CHAPTER 12
Winter passed and the infant green of approaching spring colored the earth. As she opened the dining room window to the breeze, Emily felt the baby kick. She pressed her hand against the protruding knob on her abdomen, where a little foot pressed against the limits of her skin. A horse approached at the edge of the field where the dark earth was softened by the emerging cotton. Emily smiled to see Will, out surveying the fields on his old bay with Belinda mounted behind him. Charles was walking up from the office for the noon meal. He raised his hand and shouted out to them.
“You two come sit a piece. And stay to dinner.” Charles waved them in. “Ginny’s cooking up a feast. And Emily will be glad of the company.”
Indeed she was, so restless in the late confinement of her pregnancy. While the men stood talking below the porch, she held her arms open to Belinda.
“Will,” Charles said, “come see something I’ve got in my head to do in the drying shed.” The men sauntered off across the yard, their voices retreating with them.
Belinda hung her bonnet aside on the hall tree and Emily, who had been reading the news, set the paper on the table between their chairs. The headlines read: RESIST ANTISLAVERY AGGRESSION, MISSISSIPPI LEGISLATURE URGES STATES. Belinda held the paper close to her face, squinted, then flipped it over and tossed it away. It landed on the floor between them.
“I declare, I can’t abide these terrible headlines,” Belinda said. “It’s our very way of life at stake here, don’t you agree? Well, of course, you do. Well, maybe you don’t, actually. I forget your father’s views. But of course, we will prevail. I declare, all this talk of war is more than I can bear. Will says not to worry, but I do.” She ran her finger along the edge of the marble-topped table. “I worry about most everything, really. What if the smokehouse burnt down or the rain won’t come when it should, or it comes in a deluge when it oughtn’t, which seems to be the case these days. Will says it’s silly to worry so, but I don’t seem able to help myself.”
“Well, Belinda. This talk of secession is disturbing, I grant you. It is a genuine worry for all of us. Though surely the legislature will be wise enough not to go through with such a drastic measure.” Through the window, Emily saw the men striding back from the shed. “And, of course, terrible things can happen, regardless. But there are such good things, too. Think about fresh eggs, washed and piled in a basket. Or sunlight through the clothes on the line. Think how sweet Will is to you. And your house that Papa built you. It’s such a fine house and you have made it fairly radiant, you and Will. With happiness, I guess you’d say.”
Emily could make out the men’s voices as they drew nearer.
“Now, that was a bitter draft, brother,” she heard Will say.
“Warm your insides, won’t it? Make the afternoon go fair.” Charles slapped his brother-in-law on the back with a hearty laugh as the men mounted the steps.
Something in Emily hardened. The thought of Charles with whiskey in the shed at noon stunned her. Charles was rarely bad to drink, but when he did, and even when he didn’t, images of her drunken father-in-law flooded Emily’s mind. Surely Charles would never come to anything like that, she thought. Certainly not Will. It was not for Will she feared. But an unreasonable fear seized her, nonetheless, more terrible by far and more pervasive than Belinda’s imaginary smokehouse blaze.
“Well, ladies, I declare,” Charles said, kissing Emily on the cheek. She smelled the whiskey on his breath. “I believe we’re in for something special here.” Charles smiled at Jessie as she set a steaming bowl of chicken and dumplings on the sideboard. He picked up a piece of fried okra, held it between his teeth for a moment to cool, and slapped Will on the shoulder again as they made their way to the table.
Conversation focused on the weather and how it would or wouldn’t work to the benefit of the crops. The bitter conflict over slavery lay unmentioned, like the deadly undertows in the Mississippi River. The meal was comforting and restful in the middle of the day. No one seemed to note at what point Will grew pale and his attention waned. It was Emily, not Belinda, who noticed first.
“Will, are you all right?” Emily half rose from her chair, but Will motioned her back down.
“Just feeling a bit poorly, Emily. It’ll pass.”
It did not pass. Will tried to rise, but stumbled, his fingers spread across his chest. Charles pushed his chair back and rushed to Will, holding him up. Belinda stood by, her hands waving helpless around her.
“I seem to have taken sick,” Will said. He smiled at Emily. “Don’t blame your dinner now.”
“Might have been that nip you gave me in the shed,” Will said, as Charles guided him to the parlor sofa, helped him lie down, and unbuttoned his shirt.
“Send Lucian to my office, Emily. Get my bag and stethoscope.” Charles snapped his fingers at his sister. “Belinda, wake up now. Get a cold cloth for his head; no, make it two.”
Belinda rallied and returned with the wet cloths. She laid them on Will’s forehead and his throat. She took his hand in hers, her fingers shaking, unable to hold still. She knelt beside him and laid her head against his chest.
“Belinda, raise up now,” Charles said, tugging at her. “You’re in my way. I need to listen to his heart.”
Emily handed him his bag. She put her arms around Belinda, pulling her away to give Charles room. Charles listened intently at Will’s bared chest.
“His heart is weak and erratic.” Charles rummaged in the bag. “I’m giving him some digitalis to strengthen the beat. He should be fine.”
“His heart?” Belinda shook free of Emily. She whirled toward Will, then Charles, grasping at his shirt. Her skirts tangled in Charles’s way and he stumbled. He took her by the arm and moved her aside.
Charles put the tincture of digitalis to Will’s lips. His pallor had increased and some of the tincture spilled from the corner of his mouth when Charles inserted the dropper.
“Goddammit. Give me another dose,” Charles said. “Hold his chin back, Emily. Steady, for God’s sake. All right. Good, now.”
Belinda, whimpering, mopped Will’s pallid face with the damp cloths. She flapped them in the air to cool them from his heated skin, over and over. Will reached out for her. She dropped the cloth somewhat askew across his forehead.
“Belinda, are you sick?” Will asked. “Your face is blue. Yours too, Charles. Leave me be. See about Belinda.”
In dead silence, Charles and Emily looked at one another.
“We’ve eaten something tainted. Oh, Belinda—” Will reached for her, but plunged on his side to the floor unconscious. Belinda screamed.
“Damn it, Belinda. Hush now. You’re in my way.” Charles pulled her aside. “Ginny, send for my mother. Here, Emily, help me get him to a bed.”
Emily stumbled as she tried to lift Will’s shoulders. She could barely manage herself and her pregnancy. But together she and Charles lifted Will’s shoulders and half dragged him to the back bedroom. With a last heaving effort, they situated him at a sideways slant on the bed, his legs hanging at a grotesque angle to the rest of his body. Charles lifted Will’s legs and swiveled him onto the bed. Charles did not look at his wife.
Will stirred, turned on his side, raised to his elbow, and vomited onto the braided rag rug. At the bedside Charles held Will’s head until the retching passed. Will lay back, exhausted, staring at Emily where she stood at the foot of the bed. He gave her a wan smile.
Rushing in, Belinda threw herself between Charles and Emily. She stepped in the vomit and, gagging, reeled back, wincing as Charles gripped her arm and pulled her away. Ginny rattled in with a bucket of water, rags, and a mop. She stooped and threw the soiled, braided rug aside. When Ginny finished cleaning and took the rug away, Charles pulled a chair beside the bed and motioned for Belinda to sit. Will opened his eyes and held out his hand to her.
“Why, Belinda, you are an angel,” Will said. “A golden yellow angel. Your hair is glowing!” He raised his head slightly, looking at Charles and Emily. “Why, you are all of you angels, glowing all of you. I haven’t died and gone to heaven, have I?” He lay back. “No, we wouldn’t all have died at once.” Will turned his head to the window. “But maybe this is heaven. Everything is glowing. Even the trees and the grass.” Will rolled his head back toward the door. “And you, Father. Even you are glowing.”
Judge Matthews stood at the threshold, and behind him, Adeline. He entered the room, leaving Adeline in the doorway. He studied the faces of each of them gathered around the bed before approaching his son. Will opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. The judge took his son’s hand. No one spoke. Judge Matthews brushed Will’s forehead and motioned Charles from the room.
Down the hall out of earshot, Judge Matthews asked, “What’s happening, Charles?”
“It’s his heart, I’m afraid.” Charles did not hedge as to the seriousness of Will’s condition, but insisted that all would be well. He was adamant that the tincture of digitalis would strengthen Will’s heart rhythm. From the open door, Emily listened to her husband, wanting to trust his skill, but she could see that her father was far from assured.
“If he fails to improve, I am sending Lucian for my friend, Dr. Ester, in Winona. You wouldn’t mind some experienced assistance, would you, Charles?”
Charles’s face flushed, but his expressions remained unreadable. “Whatever you wish, Judge,” he said. “See what you can do with Belinda, Mama. I’ll be in my office. Send someone to get me if there is any change.”
In the mid-afternoon Charles returned to check his patient. He decided to administer another dose of digitalis. Adeline held out a restraining hand and cocked her head for him to follow her into the hallway.
“How sure are you of his condition, son?” she said.
“His heart is failing. Of that I am sure.”
“And how sure of the wisdom of more digitalis?”
“As I said, Mama, his heart is failing. What else should I do?”
“Too much can cause the heart to fail. He’s already hallucinating. I know you know that.”
“And too little is too little, Mama. You know that, too.”
Adeline rubbed the back of her neck. “If he should die, I don’t want there to be any doubts. I need to know you are sure.”
“There is no such thing as sure, Mama. You should know that by now. But yes, if there were such a thing as sure, I would tell you I am sure.”
Adeline stood staring at his back as Charles returned to the bedroom. She leaned against the wall, her face in her hand.
* * *
Ginny came in the late afternoon to check. Will saw her as yet another haloed angel, come to rescue him from death. His condition remained unchanged until early evening. Judge Matthews beckoned Charles to the parlor, where bric-a-brac and the offending newspaper lay scattered on the floor.
“Will is possibly dying, Judge. I hope we have another twenty-four hours to save him. The digitalis is all I have to strengthen his heart, which appears incapable of circulating the blood. It needs to be strengthened as much and as rapidly as possible.”
“Might his heart be overstimulated and beating too rapidly, Charles? Too much digitalis, perhaps.”
The silence between them became almost tangible.
“I’m sending for Dr. Ester in the morning.”
The two men studied one another and shifted their weight. Judge Matthews went to the window and pulled aside the curtain, dropped it, reached down, and picked up the newspaper. He laid its headline up on the table. Charles dug the heel of his boot into the Oriental rug and spoke.
“Judge, I was with Will before this episode, at the time it began, and in all that has transpired since then. Do you not trust that I have a close and accurate reading of the necessary treatment?”
Judge Matthews took a step toward Charles.
“If you wish me to stop treatment, Judge Matthews, I will—on your orders. But I will also tell you bluntly, sir, that I believe the only hope for his recovery lies in continued stimulation of the heart. It is your decision, sir.”
The judge stepped around Charles as he walked to the door, where he stopped and spoke with his back to Charles.
“You will stop the digitalis now.”
Charles stood, swaying from side to side. He slammed his palm against the door before following.
As Charles entered the bedroom, Adeline took his arm and spoke quietly to her son. He appeared to reply, then shook his head. Belinda was distraught and frantic with weeping. Charles lifted her to her feet and held her against his chest. When she had gathered herself, Charles spoke gently to her.
“We are stopping the digitalis, Belinda.”
“Why? He’s no better, Charles.”
“This is my decision, Belinda,” Judge Matthews said. “There is every possibility that the problem may be too much digitalis.”
Belinda’s face paled and she looked from Charles to the judge and back.
“How can you do that?” She advanced on Judge Matthews, her fists clenched. “You would let him die. You would. I won’t have it. I am his wife. I am the one to say.”
Will stirred, opening his eyes, and Belinda turned toward the bed. She ran to him and took his hand. He muttered something unintelligible and she lowered her ear. Judge Matthews came close and leaned toward his son. Adeline watched in silence.
“Let them save me,” Will said feebly.
“Do what you have to do,” Belinda said to her brother. She glared at Judge Matthews. “How could you?” she said.
Charles reached for his bag. He motioned to Emily to hold Will’s head steady as he emptied another dropper of the tincture into his mouth.
* * *
Will died in the night, toward dawn, not long before he should have risen to start a new day. Belinda lay across him, her tangled hair spread like dark wings across his chest. Charles pressed two fingers against the side of Will’s neck, laid his stethoscope aside, looked up, and shook his head.
Emily rose and went to her father. The warm light from the hearth made his hollow face more stark, his eyes gleaming like the live coals in the grate. She laid her cheek against his chest, her hands trembling on his shoulders. Without looking in her father’s face, Emily returned to the bedside. She did not touch Charles as she knelt beside the bed to take Will’s cold hand. It struck her how sudden, how stark the difference between life and not life. Like that.
Emily was the first to speak. “I will make coffee,” she said. “And we will need to eat. We will need our strength.” She stood in the center of the room. Charles was staring out the window into the gray dawn. Emily studied her husband. She slipped behind him and started toward the door. Charles caught hold of her arm as she passed.
“I am sorry, Emily.” His voice was hoarse.
She nodded, walked past Adeline, and left the room.
* * *
Will was buried beside his first wife, Fran, and their unnamed baby boy, just below his mother on the incline of the family plot. The church had been almost full. A throng of assembled friends and slaves accompanied the family to the grave. Belinda, supported on one side by Hammond and on the other by Adeline, wept throughout. Judge Matthews had no words of his own, but his voice resonated with a scripture known by heart:
For I am persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God. . . .
As the casket lowered, Judge Matthews crumbled a handful of earth and let it fall into the depths of his son’s grave. He brushed at his hand, but Emily grasped it as it was and led him toward the waiting buggy, leaving Charles to walk alone.
* * *
In the ensuing days of grief, Rosa Claire Slate was born at three o’clock in the morning on April 18, 1860. Only Ginny and Adeline were in attendance. They laid the newborn on Emily’s bare skin to deliver the afterbirth and cut the umbilical cord. Nothing could have prepared Emily for the warmth that pervaded her from this tiny body. Charles was away, on a call, he had told his mother. Emily fretted and complained at his absence, but by the time she handed him their first child, Emily had forgotten her fears and the pain of the birth. This infant girl enthralled her, captured her in an elation and warmth that pervaded life. This love amazed her. She was not prepared for it, had not expected it. Her rapture did not extend itself to Charles. Rosa Claire was some months old before Emily’s awareness included an unfocused wariness of her husband. He had not saved Will. He had broken with her father. He had been somewhere not with her when Rosa Claire entered the world. He had not shared this moment with her. Nor was he part of the ripening love she shared with this child. Will’s death had set them apart and she had no way to find the bridge, if one existed.