After Eden Page 6

  Judy heard Steve’s voice, deep, and angry, telling Amanda to get out of the house.

  She closed her eyes. Running off Amanda would do no good. All that information was carefully recorded in the Bible that lay on the table in the parlor. The date of their marriage, the date of Judy’s birth. Now, her father’s rejection of her had been recorded as well. Steve had been fortunate. His mother had died when he was four. Bastard. Judy is a bastard.

  Shame filled her from within and pushed like a fist against her throat, suffocating her. It was not bearable. She would die of it.

  Bastard, bastard, bastard.

  Judy slid the razor out of her pocket. She held her wrist and bent it toward her. A tiny bluish vein writhed visibly beneath the surface. That would be the one to cut—the one to pump out her traitorous blood.

  She’d accidentally cut herself once. It had burned like fire at the time and hurt for days as if to punish her for being clumsy.

  Judy closed her eyes and pressed. It stung like fire. A tiny cut oozed droplets of blood. The knife had moved, probably flinched of its own accord, and only nicked her beside the vein she had wanted to cut.

  Sobbing in frustration and frightened determination, she positioned the razor over the tiny vein.

  A place on her foot where she’d stepped on a nail when she was ten years old started suddenly to burn. It pulsed with pain and heat as if the injury were only a day old. She remembered how it had gotten infected, and red streaks had started up her leg. Carmen had soaked the injured foot in a solution of epsom salts and hot water every hour for days.

  Frustrated, Judy put down the razor. She was not only a bastard, she was a coward.

  Bastard. The word evoked a memory in her—something she had forgotten or that had remained hidden in her head the way that terrible secret had hidden itself in Jim Furnett. Now it had become dislodged from its hiding place.

  It was about her mother. She could see her clearly. Pretty and busy, her mother wore a blue gown, the same color of blue as her eyes. Her soft golden hair, pulled back over her ears, hung in springy gleaming curls that Judy liked to squeeze when her mother would let her.

  Usually her mother would smile at her, but that day she would not.

  “Get outside and play!” she said, her voice cross.

  “I want to help, Mommy.”

  “Leave me be!”

  “I can help. See?” Judy picked up one of the gowns and tried to stuff it into the satchel that lay open on the bed.

  Her mother grabbed the gown out of her hand. “I said leave me be!”

  Judy turned her back so she could not see her mother’s angry face. A buzzing started in her head. She hummed to shut out the sound of her mother’s jerky movements and angry breathing. Judy pressed against the bed and watched her mother fling clothes into the satchel. When she could stand it no more she ran to the closet and picked up a pair of shoes. “These are the ones you like best, aren’t they?” When her mother frowned, Judy changed her tactics instantly.

  “Oh, drat!”

  Careful not to look at her mother’s eyes, Judy talked to shut out the sound of her mother’s voice. “I washed my face and my hands real good. I ate all my dinner. I cleaned my plate. I’m a good girl, Mommy. See?” she said, holding out her hands so her mother could appreciate how clean they were.

  “Leave me be! Just leave me be! Child, can’t you see I’m busy?”

  Judy tasted wetness on her lips, salty wetness. Seeking comfort, trying to burrow into the soft fullness of her mother’s gown, she pressed close. Her mother always smelled nice and wore gowns that felt cool and smooth against her skin—smooth and silky and cool.

  “Get away from me!” her mother screamed.

  But Judy would not turn loose. She could feel her mother’s hands frantic and clawing at her arms, but, screaming to shut out the sound of her mother’s voice, she buried her head. Then her mommy screamed. Strong hands pried Judy loose. Sobbing, trying to find her mother again, Judy stumbled and fell. Above her, Daddy towered over Mommy and her. Mommy backed away.

  “Don’t take it out on the girl, you slut!”

  “If it weren’t for her, you’d never have known.”

  “You mean if he hadn’t turned up here, like a dog sniffing out a bitch, don’t you? It ain’t her fault. You hit her again, I’ll kill you.”

  Their voices beat at her ears. Judy covered her ears, but she could still hear them.

  “Pack your war bag and get while the gate’s still open!”

  “Including her?”

  “Suit yourself about that.”

  “You feel so protective, you keep her!”

  Judy covered her ears. As hard as she tried she could not shut out their voices. They were like dogs, tearing at one another. Judy pressed her wrist into her mouth until the pain in her arm screeched along her nerves. Blindly she changed position and bit against a different place.

  “Lawsy, chile, what done happened? Why, your pore little arm is all bloody.”

  Through a haze of tears, Judy could see Mary Sue’s round black face. “I want my mommy,” she wailed.

  “Your mama’s gone, chile. Done gone away for good, I reckon.”

  “I want my daddy.”

  “Your daddy ain’t in no fitten mood. That pore man done gettin’ hisself drunk as a lord. Reckon you better stay with old Mary Sue in the kitchen for a spell.”

  “He hurt my mommy. I hate him.”

  “Reckon your mama deserved it, chile.”

  “No.” Judy could feel her face twisting out of shape. “She didn’t. I was bad. She had to spank me. I was bad. My mommy loves me. She had to spank me. I was bad.”

  Mary Sue shook her big head. “The onlyist thing you done, chile, was in lookin’ too much like your pa.”

  “My mommy loves me, doesn’t she?”

  A queer look of pity brightened Mary Sue’s luminous dark eyes. She picked Judy up and hugged her against her big, warm body. “Yes, chile. Your mama loves you a whole bunch.”

  “My daddy loves me, too, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, chile.” Mary Sue stood Judy up, straightened her dress, and brushed the wet hair out of her eyes. “Now you all pretty again. You come with Mary Sue to the kitchen. We’ll get some salve for that pore little arm. What a mess, chile! Lawsy!”

  Judy turned slightly on the bed. Her window was open. Scrawny ornamental trees she had gotten from a mail-order catalog stood in dark outline against the late afternoon sky. The trees would die. They raised their pitiful limbs and dipped their hungry roots into the dry soil in vain. Even the water Steve’s irrigation sy gave them would not help. She had known they would die when she planted them. They were too pretty. Only ugly, gnarled things could live in this heat and dryness.

  Shame was such an ugly, overwhelming feeling. Shuddering with revulsion, she closed her eyes. God, how she hated it all, wanted it to be over. All her life she had been sheltered from the ugliness of women like Amanda Adams, sheltered by her father’s money, prestige, respectability. She had been proud to be a Burkhart, with all that the name implied. Now she had been stripped naked in front of her enemies—vulnerable to their vicious tongues and condemning eyes.

  Judy curled into a tight little knot on the bed. She should get up and take off her gown, but her limbs felt like lead weights.

  An involuntary shiver moved through her. A queer, chill mist filled her head. She had been disowned. Everything she loved and wanted now belonged to Teresa Garcia-Lorca. Tears of frustration and shame burned in her but would not come out. She didn’t even have the courage to end it.

  Chapter Three

  “Tía, where are you?”

  Tía looked up from the book lying open unread in her lap. “Out here, Andrea. On the sun porch.”

  Andrea opened the French doors that separated the sun porch from the rest of the spacious, expensively appointed Caldwell house. “Heavens! It’s hot out here. What on earth are you doing here?”

  “Wishing I could fi
nd Mr. Burkhart,” she said, closing the book. She wanted to call him “my father,” but she felt too shy to say it so bluntly. Grieving for Papa and all we lost that day. Hoping Mr. Burkhart can hang on to life long enough so I can find him and get to know him, to find out if he loved Mama enough to make all this trouble worthwhile, if he might even love me…

  Andrea’s pleasant, slightly bored expression changed instantly to one of displeasure. “I thought you liked it here.”

  Liar! You haven’t cared whether I did or not. Andrea was peddling a load, but Tía stopped herself in time. She might as well be talking Chinese to a pack mule. Andrea had kept to herself since they arrived in Albany. And because Tía had been grieving for Papa and feeling guilty about letting Andrea stab him, she had let her. They hadn’t really talked since the stabbing. When they talked they could work out any problem. When they didn’t…But there had never been a time before when they didn’t talk. So Tía hadn’t immediately figured out what to do about it. Something felt blocked between them now, as if too many assumptions had been made that no one acknowledged.

  “I hate it here,” Tía finally blurted.

  “You seemed to be having fun.”

  “When I was riding, maybe. I ain’t town-gaited the way you are.”

  “I’m not town-gaited,” Andrea corrected.

  “Yes, you are. You love it here. You could wallow in velvet all day. No one could have fun here.”

  Andrea lifted her chin. “I’ve enjoyed myself. I won’t apologize for that.”

  “Are you going to forgive me?” Tía asked abruptly.

  “For what?”

  “For letting you stab Papa.”

  Andrea looked quickly away. In profile she reminded Tía of Mama. She had Mama’s perfect cameo profile, except her complexion was colored by Papa’s duskiness and her eyes fringed by the blackest, sootiest lashes Tía had ever seen. Except maybe Johnny’s…

  “I didn’t stab Papa,” Andrea said hotly. “I stabbed a man trying to hurt Mama. It just happened to be Papa. I don’t blame you. If I hadn’t stabbed him, he would have killed her.” Abruptly Andrea stood up. “It’s time to eat dinner. Mrs. Lockwood sent me.” She turned and walked into the house.

  Tía watched her sister’s slender back until it was out of sight. Andrea lied. She would never forgive Tía. Mama had not bothered to speak of Papa again. Everyone else seemed to think it was over. Tía wanted to talk about it, to understand it, but no one wanted to listen. Just as Andrea had today, they became angry with her, as if by bringing it up she violated some unwritten law.

  She did not feel hungry; even if she did, she would not enjoy eating at their table. Her uncle and his housekeeper were grim company. The look in their eyes was cold enough to make a polar bear hunt cover. They caught every mistake, and her manners, learned at Mama’s loving but careless elbow, were anything but elegant. Even though they had the same upbringing, Andrea, eight years older than Tía and of a different temperament, managed well enough to keep herself from becoming the center of attention.

  Andrea was so different that at times Tía could not believe they were related. Even in Tubac Andrea had lived at a different, more elegant pace. She enjoyed a soak in the tub, which meant fragrant bath salts and lighted candles. Tía took as many baths, but she could not sit still long enough to soak. Papa had said some horses were built for speed, some for style and looks. Andrea’s womanly figure was softly curved, while Tía’s was slender and angular. Andrea was a showpiece, and Tía was wiry and fast. Papa’s rich voice still haunted Tía. My Teresa can outride a Comanche.

  The dining room was one of the most beautiful rooms in the house. One entire wall was opened to the backyard by six tall windows. The long mahogany table gleamed in the sunlight.

  Uncle Tyler waited until they were seated. Then he stared at Tía, somehow without looking into her eyes. He looked in her direction, his slate-gray eyes cold and glazed as if not allowing images to penetrate to any significant depth.

  “Teresa, you received a letter from Tombstone, Arizona,” he said, his voice accusing, as if she had somehow solicited the unwelcome letter.

  For the first time in months, Tía’s blood raced with excitement. Arizona! It must be from Mama. Surely not Papa. But why wouldn’t he have said it was for Andrea, also? Tía’s impulse was to rush forward and claim her letter, but two months in Uncle Tyler’s house had taught her caution.

  “May I have it, please?” Tía prayed he would not sense her excitement. Uncle Tyler did not approve of excitement, especially in young ladies. He approved of hard work, strict rules of conduct, impeccable table manners, and frugality.

  Over the noise and jostling of the stagecoach Mama had shared with them as far as Douglas, the last segment of their narrow escape from El Gato Negro’s enraged men, she had warned them about Uncle Tyler. He’s nothing like the people you’re used to in Tubac. These people live close to the earth. They are rough and crude in many ways, but they are honest, and they know a person for their true worth, not for their family, wealth, or social status. I don’t envy you this trip or your stay in my brother’s house, but I have no choice. I want to know you will be safe. And I trust Tyler in that. He’s never turned loose of anything or anyone he’s ever owned, except me, and I had to practically tear his arm off to get away from him.

  Uncle Tyler was a full twenty years older than Mama. He called her “Rita,” saying it as if Mama’s name made his mouth feel tight and soiled. Probably because he blames me for our mother’s death, Mama had said. Charlotte Caldwell had died giving birth to Mama. With the help of the household staff, Tyler had raised Mama, because their father had been too busy chasing younger women to worry about a baby. When Rita was three, her father was pushed out an upstairs window, reportedly by a terrified maid who had not known her employer would insist on the right to sleep with her.

  Uncle Tyler had hired a succession of nannies. When Mama had endured all of her brother’s parenting she could stand, she had packed a small satchel and run away.

  After two months in her uncle’s house, Tía understood perfectly. Compared with Papa, who had been a playful bear with children, Uncle Tyler seemed a cold fish. His hair and whiskers were gray, like new steel wool. With his muttonchop sideburns and his heavy mustache, parted in the middle over tight thin lips, he was a pompous walrus of a man.

  Tía waited to see how angry he was. Since they had arrived at his house, he had managed to find something to irritate him at each meal, usually her lack of manners.

  “Eat your meal, and then we will read the letter,” he said sharply.

  “Uncle Tyler, may I ask who the letter is from?”

  “No, you may not. We will have our dinner now.”

  Frustrated, Tía picked up her fork. Sarah Polansky, one of the kitchen maids, deliberately leaned between Tía and her uncle to serve a steaming plate of peas and tiny white onions. Sarah flashed Tía a reassuring smile.

  Tía smiled her gratitude. Everyone except Mrs. Lockwood seemed sympathetic to Uncle Tyler’s “wild sister’s tomboy daughters.” Tía knew he was probably not an unkind person, inside. It was just that she and Andrea were more of a nuisance than an old man wanted to deal with at this time in his life. Childless, he and his wife had probably lived quite contentedly until her death. Now, to have two nieces dumped off by an “ungrateful sister,” who had “flaunted her reckless life-style” in his horrified and disapproving face and married “a common Mexican,” was too much for him to endure.

  “Teresa, that is the wrong fork!” Mrs. Lockwood’s stern reprimand caused Tía to jump and drop the fork onto the lush Oriental carpet beneath the enormous mahogany table. She leaned sideways to pick it up. In triumph, she swung her arm around and up. Too late she saw Sarah turning to see what the problem was. Tía’s arm caught Sarah’s tray. The entire bowl of peas plopped onto the immaculate maroon pile.

  “Now see what you’ve done!” Mrs. Lockwood shouted.

  Squeaking an apology, Sarah knelt to clean
up the carpet. From her toes to her hairline, Tía flushed as hot as a fresh-baked biscuit. Mrs. Lockwood turned to Uncle Tyler. “I do not know what I shall do with her! She absolutely refuses to learn anything. I could make a lady from corn silk easier than from this Arizona trash.”

  Smacking his lips in chagrin, Uncle Tyler sighed. “Perhaps a good school is the only reasonable answer to the problem. Do you suppose Altadena Herkimer could fit Teresa into one of her classes? She’s years too old, but perhaps Altadena would make an exception.” He fixed a cold, unfocused gaze on Teresa.

  Face burning with embarrassment, Tía thought of herself trying to fit in among twelve-year-old girls learning manners, that thought quickly followed by the certain knowledge that she would never be a grand lady, and that she didn’t care. Tía clutched her hands in her lap and tried to remember her promise to be polite and respectful. Tightness constricted her throat. She burned to stand up and walk out of the room, but she knew that would only make the next encounter worse—for her and Andrea. Mentally chanting her promise to Mama, Tía glanced at Mrs. Lockwood, who let her eyes roll upward, shook her head, and looked askance at Uncle Tyler, who said, “Mrs. Herkimer is very selective about whom she accepts, but perhaps if you asked her as a special favor…”

  Tía did not dare look at Andrea. If Andrea supported her in any way, she would stand up and walk out of the room. If she did not, Tía would be crushed.

  The moment passed. Tía pretended to eat. Her body went through the motions her uncle demanded, but her mind was two thousand miles away in Tubac, Arizona. She longed to be there. The industrialized city of Albany was a shock to her system. She appreciated the modern conveniences—indoor toilets, electricity, telephones, trolleys, swimming pools—and the wide variety of entertainments, but she hated the stifling rules imposed by “polite society.” In Uncle Tyler’s circle everyone had been respectable so long they had become intolerant. In Tubac, even after one of Mama’s friends became respectable by marrying some miner, cowboy, or rancher, she still seemed to remember how she’d gotten where she was.