this . . .
All this would have just been a nasty dream.
5
Denied the Sun
Sometime during the night someone must have come into my tiny room and pulled down the shade so that when dawn came it provided only a dim light through the sole window. Of course, it had to be Gladys. It shocked and amazed me that I hadn't heard and awoken when she had entered the room. But the emotional strain associated with coming here and my own pregnant condition had put me into a deep sleep.
The moment my eyes snapped open and I had scrubbed the drowsiness from them, my instinct was to rise and pull up the shade, but Gladys Tate's warnings buzzed around in my head like a bee trapped in a jelly jar. How dismal it was to open my eyes and not see the bright sunshine or be able to look out the window and see the birds flitting and flowers spreading their blossoms to catch the invigorating rays. Mama always said I was like a wildflower and needed the sunshine to make me happy and help me grow and be healthy.
I sat up, but I couldn't peel back the blanket of depression. Would I be able to endure this for the number of months I had left before the birth of the baby? Had I made promises I couldn't keep? All I could do to counter the dreariness and despair was remind myself of how this would keep the shame from our doorstep and provide a good home for the baby who bore no blame for its existence. Why should a child suffer for a father's sin?
The aroma of freshly brewed, dark Cajun coffee, just-baked bread, fried eggs, and sausages permeated my room, slipping in under the floorboards. It made my stomach churn in anticipation. I rose and, because of the dimness, turned on the lantern. Then I dressed and, using the back of one of Gladys Tate's toy cooking pans as a mirror, brushed and pinned my hair. I used the chamber pot and some of the water to wash my face and feel as refreshed as possible under these conditions. After that, I sat on the bed and listened hopefully for the sound of footsteps that would signal Gladys's arrival with my breakfast. I could hear the muffled voices of people below, the slam of a door, the barking of dogs, some grounds workers shouting to each other outside, but I heard no footsteps heralding her arrival.
Bored with the wait, I rose and began to explore the room. First I took the lantern to the small closet and, after blowing the dust away, brought out the books, which were all children's stories. What had Gladys Tate been thinking when she had said I could read these books to pass the time? They were designed for a child who had just learned to read and consisted mostly of pictures with occasional simple words.
The most impressive thing in the closet was the handmade dollhouse with everything inside it constructed to scale. I quickly realized that it was a model of The Shadows, and by studying it, I could learn where every room was and what was in each room. However, absent from the model was the room in which I was presently living.
There was tiny furniture, even tiny books in the bookcases and tiny kitchen implements in the kitchen. My fingers were too thick to fit in some of the small openings, so I imagined it had been built for Gladys when she was very little. Aside from the dust that had made it a home, the dollhouse was in perfect condition. Exploring it further, I discovered that the roof could be detached and I could have a godlike view of the interiors. I saw what I was sure was meant to be Gladys's mother and father lying beside each other in the king-size bed in the master bedroom. What looked like Gladys's room had a bed with a canopy, but the miniature doll meant to represent her was gone. There were wee dolls to represent the maids, cooks, and the butler, even minuscule replicas of some hound dogs sleeping in the den by the fireplace.
There were no other children in the dollhouse, and the only other bedrooms were for the maids or empty guest rooms. The kitchen, as in most Cajun homes, was in the rear, and just behind it was a pantry filled with things so small, my fingernail was twice the size. I decided whoever had built this toy world had been a master craftsman, an artist in his or her own right.
I put the house aside and rummaged through the old magazines. I found coloring books and a pad of dry watercolor paints with stiff brushes. There were moldy crayons, pencils, and a toy sewing kit with some material meant for doll's clothing. I found a toy nurse's set with a stethoscope, a nurse's cap, a fake thermometer, and some real bandages and gauze. That, too, looked barely used.
At the bottom of the pile, I discovered a notebook that had been used as a drawing pad. The first few pages had crude line drawings, but as I turned the pages, I felt I was turning through the years of Gladys Tate's development until I reached the point at which her drawings were more sophisticated. One page in particular caught my interest.
I thought it looked like Gladys Tate's self-portrait: the face of a little girl who had similar features. Behind the little girl was the looming face of a bearded man. She had drawn nothing more of his body, but hovering just above her shoulder was what was obviously meant to be his hand, the fingers thick, one with a marriage band.
When I lifted the notepad a little higher to bring it closer, I saw something slipping from between some pages. It was a card with a small bird on the outside. Inside were scribbled the words:
I turned a few more pages, observing crude drawings of a man without a shirt, his chest covered with what I was sure was meant to look like curled hairs. In the middle of the torso was a light drawing of a face with the mouth stretched in what looked like a scream.
Curious and now intrigued, I flipped past the drawings of birds, trees, and a horse to find the picture that made me gasp. It had been drawn with a shaky hand. The lines wobbled, but it was clearly meant to be the body of a man, waist down, naked, his manliness drawn quite vividly. I closed the notebook quickly, put it back in the closet, and stood up, slapping my hands together to shake off the dust. What strange things for a little girl to draw, I thought. I was afraid to permit myself to wonder what it all meant.
I went to my door and opened it slowly, listening keenly for the sound of footsteps. Surely she would be bringing me something to eat soon, I thought. I was very hungry and my stomach was growling with anger. Frustrated, but aware that if I didn't occupy myself, my hunger would only bellow louder, I turned to the shelf of dolls.
I found some cloth to use for dusting and took the first doll down to carefully wipe its arms, legs, and face. All these dolls looked like they had been expensive ones. Some had features so perfect, I was positive they were handmade. Observing the line of them on the shelf, I realized that there were only two male dolls, and they had been placed a little behind the others.
