and adding walnutsâa little bow to his hard outside and strength. I covered my confection with a golden brown maple-flavored icing and called it Empire cake. Cook was taking more golden layers out of the oven when the messenger returned, note in hand, having looked all over for Jeems. Figuring Jeems must a set off for home, he gave up.
I beat butter for the icing all afternoon long, it seemed. One of my tears slipped into the butter and I beat it in. The salt of the tear was a perfect foil to the sweetness of the butter. I smiled to think of how I had achieved perfection of the flavor.
When had R. grown old? When did he stop being Other's husband? How will I know? How will I let myself know? When did I start loving R.? Had it stopped? Could it stop? Had I ever really loved him, or had I just wanted what was hers? Was he mine before he was hers? Was it me he saw when he first saw her walking down the steps of Twelve Slaves Strong as Trees? We had been lovers for over a year then. When did I first hear that he had met her? I remember all the pages I had covered with my name changed to end with his. All the fake letters I signed Mrs. RâBâ, never thinking one day my name might change. Now, with a tear of a blue velvet riding habit, muddied, bloodied, never to be cleaned, all is possible. Was no more wanted than this extraordinary cake drawing ants?
39
I wonder if Jeems can read. I've decided to write him a letter. It's going to say:
Â
Dear Jeems,
Â
Thank you for riding me to town. It's nice to remember old friends.
Â
I was wondering how to close the letter when Jeems knocked right on the front door. I must have looked surprised. "This here's yo' front do', ain't it? This ain't Cap'n B house, is it?"
"It's my house."
I had never before had colored company of
my own
in the front room; now Jeems sat on my sofa visiting
me.
For a moment I stopped to wonder what Jeems would think, seeing me surrounded by such wealth. Then I remembered myself. We had exchanged our earliest confidences in silk-wallpapered halls and richly furnished corners. We had both dusted and mopped and washed too many fine things, too much Limoge, too much Wedgwood, too many times, to retain awe. The former field slaves will have different relations to wealth (the wealth they see and the wealth they attain) than we, who, like Jeems and me, worked in the house. Familiarity, even with things, breeds contempt.
"Our Congressman from Alabama came for dinner the other night."
"Sure like to meet him. Wonder if he knows Smalls."
"Smalls?"
"The colored Congressman who seized
Planter
in '62. Sailed the ship right over to the Union Army."
"How do you know that?"
"I was
in
the Confederate Army. I was all tore up when it happened." For a fleeting moment Jeems let his face-o-woe mask distort his features. But it just
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