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"They own all this?" I said, impressed. Luther grunted.

"Lotta good that does them now," he replied.

But how could it not do them good to own so much land? I wondered. They must be very, very rich people. I sat back, looking forward to setting my eyes on a wealthy southern plantation. I knew how some of these places could be, how some old southern families had held on to their wealth as well as their heritage. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad here, I thought. After all I would rest, eat good food, and be in fresh, country air. It would be good for the baby.

Luther began to slow down even more. I leaned forward. Over the tops of the trees I could see the tips of the brick chimneys and the long, gabled roof of the plantation house. It looked enormous. At the entrance to the driveway were two stone pillars, each crowned with a ball of granite, but the driveway itself was nothing more than crushed rocks and dirt. As Luther turned into it, I gazed ahead and saw what was better described as a corpse, the remains of what must have once been a blossoming flower of the South, but what was now a phantom of itself.

I saw the dry and broken marble fountains, some leaning over precipitously. I saw the dead and scraggly hedges, the pockmarked flower beds with their gaping empty spaces, the chipped and battered stone walks, and the large, but ugly lawn only spotted here and there with patches of yellow grass. The shadows that had fallen with the twilight looked permanently glued on the immense two-story wood structure.

Over the great round columns of the full-facade porch ran thin leafless vines that looked more like rotting rope. Some of the multipane front windows had black shutters and decorative crowns; some had lost their shutters and looked naked. There was only the dim glow of light behind the lower ones.

Luther drove toward the right side of the house and I could see that behind the house was the barn and stables, all the buildings tottering and in need of paint. There was rusted and broken farm equipment everywhere and chickens ran freely over the driveway. Some even paraded arrogantly over the portico. I thought I saw a sow waddle just around the corner of the main house.

Luther stopped short.

"You might as well git out here," he said. "I gotta go on back to the barn."

I opened the door and slowly stepped out. When he pulled away, a cloud of dust rose from the driveway and nearly choked me. I fanned the air and when it cleared, I looked up at the tall plantation house. The windows in the gabled dormers were like mirrors reflecting the quickly blackening night sky overcast with brooding clouds. For the moment they looked like dark eyes peering down angrily at me. Above them, the peak of the roof seemed to touch the dark sky. I embraced myself. The wind that whistled past me was chilly and quickly turned my cheeks red.

I hurried up the shattered front steps to the enormous entrance. My boots clacked over the loose slats of the porch floor and blackbirds that had been hovering out of the wind just inside the columns rose in an ebony splash and flew into the night, complaining loudly of my intrusion.

I found the brass knocker on the tall panel door and let it tap on the metal plate behind it. A deep, hollow echo reverberated on the other side. I waited, but nothing happened, so I let the knocker rap again and again. Suddenly the door was jerked open, its rusted hinges rattling. At first I saw no one. There was barely any light on within the long entryway that led down a dark corridor to a circular stairway. Then, a tall, dark figure looking more like a silhouette stepped before me from the side, holding a kerosene lamp in her hands. Her appearance was so abrupt and silent, I felt like I had been greeted by a ghost in this dying house. I couldn't help but gasp and step back.

"Don't you have any patience?" she snapped. When she moved closer to me, I was able to see her face in the dim light of the lamp. It cast an amber glow over her long, ashen visage, turning her eyes into deep, dark sockets. Her mouth was a pencil-thin crooked line drawn across her narrow face. She had her long, thin gray hair knitted in a big knot behind her head.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't think anyone had heard me."

"Step in so I can close the door," she commanded. I did so quickly. Then she held out the lamp and ran the light over me. "Humph," she said, confirming some expectation. When she brought the light closer to herself again, I was able to see more of her face.

There were resemblances to Grandmother Cutler, especially in the steel-gray eyes that gazed back at me with a similar iciness. Grandmother Cutler's face was just as thin now, the cheekbones just as prominent. Perhaps this woman was a little taller and had broader shoulders. She certainly stood as firmly with the same arrogant pride as she threw her shoulders back to gaze down at me.

"My name is Miss Emily," she said. "You are always to call me Miss Emily, is that clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said.

"Not ma'am, Miss Emily," she retorted.

"Yes, Miss Emily."

"You're too late for anything to eat," she said. "We eat dinner early and those who miss the dinner bell go without."

"I'm not very hungry anyway," I said. The ride in the smelly truck had taken care of any appetite.

"Good. Now march yourself up those stairs and I'll show you where you will stay." She started ahead of me, holding the kerosene lamp up to light our way. The entryway walls were bare except for a portrait of a dour-looking southern gentleman, his hair as white as milk. I had only a glimpse of him as the light washed away the shadows, but I thought I saw resemblances to Grandmother Cutler and Miss Emily, especially in the forehead and eyes. I imagined it was a portrait of their father or perhaps their grandfather. Lighter spaces along both sides of the walls indicated that there had once been other pictures displayed.

"Have my things arrived yet from New York, Miss Emily?" I asked.

"No," she said sharply without turning around. Her voice reverberated down the long, empty corridor and sounded like a chorus of "no's."

"No? But why not? What will I do? What I am wearing is all I have," I cried. She stopped to turn back.

"So?" she said. "What does it matter? You're not here to entertain yourself. You're here to give birth and then leave immediately after."

"But . . ."

"Don't worry, I have something for you to put on. You will have clean bedding and clean towels. If you keep them clean," she added.

"But maybe we should phone and find out what's happened to my things," I insisted.