Chapter 12
“What are you doing down there?”
Ethel turned her head to the right and saw Morgan staring at her. He had heard every word she’d said. Nervously, she turned completely around and looked at her butler and offered him her blue-blood confidence, saying, “Why, whatever are you talking about?”
Morgan looked directly at her, his lids unblinking, his eyes burning into hers, intimidating her with the knowledge that lay behind them. He said, “I’m talking about the new Will and what it would take to keep Johnnie and her brother out of it, Mrs. Beauregard.”
Upon hearing that, Ethel took a few steps backward, realizing she was caught before she even began. She thought for a moment and decided to bluff him, believing that she could persuade him to believe what she wanted him to believe. “Listen, Morgan, I know how fond of Johnnie you are, but she’s not a relative, so you couldn’t possibly hear what you think you heard, now could you?”
“Well, ma’am . . . you might be right. But I think a lawyer might know what to do. I know just the one, too. Robert Ryan. He’s the lawyer who sued the city and won when the police didn’t do their sworn duty to stop the rioters from destroying Main Street and Sable Parish. I’ll tell him what I heard, and maybe he can figure out whether or not I heard it and more important, Mrs. Beauregard, what to do about it. Maybe Mr. Ryan can contact Mr. Jamieson himself, and make sure Jamieson knows that Ryan knows the first Will was destroyed. I’m sure Ryan could make him understand that we know the second Will is as phony as three-dollar bill. It’s a fictional creation for personal gain and to appease you because of your hatred of the truth. Perhaps I’ll let him know that you think it’s okay to have Negroes opening your doors for you, cleaning your house for you, cooking your meals for you, and being a conduit for sexual gratification whenever one of the Beauregard men required that kind of immoral thing. But having a Negro in your lineage from the same sexual activity you sanctioned by looking the other way is where you draw the line.”
Stunned by his provocative comments, Ethel backed up a few more steps and leaned against the door leading to the terrace, devastated by his ability to articulate the principles on which he, a Negro, would quite possibly demand something of value. A wicked idea came to mind, and she took a few steps toward him. She smiled and said, “What would it take to keep this between me and you? You know how fond I am of you, and now that I’m a widow, I could maybe . . . you know . . . not be so lady-like with you. Wouldn’t you like that, Morgan? I hear that’s what Negro men want more than gold . . . to have a pure white woman.”
Morgan frowned and took a few steps backward, knowing, or at least believing that later, whether he accepted the offer or not, she was going to say he’d raped her. He thought she was hoping he’d take the offer because then there would be physical evidence, not that she needed it. There would be semen, of course, which would have been evidence to nearly any white police officer that an assault had taken place. The fact that she bled during intercourse was a family secret that everyone in the house knew about. Blood in the vagina of a white woman who claimed she was raped would be more than enough evidence to convict him.
With Eric having been dead for over a month, Morgan couldn’t acquit himself. A white jury of his “peers” wouldn’t consider any explanation he offered. The word of a white aristocratic female who had already been devastated by the deaths of all the men closest to her would be impeccable. They would see Morgan as an animal who had been waiting for this opportunity to invade her—consequences be damned. They would assume that having sexual relations with Ethel was something his evil heart had always wanted. With all the men in the family in their graves, Morgan had finally lost control and showed himself to be the beast that all Negro men were—even the good ones.
He said, “To keep the same secret, you offer your lawyer money, but me, your dumb nigger butler, me you offer sex. Now this is a marvelous thing, Mrs. Beauregard. A fine Southern belle like you? An aristocrat? The president of the Christian Ladies Social Club and all, offering bribes? Offering sex to a nigger butler? For shame. Why, I never would have believed it if I hadn’t heard it with my own ears.
“I wonder what the reporters at the Sentinel and the Raven will think when they hear this fascinating tale about you. And of course, they’ll believe it. As a matter of fact, just to spice it up a bit, I’ll have to embellish the story to the nth degree, and by God, those reporters’ll have the story of the century.” He shook his head and continued. “To think, just this morning, there was an article on the Sentinel’s society page advocating this same story. With me as a witness, I’m sure the Sentinel will sell lots of newspapers. And even if they don’t believe me, I know the Negro newspaper will print it. Who knows? We might have ourselves another riot. A lot more white folks’ll die. Probably the rich ones this time.”
“Morgan!” Ethel raised her voice a bit, but not loud enough for Katherine, who was still on the terrace, to hear. “Be reasonable. If it’s money you want, just say so.”
Morgan doubled over, laughing at her.
“Stop that laughing this instant!” Ethel commanded. “It’s disrespectful and terribly insulting.”
Still laughing a little, Morgan said, “Listen, Mrs. Beauregard, you have obviously forgotten that I’m an educated man. As a matter of fact, I’m better educated than you. Talk about insulting. For years, I’ve had to let you teach me how to speak English just so I could have a job that pays well enough to put food on the table and buy my wife—who’s beautiful, by the way—nice things from time to time. Insulting? Your husband’s father brings a child into the world and doesn’t even acknowledge her for over forty years. Nothing surprising about that, since white men have been fathering Negro children for centuries. But then the good Lord up above stepped in and gave old Nathaniel some conscience in his last days, and some much needed gumption, and you take even that away? Insulting? Nathaniel, who hadn’t been able stand because of the stroke he suffered, stands up in your dining room, a damn miracle if you ask me, tells all of you who Johnnie is, and you cut her out of the Will? And you talk to me about insulting you?”
“What’s it going to take to keep this between me and you forever?”
“Well, now, this here is a powerful secret. Yes, ma’am, a powerful secret indeed. I think fifty thousand is a fair price to keep a secret like this, don’t you? Twenty-five thousand to keep my mouth shut and twenty-five thousand to quiet my conscience. Johnnie doesn’t deserve what I’m about to do, but this is my chance to have a good life, and I’m taking it. From what I hear tell, she’d do the same thing if she were in my position.”
“If I pay you the money, how do I know you won’t come back later, asking for more?”
“If you pay? If? Mrs. Beauregard, you’re going to pay and you’re going to pay it today, and you know it because if you don’t, it’s all going to come out. When it does, the revelation will make it impossible to show your face in public ever again. The façade, the mask you’ve been wearing all your life will be ripped off, exposing you and your family as salacious vagabonds who pretend to be of high moral character publicly, but lack the self-control necessary to authenticate the essence of it.”
After hearing his truth, Ethel looked at the floor and spoke without looking at him. Their roles had reversed themselves, she now knew. Not only was her Negro butler superior to her intellectually, but by rejecting the sex she proffered, she now saw him as morally superior as well. If nothing else, he was certainly morally superior to the men in her family. Nevertheless, rather than deal with his guns of judgment, the words he used to skillfully dismantle any thought of superiority she imagined she had over him, she repeated, “How do I know you won’t ask for more money later, Morgan?”
“You don’t have to worry about that, Mrs. Beauregard. Fifty thousand dollars is more than enough to make a life for myself somewhere else. My wife and family will be out of New Orleans so quick, you’ll wonder if I ever existed . . . that I promise you.”
Ethel walked around the room, thinking about the possibilities. What was another fifty thousand, she questioned. She still would have over one hundred and fifty million of the Beauregard fortune, and it would be collecting interest. In a couple of years, she’d have every penny back on the interest alone. It would almost be like she never paid any of them off. She walked over to a desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out the checkbook. Then she began to write out a check.
“Cash, Mrs. Beauregard,” Morgan called out angrily. “You must take me for a fool.”
“I don’t have that kind of money lying around the house. I’d have to get it from my banker.”
“What about the money in the safe? How much do you have in there?”
Desperately, she said, “I don’t know, Morgan. I haven’t been in the safe for years.”
“But you do know the combination, right?”
“I might.”
“You might?”
“I might,” she said firmly. “I’ll tell you what. There should be a sizable amount of cash in the safe; Grandpa always said the stock market could crash again and we’d be in the poor house, but I honestly don’t think it will come close to the sum you requested. I’ll give you all the cash I have, and you leave this house immediately. Take it or leave it. Either that, or take a check.”
“I’m no fool, Mrs. Beauregard.”
“Why, whatever do you mean by that, Morgan?”
“I mean that I want cash. Cash is harder to trace. Besides, who’s going to cash a fifty thousand dollar check for a Negro in the United States? Any bank I go to is bound to call the police, or at the very least, ask me a dozen uncomfortable questions and then call the police. No, thank you!”
“What if there’s hardly any money in the safe? What then?”
“Then you’re stuck with me until you can get every dollar. You’ll get it little by little until I have it all,” he said, bluffing.
“Fine. Come on. I’ll open the safe for you.” As they made their way down the stairs to the basement, she said, “When you get your money, please leave. I don’t ever want to see you again.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t, unless the cops come to my house saying I robbed or raped you. I don’t have to worry about either of those scenarios, do I, Mrs. Beauregard?”
“No. I won’t say a word.”
“Good. Now, open that safe.”
Ethel walked over to the safe and opened it.
“Ethel,” Katherine called out from the top of the stairs, “are you down there?”
“Why, yes, I am. I’ll be up in a second.”
“What are you doing down there?” Katherine called out and descended a few steps. “Can I help you find anything?”
“Katherine, uh, no need to come down here. I’m on my way up now.” She looked at Morgan and harshly whispered, “Get the money and go. Don’t say good-bye, don’t say anything to Katherine either. Just leave and never return—ever!”