House of Rougeaux(43)
Josephine was ten this year and regularly said unsettling things. This concerned Hetty, who tried to help her daughter understand what she could and couldn’t say to those outside the family. She implored her older children to help with Josie. Hetty told them what she had learned from her aunt, the great healer, from so long ago. Abeje had said that some people are marked by Spirit. Perhaps Josie was this sort of person. Hetty said perhaps, but she herself had no doubt, not since one day when Josie was but five or six years old. Hetty was combing out and plaiting the child’s hair, when she said, “Maman, did you know I used to be an angel?”
“Is that so?” Hetty answered, distracted by a stubborn tangle.
“Yes, I was,” said the child. “I came and I stayed with you, but then I wasn’t ready to come out, and I went back to Heaven.” All at once, in a mad rush, Hetty knew exactly what she meant. She saw again the tiny lifeless body of her fifth child, dead the day she was born, and buried the next. That old grief whipped through her with a punishing force, but was followed by a greater knowledge, a release, that nearly knocked her over. She dropped the comb and scooped up Josie in her arms.
“Why are you crying, Maman?” said the child. “Aren’t you going to finish my hair?”
Hetty remembered Tata Abeje as a different kind of person. She was a mountain, yet not actually large. She was fire, yet not actually hot. Rooted as a tree, yet moved easily over the land. Hetty had a distinct memory of the two of them walking along a wagon road together, in a place where the grasses grew tall and wildflowers of all colors bloomed. Ten-year-old Hetty had run barefoot, light and joyous, from one flower to another, laughing. Each was more beautiful than the next. After Tata departed to the sugar estate where she was bound, Hetty was never again able to locate this place. There was no such road at Mont Belcourt. No such grasses or flowers. This was the place Josephine reminded her of, because it was both real and impossible at the same time.
The family had to be careful directing the unusual things Josie said, but they also had to protect her from what she seemed to absorb from the world around her. More than once Hetty found her weeping, inconsolable over a dead pigeon or afraid because there were too many dogs barking outside. She spoke of a whirlpool that terrified her. It did no good to tell her that there wasn’t any whirlpool, and that nothing bad could happen to her. These fearful moments increased as Hetty began to notice Josephine’s body changing–a bit of hair appearing under her arms, her breast buds beginning to form–there were times when Josephine could not be made to get out of bed, or eat her supper, or put on her coat in cold weather. How Hetty wished she could bring her to Tata Abeje. If a healing was needed she would know what to do. And if marked by Spirit also meant one came into the world with certain unusual gifts, then Tata would know how to make those grow. But all that was a world away, and a lifetime ago.
* * *
The rag doll Claudine sat in repose atop a shelf beside the bed, next to a few other cherished items, such as the oval tin candy box with the rose on its lid.
The first night they spent in that room, in the apartment above the saddlery shop, Dax embraced Hetty. He couldn’t help but look at the doll, illuminated by the tallow candle he had placed on the shelf.
“A married woman and still has a doll,” he teased.
“She knows all my secrets,” Hetty smiled.
“Does she know things your husband does not?” He drew her to him, frowning in mock offense.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, and murmured, “Perhaps.” A moment later Claudine was forgotten entirely.
* * *
The first doll Hetty made herself was for Phoebe. Hetty was pregnant for the first time and she and Dax were terribly excited. Dax built a cradle, spending hours sanding every inch of its surfaces, and then rubbing beeswax into the wood with a cloth until it shone like gold. Hetty busied herself with preparing miniature clothes and wrappings, and with the leftover fabrics fashioned a doll that was both soft and sturdy. By the time Phoebe had outgrown the cradle and Olivie was on the way, the doll, called Suzette, was a dear friend. Phoebe slept with her each night, and carried her around each day, so that Hetty found her momentarily discarded in all manner of places. Despite having her own doll, however, Phoebe dearly wanted to play with Claudine. Hetty gently explained to Phoebe that Claudine was old and fragile and must stay in her place upon the shelf. Phoebe had a doll, and Maman had a doll, and this was part of the natural order of things.
But Hetty’s admonitions, for Phoebe, only served to make Claudine all the more alluring. One day Hetty opened the bedroom door to find Phoebe in the middle of the bed with Claudine clutched in her little hands. Phoebe froze, her big eyes wide with fear. She burst into tears before Hetty even had the chance to scold her. This scene repeated itself so many times that finally Hetty surrendered. Phoebe could have Claudine, it was alright, Hetty told her. Claudine and Suzette could be sisters, just as Phoebe would soon have a sister or brother. Then Hetty found both dolls left hither and thither when Phoebe became interested in the yarn box, or the empty flour sacks, or went after the cat.
The cat was a fine specimen, pure grey with amber eyes, an excellent mouser and patient with the children. It held a special fascination for Guillaume. With four small children in the house Hetty had little time for extra sewing, but she made a special cat doll for Guillaume. The dolls Hetty had made for Olivie and Abigail were fancier affairs than Suzette, as Hetty experimented with more sophisticated constructions and new details as the years passed. The cat doll was yet another step in elaboration, and though Guillaume liked the cat doll well enough, he still much preferred the real thing.