Aunt Effie

Chapter Two:   Aunt Effie

One evening we were having supper at the big table in the dining room. Euphemia suddenly looked up from her plate and for no apparent reason cried, "My God Philippe what have you done?" At first we thought that Euphemia was seeing a ghost. We had not heard uncle Philippe’s name mentioned in years. Ethne and I looked around the room expecting to see him standing there but we were alone in the room. The event was very unsettling Euphemia was not given to emotional outbursts such as this.

Euphemia apologized to us saying, "I'm sorry children I don't know what came over me. Everything is all right I just remembered something I forgot that's all," she did her best to smile at us to ease our nerves and calm us but we still sensed that there was something wrong. We finished our dinner in uncomfortable silence.

At the end of our meal Euphemia sent for mammy Esther. She told her that she had a headache and would Mammy please see that Ethne was put to bed. I also went off to my room I knew better then to protest something was just not right.

I will never forget the events, which occurred later that night. I lie in bed and listened to the rain tapping on the attic roof. The wind set the branches of the trees in motion enabling them, with bony fingers, to click out a ghostly rhythm on the windowpanes. Eventually I drifted off to an uneasy sleep only to be wakened at an early hour by a thunderous knock at the front door. The pounding was so loud that it reverberated through the house and wakened Ethne as well. Soon the whole house was beehive of activity. We knew something was wrong because nobody would be calling at this late hour and certainly Euphemia would not have gotten up and gone downstairs in her nightclothes. Frightened Ethne came running to my room and dived beneath the covers. We could hear excited voices coming from downstairs. We crept quietly to the top of the steps where we could see down to the hallway below.

Euphemia was standing in the hall talking to James, the butler, "I will receive him in the front parlor," said Euphemia. She turned and went in to the room.
James opened the front door and with a rush of wind and a spatter of rain, a tall dark haired man in a great coat, blew into the room. The stranger looked oddly familiar. He was wearing no hat and his clothes were dripping water and mud onto Euphemia’s oriental carpet.

It was obvious that James did not like this man. He took his coat and said to him, " You gonna have ta take off dem boots. You ain’t gonna walk on Miss Pheemie’s carpets wid all o dat mud."
The man sat in a chair in the hall and produced a fine linen handkerchief from his pocket. He proceeded to wipe his boots clean.

The butler just stood there watching the stranger, "Seems like it would’ a been a whole lot easier jus ta take off dem boots," he said.
The stranger finished wiping his boots, stood up and laughed, "A gentleman never knows when he may need to leave in a hurry. Now where is she?" he asked.
James answered under his breath, "Seems to me a gentleman shouldn’t be in no hurry and he sho don’t go callin on folks at tree o’clock in da morning," out loud he said, "She’s waitin for you in da parlor." James pointed the way to the open door.

Ethne and I moved closer to the railing unobserved by the house servants below, they like us, were much too interested in the conversation in the parlor to pay any attention to us. Euphemia had left the parlor door ajar enabling us to hear parts of the conversation below. Euphemia stood as the stranger entered the room; she extended her hand from under the shawl, which she clasped tightly about her shoulders.
The stranger crossed the room took Euphemia’s hand kissed it, and said, "Is this all of the greeting I get? No hug? I should think you would be happy to see your long lost brother after all of these years."

Ethne and I turned to each other in surprise. So this was uncle Philippe back from the dead, or wherever he had been all of these years. We crept closer to the edge and listened with renewed interest.
"You might have found my reception a little warmer had you bothered to write pending your arrival and arranged for a proper visit. I suppose though I should not be surprised by your conduct. You always have had a habit of sneaking around in the night."
"Come now Euphemia is that any way to talk to family?" said the stranger.
"Family, Family, You have some nerve, after all these years walking in here at three o’clock in the morning and invoking the name of family. If you cared anything about this family you would not have conducted yourself in the manner, which you have. Tell me one thing Philippe. Is it true?" Euphemia’s eyes blazed and her cheeks flushed with color.

Philippe looked at his feet. The reunion had not gone as he had hoped. "If you mean Sephoria yes, it’s true. She is my wife."
"My God, Philippe do you realize that you could be hanged for this? Is she here with you?"
"No," said Philippe. "She is dead."
"Probably better for you both." Euphemia turned her head and closed her eyes. She remembered the little boy she and her sisters had dressed up and held so dear. "Philippe you must leave this house and Charleston and never come back," said Euphemia.
"But you don’t understand there are things, things you don’t know about," began Philippe.
"What ever they are I don’t care," interrupted Euphemia. "The rest of us have to live here."
"But Euphemia, the money is all gone, I am broke, Sephoria is dead and."

Suddenly a loud gust of wind shook the house violently, we did not hear the rest of the sentence but none of us will ever forget what happened next for we had never, never, heard Euphemia swear.
"Damn it Philippe! You have done everything that you can to drag this family's name through the mud and to lower the standard of decent people. You have never at any point thought about anyone but yourself. This is more then I can bare. You will make this right so that we can hold our heads up in public, and once you have set it straight you will sail from here and never come back again!"
"Very well," said Philippe meekly. "I will set things right but whatever happens let my blood be on your hands."
"I will have none of your guilt. You shamed and disowned this family when you snuck out like a thief in the night ten years ago. Let your blood be on your own hands. And may God have mercy on your soul. Now get out." Euphemia pointed to the door.

The servants, who had gathered in the hall, scurried away like palmetto bugs when a light is turned on. James remained standing steadfast, a picture of quite dignity, he was holding out Philippe’s wet coat. Philippe snatched it from his hand and not even putting it on and stormed out into the blustery night. Euphemia sat crying on the sofa in the parlor now she had lost a sister, a husband, and a brother.

The next morning daylight crept into Charleston on a thousand tiny gray feet, like an army of mice invading a bag of gain. A cold dense fog smothered everything in its chilly embrace. Three men stood in the park just off the river. Despite the fog everything appeared to be crystal clear and magnified in great detail, at least it seemed that way to the first man standing in the square. There came the smell of dampness, of leather saddles and boots, of damp wool, and from somewhere insanely cool and calm, came the smell ladies perfume.

The first man shook the daydream from his head. Although the horses could not be seen the metal of the bridles and stirrups clanked sharply as the animals pawed the ground impatiently. Their snorts punctuated the air with sound and little puffs of white. The crunch of oyster shells underfoot and the squeak of boot leather was almost deafening. Street lamps hung like ghostly chandeliers suspended in mid air. The light from their halos illuminated only the immediate area where the men stood. The silent oaks towered overhead and reached into the arena piercing the cold gray fog with bony arms and spindly fingers. Here and there great columns of Spanish moss hung like beards from eyeless, nameless, faces bearing mute testimony to the events unfolding before them.

In the center of the park stood an older Negro man. Dressed in fine livery, he stood like a statue, head erect, eyes forward. He was holding a mahogany box inlaid with walnut and mother of pearl. The open box contained a pair of handsome pearl handled pistols. The second gentleman motioned to the first to select a weapon. He walked over to the man holding the box and with eyes closed, palms sweating, and hands shaking he took a gun from the box. The second man took the remaining pistol. The Negro closed the box authoritatively with a loud crack. The first man jumped and ducked. Hoping nobody had noticed, he quickly regained what was left of his shattered composure. The second man regarded the first man with contempt.
"Gentlemen take yo positions," called the Negro. The two men lined up back to back.
"Gentlemen, to yo mark".

Each man walked the agreed number of steps across the square before turning to face his opponent. The second man walked with determination and confidence, his mind clear and focused. Time, to the first man, suddenly seemed to shift to slow motion like a dream. He thought, If I just keep on walking I can jump on my horse and ride away from here and never come back. But he knew that his opponent would never stop hunting him and he had nowhere to go. I can turn right now and shoot nobody will ever know, he thought. Suddenly, he smelled perfume and thought he heard a woman call his name. I wasn’t raised to be a coward. It is time I did one honorable thing with my life. On the other hand if I don't fire and I am killed I can put an end to this right now. Nobody will ever miss me. He reached his mark and turned, his opponent was already facing him. He wore a self-satisfied sneer on his weather-lined face.

"Sir, you have the first shot," called the Negro to the first man, his voice seemed to come from somewhere far away. When he had finished speaking his stepped slowly backward and seemed to fade away as the fog enveloped him.
"Fi-yah," came the Negro’s voice from the mist.

The first man’s opponent was staring at him. He stood with his gun in one hand arms outstretched as if to say, "Here I am, take your best shot." The man was laughing at him or was he just sneering? The first man wanted to put a bullet square in the middle of that sneering face. He raised his arm, closed his eyes, and squeezed the trigger. He heard the pop of the gun and slowly opened his eyes. The face was still there mocking him. With a movement so quick it seemed out of place in the dream state his opponent whipped his gun straight ahead and fired.