|
Lost Soul Andre Bissette had been a widower for close to a decade when he reached his fortieth year. Upon his spouse's untimely death, he was left with the care of the couple's three children whom he raised with the help of Mammy Letitia, the slave who had come to Cypress Hill with his wife when she was a young bride. Both his daughters eventually married. One remained in Louisiana and lived in the neighboring parish, and the other moved to Charleston. Andre's youngest child, his only son, was up north, attending the military academy at West Point. With his wife buried in the family cemetery and his children having flown the nest, there was no one but Mammy Letitia and the other house workers to keep him company; and for the first time in his privileged life, Andre experienced loneliness. "You need to get married again," his well-meaning older daughter advised when she wrote him from South Carolina. Andre agreed with her, but he could think of no likely candidates from which to choose a bride. Since he rarely left Cypress Hill, his immense Louisiana sugarcane plantation, he had scant opportunities to meet marriageable women. His sister, who lived with her cotton broker husband in Savannah, came to his aid. Always one to enjoy a good party, she decided to throw a Christmas ball and invite several prominent families throughout Georgia, all of whom had unmarried daughters. Although he was grateful for Estella's efforts, the lonely widower did not find the female guests at the ball suitable prospects for marriage. Most of the single women his sister introduced him to were teenage girls, more his son's age than his own. "I can't believe not one of these lovely young ladies meets your high standards," Estella scolded her brother with frustration when she found him standing alone outside on the gallery instead of inside the house dancing. "Those girls don't need a husband, they need a nursemaid," Andre laughed. "They are the same age as your late wife was when you were married." "That's true, but I was much younger then myself. How is an old man like me to keep up with a child bride?" "An old man indeed!" Estella guffawed. "You're only forty-one. That's young enough to remarry and start a new family." "I already have three children. I don't need any more. Look, I appreciate what you're trying to do for me, but I want an older, more dignified woman who will grace my table, one who can share my interest in books and music. I'm looking for a companion for my old age. Now, dear sister, if you know of any middle-aged widows or spinsters who are looking for a husband ...." "If all you want is companionship, why don't you simply get a dog?" Estella snapped, but then she softened, kissed her brother on the cheek, put her arm through his and led him back toward the ballroom. "Even if you don't find a wife here tonight, you can at least relax and enjoy yourself. It's Christmas time. Show some holiday spirit." When Andre returned to the party, several young girls coyly flirted with him, but he politely excused himself and walked toward the punchbowl. While taking a drink, he observed over the rim of his crystal punch glass a beautiful woman enter the room unescorted. Who is she? he wondered. Andre surreptitiously watched the woman walk across the room, stopping briefly to speak to several people she passed. The widower thought a woman her age—somewhere in her late twenties or early thirties—who looked as she did must surely be married. When she saw Estella, the young woman sought her out. The two women spoke briefly, and then shortly thereafter, they headed in Andre's direction. "And here is my dear brother, who is visiting us for the holidays," Estella announced somewhat theatrically. "Andre, this is Tallulah Rutledge from Atlanta." "Are you here with your husband, Mrs. Rutledge?" the curious widower inquired. "No. Sadly, my husband passed away," she replied. This fact surprised Andre because the young woman was not dressed in mourning. As though Tallulah had read his mind, she added, "He died nearly ten years ago, less than a year after we were wed." "I am sorry," Andre said, but his apology was merely a matter of social custom. In truth, the wealthy planter was delighted that the beautiful young woman had no husband. * * * When Andre Bissette returned to Cypress Hill at the end of January, Tallulah Rutledge accompanied him as his new wife. "This is your house?" the bride asked with delighted surprise when she saw the stately Greek revival mansion. "Why, it's so big!" "Cypress Hill is one of the largest plantations in Louisiana," he announced proudly. Mammy Letitia and the other house workers were waiting on the wide veranda to welcome the master and the new mistress home. While Tallulah was not openly rude to the slaves, it was apparent even to her besotted husband that she thought them beneath her and barely took notice of them. Andre attributed her behavior to unfamiliarity with her new environment. He was sure she would warm up to the servants when she got to know them better. But she didn't. On the contrary, as the months passed, Tallulah became more cold and aloof toward the slaves as well as toward her new husband. "When I married you," she complained bitterly, "I thought we would have grand parties like your sister does. I had no idea I'd be buried here on this lonely plantation." "My sister can entertain frequently because she lives in a more densely populated area. Living so close to the bayou, we have few neighbors." However, Andre was so much in love with his wife that he was willing to make great sacrifices to ensure her happiness. "I think I can get away from here for a while. Why don't we take a trip to New Orleans?" "What would we do in New Orleans?" Tallulah asked petulantly. "There are a great many forms of entertainment in the city. Also," he added, clearly trying to placate her, "some of the best dressmakers and milliners have shops there." A smile lit up the bride's pretty face. The proposed trip sounded like a pleasant, much-needed diversion. Three weeks in New Orleans worked wonders on Tallulah. Her husband not only generously paid her extravagant clothing bills, but he also showered her with jewelry. In addition to financing her many purchases, he took her out every evening to sample the nightlife of the French Quarter, which she admittedly found far more exciting than any of Estella's house parties. When Andre began hinting that it was time they made plans to travel home to Cypress Hill, however, Tallulah's mercurial disposition changed. Her moods shifted from anger to self-pity and back. With the propsect of returning to the plantation looming before them, there was little Andre could do to make his wife happy. "I must return to Cypress Hill to see to business," he explained. "Perhaps in six months, we can take another trip." There was no reaction from his sulking wife. "In fact, we can take a longer trip then," he promised. "Maybe we could go north to New York or Philadelphia." When his wife continued to ignore him, he became desperate. "Or better yet, Europe. Wouldn't you like to see Paris and London?" Finally, Tallulah gave in. Temporarily appeased, she turned and smiled at her husband. * * * At first, life at Cypress Hill was pleasant upon the couple's return. With the possibility of a European vacation on the horizon, Tallulah was content—at least for the time being. As the weeks turned to months, however, the boredom of living on the isolated plantation made the young woman restless and eventually drove her to strike out at whoever was around her, in particular, the slaves. Those like Mammy Letitia who did not have frequent contact with the mistress were subject only to occasional verbal abuse. Others, especially Chloe, Tallulah's personal maid, were often slapped by the exacting, hard-hearted mistress when they displeased her. Had her husband permitted it, she would no doubt have had the poor workers taken out to the barn and whipped, but Andre was not a cruel man. He would not allow his slaves to be so mistreated, not even by his adored wife. Eventually, Tallulah, lacking suitable company of her own social class, began to spend a good deal of time with what the aristocracy of Southern planters called "poor white trash." These were impoverished, usually uneducated people who lived in shacks and shanties along the river bank or on the perimeter of the bayou. Many were Cajuns and Creoles who had migrated from New Orleans. Andre frowned on his wife's association with such people, and on more than one occasion he had expressly forbidden her from leaving the house to associate with them. Tallulah, however, defiantly disobeyed his orders. A strong-willed woman, she was not about to let her husband rule over her as if she were a slave. Having lost all control over his wife, Andre became despondent and began to imagine the worst. He suspected his wife had fallen in love with another man. The thought was excruciating, as he could not bear losing Tallulah. Theirs was no arranged marriage as his first union had been. Andre married for love the second time around, and his heart was breaking. His happiness eroded day by day as he felt his wife's affection slipping away. * * * Living in southern Louisiana had certain disadvantages. The weather was often unbearably hot and humid, and disease always posed a problem. But there was also an advantage unique to the area. Many of the slaves and free persons of color practiced a peculiar form of folk magic known as hoodoo. Most white people thought such beliefs were nonsense, while others purchased charms, or gris-gris, from hoodoo priests or priestesses. Ironically, these potions and elixirs often worked where more traditional medical treatments failed. Andre had never before gone into the bayou to seek out Queenie DuPres, the local hoodoo priestess, more commonly called the Swamp Witch by the people of the parish. Of course, up until that time, he had no need of her services. Now, he was a desperate man, willing to try anything to save his failing marriage. Mammy Letitia agreed to accompany her master into the bayou and show him the way to Queenie DuPres' shack. She did not ask him why he was seeking help from the Swamp Witch—slaves did not question their masters—yet she had a pretty good idea nonetheless. Queenie DuPres' home—if one could call the filthy hovel a home—stood on wooden posts, barely inches above the fetid swamp water. Bugs and snakes crawled and slithered along the rotted wooden exterior. Andre shivered with revulsion. Queenie DuPres, an elderly black woman, who wore a garishly bright, multicolored outfit and a scarlet turban over her gray hair, sat in an old rocking chair on the dilapidated porch, smoking a clay pipe. Andre introduced himself and then followed the old woman into the shack, leaving Mammy Letitia waiting outside on the porch. Nearly an hour later, the master of Cypress Hill emerged from the house, his face pale yet his eyes glowing with hope. "Come, Mammy," he cried with eagerness. "Let us make haste and get back home before it gets dark." * * * For the first time since Tallulah had made friends with the local white trash, Andre was delighted to learn that his wife was not at home. Upon hearing she was out, he immediately went upstairs to her bedroom. He walked to her vanity and found there, among the jewel boxes and perfume atomizers, one of her most prized possessions: the Sterling silver mirror, comb and brush set he had given her as a wedding present. Many a night Andre had watched his wife sitting on the edge of the bed or at her vanity, brushing her long blond hair until it shone a lustrous gold. It was not the hairbrush that interested him now, though. It was the mirror. From out of his pocket, Andre took the small vial of clear liquid Queenie DuPres had sold him. He paid an exorbitant price for it, but the cost would be well worth it if the hoodoo magic worked. He opened the vial—careful not to spill any of the precious liquid—and poured its contents onto the front of the mirror. He tilted it first one way and then another so that there was an even coating on the reflective surface. Andre waited several minutes for the liquid to dry, and then he returned the mirror to the top of the vanity. "Now we shall see if Queenie DuPres is as powerful a witch as everyone says she is." Andre then left his wife's bedroom and went downstairs to the parlor to await her return. It was not until after midnight that he heard the carriage in the driveway. When he did, he went out onto the veranda to greet his wife. Tallulah was not happy to see her husband waiting up for her. "I'm too tired to talk now," she said firmly as she pushed past him and went into the house. "But ...," he tried to argue. Tallulah raised her voice to drown out his objections. "I said not tonight! I'm not in the mood to listen to another of your self-righteous lectures. I'm going upstairs to bed." "Yes, my dear. That is exactly what you should do. You do not appear at all well," he lied. "Your face is looking ashen, and there are dark circles beneath your eyes. I only hope there is nothing seriously wrong with you." Tallulah promptly ceased to argue with her husband. Taking the steps two at a time, she ran upstairs into her bedroom and picked up her mirror, fearful of what she would see. To her great relief, the young woman could find nothing amiss. "I'm not in the least bit pale. What the devil is wrong with him? I don't ...." Suddenly, Tallulah stopped speaking. Something in the mirror had frightened her. She wanted to turn from her own reflection but could not. Nor could she put the mirror down. It was as though it were bewitched. At that moment Andre came through the door, and his heart leaped when he saw his wife holding the mirror. "Are you all right, darling?" he asked. Tallulah's reply was mechanical. "Yes." Andre walked toward her, took the mirror from her hand and turned her toward him. She had changed, he thought. There was a softness about her that was not there before. "It's getting late, my dear. Why don't we go to bed now?" "Yes. Why don't we go to bed?" she parroted his words in the same dull monotone, all willfulness and defiance gone from her demeanor. Andre placed the mirror back on the vanity and offered a silent prayer of gratitude. Queenie DuPres' magic had indeed worked. * * * The house workers were delighted that the master was at last happy with the woman he married, but they had not forgotten the harsh treatment they suffered at her hand. Many of them, especially Chloe, still mistrusted the mistress of Cypress Hill. Mammy Letitia tried her best to make peace in the house. "The way the mistress has been acting lately, it don't seem she'll be giving you any more trouble," she declared. "We'll just see about that," Chloe said skeptically. As time passed, however, Queenie DuPres' magic began to wear off. The clear liquid was slowly evaporating from the mirror, and Tallulah was once again becoming self-centered and cruel-hearted. Andre, who had grown accustomed to the quiet and obedient version of his wife, was devastated by her relapse. For the second time, he and Mammy Letitia ventured into the bayou, only to find that Queenie DuPres' price was even higher than before. "This is outrageous!" Andre complained. "I don't see why you charge as much as you do, especially since the effect was only temporary." "If you're not happy with the price, you don't have to buy," the old woman said with a hoarse, deep-throated laugh, stopping her laughter only long enough to take another long puff on her clay pipe. A large snake slithered across the floor near Andre's feet. Anxious to be away from the foul place, he took the money out of his pocket and gave it to the Swamp Witch in exchange for another vial of the clear liquid. * * * "You stupid, clumsy oaf!" the shrewish Tallulah screamed after Chloe knocked a bottle of French perfume off the vanity while attempting to tighten her mistress' stays. "It's not broken, ma'am," the slave said after she picked up the bottle and examined it. "No thanks to you. You are hopeless as a lady's maid. I'm going to speak to my husband about finding someone to take your place and sending you to work in the fields." Chloe cried and fell to her knees and begged, "Please, ma'am. I'll be more careful in the future. I promise." She reached for her mistress' hand to plead her case but succeeded only in ripping the lace trim on the hem of Tallulah's dress. "Now look what you've done!" Tallulah screamed and slapped the girl so hard that Chloe's nose and upper lip began to bleed. "Get out of my sight. If I find you in my room again, I'll have you whipped, whether my husband approves or not!" Shortly after this altercation, Andre and Mammy Letitia returned from their errand. "What on earth is wrong?" Andre asked when he found his wife crying in the downstairs parlor. "That useless lady's maid of mine ripped my dress. I want her out of this house at once. Do you understand?" "Calm down, dear. Chloe can work in the kitchen, and I'll get you a new maid." "No, not in the kitchen. I want her sent to the fields!" Andre turned to Mammy Letitia and implored her, "Will you get your mistress a sherry to calm her nerves? Then send Chloe to the kitchen." With his wife in Mammy Letitia's capable hands, Andre went up to Tallulah's bedroom where he again coated her Sterling silver mirror with the clear liquid he had purchased from Queenie DuPres. This time, he did not wait to see if the Swamp Witch's hoodoo magic would work. Instead, he went to his own room and fell asleep. The following morning, Andre went down to breakfast and found Tallulah sitting peacefully at the dining table. "Are you feeling any better today, my dear?" he asked. Her eyes were glazed over, and she showed little sign of life. "Yes. Feeling better." Obviously, the quiet, obedient Tallulah had returned. But for how long? her husband wondered. Andre Bissette calmly took his seat at the head of the table and rang the bell to signal that he was ready to be served. Chloe walked into the room with a tray of buckwheat hotcakes, ham and freshly baked biscuits. Her master immediately noticed the swollen and bruised lip. "I apologize for my wife's inappropriate behavior last night," he said with concern. "I promise it won't happen again." The slave's eyes darted to Tallulah with a thinly veiled look of hatred. "I know that, Massah Andre," she replied cryptically. "I'm sure the mistress won't hurt anyone ever again." * * * Chloe patiently bided her time. She spent the morning cleaning the kitchen and preparing the noonday meal. Finally, around two in the afternoon, the house fell silent. The master was out in the fields having a word with the overseer, and the house workers were scattered throughout the rooms doing the daily cleaning. When the cook went outside to pick fresh vegetables in the garden, Chloe snuck up the main staircase and tiptoed down the hall into the mistress' bedroom. Tallulah was still docile thanks to Queenie DuPres' magic and took no notice when her former lady's maid entered the room. "You're not so high and mighty now, are you?" the slave asked in a low, threatening voice. The mistress did not reply. "You were going to send me to work in the fields. Well, my Grandma, Queenie DuPres, told me how to handle you." Chloe walked over to the vanity and picked up the Sterling silver mirror. "Do you know why you act so different now? Because your miserable soul has been imprisoned in this mirror." Tallulah was not alarmed. She still did not speak nor did she turn and look when her slave swung the mirror against the wooden bedpost. Amidst the tinkling sound of shattering glass, Chloe heard a low moan from her mistress as the remaining fragments of the woman's soul passed from her body. * * * When his wife did not come down to dinner that night, Andre went upstairs to check on her. "Aren't you hungry, my dear?" he asked when he saw Tallulah sitting on the edge of her bed. "Tallulah?" He walked across the room and kneeled down in front of her. "Tallulah, darling, what's wrong?" There was no expression on his wife's beautiful face. Even her blue eyes, which had sometimes sparkled with amusement but more often blazed with anger, were lifeless and totally void of emotion. Guilt tugged at Andre's heart. He wanted a quiet, obedient wife, and now he had one. But Queenie DuPres' hoodoo spell had gone too far. He had lived in Louisiana all his life and often heard of the soulless creatures that walked the earth. The slaves who believed in Voodoo had a name for them: zombies. Andre Bissette held his wife's responsive hand, hung his head and cried. Meanwhile, downstairs in the kitchen, Chloe helped the cook prepare dinner. As she sliced a loaf of bread taken from the oven, she turned to the other woman and smiled with triumphant satisfaction.
Mirror, mirror on the wall. Who's the biggest pest of all? |