Thirty, Confrontation

Thirty

Confrontation

29 May 1824

 

Sometime last night, I fell asleep at the table.  Mother never came downstairs, or if she did, she did not wake me.

When I first awoke in the night, the fire was out, but  I was too exhausted to go upstairs to sleep the rest of the night, and besides, I really did not want to.

I awoke again in the morning to Susie bringing some more biscuits, and this time, she brought a rasher of bacon as well.

I boiled some water with chicory.  We did not have coffee, so this would suffice.  Mother came downstairs, and when I saw her, I had to look again.  She looked a fright.  Her hair was down and in a tangle, her eyes were half shut, and she was stumbling.

Your father is doing better this morning, she said.  His fever has broke.

She sat at the table and put her head down on her folded arms.  I put my arms around her from behind.  There, there, Mother, I said.

She started to rise, saying that she wanted to bring Father some tea.  She looked terrible, as though she were going to pass out.  I considered my choices, and decided that for once, my desire to be helpful outweighed everything else.

I'll take it up to him, I said.  Maybe he will eat some biscuits.  At this, she raised up her head, and asked with surprise, you baked these?  I shook my head, no, and she figured it out who had, I suppose.  She put her head back down.  There's some bacon, too, I told her, but she was fast asleep.

I slowly climbed the steps, considered what I would say to Father, if he was in a state for me to talk to him.  He was propped up a little, and awake.

Father...

I thought that if I did not say what I wanted to say to him, I would later lose my nerve.  And I might not get the chance to speak to him alone again.  I might not want to see him again.  I remembered what TJ had said, that maybe he would be dead in two weeks.

I wished to wound him, to sink a dagger into his heart. Am I completely without mercy?  Perhaps I am.  

I was tired, I was angry.  I wanted to avenge TJ as well as myself.  Years wasted, I thought.  Years of a lost happiness that perhaps we all could have had. 

I blurted out to him, cruelly, for cruelty was in my heart.  "You have been cuckolded by an Indian."

I watched for a reaction.  He looked confused, not understanding.

"I saw them in an embrace in the forest and it is clear to me that much more than that has transpired", I said, being sinister and without remorse.

 
Confusion gave way to alarm.  "What do you mean by this?  Your mother never would..."

"That is true. Mother never would. But Susie would."  I said this last part with emphasis.

Father seemed puzzled, then when he seemed to have grasped my unvarnished meaning, he smiled weakly, but only briefly. Then, very seriously, he motioned me to come nearer. He had something to tell me.

Startled that he had smiled, I thought perhaps that he had not gotten my meaning after all.  I reluctantly drew nearer to the bedside, thinking perhaps that his fever had returned, for his facial expression made little sense otherwise.

Father began by saying that no one must know what he was about to say. He grabbed my arm as tightly as an ill man can manage and he made me swear by all that was dear to me.  He used my arm to pull himself more upright in the bed, and he did not let go.

And then he told me, in a voice that was not quite a whisper, but was very hushed.  He did not want to risk being heard.  Relating something this important, this shattering, was quite difficult for him. One could tell that he had been completely unprepared to say what he was telling me, that he had not wanted to tell me, but felt that he had no choice.

When it  was over, when he finished what he had to say, Father let go of my arm, and he fell back against his pillow. He awaited my reaction. 

I turned from him, and hurried out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the house.  I began running, picking my skirts up, paying no mind to being barefoot, as I had never put on shoes this morning.

I  did not care where I was going, I just wanted to run, crying as I went, asking myself what all of this truly means.

I cannot relay even to my journal what he said.  I am in shock. 

My running slowed to a walk, and then a limp.  My legs hurt, my lungs hurt, my eyes were burning, and I wanted to retch. 

I had been running through a forested area, and I came to a stone wall.  I was disoriented, not certain where I was.   I felt faint;  in the next moment, I dropped to the ground.  All went black.

I am not certain how much time passed before I was able to open my eyes.  A crow alighted on the fence nearby.  He seemed to be peering at me.  I thought perhaps it was Satan.  It all seemed like a dream.

I then heard my name.  Miss Williams?  Are you all right?

Reverend Terry ran to me, then knelt next to me and took my hand.  Miss Williams, your hand is as cold as the spring water in January.  Can you get up?

I was not certain that I could, but I tried, and found myself clenching Reverend Terry's arm. 

We are very near my house.  Are you able to walk?

I found that I could, a bit shakily.

We were within sight of the house, and came upon it presently.  Reverend Terry called to his wife with enough urgency in his voice such that she hurried in from the other room.

I will fetch some water, he said.  Please stay with her.

Mrs. Terry bade me sit down on the finest chair that they possessed, one fitted out in light green silk, its graceful arms on either side curling inward in an "S". 

Reverend Terry returned with some water as well as some bread and jam.  These he offered to me.  I sipped the water, but was unable to eat.

The Terrys sensed that something was quite amiss, especially noticing that my feet were bare and dirty, and were scratched, and my hair quite out of place.  Neither inquired as to why I was in such a state, and I did not wish to tell them.

Reverend Terry then said that he would hitch up his carriage to take me home, which he did.

I have been home now for an hour or two, gathering my thoughts.  As always, writing calms me and helps me to think more clearly.

I fear that if I were to write what Father said to me in my journal that it would betray the confidence that I swore to him.  I am surprised that this matters to me, for this morning I wanted nothing more than to hurt him.   Deeply.  Suffice it to say that what he told me, unsettled me. 

What he said, changes everything. And yet it does not.