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Emily couldn't be right; she just couldn't, I thought, but as Niles and I walked back to the house, I couldn't completely drive away the shadow of doubt that lingered in the corner of my mind and made all that had happened-and would happen seem part of some dark destiny decided long before I was born and not to be over until the day I died.

In a world that had taken little Eugenia to an early and undeserved death, nothing too cruel or too unjust seemed impossible.

8

MAMMA GETS STRANGER

During the months that followed Eugenia's passing, the plantation house grew darker and darker for me. For one thing, I no longer heard Mamma up early ordering the chambermaids to open the drapes, nor did I hear her singing out how people, just like flowers, needed sunshine, sunshine . . . sweet, sweet sunshine. I didn't hear her laughter when she said, "You don't fool me, Tottie Fields. None of my maids do. I know you're all afraid of opening the curtains because you're afraid I'll see the particles of dust dancing in the beams of light."

Before Eugenia's death, Mamma would have all the household help scurrying about, pulling cords to let the daylight in every morning. There was laughter and music and a feeling that the world was really awakening. Of course, there were sections of the house that were too deep or too far from a window to be brightened by either the morning or afternoon sun, or even our chandeliers. But when my little sister was alive, I would walk through the long, wide corridors, oblivious to the shadows, and never feel as cold or as depressed for I knew she was waiting for me to say good morning, her face full of smiles.

Right after the funeral, Eugenia's room was stripped clean of as many traces of her as possible. Mamma couldn't stand the thought of setting her eyes on Eugenia's things. She ordered Tottie to pack all of Eugenia's clothes in a trunk and then had the trunk carried up to the attic and stuffed away in some corner. Before Eugenia's personal things—her jewelry box, hair brushes and combs, perfumes and other toiletries—were packed away, Mamma asked me if I wanted anything. It was not that I didn't. I couldn't take anything. This time I was like Mamma, at least a little. It would have shattered my heart even more to see Eugenia's things in my room.

But Emily suddenly showed interest in shampoos and bubble-bath salts. Suddenly, Eugenia's necklaces and bracelets weren't silly trinkets designed to encourage vanity. She descended on Eugenia's room like a vulture and ransacked drawers and closets to claim this or that,- spitefully, I thought. With a crooked smile, she paraded past me and Mamma, her long, thin arms loaded down with Eugenia's books and other things that were once very precious to my little sister. I wanted to peel off Emily's smiles like bark from a tree so she would be revealed for what she was—an evil, hateful creature who feasted on other people's sorrow and pain. But Mamma didn't mind Emily's taking Eugenia's things. Putting them in Emily's room was as good as putting them up in the attic, for Mamma rarely went into Emily's room.

Soon after Eugenia's bed had been stripped, her closets and drawers emptied and her shelves made bare, the window shades were drawn and the curtains closed. The room was sealed and locked as tight as a tomb. I saw from the way Mamma gazed one last time at Eugenia's door that she would never set foot in that room again. Just like anything else she wanted to ignore or deny, Eugenia's room and its surroundings would no longer exist for her, if she could help it.

Mamma was desperate to end the sorrow, to wipe away the tragedy and the pain of loss she felt. I knew she wished she could close up her memories of Eugenia, the same way she could close the covers of a novel. She went so far as to take down some of the photographs of Eugenia that were hanging in her reading room. She buried the smaller ones at the bottom of one of her dresser drawers and had the large ones put into the bottoms and backs of closets. If I ever mentioned Eugenia's name, Mamma would close her eyes, pressing them shut so tightly, she looked like she was suffering with a horrible headache. I was sure she shut off her ears as well, for she waited for me to stop talking and then went on doing whatever it was she was doing before I had interrupted.

Papa certainly didn't mention Eugenia's name, except in an occasional prayer at dinner. He didn't ask about her things, nor as far as I could tell, question Mamma as to why she had taken down most of the pictures and hidden them away. Only Louella and I seemed to think about Eugenia and mention her to each other from time to time.

From time to time, I visited her grave. For a long while in fact, I ran out there as soon as I returned from school and babbled over the mound and at the stone, tears blurring my vision as I described the day's events just the way I used to describe them when Eugenia was alive and I would hurry to her room. But gradually, the silence that greeted me began to set in and take its toll. It wasn't enough to imagine the way Eugenia would smile or imagine her laugh. With every passing day that smile and that laugh diminished. My little sister was truly passing away. I understood that we don't forget the people we love, but the light of their lives and the warmth we felt in their presence dwindles like a candle in the darkness, the flame growing smaller and smaller as time carries us forward from the last moment we spent together.

Despite her attempt to ignore and forget the tragedy, Mamma was more deeply affected by it than she thought, even more than I imagined she could be. It did her no good to shut up Eugenia's room and hide any reminder of her; it did her no good to avoid mentioning her. She had lost a child, a child she had nursed and cherished, and gradually, in little ways at first, Mamma began to slip into a reluctant mourning that absorbed her every waking moment.

Suddenly, she wasn't dressing as nicely, nor was she taking as many pains with her hair and makeup. She would wear the same dress for days as if she didn't notice it was wrinkled or stained. Not only did she lack the strength to brush her hair, but she lacked the interest to ask Louella or I to do it. She didn't attend any gatherings of her women friends and permitted months to pass without hosting one. Soon the invitations stopped altogether and no one called at The Meadows.

I noticed Mamma's paleness and sad eyes growing darker and darker. I would walk by her reading room and see her lying on her lounge, but instead of reading her books, I would find her staring into space, the book closed on her lap. Most of the time, the music wasn't playing either.

"Are you all right, Mamma?" I would ask, and she would turn as if she had forgotten who I was and gaze at me for a long moment before responding.

"What? Oh yes, yes, Lillian. I was just daydreaming. It's nothing." She would flash an empty smile and attempt to read, but when I looked in on her again, I found her the way I had found her before—floundering in despair, the book closed on her lap, her eyes glassy, staring off into space.

If Papa noticed any of this, he never mentioned it in Emily's or my presence. He didn't comment about her long silences at the dinner table; he said nothing about the way she looked nor did he complain about her sad eyes and occasional outbursts of tears. Shortly after Eugenia's death, for apparently no reason whatsoever, Mamma would suddenly start to cry. If she did so at the dinner table, she would get up and leave the dining room. Papa would blink, watch her go, and then return to his food. One night nearly six months after Eugenia's passing, after Mamma had done this once again at dinner, I spoke up.

"She's getting worse and worse, Papa," I said, "not better. She doesn't read or listen to her music anymore or care about the house. She won't even see her friends or go to teas anymore."

Papa cleared his throat and wiped the grease off his lips and mustache before turning to me.

"To my way of thinking, it's not a bad thing she doesn't lollygag with those busybodies," he replied. "Nothing lost there, believe me . . . And as far as those silly books, I curse the day she brought one into the house. My mother never read novels or sat around all day listening to music on a Victrola, I can tell you that."

"What did she do with all her time, Papa?" I asked. "What did she do? Why . . . why, she worked," he sputtered.

"But I thought you had dozens and dozens of slaves."

"We did! I ain't talking about field work or housework. She worked at seeing after my father or seeing after me. She ran the house, oversaw everything. She was better than a captain of a ship," he said proudly, "and she always looked like the wife of an important landowner."

"But it's not just her not reading books or seeing her women friends, Papa. Mamma's not taking care of herself. She's so sad she won't look after her clothes or her hair or . . ."

"She was too wrapped up in making herself attractive anyway," Emily quipped. "If she had spent more time reading the Bible and attending church regularly, she wouldn't be so despondent right now. What's done is done. It was the Lord's wish and it's over. We must accept it and give thanks."

"How can you say such a cruel thing? It was her daughter who died, our sister!"

"My sister, not yours," Emily retorted hotly.

"I don't care what you say. Eugenia was my sister, too, and I was more of a sister to her than you ever were," I insisted.

Emily l