THE DEATH OF RHETT BUTLER

1. RHETT'S SIDE OF THE STORY

2010-03-13T21:07:00.000-08:00

I’m still around, but I can’t live with the likes of GONE WITH THE WIND, the biography of Scarlett O’Hara. It rewrites history, and portrays my papa, Rhett Butler, may he rest in peace, as a crook and playboy. Even his own grandchildren believe it.

The book called me “Rhett’s ward," as if I had no place in the man’s heart - - worse than a stepchild. Only Scarlett’s biographer, Mrs. Mitchell, knows why she wrote it that way, and only I know the harm it’s done to Papa and me, since it was published last year.

I'm his adopted son, and I was an eyewitness to most of GONE WITH THE WIND, back when it happened. I’ll be damned if I won’t tell Papa’s side of the story, for the sake of the grandchildren, before the book catches on.

Papa cared about no one but Scarlett, until Bonnie’s birth. He was too steadfast for his own good, allowing everyone their turn to betray him, including me. He seemed to consider my treachery against him a mere trifle, as compared to Scarlett’s treachery. That’s why he was able to salvage some of his fondness for me in the end. I’ll confess my own sins at the end of this memoir, lest anyone should take me to task.

The worst cheater of all was GONE WITH THE WIND’s author, Margaret Mitchell. She waited until now - 1936! - to slander Papa, when he can’t ridicule her in reply.

* * *

“Scarlett O’Hara was not beautiful,” is the only true thing GONE WITH THE WIND says. It has to be true, since it’s the first sentence of the book, but everything that followed it is hogwash, as Papa would say, concocted by Mrs. Mitchell to make Scarlett seem pretty and clever as a parakeet. Scarlett, herself began rewriting history before Sherman’s fires had died, in her own letters. She was still in her twenties! Feebler folks’ memories of the actual facts had already begun to fail. Rhett, however, remembered just fine, though near twenty years Scarlett’s senior. Unlike her, he didn’t care how folks remembered him. Scarlett’s letters traveled everywhere, to Suellen and Will Benteen at Tara, and to the Charleston kin. Enclosed were bribes such as perfumes and pressed flowers (store-bought) for the ladies, and cash, which Mr. Benteen needed for goods like lamp oil that he couldn’t barter for. Later, Mrs. Mitchell the biographer cobbled Scarlett’s letters together and called it GONE WITH THE WIND.

Scarlett’s versions of events continually sparked hot repartee with Papa and the guests that frequented their new Swiss Chalet on Peachtree Street, as they sipped gin and reminisced at the cocktail hour. Papa never cared to get the last word, but that is my aim now, because of GONE WITH THE WIND. I was an eyewitness and I kept my own notes. It was my habit, as a stenographer. Even my profession I owe to Rhett Butler, which I’ll explain later.

SLAP AND SLAM

Papa and Scarlett always goaded each other, but Papa never insulted her in public, as GONE WITH THE WIND claims he did. For instance, on the first day they met, she said he was “no gentleman.” He replied that she was “no lady,” but the book censored the rest of their argument, leaving the false impression that Papa was mean to Scarlett and disrespectful of his hosts, the Wilkeses. This argument appeared during the chapter devoted to Scarlett’s discovery that Ashley Wilkes had jilted her in favor of Melanie.

The actual story of Ashley’s announcement of his engagement to Melanie is well known, or it used to be. Prior to the Yankee’s attack on Fort Sumter in 1862, the Wilkes’s had thrown a ball at their home and everyone, including the newcomer Rhett, was in attendance. Scarlett claimed that her vow was spoken to Ashley early in the day, prior to his announcement. Scarlett claimed that her solemn vow was conveniently witnessed by none other than Rhett, the only person disgraceful enough to hide himself and eavesdrop upon Scarlett and Ashley’s confessions and the slap Scarlett gave to Ashley.

After Ashley left the room, Rhett came out of hiding forthrightly. Scarlett was chagrinned to discover that he had witnessed her tantrum with Mr. Wilkes, unbeknownst to her. In retaliation, she insulted his gentlemanliness. Referring to her tantrum, he replied that she was “no lady.”

Scarlett’s version of events ended there, the version that later appeared in GONE WITH THE WIND. But she didn’t get the last word, no matter how loud it banged, since she chose the quietest moment of the day to slam the door, and it prompted Ashley Wilkes’s alarm.

“Who’s in there?” he said, having returned to the same stairway he had just descended. Rhett heard his voice through the library door, so he came forth. But Ashley Wilkes himself looked a sight, still red from Scarlett’s slap. Needless to say, he hadn’t provoked it.

Scarlett stopped midway down the staircase, and turned around. Rhett was following her against her wishes. “That's enough, sir.”

“You haven’t denied what I said,” Rhett said.

“Rhett!” Ashley Wilkes said. “You heard us?”

“Of course. I told you I was going to the library.”

“So you did.”

“That’s no excuse for spying on us,” Scarlett said.

“She knew I was there all along. She staged the whole event by following me there and luring you along with her.”

“Liar,” Scarlett said. “It’s clever, but it’s a lie. Don’t expect him to believe you. Nobody puts any stock in your word.”

Rhett shrugged, “Like a prospector for gold, you’re the first to stake your claim on Mr. Wilkes. From now on, you’ll call any other woman a trespasser.”

“How dare you!” From her perch on the steps she tried to go after Rhett, but couldn’t manage her skirt in the process. She almost lost her balance and began teetering on the edge.

“Scarlett!” Ashley said, and he bounded up the steps to steady her, while Rhett came from above. Rhett gathered her to his chest, despite her protests, and they all descended together.

“Prospector, yourself,” she sneered, and squirmed free of Rhett. She clutched at Ashley as they went.

Ashley said, “In the territory of the heart, there are no stakes to be claimed.”

Nevertheless, Scarlett’s antics didn’t hinder Ashley from announcing his engagement to Melanie, or from marrying her straight Away. Indeed, in Scarlett’s mind she possessed a claim on Ashley’s heart forevermore, no matter what. Henceforth, she obsessively flirted with Ashley, despite his sacred vow to Melanie.

Papa never passed judgment upon her for flirting, but the gossips in Atlanta certainly did. Scarlett complained about them in letters to her aunts in Charleston. “Jezebel! That’s what they think of me, but I was the first to vow my love to Ashley, before Melanie ever made a peep to him. To this day, my conscience is clear for confessing my sincere feelings for him, since they were pure and innocent from the first, unspoilt by jealousy.”

Regardless whether Scarlett was first to stake her claim to Ashley, she lost him. Nevertheless, she spent the rest of her life flirting with him and suffering the consequences to her own reputation. Her letters were her own best efforts to rehabilitate herself. Now, in 1936, Mrs. Mithchell has tried again to rehabilitate Scarlett's reputation, by writing GONE WITH THE WIND with a bias.

2. A NEEDFUL KISS

2010-03-13T21:02:00.001-08:00

From the beginning, GONE WITH THE WIND depicts Papa as generally arrogant. However, he seldom was, unless he was with Scarlett. When it came to courting Scarlett, his arrogance was purposeful. His best advantage was to keep her outraged. Otherwise she’d have been as shrewd as she was with the Tarletons and Charles Hamilton. This strategy won Papa his first kiss from Scarlett.

Prior to that day, Papa had nobly refrained from the language of seduction in her presence. In this manner he showed respect to her as well as her husbands, Charles and Frank. But later, after she was widowed, she sought favors from Papa, such as rides around town in his buggy, and Papa endeavored to get the best of her.

As GONE WITH THE WIND tells it, the needful kiss occurred when Scarlett had been “volunteering” her services at the hospital. Courtesy wasn’t the only reason why Papa, heretofore, had avoided the language of seduction in her presence. He knew Scarlett was the master of that art - - flirtation - - since it was her main occupation at that time in her life. If he gave her the chance, she’d manipulate him to his knees before he knew what happened. She had tried in vain to whisper to Rhett in the privacy of Miss PittyPat’s parlor, and hadn’t relented unless he had insulted or otherwise distracted her from the mood. Papa sought a public place to talk with her, like Five Points in broad summer daylight - - no place for whispering, seducing, or kissing - - safe for raising the subject of romance. Even she was too timid to seduce him in public.

I’ll digress here, for Scarlett’s sake, to describe her passion for Rhett, lest the reader should perceive that her life was bereft of tenderness. In private, Scarlett deeply indulged in kissing. She’d run to him and lay on his arm like a tango dancer and look up, only to be stared down again by him, till her hair swept the floorboards beneath her.

Rhett could subdue anyone with his wit, and Scarlett was more vulnerable to his wit than anyone else, since she never shied of him. She’d blurt out her nags and protests without hesitation, whereas Rhett never spoke without thinking, even in the midst of a panic.

She seemed to believe she was his match, no matter how often he made a fool of her. Other times, however, she was strangely meek towards him, not to say submissive. These occasions were such a pleasant surprise to me that I pondered the change in her. Was she “under the weather?” Clues to Rhett’s secret power domination were probably obvious at the time, but I was too young to recognize adult lust.

What prompted Papa to give Scarlett the needful kiss were Scarlett’s obvious signs of frustration, which he recognized. He offered the remedy, when he said, “You should be kissed, and by someone who knows how.” He implied that kisses from novices wouldn’t help her, which was undeniable. Moreover, Ashley Wilkes was too intimidated by her to attempt a kiss, and Charles Hamilton never had his way with her. They’d have never consummated their marriage if Scarlett hadn’t seen to it.

Only Rhett was her match in wits. Indeed, Rhett wasn’t talking of kissing at all when he told her what she needed. The word was a euphemism for grown-up, uninhibited sex.

Scarlett didn’t deny she needed Rhett, since it was undeniable. “Her eyes fell in sudden confusion” because she wasn’t accustomed to submission. He had subdued her verbally, and won the first bout of a very long contest between them.

3. DID RHETT DESERT SCARLETT ON THE HIGHWAY?

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GONE WITH THE WIND’s tawdriest insult to Rhett was that he deserted her and left her in harm’s way during the war. Before they were married, Scarlett needed to flee Atlanta because it was under siege. All of north Georgia was infested with Yankees. Years later, Scarlett accused him of deserting her. After he heard her accusation for the first time, he said, “You lived to tell the tale, didn’t you, Scarlett my dear? In fact, you never needed that pistol you carried, since you were on the shortcut road that no Northerner knew of. You hardly missed a meal, since you were safe at home the next day. Surviving the siege of Atlanta with all limbs intact, was your hope and prayer at the time, and your prayer was answered. Shall I remind you of the names of the innocent civilians who died that night?”

Scarlett turned away from him, still shaking her head. “It’s low down to ditch a woman, no matter when –“

“The Yankees spared you and you passed right through their lines. Traveling unescorted was your only hope. With a man packing iron by your side, you’d have been a target for Yankee snipers.”

“You saved yourself.”

“I was doomed already, there was no saving myself. I starved and suffered exposure for the next six months, as a barefoot prisoner. You, on the other hand, arrived at Tara without a scratch, ate home cookin’, and lived happily ever after.”

“You survived too, Rhett, as you often remind me.”

“Alright. But I was kind to help you flee Atlanta. You were a sitting duck at Pittypat’s, and when the bombardment started, you were stunned. I took you out of harm’s way, as far as the

Jonesboro Road

, where you knew your own way home without getting lost.”

She granted him that.

“That night on the road to Tara, when I departed from you, I was disgusted with your plan to rendezvous with Ashley Wilkes at Tara, under pretense of escorting Melly - - his own wife! She was your lure, so Wilkes would return to Tara. You hoped he’d become beholden to you, which has been your chief goal in life.

“Chief goal? No, I’ve always placed my family above my personal concerns, high above romance.”

“Wilkes is family, in your mind,” Rhett said.

“You’re silly. You even call him by his family name.”

“The name you wanted for yourself.”

“I didn’t want it enough to ask him to marry me. If I wanted something, I wasn’t timid. You know that.”

Rhett tugged at his mustache and said, “Timidity is like a chameleon. It’s always peculiar, no matter how it changes.”

“I had my own scheme for helping you flee Atlanta. I had wanted some leverage on you and make you obliged to me in return. I procured a horse and carriage for you and escorted you way down that road, despite the fact that, without a doubt it was Wilkes whom you adored, not me. After I had you where I wanted you, however, I refrained from taking advantage of you. Rather than forcing you to agree to be my mistress, or heaven forbid, to submit to my advances, I took pity upon you. I didn’t bid adieu to you until you were in your own backyard - - Jonesboro, where you knew every horse trail blindfolded. When I saw my scheme was hopeless, I quit. No leverage could be had while you were longing for Wilkes.”

“You were jealous even when he was far away at war? He was dead, as far as we knew!”

“Yep. Why shouldn’t I be jealous? You were in love with him when I was the one holding your hand. You lived every moment for him, whether he was dead or alive. You still do.”

“Stop it,” she said.

“Even now, at this very minute, he’s the one you’re reminiscing about,” he said. “You thought he was so noble, you couldn’t do enough to please him. You’ll never stop reliving those days.”

“I’ve told you, I never really loved him.”

“You said that after he was gone. If he appeared before you right now, you’d kiss his feet.”

As if she didn’t hear him, she said, “It took me a lifetime to realize it.”

“Do you mean you wouldn’t play second fiddle to Ashley, so you gave up and quit loving me?” Scarlett said.

“Yep, for the moment. Not like I quit my father - - I quit him and his kin forever. I could never please him, so I quit trying. I quit them and the rest of Charleston, too, until he died. I was an outsider - - a black sheep, a scoundrel.”

“A loser?”

“That’s the modern word for it, but it’s not a word my father would’ve used.”

She nodded.

“I was a scoundrel when you met me, and I haven’t changed much since then.”

“It’s nothing to brag about.”

“You liked me well enough,” he grinned, “Scoundrel, loser or what-have-you. You’re pleased with me and all of my circumstances,” he said, and spread his palms widely.

“Bragging - - that’s the difference between you and Ashley. He doesn’t know how to brag, and he wouldn’t if his life depended on it. You are an expert braggart, or should I say a professional –“

He shrugged. “There’s an art to bragging, and I believe I’ve got the knack.”

“Yes, your formula’s at least two parts charm to one part gall.”

She said, “Instead of deserting me on the Jonesboro Road, why didn’t you just tell me you were jealous, and give me a chance to reassure you, to pledge my devotion to you -“

“It was futile, since Tara was your only refuge. And I protected you from the Yankees as long as I was able. Any longer, and I’d have only drawn their attention. With me, ya’ll were sitting ducks. Without me, ya’ll could hope for mercy. Besides, I wasn’t ready to die. My only chance was to go it alone.”

“You had no cause to be jealous of Ashley. He was true blue to Melanie while she was still alive.”

“I had cause! Listen to you now, adoring him. You’ve always talked that way of him, and you always meant to have him for yourself. With him at Tara, I’d never have your attention. I bowed out and I got out of harm’s way.”

“Out of harm’s way? You got straight into it, by joining the Georgia Militia.”

“I never joined. Did you ever see me in a uniform? Never. I was dressed in civvies when you found me in the Yankee brig.”

Scarlett said, “I don’t remember, it’s been years.”

“You’re the one who always calls me Captain, as if we live in a tug boat, not a mansion.”

They both paused. “I’ve been by your side for years, Scarlett. You’re my wife - - my one and only. You were my true love, even while married to other men. But if I haven’t been devoted enough, I’ll probably keep trying. It’s my nature to try to please you.”

4. JACQUES BOUDREAU, RHETT'S ADOPTED SON

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My mother, the mysterious Liza Boudreau, was Scarlett’s rival, though they never met. Early in Scarlett and Rhett’s marriage, she feared that a woman in New Orleans was luring Rhett away from her, and she was right. Mother was no mystery to him, only to everyone else, including me, since she died of typhoid before I knew her very well. Henceforth, Papa and me had a close bond, having both been on intimate with her.

Mother had lain for months on a typhoid clinic sickbed. Meanwhile, I was raised by Rags, the Boudreau’s yellow mongrel. My uncles left home each morning before the sun was up, so I was alone with the mutt, who growled at every move I made and barked loud as thunder. When I escaped their fence of cracked wooden slats, he’d stay on my heels and bark, wherever I went, until I gave up and returned home. Rags,who always seemed older and bigger than me, must’ve been part sheep dog.

Rhett called me his son to all the world, including Scarlett. I’d have never known why Papa took an interest in me, out of all the waifs in New Orleans, if my mother hadn’t been so beautiful. I was her bastard son, not of Rhett or any other man in town. She died of typhoid, they say, but I was too young to recognize the symptoms in her. I only remember her lying on the sickbed at the clinic for weeks, where I wasn’t allowed, except to visit.

It was cruel of Aunt Scarlett to call me Rhett’s “ward,” in letters she wrote to folks everywhere, and worse that her words were later quoted in GONE WITH THE WIND. Rhett called me his adopted son, not “ward.”

Granted, Papa said “Jacques is a perfect hellion. I wish he’d never been born.” He was joking harmlessly when he said it, whereas Scarlett truly wished me ill. Papa teased everyone coarsely, most of all Scarlett. Even little Bonnie he teased to a tizzy. She and I were the only two kids on earth who could be hellions around Rhett and get away with it, without being tossed out the door, onto the cobblestones of

Peachtree Street

. Of course, Bonnie didn’t grow up in the school for hellions at the wharf in New Orleans, like me, or sleep every night with one eye open. But she was headed down her own path of mischief full tilt, before tragedy struck her.

Ironically, Scarlett herself ultimately brought me to the chalet in Atlanta to live. It was one of the strangest turns of events in my life, since she already secretly scorned me at that early age, though she had not yet met me.

Before he met Scarlett, Rhett was in the habit of visiting New Orleans twice a year or more, either by land or by sea, to call upon his commercial partners. I didn’t know him then, despite the fact that he had adopted me and was supporting me. Subsequently, I have learned from him of his liaison with my mother. His generosity was a favor to her personally, rather than to me. Scarlett was suspicious of it from the beginning, it seems.

5. PAPA AND THE CHIlDREN

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Bonnie was already six years old by the time I arrived at the Papa's chalet in Atlanta, and she thought she ran the place. She would have, if not for Scarlett and Mammy. She and her mother were too much alike to get along, even her hair and blue eyes favored the O’Haras. “Spoiled,” Scarlett called her, but it never stuck when she said it, because Papa didn’t care. Bonnie was Scarlett in miniature - - uncontrollable - - which Rhett seemed to adore, unfortunately. A lot of fathers dote on their daughters. But mothers don’t resent their own babies, not the way Scarlett resented Bonnie’s strong will.

She seemed in charge on the day I arrived, as it was her, rather than Scarlett, who swing open the front door for me. For a moment she stood her ground and looked me over.

Without a word to me, she suddenly turned and yelled, “Jacques is here.” I hadn’t even spoken! She turned her back and ran upstairs, leaving the door wide open. Mammy appeared a moment later and helped with my bags.

Bonnie had learned to answer the door by watching Ella, her eight-year-old step sister. Ella was big enough to actually swing the massive, oak door by herself, but she only dared do it with Scarlett’s permission. Ella worshipped Scarlett, and earning her favor meant everything. Ella was chubby and dull, in both coloring and wit, like her father Frank. Like him, contentment for her lay in pleasing Scarlett, and being as near to her as possible. Scarlett demanded nothing less. Mammy noticed how little Ella withdrew into herself when she was idle, but she sprung to life whenever Scarlett called. It was an unfair footrace between little Ella and Prissy, Scarlett’s colored attendant, to run out of the kitchen, down the hallway and upstairs. Mammy sometimes intervened, reining in Prissy’s skirt while Ella scampered away.

I learned quick that I dared not tangle with Bonnie, any more than I’d tangle with Scarlett. On the contrary, her tantrums against her mother came in handy to me. Once, Bonnie’s tantrum won permission for us to share Rhett’s Louisiana coffee. I had been missing coffee since I left home, since Scarlett had refused to serve it to “the children.”

It happened when I was only ten, and taking my meals with Bonnie, Ella, and Wade in the kitchen. I was still new to the family. Wade was just eleven, and the girls were still wearing bibs. They served us in stoneware bowls. Mammy hovered over us and kept Bonnie in check. Rhett hardly ever came into the kitchen, so Bonnie didn’t always get her way. Tantrums irritated Mammy. Those were the only times I remember when I could bear sitting at table with that child, bless her soul.

It was Bonnie, strangely enough, who demanded coffee. She had developed a taste for sugary café au lait after tasting papa’s. He had fed her sips from his own cup. She demanded it whenever she smelled coffee brewing. When Mammy told her she wasn’t allowed, she stomped her foot and spilled half-a-cup of milk on the table. Rather than spank her, Rhett told Mammy to serve us all. Bonnie was happy until she got what she asked for. One sip of bitter black coffee with chicory cured her of her cravings, and Wade and Ella too. I proceeded to thicken it with sugar and drank all four cups. Bonnie seemed jealous of me, but kept quiet.

The summer I arrived at the chalet, Wade Hamilton was too busy with swimming and bicycle racing to take any notice of me at all. I was terribly envious of him, since Papa devoted so much time and attention to him. I suppose Papa’s kindness to Wade was part pity, because Wade had been fatherless all his life. By the same token, I myself was desperately needy. But I was no equal to Wade, since he was almost a year older. I could barely swim and I’d never ridden a bicycle. Thanks to Papa’s affection for him, Wade had become a dynamo for his age, and I couldn’t keep up, trailing behind him on foot.

The nearest race course for cyclers was over a mile away, at Piedmont Park, made of hard-pack clay that circled the pond. It was Atlanta’s biggest swimming pond, and everybody came out on sunny days. Wade’s cycle was a heavy steel rig by Starley of England, called a “Velocipede.” I never dared mount it, since it had no kick stand, like the later bicycles did. No inflatable rubber tires existed yet either, although the rumor of them was everywhere. Cyclists rode on hard wheels over courses of hard packed clay. Needless to say, the bricktop of Piedmont Road was too smooth for hard wheels, so cyclists took a lot of falls. Cobblestone alleys on the other hand, were too bumpy. Wade was scraped and scarred from wrecks and scrapes. Of course, Scarlett always shrieked at him for his recklessness, but he was a horse out of the barn. Rhett himself had bought him the Starley, after weeks of his begging and pleading. Wade had pledged to ride only on the hard-packed course at the Park, and never on the streets.

Rhett and Scarlett took me along with the family to the park to watch Wade race on one of my first Saturdays in town. Rhett wore a wide brim and Scarlett, Bonnie, and Ella wore sun bonnets, because it was September. The carriage’s canvas top and awning kept us from burning. The pond was still open for swimming, and we had brought our swimming suits. The starting line was right in front of the bath house.

Papa parked our carriage on the curb of the race course and it made a nice perch above the heads of spectators. From behind, we got the shouts of swimmers, almost close enough to splash us. Soon our running boards were loaded down with strangers who began crowding each other for a view. Back at the rear, a couple of scruffs elbowed each other for the last spot of runner space. One had an eye out, the other hobbled on a crutch. Up in the driver’s seat, Rhett stood up, reached back over our heads with his riding crop and poked them both off the end, and they stumbled away.

“Curs.”

The rest of us forgot about them, but Papa knew better. A few minutes later he looked back over his shoulder and swatted them again, back on the carriage. The one-eye was on the running board, and the lame one was perched on the fender, which was bending under his weight. Before we knew it, Rhett had hopped out and lit upon the lame man with his riding crop in one hand and his derringer in the other, cocked and aimed. “Filthy ass! Provoke me will you?” Scarlett muffled her own screech, but another woman screamed at the sight of the gun. Rhett whacked the cur’s shoulder so hard it tore his shirt. Mercifully, Rhett checked his second swing. The cur kept his footing somehow, and hobbled away through the crowd. All the strangers on the running board had scampered, by the time Rhett turned around again, and he stooped to examine the carriage’s fender for damage. He stood up again, tossed his crop over to me, pocketed his derringer. He looked to the frightened woman who was shielding her small daughter from the sight. “I beg your pardon Ma’am.”

She blinked, then nodded her head.

He pointed to the running board and said, “Be my guest, please, you and the girl. Scarlett! Give’em a hand.”

Scarlett hardly noticed, as she was fretting over Wade. He was already scraped and scarred on the elbows, and he’d refused to wear long sleeves or gloves.

“Too hot,” he’d said. Now, in his tank top and goggles, he was lost in the crowd of cyclists at the starting line, crouched over their handlebars, and poised for the gun. I managed to recognize him, although the goggle straps pushed his light brown hair up on end. I pointed.

“Where?” Scarlett and the girls begged. I held my index finger up to her eye. She squinted and said, “There?” The girls scrambled into her lap to see.

The starting gun cracked, and soon the cyclists were out of sight.

A few minutes later, the girls were getting bored and hot. The leading cyclists appeared again to complete their first lap. Wade wasn’t among them, as far as we could tell. Rhett looked to Scarlett and to me, and none of us could recognize Wade or keep count of his laps. An eight lap race would take some time, so we decided to take our leave, and return later for the finish.

Bonnie and Ella were dying to go swimming in the pond, where most of the other children were.

Scarlett said, “It’s too hot, you’ll get burned. Stay here in the shade.”

Both girls turned to Rhett and climbed up onto the front seat to tug at his shirt, begging “Take us, please.”

“Who’ll guard your Mamma from those curs?” he said, and pulled Bonnie’s arms up and put them round his neck. Nose to nose, Bonnie shook her head, and frowned and fussed. He chuckled at her, which vexed her more.

He couldn’t refuse her for long, which she seem to know. He dodged her nose and turned to me. “Maybe your cousin Jacques will watch over Mamma.”

I was hot, and I wanted a swim. Nevertheless, I obeyed Rhett, since I owed him everything I had in the world.

Would he jump in too? Standing before me in polished boots and felt hat, I couldn’t imagine him ducking into the bathhouse stall and emerging barefooted. But I hadn’t yet learned that nothing was out of the question to him, if Bonnie begged for it. Rhett was a different man around her, and I hated to see it.

Scarlett obviously had never had any intention of swimming, but she had packed bathing suits for the girls, which Prissy unpacked. For Rhett too, she’d packed bathing attire, folded neatly with the rest. I suspected that it was fancier than the common overalls that the working men wore, but I couldn’t guess what it would look like. When Rhett seemed willing, I was amazed.

“Papa, you need a suit.”

“Yep. Can’t wear trousers into the drink. You sit here and mind your Aunt.” He took a fresh cigar between his teeth and handed me the reins to the carriage. He climbed to the ground, then lifted Bonnie off her seat and into the air. Then Ella. Prissy followed them, feeling her way down the running board like a blind girl, toting a mound of bathing suits and towels.

When Rhett emerged from the bathhouse, he didn’t brandish a sailor’s tattoo or wear a captain’s cap. After all of Aunt Scarlett’s exaggeration of his high seas blockade-running, folks might’ve expected him to shout “Ahoy,” and raise the Jolly Roger over the dock and bathhouse. Rather, he was dapper as ever in his serge knickers and long sleeve bloomer - - vain actually - - compared to the half-naked hicks all around him, in their cut-off overalls. Fashionable dress was such a habit that I’d never seen him barefoot, and heaven forbid he should appear bare-chested at a public pond. So, I actually blushed on his behalf when I caught sight of his calves and feet, that were pink as a sow’s. For his sake, I hoped the sand would quickly coated his legs, to veil their paleness. I assumed that his vanity was taking a bruising, since he had never shone bare skin in public. Rather, he had worn every fashionable accessory his haberdasher could provide, from dickeys to handkerchiefs.

I had seen how much pleasure Rhett took in his own adornment, before I ever arrived in Atlanta. In New Orleans, he had gotten irate with a certain tailor over a pair of silk gloves the tailor had made. Rhett had wanted them dyed the color forest green, to exactly match the color of woolen waistcoat of that hue that the tailor had previously made him.

His broad brimmed hat held firm to his brow, and he pulled matches from his pocket and lit his cigar, water be damned. Wading was so far from his mind that he didn’t even test the water’s chill.

Rhett refused to go near the water until Bonnie came out, dripped all over him, and pulled him down the sloping beach. He finally put his toes in, since he was practically soaked already, and his cigar had been doused.

Bonnie couldn’t swim, and she was too impatient to listen to Ella’s advice about holding her breath. She had no fear since she’d never been dunked before. When she saw kids noisily jumping off the dock, was determined to jump off the dock and splash like the expert swimmers. Fathers were standing chest-deep and catching kids as young as toddlers, so she begged Rhett to do the same. After she had coaxed Rhett into the water, she turned around, got out, hopped up onto the dock. While Rhett was only ankle deep, she ran up to the deep end, toed the edge and yelled, “Geronimo!”

“Bonnie! Get back - - Stop.” He shoved past a fellow in rolled-up street pants, who stumbled and splashed to his knees. Fortunately, the man’s curses were drowned by Rhett’s hollering. I’d never heard Rhett holler before, and I never again saw any man thrash the water as he did at that moment. His sturdy serge togs dragged against his submerged thighs.

Rather than discouraging her, Rhett’s reaction invited her to jump with abandon, since jumping was now safe. A six-year-old’s leap is short, however, and she couldn’t reach Papa’s arms. She flailed and squealed. Her hair was the only thing that floated.

Rhett later told me that underwater, Bonnie’s bloomers filled like balloons and anchored her down. Underwater to his chest, he hoisted with all his might, and almost sunk.

Bonnie spewed a mouthful of green and gasped, while Rhett held her tight, wiped her eyes, and waded back to dry land.

From that day on, Rhett and Bonnie’s fates seemed forever tied to the brutality of nature. Rhett had fought it that day, but we knew who was stronger. Later, I remembered it as a portent of tragedy to come to Bonnie.

Shivering from fright though wrapped in a towel, Bonnie was a different child, humbled for the moment by mother nature herself.

Meanwhile, the official had announced the final lap. Excited race fans had swarmed to the finish line. They crowded the track, craning for a chance to see the first cyclist round the final turn. Cheers greeted him, as soon as he appeared in the distance, and hats and visors flew into the air above him as he as he streaked across the finish line. Applause continued for a few moments, as dozens of riders arrived home, and but Scarlett and I hardly clapped, since Wade was nowhere in sight. Soon, we feared an awful coincidence had occurred, such that he’d suffered some accident along the race course somewhere, and it had occurred simultaneously with his half-sister Bonnie’s little mishap.

Having failed to finish, Wade coasted slowly into view on a wobbly front wheel. Noisy spectators had already crowded the track and mobbed the winner, who sat perched on his cycle just past the finish line, wearing a ribbon.

Wade seemed exhausted. He brightened-up when a fellow cyclist approached and gave a hearty shout. He consoled Wade and wrapped arms around him. They examined Wade’s dented wheel and cursed his rotten luck.

With Bonnie in his arms, Papa patted Wade’s back. I was amazed at his tenderness, since it was the only time I saw Papa touch him in public. We all returned to the carriage and Wade began strapping his bicycle to the running board.

Papa allowed me to brace his elbow as he stepped up and laid Bonnie on the seat. For once in her life, Bonnie was docile, with bloodshot eyes.

Scarlett seemed annoyed about the accident at the lake. “That’ll teach you, Miss Precocious. You’ll learn to be careful.” She turned to Papa. “More of that would do her good, Rhett. Hear me? You should spank that child when she acts up. She’d be sweeter.”

“She’s already the sweetest in the world. It wouldn’t be healthy to be any sweeter.”

“She’s got no more respect for her elders than a bumble bee. Father O’Kelley says, ‘If you spare the rod, you’ll spoil the child.’ Why don’t you spank her?”

“Same reason you don’t, I suspect.”

“It’s the father’s place.” Scarlett turned back to the children. “Sit up now, and always listen to your elders.”

Ella heard her, but Bonnie didn’t budge. When Papa was around, she ignored Scarlett altogether.

“They’re too waterlogged to listen,” Rhett said. “Besides, Mammy prods and nags these girls from morning to night. She knows a lot more about home training than Father O’Kelley. From the driver’s seat, Rhett turned to Bonnie and said, “Mammy keeps after you, doesn’t she, Honey Pie?”

“I hate Mammy.”

As soon as Rhett took up the reins, Trotter, the former harness racer, tossed his head and kicked the dust. I rushed to the front seat by Rhett, and looked for a way to be useful to him. After we were out of the crowd, he slapped the reins and Trotter lurched ahead to her natural pace. Soon everyone was quiet and tired from all the excitement. With an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth, and the reins in his hand, Rhett began talking over his shoulder to Wade, who sat right behind him, facing rear. Rhett took the opportunity to reminisce on his own past, like father to son, to pass along his insight. I wasn’t jealous of Wade for getting all Papa’s attention, since Papa spoke it straight into my ear. “My old man promised to teach me to ride, but we never got out of the barn - - I swear - - he never meant to do it in the first place. He only promised it to please my mot her, who had always wanted to see her son riding down Broad Street in the New Year’s Parade, in formation with the Mounted Militia.”

RHETT WAS NEVER A SEA CAPTAIN

The accident at the pond gave the lie to her fantasies of Rhett being a seafaring blockade-runner. Rhett had no brine in his veins, and he was better suited to Atlanta’s red clay than to water.

At the pond, Scarlett had been pleased with the effect of Papa’s dashing swimming attire, despite the fact that he detested the water. He was never a sea captain, as GONE WITH THE WIND said, though he owned a cargo ship. The myth had served Scarlett’s purposes, as eager as she was to help his reputation. It made him seem loyal to the Confederacy.

Everyone knew of his disloyal profiteering from Georgians during the war. Shrewdly, Scarlett said he was gallant and loyal to The Cause because he imported essentials like sewing needles and sugar, which had become scarce. In reality, Papa never personally ran a blockade. A cargo ship that he owned gained passage, but only rarely. Otherwise the Yankees’ blockade of Charleston would have failed.

Concerning profiteering, he never denied it. His prices were indeed exorbitant. He admitted gouging his own people in their time of need. To deny these things would only have made him a liar in their eyes. Ultimately, it was his own honesty that impressed Atlantans, whether or not they ever forgave him for profiteering.

Later in the evening of the accident at the lake, I found Papa and Scarlett sitting in rockers on the front porch. “Scarlett said, you sometimes piloted the Stardancer yourself. I never knew you were a seafarer.”

“Hogwash. I’m the owner, not the pilot.”

“Owner - - Captain - - no difference,” she said.

“No sailor wears a suit like this. Only a city slicker,” Rhett said.

“A gentleman. It’s handsome.”

“A Navy Captain would wear oil skins,” I said.

“Navy? How would a Navy Captain make a living in Atlanta, Georgia? Canoeing the Chattahoochee? Think business. Think money! And stop arguing with your aunt.”

I never swallowed her bait again, about Rhett or anyone else, and I determined to know Rhett for myself, man to man.

6. THE WORDS OF RHETT BUTLER

2010-03-13T20:47:00.000-08:00

Scarlett’s letters told tales about Papa that he ridiculed whenever he got wind of them. Nevertheless, her tales formed the basis for GONE WITH THE WIND, which now being read all over town. Papa’s ridicule of them has survived too, verbatim! Back then, I took shorthand notes of everything he said. I was always by his side, busily practicing my skills as his personal secretary-in-training. He was paying me by the word! At age eleven, I didn’t know the difference between business negotiations and banter, so everything went into my steno book. Today, it’s my mission to reveal my contemporaneous notes of those events, to tell Papa’s side of the story.

For my benefit as a novice, Papa spoke slower and louder when he gave his opinions. He’d squint at Aunt Scarlett and clear his throat, and he’d lecture her like a priest in the pulpit. Papa had forbidden my stenographer’s pad at the dinner table, so it required ingenuity on my part to get his words down. I kept my book in my vest pocket, and learned to scribble in my lap, under cover of the table cloth. Later, when I had learned to listen well, I could keep more of his words in my head.

On the day when he presented me with my first professional stenographer’s pen, I had been writing shorthand for six months and I was showing some skill. I had made do with the leaky steel fountain pen he had originally supplied to me, despite the mess it made of my cuffs and handkerchiefs. The day was no special occasion, which only added to my surprise. He had returned to the chalet after he was done for the day with business in the city. It was the cocktail hour when he often entertained guests in our huge living room, but no guests were expected that evening.

I responded to his call and found him sitting alone in his over-stuffed, high back chair. He was removing his collar and cuff links, with an unlit cigar in his mouth. Before him, on the coffee table was his usual glass of brandy and a small, black oblong box of dark leather, with the name Dunlop embossed in gold leaf.

He looked at me. “I’m tired of those black fingernails.” He picked up the box and presented it to me with a wink of assurance, that it was the proper tool for the job I had undertaken. He was eager for me to be of use to him, rather than a disgraceful lad with ink on his shirt. I took it as a gift just the same, a token of his affection for me. I also felt papa’s high expectations of me when I read the printing on its wrapper.

The Dunlop Stylograph was no doodler’s tool, since it was “in use by over 50,000 ‘knights of the quill.’”

“Look here!” I said, and held up the label. “It’s ‘a pencil that writes ink.’ No more stains.”

* * *

My notes from that particular evening were trivial, since I was testing my new instrument. After dinner, I overheard Scarlett’s exasperation with Rhett for his remarks about Ashley Wilkes.

“I’m not jealous of Wilkes, just because you’ve made him your pet over at the mill.”

“You hate him.”

“No I don’t. He nauseates me, that’s all. He’s no threat to me, since he’s utterly gutless.”

“You despise Ashley.”

“Wilkes? If I despised him, I would’ve challenged him to a duel long ago. It’d be a turkey shoot. Why do you want me to hate him?”

“And don’t call him my ‘pet.’ It’s insulting, as you well know.”

“I insult you constantly, yet I don’t hate you. The same goes for Lieutenant Wilkes.”

“You never respected him.”

“I don’t trust him with your money. He’s as bad as a thief, he’s so incompetent. Trust is different from esteem, my dear. Isn’t it?”

“Queer. You called him queer!”

“Not me. Your father, Gerald called him that, back before he wore the uniform.”

“He never said –“

“You told me so yourself, Scarlett! I wish I’d been there to hear him say it.”

Scarlett said, “Way ack before I met you, father said to me, ‘The Wilkes boy can play poker with the best, but his heart’s not in it. One or two hands and he’s done.’ I said, ‘Ashley drinks at the bar.’”

“’Mixed drinks,’ father said, ‘He turns up his nose at beer. He’d rather recite poetry. I want ten grandchildren and he isn’t gonna sire any. He’s too queer to take a roll in the hay with you.’”

“Ten children! One baby’s plenty for me.”

“’One? I’ll send you to the nunnery, Child, if you ever say that again! God said be fruitful and multiply, damn it. That’s why he put us on earth. There’s a whole plantation here to plow, and one son can’t do it by himself.’”

“Fiddledie dee!”

“Father shouted, ‘The nunnery for you, I say, for wishing barrenness on your own family! Wilkes should put himself in the monastery.’ He stomped around the room, until he noticed I hadn’t replied. I was pretending to cry.”

“’He ain’t worth crying over,’ father said.”

“I whimpered, ‘You never shouted at me before - - except once or twice.’ He finally calmed down and came over and kissed my forehead.”

Rhett said,” I’ll say this for him, he’s no queer. Hell, Wilkes lusts after you more than any man in Clayton county! I admire his taste in women, since he’s been my chief rival for your affections.”

“Shame on both of you.”

“He’s learning from his mistakes, lately. He’s quit cavorting with the Clan. He’s begun to see the light, after he got himself shot at Shanty Town.”

“Ashley doesn’t trust you, Rhett.”

He shrugged. “Sorry, Scarlett, but there’s no jealousy between Wilkes and I. You wish there was, don’t you? You’d have us both where you want us, fighting with each other for your favor. Sorry, but I don’t give a damn. Frankly, I pity Wilkes for lusting after a woman like you.”

She went to slap him, and he didn’t bat an eye, since his right cheek was used to it. “Don’t give a damn? That’s why I cherish Ashley’s kindness. He does give a damn.”

“Not enough to steal you from me. He’s been racked with guilt since the day he got caught smooching you over at the mill. Why should I worry?”

“How dare you accuse us of smooching.”

“You can’t deny it. You haven’t banish him from the mill even after folks caught you in passionate embrace! Nothing has changed.”

“Embrace, that’s all. Not smooching! Archie never told you we were smooching. I’m so sick of it. It’s them - - India and Archie, always stirring it up. They get my goat, so I seem to keep on explaining myself over and over.”

“It’s a curse to keep on living in the past.”

“That’s exactly what I was telling Ashley that day those people intruded upon us.” It seemed that Scarlett needed to get it off her chest. She described the scene at the mill. All the mill workers had quit for the day it seemed they were alone. The inner office, a windowless room with a large desk for bookkeeping, was cluttered with extra crates of papers. It was a tight squeeze for the two of them. “I said, ‘Looking back keeps you constantly discontented, and fearful of the future, too.’ Now, a year later, I feel stuck like him.”

She had signs of discontent all over her, and soon thereafter she told Papa they were no longer husband and wife. He may have suspected her feelings, since Scarlett was constantly bemoaning something, and Rhett always got the brunt of it. The halls of that house constantly echoed with her voice, whether she was shrieking or nagging. No one had any peace.

7. RHETT AND ASHLEY, FACE TO FACE

2010-03-13T20:45:00.000-08:00

Later, Papa got Ashley’s own view of his treachery with Scarlett at the mill. The two of them met by chance a week or two after the trespass occurred, and it was the first conversation between them I recorded.

Papa spied Mr. Wilkes (as I called him at the time) from a distance and eventually approached him. Seated alone, he had looked tall, despite his baldness. Papa offered a handshake. Ashley stiffly got to his feet and shook. He offered Papa a seat at his table. Rhett introduced me and I too took a seat. It was around my thirteenth birthday, and I ordered my first gin in a public place. The bar of the Hotel Excelsior was no saloon, however, and waiters served the drinks. The chandelier above us banished all shadows from the room, and ladies with escorts were being seated. Ladies were served iced tea.

As of 1872, Ashley’s fair hair was gone, except at his temples. He had pink scalp and blue English eyes, and alongside Rhett, he looked pale.

Papa said, “My arch rival.”

“Thanks Rhett, but nobody rivals you.”

Papa acknowledged the compliment, but said, “No rivals for my throne? Then I should expect a heap more admiration. My daughter’s the only one - - she and Jacques here - - who loves me anymore.”

“Your wife loves you, sir.”

Papa’s face straightened. “You’re a terrible liar, Wilkes. I know a superb liar, who could give you want a few tips.”

Ashley kept a stone face.

“Forgive me. That’s what’s unique about you - - you wish me no harm, and you believe what Scarlett tells you.” Rhett abruptly turned and spoke to the waiter, seemingly done with the topic of truthfulness.

“Anyone can see it.”

“How noble of you, sir. Every time our rivalry for Scarlett heats up, you willingly forfeit your advantage.”

Ashley’s good nature seemed to wear thin. “I know very well how a loving wife acts and so do you, my friend.” Our drinks arrived and they both went for one. “A rival to you?” A appealed to the heavens,” How many times have I spurned that woman?”

“Not enough times. She won’t be spurned by you or by me.”

“You’d never quit Scarlett, and I’m no rival to you. That’s why you don’t carry out your threat.”

“What threat?”

“If we had dueled, I’d be dead. Thank god you kept your head.”

“Dueled?” Rhett slammed his glass on the table. “I never threatened to shoot you! Who said so, Scarlett?”

A nodded.

“Goddamn that woman! I haven’t shot you because you don’t really love Scarlett.” Rhett looked him in the eye. “Do you love anyone?”

“Yes,” Ashley said with gritted teeth. Somehow, he could never be goaded, no matter how sharp the prod.

Papa raised his glass. “To the Wilkses.”

* * *

Scarlett always felt she was plain, as compared to her mother’s beauty, and she worried about it constantly. I know because I heard her one afternoon, fretting after Rhett attempted to compliment her.

He said, “Bonnie’s got your eyes. They’re blue like Gerald’s, but still they’re yours. I’ve always said they make me wonder what you will do if I take you in my arms.”

“No, no. Bonnie will be like my mother.”

“They’re captivating.”

“’A girl must be beautiful,’ Mother told us. She was, and she expected us to be beautiful too - - not vamps.”

Rhett squinted at her. “Don’t say ‘vamp.’”

“I got scolded the most, being the oldest, for vamping around. Careen and Suellen got it a little, but they were both late to puberty. I was five feet tall before my eleventh birthday. Of course, everybody in the house knew it, when I reached puberty, since we wore white knickers - - impossible to keep white.That day, Mother called to me, instead of sending Dilsey for me. ‘Woooo,’ Suellen said, ‘you’re in for it.’

Scarlett continued, “I tried to wipe the grit from the yard off my face. Nothing could be done about black fingernails, since the water in the basin wasn’t fresh. Mother was seated at her vanity, with three mirrors reflecting the different facets of her face. She was surely the Queen of her kingdom on earth. No matter what she was preparing to say to me, it seemed it would shake my world.”

"Momma said,’Scarlett, I’ve been calling you ‘young lady’ since you were born, but now it’s the truth - - you look grown. So there’ll be no more girlyness.’ She reached for my bows and loosed my pigtails. ’No more lap-child,’ she said. She’d been saying that too, since I’d grown tall, but I was surprised to see her rise and offer me her own place at her glamorous vanity. She led me by the hand, and soon I was face-to-face with my own image from three different perspectives. ’Without a vanity of your own, you’ll never be beautiful, which is above all things, for a lady. She rolled up her cuffs. ’We must to boost you up a bit,’ she said, and unrolled her measuring tape. From then on, I sat in front of those black-haired images every morning, but I never learned to like them much."

Scarlett continued, "The day came when I got frustrated with primping and I dropped my expensive boar’s hair brush on the floor. I fled the vanity, flopped on my bed and stared at the ceiling. Mother came in and almost stumbled over the brush. She always wore her hair in a bun, but she wouldn’t allow us to wear a bun. Standing over me, she looked taller and more majestic than ever."

"Momma said, ‘Serves you right to have bushy hair, the way you neglect it. A hundred strokes only takes –‘

“Only takes ten minutes’ I mimicked. “Takes an hour, really.”

‘Takes you an hour.’

“You’re blonde, Momma. It’s flat whether you brush it or not. Bushy’s the way I am.”

"Momma said, ’Black hair’s not a curse. Anyway, you’ve never brushed a hundred strokes in your life, so how do you know? Where’s Prissy?’ She went straight to the door and called her.

“No, not Prissy” I said. “She brushes it hard, like her own nappy head.”

’It serves you right Katie Scarlett, to have a nappy bush like hers.’

“Momma!” I covered my mouth, since I’d never before heard Mother stoop to spitefulness toward any of the negroes. ’Shame on both of us,’ she said. She held her chin up, despite her confession. Even her blouse had a high buttoned collar that seemed to choke her neck. ‘I was mean to Prissy, when it’s you, Katie Scarlett who’s disgusting. You come here and kneel. Let us both say ten mea culpas and ten hail Marys.’

Scarlett said, "I rolled over and buried my face in my pillow and mumbled, ‘Again? My knees are raw.’ Mother whacked my fanny. I slid off and knelt by her mother with hands folded, and didn’t peep again till mother had hailed Mary to her heart’s content. I did the O’Hara girls proud by reciting her hail Marys quicker than the days of the week. The trick Careen had taught me was to say the words ‘Mary mother of God’ on the inhale, and to exhale ‘mea culpa.’”

Ten years hence, sitting with Rhett at the Chalet, Scarlett’s hair lay much flatter, thanks to Mammy’s stroking. She never wore Ellen’s collars or cuffs, and kept her chin tucked, since it wasn’t worth flaunting. “I know I’m not beautiful, so your compliments sounded like flattery, Rhett.”

“Your eyes captivated me, remember?”

“I was pitiful back then.”

“Captivating. The belle of Clayton County.”

“That was a long time ago. After the devastation there were no belles or beaus. I never sunk so low as that day I came begging to you.”

“For the loan. It was business.”

“You took advantage. You knew I was desperate, and you came to me wearing your money on your sleeve.”

“I turned you down. Didn’t touch you.”

“You baited me shrewdly, so I acted a vamp.”

“Flirtation was your nature, Scarlett, and my nature too. Still is! Not one word of it mattered.”

“A woman never forgets the first time she plays the harlot. A gentleman would have scolded me for even thinking of it. Not you, Rhett Butler. A woman’s honor didn’t interest you. You got me for cheap.”

He spread wide his arms. “It hasn’t been cheap for me to keep you.”

* * *

I never met Gerald O’Hara, since he passed away long before I arrived in Atlanta, I remember seeing a miniature evergreen wreath from his funeral that Aunt Scarlett had kept as a memento. Its printed card said “Blessed Virgin, receive our beloved Gerald.”

Papa said Gerald was “the only mariner in Clayton County.” They both had been raised around their hometown wharves, Papa in Charleston and Gerald in Belfast, Ireland. They both disliked country squires like Ashley Wilkes, who had never seen the Ocean or fended for themselves. Maybe that’s why Gerald had never called Papa a scalawag or joined with Mr. Fontaine and the other Old Guards, who did.

Papa once told me of an encounter he had had with Gerald and Frank Kennedy, Scarlett’s husband. The three met at Kennedy’s store in Jonesboro. Papa had been summoned by Gerald and Kennedy, to discuss the rates of freight to England for cotton. Frank, who was almost as old as Gerald, had aspirations to broker cotton for export out of Charleston. Gerald was keen to sell his cotton nearby, rather than in Gainesville, ten miles away. Tactfully, Papa showed them what he thought of his plan.

Papa didn’t patronize Kennedy. “Where do you plan on storing your product? The dust in here’s as thick as chicken feed. You need a full time broom and dust pan if you expect to move cotton through here.”

“It ain’t a cotton brockerage yet,” Gerald said, in Kennedy’s defense.

Papa scooped some cotton seed with his bare hand, took one look at it, and said to Gerald, “You buy here?”

Frank Kennedy, whose whiskers looked as tarnished as brass, said, “Gerald gets a good yield from it.”

“Seventy-two bales good middling.”

“All good middling?” Papa said.

“Yessir.”

“Every boll,” said Kennedy.

“That’s real fine, Mr. O’Hara. Who graded it?”

“I did,” Kennedy said.

“Congratulations, Mr. O’Hara. You must have gotten a premium for a whole crop of good middling.”

Gerald kept quiet on the subject of the sale price.

After me and Papa left them at Kennedy’s, he said to me, “We’ll never be back there again.”

“Bad businessmen?”

“They’ll never have a cotton brockerage. Kennedy’s lucky folks will buy feed and seed from him.”

Later, the place was converted to “Bait & tackle.” I snickered when I noticed the new owner’s homespun style, because the letter “t” on the sign wasn’t properly capitalized. Papa whispered, “His tackle must be second rate!”

The owner was from Macon, over a hundred miles away. Why he took a shine to Kennedy’s spot was obvious after he announced that fish bait was his business. Deepstep Lake was nearby, which sounded to Atlanta slickers like a good place for bass. None were ever caught there, since it was just a pond, but the sunnies they caught were plentiful and good in the fry pan.

Mr. Benteen never spoke of the owner by name, even when we visited his shop. He said strangers always think they know better about a place than the folks who cleared the land for settlement in the first place. The man would never become a local if he kept trying to change things. He scooped out the former feed bins, lined them with tin, and shoveled in clods of peat moss full of earthworms. The cider barrels that were still water-tight held fresh water - - very fresh, Mr. Benteen said - - full of slender minnows who stood in stillness with their lips to the surface.

Mosquitoes clung to the new metal screen door, and a hungry cat darted across the dirt floor. I wasn’t inside a minute before I gagged on the stink and busted out again.

When he came out, Papa said, “Sure, it smells a bit rare, but this place has never been cleaner. Can’t allow varmints if he expects to sell anything.”

GONE WITH THE WIND NEGLECTED TO MENTION RHETT"S FONDNESS FOR SUELLEN

Papa and Suellen had a warm relationship, much better than the relations of the sisters themselves. For example, Suellen showed her kindness to Papa when he most needed solace from a woman. It occurred after Scarlett had become outraged at Papa for admitting he was visiting Belle Watling. Scarlett had asked Rhett to move out of the master suite of the chalet. In return, Rhett had been indignant as hell at Scarlett, for the scandal she had caused by kissing Mr. Wilkes at the mill.

When he and Suellen talked, Papa had never before met privately with her. She was a half-a-day’s ride from Atlanta, living at Tara, and running the farm with the support of Will Benteen.

Rhett and Suellen sat alone in the parlor. They left the door ajar, so I eavesdropped upon their conversation.

“Mother scolded her over marrying for money. They battled over Charles, because she knew Scarlett didn’t love him. She refused her consent to their marriage, since she had admitted it was all she was after.”

“Refused? Good Lord! I never knew.”

“We were all ashamed of it, of course. Father had consented to the marriage right away, so Mother’s refusal only served to insult the Hamiltons and Miss Pittypat. They didn’t speak to her for months.

“Meanwhile, Scarlett was carrying a torch for Wilkes, which she still carries today,” Rhett said.

“She adored Ashley back then, but he’s lost his charm. Anyway, you’re the only one she married for love. Otherwise, I’d have raised Cain, just like I did when she married Frank Kennedy for his money. I’m like Mamma that way.”

“How could you be so sure? ‘Cuz Mamma said so?”

“Yes Sir.” The dimples in her cheeks gave her away. “I’ve never needed a good reason to oppose Scarlett. She never had any reason for anything, since she acted on pure impulse. So my good reasons were wasted on her.

“Lord ‘a mercy, I know,” he said.

“She loves you. That’s what I’m tellin’ you, Rhett. She’s loves you and she’d never betray you or hurt you on purpose. I’m the one she hates.”

He objected but she kept on. “Everybody knows what she did to me, so I’m not going into it. But afterward, she never regretted it one bit. She’ll do it again, if I let her. That’s why I’ll never leave Tara. If I ever do, I’ll never get back in. I’ll be in the slaves’ quarters forever after.”

“Family never gets along unless they keep their distance from each other. My brothers ran me out of Charleston.”

“Brothers?”

He nodded.

“Family,” she said, “We gotta put up with her.” It sounded like the O’Hara credo.

“Which proves that we love her, ” he said and shrugged.

“She puts up with you too, doesn’t she?” Suellen waited his reply.

He nodded. “So far.”

“Well then?"

He dropped it.

8. RHETT'S DECLINE

2010-03-13T20:40:00.000-08:00

The failure of his marriage was devastating to Papa, and we tried to keep an eye on him and I knew his calendar. One day, I couldn’t find him. He had always returned home at midday to water his nag, because the city was so hard on animals. The pavement broke their hoofs and the streets crowded them together. They collided with each other constantly, even on thoroughfares like

Piedmont Road

. Of course, saddle horses were still scarce, due to the war, so most of the animals on the streets were mere colts. His yearling, Nag, was as valuable to Papa as the buggy it was harnessed to.

GONE WITH THE WIND fails to identify Nag at all, despite the fact that it mentions nineteen events when she played a significant role. Nag was a more important character and appeared in more scenes in GONE WITH THE WIND than Honey Wilkes, for instance, or Tony Fontaine. They were addressed by their proper names, whereas Nag was ignored. The author, Mrs. Mitchell was no animal lover, since she relegated all animals to the lowly status of props, only to be used by humans for dramatic effect. Despite the mention of no fewer than twenty horses and four dogs in the novel, only the villainous Mr. Butler, Bonnie’s steed, was identified by name. Perhaps Mrs. Mitchell would argue in her own defense that the horses in her book spoke no lines. Consequently, they had little effect upon the minds of her characters. The depth of Papa’s grief over Nag’s injury from a certain buggy accident tells the tale of Papa’s love for the horse.

After I returned from Belle’s, Papa wasn’t home. Still no sign by one thirty, so I mounted-up again to search for him.

The intersection of Piedmont and Ponce De Leon is where I found Papa and the Buggy, which was parked on the shoulder. Nearby was another horse and buggy that seemed unharmed. A few spokes were all that was broken on ours. Below it, on the pavement laid Nag, with her head on Papa’s knee, while he wiped the blood from her neck and jaw. He was cringing and gritting his teeth so hard he could barely speak, but he was okay and I saw no wounds on him. His top hat and waistcoat sat nearby in a heap, and his white shirt was spattered with red - - soaked, in front. I could hardly get a word from him. The other driver stood by wringing his hands, apologizing to anybody who’d listen.

The veterinarian arrived and took stock of the scene. He paused at Papa. “Alright? Did you fall?”

“Yes - - no.”

“You don’t seem alright.” Papa didn’t argue, and held still while he looked him over. The vet turned to me and said, “You better keep him out of the saddle this evening.” I harnessed up my horse in Nag’s place while we watched the vet work. Papa paced from our carriage to the buggy, and back, cringing and cursing to himself as he plodded along.

“No broken legs,” the Vet said conclusively. “We’ll sew her up.” The vet’s men slid rails under Nag’s stomach, and lifted her to her feet. Her legs were a little weak, but they held. Papa sweetly coaxed Nag up the planks into the ambulance, while the men held the rails under her. Papa slipped by Nag and shut the ambulance doors behind him.

On way home, he kept cursing under his breath, first “That blind son on a bitch,” and then “I’ll be a goddamned.” To me, it felt strange to take the reins from Papa, while he rode shotgun in my place. Worse, was his morose look which I hardly recognized. Not a glance he gave to the landmarks of the town, which he could have shook from their foundations with the flick of his wrist. His head hung and he squinted at the pavement below as it passed under us. He was taking Nag’s injuries too hard.

“Nag’s a battle ax,” I said, but he didn’t seem to hear. I let him be, since he didn’t need to hear chatter. I was dying to ask him whether he was moving out of the Chalet, so I had to bite my tongue. In the silence, I took pride in being the only one by his side in his moment of need. While driving, I kept an eye on him.

Then he embraced me, which surprised me and nearly brought me to tears. His arm completely cloaked my shoulders, and squeezed me. Suddenly, all I knew was warmth and safety. I needed to breathe Papa’s breath and absorb his touch. I left the reins slack and Trotter followed his own nose home.

Before then, Papa had never done that. He was always formal with me, back in New Orleans, when I could’ve used a hug. I never expected any more from him, since I was scared of all adults. None of them had shown me any warmth, and they only spoke to me in order to put me to task shoveling dog droppings or scrubbing one thing or another. So, I was grateful to Papa for simply letting me be. His handshakes were never intended to wrestle me into submission. My childhood was short, having endured abuse and neglect early on. I’d begun answering to “Mr. Boudreau” before I’d reached the age of ten years. So, I took his handshakes as a gesture of respect, almost man to man. No calling me “laddie” and patting my head.

Lately he’d come closer, and he’d begun patting me on the back.

* * *

He straightened-up tall after we reached the Chalet, as if he was there to call upon the Governor. He marched inside and headed straight for the great room which served as his parlor, shedding his hat and jacket as he went. Still in his boots, he poured himself a brandy and dropped into an armchair.

By the time I had hung up my hat, Dilsey had already accosted me. “What happened to him?”

The burden upon me of protecting Papa’s privacy and pride was frightening. At home, I kept quiet and I relied upon Dilsey’s ignorance of the obvious signs of truama all over Papa’s face. Mammy - - different breed of woman - - could’ve seen them from fifty paces.

Dilsey took my news of the accident straight to Scarlett, which was her chief duty. She was bound to talk, which made me dread the sight of her, though I knew she meant no harm. If she had failed, and Scarlett had later been blind-sided by the news, Dilsey would’ve been taken to the woodshed for a hard lesson.

Prior to that day, he had trusted me with nothing more personal than his calendar and his wishes regarding Scarlett and the children and the house niggers, what he hoped to accomplish around the house, and occasionally, his candid thoughts about someone we had encountered along our way. Papa himself hadn’t confirmed my suspicion that divorce from Scarlett was imminent, but it seemed a sure thing. Ironically, the fact that he hadn’t confirmed it made a barrier between us. But the hug he gave erased the barrier, and created a new trust that acknowledged his weakness for the first time and my strength.

* * *

The next day, I suddenly found myself face to face with Scarlett. It almost seemed like an ambush, the way she surprised me as soon as I stepped in the door. It was an unforgettable moment when Scarlett actually frightened me by the blunt ferocity on her face. Her eyes had always pierced me, so I had grown used to it. This was fury, and I was cornered, with no way out. I remember suddenly wishing I could hide, because of what I was carrying in my breast pocket. It was a note bearing Belle Watling’s greetings to Papa, signed and scribbled in her own hand. Carrying messages to Papa was my routine, so I hadn’t worried about the appearances of receiving a message from Belle. Suddenly, when I found myself under Scarlett’s suspicious gaze, I felt like I was carrying a firecracker.

“Where’s Captain Butler been lodging?”

“Lodging or - - or visiting?”

“You know what I’m asking, you scoundrel. Don’t mock me. If he moves out of this house, I’m gonna blame you. You’re the one scouting out a new place. And where? A brothel! You’d have him rooming in Belle Watling’s brothel, with all the riff-raff. I’ll make you sorry. You’ll be unwelcome here, you beggar.”

I didn’t dare deny it. “I only delivered a message to Ms. Watling. I don’t know anything.”

“You think you’re something, but you’re nothing - - nothing but a beggar. A beggar dressed in fine woolens. I rescued you from the gutter in New Orleans. Since then, you’ve lived like a prince, so you think you’re something. You’ve never shown me any gratitude.”

“I want him to stay - - here with us.”

“You’re nothing,” she continued. “You’re not Rhett Butler. You’ll be locked out. That whore doesn’t want you - - you’ve got no money. You’ll be stranded, out in the cold, while Rhett’s happy as a pig in a poke.

“I’ll have you run out of town. You’ll wish you were back in the gutter in New Orleans.”

9. SCARLETT AND RHETT WERE OPPOSITES

2010-03-13T20:36:00.000-08:00

Papa once said to Scarlett, "You’re just like me, and you never do anything without an ulterior motive.” But, they were opposites in everything else, especially where it really mattered, how they treated us, the family.

Scarlett never meant any harm to anyone, except to that Yankee thief who intruded into Tara. She shot him dead without flinching. Let it never be said that Scarlett scorned Bonnie, other than attempting to abort the child in the womb. Scarlett simply did whatever she pleased, regardless whether it harmed anybody. This is why gossips kept a critical eye on her, and she needed to constantly write letters to sweeten folks’ opinions of her. Nevertheless, my point is that she seldom meant to do harm.

Papa gave no thought to folks’ opinions of him, since we all adored him, including Scarlett, and deservedly, since he never pulled any of Scarlett’s brand of treachery toward us or any of his kin. But in Scarlett’s letters she left the impression that Papa was ruthlessness toward everyone, as she was.

In turn, this false impression of him appeared in GONE WITH THE WIND in several places, such as the passage where he was quoted, “We are both scoundrels Scarlett, and nothing is beyond us when we want something.” It’s an accurate quote, but it was used falsely by the author, since it suggests that Papa, like Scarlett, was in love with someone other than Scarlett. On the contrary, falling in love with anyone else was the only thing that was beyond Rhett.

On the very day he said they were both scoundrels, Scarlett had been caught in the act of passionately embracing Ashley Wilkes. Needless to say, this was treachery toward Rhett as well as her best friend Melanie, because of the act itself, and more importantly for the wantonness it displayed. The deed of a scoundrel.

By contrast, Rhett never married any woman other than Scarlett, and he married her for love, rather than wealth or influence. After hearing of Scarlett’s scandal, he showed his devotion to her by going straight to her side to comfort her and then escorting her out in public, rather than forsaking her. His heart was steadfast for her and for his children. His reputation as a scoundrel was earned by him in the public marketplace, not in the home. He had been a war profiteer and was labeled “scalawag” as a result, which was an insult he never denied. He admitted his treachery to Atlantans and to the cause of the South. In fact, he reveled in the notoriety his profiteering brought to him.

Alas, later the same day of the discovery of Scarlett’s wantonness with Ashley, Papa angrily accused her of neglecting to love Bonnie, Ella, and Wade. She didn’t deny it. She had hated the role of mother ever since it was first thrust upon her by her pregnancy with Wade. She dreaded giving birth, and after discovering she was pregnant with Bonnie, she wished, in fact, that the child would somehow abort in her womb.

The climax of their argument came when Papa said he was a better parent than she, and he proposed taking Bonnie away to visit her grandmother in Charleston. Again, Scarlett made no defense of herself as a parent, nor did she deny that Papa had parented better than she, heretofore. Instead, she suggested that Bonnie might be vulnerable to the “madam” Belle Watling while in Papa’s custody, which implied possible negligence on Papa’s part. Papa was infuriated by the remark, but not on behalf of Belle.

Belle Watling deserves mention here, since we’re discussing Papa’s reputation. Needless to say, it was unkind of Scarlett to allege that Belle might do harm to a child. Surely, Scarlett meant that she might harm Bonnie’s reputation - - a silly notion, since five-year-olds don’t have reputations. In any case, Papa was smart to perceive that the brunt of Scarlett’s allegation was aimed at his own honor, rather than Belle’s. Clearly, he knew that Scarlett had no quarrel with Belle, and she never had. Not once, in the years they had been a couple had she accused Papa of unfaithfulness to her, despite full knowledge of his association with Belle. She never felt threatened by Belle, since Belle was so far beneath her. Belle resented Scarlett, but not simply for Scarlett’s snobbery. She told me why, three years later when I was old enough to visit her establishment on my own. Ironically, Belle also convinced me of Scarlett’s enduring love for Papa, at a time when Scarlett seemed estranged from him.

10. BELLE WATLING'S OPINION

2010-03-13T18:22:00.000-08:00

GONE WITH THE WIND caricatured Belle Watling as if she was illiterate trash. This served Scarlett’s vanity, of course. However, Belle held a much more complex role than Scarlett, in Southern society and in Papa’s life. She was at least as literate as Scarlett, since she too conducted a business. When I first learned of her, I was too young to accompany Papa to her house. He didn’t keep it a secret from me, so I endeavored to visit for myself as soon as I could.

Eventually, he allowed me meet him there on occasion, in order to run our errands for the day. I arrived at Ms. Watling’s first thing in the morning, and waited outside at the hitching post alongside a faithful hound dog or two. This cured my jitters about missing a day’s activities. The gentlemen seemed unnaturally rushed when they departed there, and neglected to return my greeting.

I never cared that Papa was lodging away from Scarlett, nor did Scarlett herself complained about it. In fact, by the time I first arrived at the chalet, Papa had already taken a separate bedroom from her, which enabled him to come and go discretely.

I visited Belle’s on my own for the first time on an errand for Papa, when I was sixteen or seventeen. I was lucky to be received by Belle herself, since I arrived at midday, rather than the cocktail hour when Belle would have been occupied with a crowd of clients. I’d never before entered her establishment, so I hadn’t seen her parlor before. The drapes on the front windows had always been closed, which, of course was no hindrance to a curious youth like me. But peeping through the curtains at women with bare backs didn’t begin to satiate my interest.

The parlor had an empty look and the floor was scuffed from dancing. The walls were lined with sofas, and we sat down. Opposite the fireplace was the piano, whose song repertoire I could recite from memory. The parlor adjoined the dining room, which had been commandeered from its intended purpose by a dog-eared deck of cards, which occupied the center of the square table. Alongside the cards were ashtrays stacked with wagering chips.

I recall that I had expected her to be prettier, before I finally came face to face with her. She looked fairly plain, I thought, too old and fat to suit Papa. Of course, at age nineteen, I thought all women over thirty looked old, especially those as plump as her. I hadn’t yet learned the skill of imagining how the old ones might have looked years earlier when they fresh and slender. Despite Belle’s nail polish, her hands also showed me she’d worked a shift or two at every job under the sun. She was like one neighbor I had known in New Orleans, who was a precious, but common kind of woman, who managed to keep my uncles content, year after year.

After I introduced myself to her, she said,” His son? You

don’t favor him at all.”

I explained, till she cut me off. “He adopts folks like us, son. There’s no accounting for it - - he just knows who he likes, and that settles it for good, whether we’re shunned by others or not.”

“Were you shunned, when you met him?”

“I still am.”

That caught me off guard, and I heard myself reply, “Me too.” I blushed, not

wishing to explain myself.

She nodded, as if she knew exactly what I meant. I presented Papa’s envelope to

her, which was not addressed to anyone. She looked up to confirm it was for her, and I nodded. She clutched it to her breast.

“Why didn’t Rhett himself come?”

I offered his apologies. I was glad for the first time, however, that I was on my

own. “If he had come, I’d have never gotten your attention for myself.”

Her cheek made a dimple. “Just the same, you tell him he ought not neglect me.” I’d say no such thing to him, and she knew it. Again, she glanced at the blankness of the envelope. Without opening it, she said,” What can I do for you?”

She made me feel like the only person she’d ever asked it. “Lordy me, Miss Watling. After two minutes with you, I just feel like I’ve known you forever.”

She yawned. “Like brother and sister, eh? Rhett said that too, the first time he met me - - so do most fellows who come to call. That’s why I keep on running this hotel, I like to please people. And you’re probably wonderin’ if I feel the same about you - - like you’re my long lost brother? No. Sorry, son, but I don’t feel it. You’re a fine lookin’ fellow, though you don’t favor Rhett at all. But that’s about all I can say for you.”

I still felt it.

“But Rhett Butler, he’s different. Me and him are like brother and sister, according to the stars - - the zodiac. He’s a Sagittarius, and guess who else happened to be a November baby?”

I was slow on the uptake.

“Miss Belle Watling, that’s who!” She nodded so hard her curls flopped in her face. You’ve never seen two astrological charts so close, as mine and his. We’re not just brother and sister, we’re twins!”

She asked me my sign, and I shrugged. Who cared, since I knew I wasn’t a November baby? As usual, I was a foreigner to their tribe. Funny, how an outsider like her could suddenly sound as snobby as a socialite.

“Talk about being shunned! Rhett Butler’s the only one in Dixie with a worse reputation than me.’” He was nearly tarred and feathered in Charleston at the hands of his own family, but it was a story I’d never heard before. Of course, I knew he despised those people, but I thought it was because they had blundered into war with the Union and dragged all of Dixie with them. Somehow, Belle knew the dirt on Rhett, blow by blow, but was indignant as a sister on his behalf.

I asked,” His reputation used to be the worst?”

“Before her.”

At that time, I didn’t yet know how strongly Belle felt towards Scarlett, or of Belle’s previous confrontations with her, which are briefly described in GONE WITH THE WIND. But I had assumed Scarlett treated her shabbily, as most ladies did.

“Does she know you’re calling on me today?” Her eyes bore down. “She’s got no right to shun anyone. Not you or me. Any woman who propositions men on the public streets - - and I ain’t talking about selling lumber - - has got no room to talk.”

“Aunt Scarlet?”

“Yep. Hasn’t been ten years since she was hitchin’ rides out on the curb. She met her last husband that way - - Mr. Kennedy - - hitchin’ a ride.”

I raised my eyebrows at that, but I couldn’t be shocked, after a boyhood in the alleyways of New Orleans, and Belle seemed to know it. I was street wise enough to know the value of dirt on an enemy’s reputation. But Scarlett wasn’t my enemy, yet. I loved her!

“I hate a woman who cuts her husband down to size. Before he married Scarlett, Rhett was the most fearsome rogue in town, who had dueled with two aristocrats and lived to brag about it. He had spent a decade swindling the good ole boys out of their poker purses and brought the business of smuggling to town, all the way from Charleston. These days, they’d call him a gangster. But since Scarlett, he himself’s nothing but a fat cat. He struts around City Hall and Sacred Heart, thinking his baby is cuter than anyone else’s.”

“That’s natural.”

“No no, not for him. He had never been the marryin’ kind, till that woman coaxed him into it. He himself said “I’ll never marry,” a thousand times. Then he turned right around and married her, despite himself. She tempted him and flirted with him for six, seven years, even while she was married to that old man. Finally, Rhett couldn’t help himself anymore. He promised her half his fortune in order to have his way with her, once and for all.”

“Half of -” My mind raced from the Chalet to the horses and buggies, everything that bore the brand “RB.” The sight of his brand had meant that Papa, and Papa alone, could gather it up under his arm and tote it all across town or downstream, to anywhere in creation that he fancied.

“That’s right, son. She’s now got half of Rhett’s, to add to the estate of old man Kennedy, which she already added to the estate of her first one, the boy - - Miss Pittypat’s nephew, who died at Bull Run.”

I must’ve looked like an imbecile at that moment.

“You say he adopted you? You’re his son, same as Bonnie’s his daughter?”

I hesitated.

“Inheritance?” I had never said it before.

She chuckled. “Listen here. Every man has an estate. After he passes on, his children inherit - - they become the owners. Each of ‘em gets his share.”

“After he passes on,” I said.

“What’s your business here?”

“I’m Rhett’s adopted son, Jacques Boudreau.”

“Well then, you better change your name to Butler, right away.” She paused and seemed to think agan. “No, don’t bother. It would be a hornet’s nest. I dare say Scarlett wouldn’t stand for it - - a stranger like you, waltzing into town and calling himself Butler, trying to help himself to her babies’ inheritance.”

I shuddered, knowing the hornet’s nest was real. I’d never dreaming I was stirring one up. Until that moment I had felt lucky to have a roof over my head. That was fortune enough for me. I’d never dreamed I had a fortune to gain or to lose. Owning a piece of anything, let alone the magnificent estate of Rhett Butler, was too sophisticated for me to grasp.

“We’ve got a heap of common interests,” she said. “Every little trifle related to

Mr. Butler. Well Mister, Mister–“

“Boudreau.”

“Mr. Boudreau, what can I do for you? Surely there’s more than this measly envelope you’ve delivered.”

I pondered her question. “Miss Watling, if I may, I’d like to start calling more

regularly. To talk - - get advice - - that’s all.”

Her cheeks dimpled. “We’ll see what we can arrange.”

I thanked her for her kindness. I felt that I had secured a precious ally against a

hostile world that had recently become more treacherous.

Before I had on my hat, she had lost interest in me and dove into the envelope from Papa.

“He’s moving in!” Her eyes bulged so far I hardly recognized her, and she shouted as if everyone in town should know. “His trunk’ll be delivered here as soon as it’s packed.” She leapt to her feet and kissed me on both cheeks, bumping my hat halfway off.

Again I was stunned, for the second or third time in that conversation. Papa was moving into Belle’s place, and out of his own mansion, where we all loved him! Which trunk was he referring to? Why hadn’t he told me, and given me instructions for the move? I reached for the letter. “Can I see that, Ma’am?”

“Sir!” she feigned, and clutched it to her breast.

I didn’t doubt what she said, I just wanted more. I had seen how distant he was from Scarlett, and how seldom he appeared in the morning for breakfast. But I couldn’t stand seeing Papa banished from his own place. I wanted him home. He was all I had. That’s why I’d never minded fetching him from Belle’s. Now, it seemed like I’d assisted him with his plans to leave me. Now Belle was the one with Papa’s confidence, not me. She was Papa’s best friend on earth. Scarlett was the cause of all his woes, and I too was vulnerable to her, simply for having slept in the lap of luxury, and learned to like it. Belle’s parlor on the other hand, smelled like stale cigars. But it began to feel good to me, the longer I stayed.

At that moment, when my mind was racing, Belle called back to the kitchen. Out came a skinny blonde girl wearing a clean sundress whose straps had almost no shoulder flesh to cling to. She wasn’t as old as me, but she look straight at me, as if we were the only two kids in the sandbox and said,

“I’ll be right with you, sir.”

By the time Belle had corrected her and sent her to fetch coffee, Ruthie had already shown her approval of my fine wool suit and waxed boots. She had also taken note, without a bit of modesty, of my glance at her cute cleavage. This child wasn’t afraid to play with boys.

Ruthie returned with two cups, cream and sugar. Abruptly, Belle hopped up and told her to sit and keep me company, as if she wanted to match me up with Ruthie. Belle liked what she saw, after the two of us were sitting together like a couple.

Ruthie spooned so much sugar into hers that it swelled to the brink. She couldn’t stir it or lift the cup off the saucer, for fear of a mess. To sip it, she leaned over and reached her lips to the rim. She winced since it was still bitter. I smirked at her.

“Drink,” she sulked.

I chuckled and shook my own cup, which clinked enough to spill. She nodded at me to watch out.

I gulped it and said, “I’ve gotta go see Papa.”

She sat back, crossed her legs, and took in my expression. “He’s had it with that woman, Scarlett, huh?”

“I don’t know.” I must’ve looked bewildered. I was but it didn’t keep me from admiring her bare knee, as thin as it was. What a thrill to be within reach of her!

She patted my arm. “Don’t worry, his secret’s safe with us. He told Belle everything. Of course, I got eyes in my head, and I seen her on the street every day, hawking lumber to any sweaty convict or nigger who would tote it away. I swear to god she used to stand on the curb and hitch rides with any man with a buggy. She climbed right up beside him, she did.”

“Scarlett? What’re you saying?” I didn’t like the sound of it, from a common girl like Ruthie. Coming from Belle, a grown woman twice Scarlett’s age, it wasn’t so bad.

“Scarlett’s as shameless as any street-walker in town.”

“Shut your mouth, girl.”

She didn’t flinch. “Sir, it’s our parlor, so I’ll say what I please. Besides, I ain’t joking about Scarlett. You’ll see her for yourself, large as life, if you walk down

Auburn Avenue

to Boulevard. And don’t be surprised if the hem of her satin skirt’s brown from draggin’ through the muck. If it’s too much for you, I suggest you go home to your mansion behind the iron gate.”

“She tends shop,” I said.

“Surely does, and I think she’s the Queen of Sheba for having her own. But shame on her for betraying a decent husband like Rhett , who never did her wrong.”

“Who said so?” I’d never heard of the scandal before. It that had happened in the same month as my arrival in Atlanta, and of course it was hushed at the Chalet.

“It’s all over town, Honey. Has been for months. She’s two-timing Rhett, out at her lumber mill, where she’s got Ashley Wilkes at her beckon call. Lord knows what goes on out there, under cover of the woods.”

Of course, I knew all about her mill, but I’d never yet heard the gossip, since I’d been trailing so close behind Papa.

Belle barged back in on us, and looked me in the eye. “We mustn’t tell Scarlett.”

“Tell her?”

She stomped her foot with Ruthie joining in, “About Rhett moving!”

12. MY OWN BETRAYAL OF PAPA

2010-03-13T18:09:00.000-08:00

Rhett Butler was my father, no matter what GONE WITH THE WIND said. He adopted me down in New Orleans before he ever met Scarlett. But compared to Scarlett, I didn’t mean a thing to Papa. Scarlett had his whole heart, and she knew he’d indulge her anything, even her unfaithfulness towards him. He was too steadfast for his own good, allowing us all our turn to betray him, including me. My own treachery against him amounted to a mere trifle in Papa’s mind, as compared to Scarlett’s. He shrugged it off, and somehow in the end, salvaged some fondness for me.

Ms. Mitchell caricatured Papa as a playboy and whoremonger in GONE WITH THE WIND. What's worse, she suppressed Papa’s true heroics, I’ll be damned if I won’t tell Papa’s side of the story, for their sake.

Despite my treachery towards Papa, I never forgot that I owed everything I had and hoped to have, to him. Before Papa adopted me, I had never heard the word “faithfulness” spoken, let alone seen it acted by a man. I’ve never seen it since then, either - - not the way he showed it to the people he chose for himself. He heaped it on so high over our heads, that we - - teenaged Scarlett and me - - could not live up his standard, despite our vows to him of devotion. For our sins, we both deserved the ax. Nevertheless, he seemed to understand our flaws - - that we’d never live up to our own illusions of loyalty to him. So he didn’t despair in the end, when he must have felt alone and friendless.

As soon as I double-crossed him, I believed I was condemned to hell forevermore, and I could no longer face myself in the mirror. It has taken me fifty-six years of pondering my character flaw to forgive myself and to summons enough objectivity to be able to write this memoir.

* * *

The week after Papa left the Chalet, everything seemed stirred-up with one upsetting event after another. One afternoon, I had just come from Papa when I suddenly found myself face to face with her in the main foyer. She’d obviously anticipated my arrival. In fact, she ambushed me, waiting right behind the front door. I was led to see her without Mammy, Dilsey or Prissy attending. She looked petite under a ceiling lit by a chandelier with two hundred candles. She looked aimless, standing on the equator of a marble mosaic depicting of the entire surface of the globe. The staircase and hallways behind her seemed too broad for her to traverse without an escort of some kind. Her face and neck were bare with her hair pinned back, and her dress’s sleeves seemed too short for comfort.

She was a little woman who could frighten me with nothing more than a glare. Her eyes had always pierced me, but I had learned to take that for granted. Scarlett’s glare, however, was a different matter entirely, because I had learned the hard way what would follow after she had glared at me, and I never took it lightly again.

The lesson was fresh in my mind, because it had happened during the Spring of that same year. It was her abruptness and the agitation on her face. But I saw fury there, and I’d had no warning. I was cornered, with no way of avoiding her. I remember suddenly wishing I could hide, because of what I was carrying in my breast pocket. It was a note bearing Miss Watling’s greetings to Papa, penned in her own hand. Carrying messages to Papa was routine, so I hadn’t given a thought to delivering one from Belle. But when I found myself under Scarlett’s suspicious eye, I suddenly felt I had a firecracker with a lit fuse.

“Where’s Captain Butler been lodging?” she said in a loud whisper.

“Lodging?”

“You know what I’m asking, you scoundrel. Don’t mock me. If he moves out of this house, I’m gonna blame you. You’re the one scouting out new quarters for him. And where have you scouted? A brothel! You’d have him rooming with all the riff-raff in Belle Watling’s brothel. You won’t get away with this, Jacques. I’m gonna make you sorry for what you’ve done.”

I didn’t dare deny it, since she had caught me red-handed. “I only delivered a message to Ms. Watling. I don’t know nothing.”

“You’re nothing - - nothing but a beggar - - a beggar dressed in fine woolens. You think you’re something, because you’ve lived like a prince ever since I rescued you from the gutter in New Orleans. You’ve never shown me any gratitude.”

“I want him to stay here.”

“You’re nothing,” she continued. “You’re not Rhett Butler. You’ll be locked out of that brothel. Belle Watling doesn’t want you - - you’ve got no money. She wants Rhett’s money. You’ll be stranded, out in the cold, while she’s taking every penny he’s got. He’ll be happy as a pig in a poke, and he’ll forget about you.”

“I’ll show you, Aunt Scarlett. I’ll find a way to keep him home, if . . . if I can.”

“See there? You think Rhett’ll listen to you. You’re nothing!”

“He hasn’t moved yet. I’ll figure out something.”

“You better, or you’ll find yourself back where you came from, in the gutter in New Orleans.”

I left Scarlett on a mission, since she had scared me into believing I’d be deserted. She seemed to be sincere, since she had her own genuine interest in keeping Papa put.

I went up to my little garret on the fourth floor, high above the street. As tiny as it was, it was the coziest room I’ve ever had. My mattress under the window served as an easy chair, where I could watch the whole town pass by, too far beneath me to disturb my daydreams. I never asked for drapes, since I slept just as well in the warm direct sun as I did in the dark.

No daydreams that day, but I stared intently across the street and pondered Papa’s habits. Although he often drove the buggy to Belle’s, the first thing I imagined was Nag saddled-up with her tail twitching, tied to the post. An easy target. With that image alone, I concocted a simple scheme: if Nag was stolen while Papa was visiting Belle, Papa wouldn’t feel safe to stay there anymore.

The next evening, I was so eager to work my scheme I could hardly wait for the sun to set. When I was a boy, I’d seen my uncles pull off a petty theft or two, so I knew better than to try a theft broad daylight. I didn’t worry about the Sheriff hunting me down and jailing me. All I cared about was eluding Papa himself. I’d rather die from the Sheriff’s buckshot than to face Papa in the act of stealing his mount. Of course, I didn’t mean for Nag to be lost or hurt in any way, only for it to appear as such. I loved her too! I’d retrieve her for him in short order, after her loss had been felt.

I was so sure of myself, I didn’t speak to Scarlett before I embarked upon my scheme. Hatching it and carrying it out was the most courageous thing I’d ever done, as well as the most misguided. After all, I still loved Scarlett at that early date, and I wanted her favor more than ever. It gave me a sense of bravado, which I needed in order to attempt to cross one of the most fearful and ornery men in Dixie, Rhett Butler. I wanted to return home to Scarlett and declare that her secret desire had been successfully accomplished and she could rest assured, thanks to my skill and guts.

Tempers flared between Papa and Scarlett at the dinner at the Chalet. As usual, Scarlett was chastising Bonnie.

“You’re not excused from the table. I don’t care if your horse is raising Cain.”

“They’re trying to ride him.”

“No they’re not,” Papa said.

Bonnie jumped to the floor and tried to slip behind Scarlett’s chair, but Scarlett caught her. Bonnie squealed and strained against her at arms length, nearly toppling Scarlett’s chair.

“Let go,” Papa cautioned Scarlett.

“Grab her!”

“Let her go. She’s already up.”

“Grab her, or I’ll beat the tar out of her.”

Papa took her by the hand to the window that overlooked the corral.

“Nag is nudging the little fella, that’s all. He’s unbridled.” He sent Bonnie back to her chair, and when she passed Scarlett, Scarlett whacked her on the head, barely hard enough to hear it from my seat at the table.

“Hold on,” Papa said. Bonnie whined in Papa’s direction. “Take it easy,” he snapped at Scarlett.

“I will spank you,” S carlett threatened her, in defiance of Papa. Bonnie fretted and turned and ran to him in his chair. She put her face in his lap, pouting.

“Here, you can sit here.” He hoisted her up to his lap. The pouting ceased and

she sucked her thumb.

“How’s she gonna learn?”

“Not by your hand, Scarlett.”

The horse’s neighing spurred me to get on with my scheme. I’d had a lump of fear in my gut all day long. Dinner helped too, although I got impatient before Johnnie could serve us the lemon cake. I wanted my boots on. I had been shrewd enough to appear at dinner in slippers and housecoat, rather than trousers, lest they suspect I had something planned for later.

It was stupid of me however, to ask to be excused early. It clued everyone that something was up, since I’d never refused dessert before in my life, not even if it was gum drops. Johnnie, the bald kitchen nigger, fretted that the ham had nauseated me.

“Now?” Scarlett said.

“There’s lemon cake,” Papa said, but he was talking to Bonnie. She pouted, in turn.

Scarlett flicked her wrist, granting me leave.

In order to dress the part of a thief, I had to actually be one. Papa’s hunting cloak was required, since it enveloped me in dim grey, but I couldn’t ask his permission for it, needless to say.

Again I waited until after Papa left for Belle’s, rather than give him cause to wonder where I was going. I paced in and out of my room and up and down the first flight of steps. From those steps I peeked at the hallway below that led to Papa’s room. I hoped to catch sight of him as soon as he emerged from his room in riding boots.

He departed quickly as I had guessed he would. He must have desired sweeter company than Scarlett had been at dinner. I watched out my window to confirm that he was on Nag, rather than driving. He was, and he headed South on Peachtree, in the direction of Belle’s.

I walked a different route, which allowed me to avoid Papa, as well as to arrive at Belle’s driveway from a different vantage point. Visibility was short, and I couldn’t rely on moonlight for sure recognition of Nag, so I approached Belle’s from her neighbor’s property rather than from her own driveway, to get a broadside view of Nag.

I began trembling with fear when I saw the brothel with its flickering porch lamps. Nag was the only horse hitched to the post, but I didn’t recognize her at first, since her nose was facing the house and her only markings were right above her nostrils. Of course all [brown] horses look the same from the rear at night, so I doubted that this one was Nag. But her tail had been clipped just below her flanks, which looked somewhat distinct. I’d prayed for another horse or two to crowd the hitching post, so that after we’d left, Nag’s absence wouldn’t look conspicuous. But at that early hour, there was only one horse and its nose was hidden from me. My luck seemed shaky, but at least Papa had shown up on time and nobody was lounging on Belle’s front porch who might witness my crime. I gave myself a tongue lashing to cure my cold feet.

Good fortune placed Nag down wind of me, so she turned to follow my scent, which was mingled with papa’s scent. I took heart at the sight of her white nose, which was as bright as day. She nudged me sweetly when I reached her, fond as she was of the cloak. I untied her reins and led her slowly away, despite the panic I felt. I was afraid to mount her lest her hoofs should make a clatter, till I got halfway down the driveway. Then I leapt onto her and kicked. We flew! Thieves’ luck is pretty good.

It was like a western, where the man in the black hat snatches the hero’s mount and gets away with it, for a while. And the stolen horse obeys the thief dutifully, but seems eager to desert him and returns straight to its true master’s barn. Actually, I made it easy for Nag’s instincts, since I rode her back within three blocks of the Chalet, where Nag could practically smell her own stable. I made it too easy, and almost got caught.

I couldn’t risk losing Nag to a real thief, and having my whole caper go catastrophically wrong. Big Sam knew what I’d done as soon as he saw me stride up to the gate in my riding boots. Some time earlier, she’d poked her nose through the gap in the back and practically kicked it down. Meanwhile, I was laying low in a deserted alley way, to let the dust to settle. But when I arrived and climbed the front steps, Big Sam still had an eye out. He looked askance at me, creeping around in Papa’s cloak.

Next morning, she sent for me. “What did you do? Big Sam said-”

“Everything’s fine.”

“Tell me, right now. You took Nag, didn’t you?”

“I, I - - she’s fine.”

“Fine? You better come to the mill with me today.”

“All day?”

“You took her from Belle’s. Even I can figure it out!”

“Did Big Sam tell Papa –“

“No. You were lucky, you idiot. I got to him first and told him an alibi - - you went to Dr. Meade’s.”

“Nobody saw me with Nag. Not even Sam.”

“You could’ve been shot, you idiot. Did you think of that? No alibi would’ve helped you dead.”

I shrugged and said, “It worked.”

“I covered for you - - sent you to Meade’s. That’s what worked.”

“I’ll fake sick.”

“No! Go and face him.” She grabbed me and pulled me nose to nose, where I smelled her sweet breath. “Listen here. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. It was all for Rhett’s own good. You acted a fool, but you were trying to lure him out of that brothel. For his own good, you hear?” I heard her and bless her heart, she was making me feel appreciated - - indispensable - - for the first time ever. “Walk up and look him right in the eye, and say ‘It’s a beautiful day.’” I turned to go on my way, but she caught my arm. She kissed my cheek.

Suddenly, I saw Scarlett differently. Her tenderness was sincere, almost overwhelming. Maybe I had finally reached the age when a woman could really get to me, because it was impossible to keep my wits about me, after she drew me close to her. In an instant, I understood why Papa couldn’t leave her, no matter what she did to him. It was a glimpse of my manhood to come, a weak manhood that I’d never imagined.

* * *

According to GONE WITH THE WIND, Scarlett never acknowledged Belle Watling’s relationship with Rhett. On the contrary, Scarlett actually complained to him about it. Scarlett knew every move Papa made, including his visits to Belle’s. She knew he never quit visiting Belle’s brothel, except when they were on honeymoon in New Orleans.

The morning after Nag’s disappearance, Scarlett got to Papa before I did, which was a relief to me. They were seated in the dining room, waiting to be served breakfast. Papa was still unshaved in his housecoat, which surprised me.

“No, Nag wasn’t stolen. If she had been, we’d have never seen her again. She was spooked by lightning or something, heat lightning. It happens all the time.”

I went straight to Papa’s side and attempted to look him in the eye, as Scarlett had told me. He wouldn’t turn his head from Scarlett, so I took my seat and watched her work. Knowing her strategy in advance, it was a lesson to me in shrewdness.

She fretted, “Nag was outside, with no roof over her head?”

“Not for long.”

“She’s a fighter, and smart enough to run home, whenever she’s loose.”

“She gets the royal treatment. Healthiest philly in town.” At that, he paused and listened for a “yea” from me. Normally, I wouldn’t have needed a prompt from him, but I kept out of it. My guilt made me timid.

Scarlett looked him in the eye. “Where were you when you lost her?”

“Over on

Virginia Avenue

.”

“On the South side?” she said - - a bad neighborhood.

He nodded.

She let the subject drop.

* * *

Two nights later, the pot boiled over. The version of argument described in GONE WITH THE WIND made Scarlett seem too pure to countenance the thought of a brothel.

She said, “Where - - where have you been?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know! I thought surely the whole town knew by now. Perhaps they all do, except you. You know the old adage, ‘The wife is always the last one to find out.’”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought that after the Sheriff inquired at Belle’s, night before last –“

“Belle’s?” She stage whispered, “That whore? You’ve been with –“

“Of course. Where else would I be?”

“I feared that you’d been dallying but I thought you were more discrete.”

“Of course you knew. I’ve been living with her ever since you and Ashley Wilkes decided that we should have separate bedrooms.”

“And you have the gall to boast to me, your wife, that –“

“Wife? You haven’t been much of a wife since Bonnie came, have you?”

“Get out of this room and don’t ever come back in it. I told you that once before and you weren’t enough of a gentleman to understand. And the way you acted the other night - - so drunk, so disgusting –“

“Disgusting? Come now, Darling.”

“Get out.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll go, and I promise I’ll never bother you again. That’s final. And I just thought that I’d tell you that if my infamous conduct was too much for you to bear, I’ll let you have a divorce. Just give me Bonnie and I won’t contest it.”

“I would not think of disgracing the family with a divorce.”

“You’d disgrace it quickly enough if Miss Melly was dead, wouldn’t you? It makes my head spin to think how quickly you’d ditch me in order to marry Wilkes.”

“Will you get out?”

“Yes, I’m going. That’s what I came home to tell you. I’m going to Charleston and New Orleans - - oh well, a very extended trip. I’m leaving today.” and

“Oh!”

“And I’m taking Bonnie with me. Get that foolish Prissy to pack her little duds. I’ll take Prissy too.”

“You’ll never take my child out of this house.”

“My child too, Mrs. Butler. Surely you’ll let me take her to Charleston to see her grandmother?”

“’Her grandmother’ my foot. Do you think I’ll let you take that baby when you’ll be drunk every night and most likely taking her to houses like that Belle’s –“

He threw down the cigar violently and it smoked acridly on the carpet, the smell of scorching wool rising to their nostrils. In an instant he was across the floor and by her side, his face black with fury.

“If you were a man I would break your neck for that. So shut your God damn mouth. Do you think I don’t love Bonnie? That I would take her to a brothel - - my daughter! Good God, you fool. And you, putting on pious airs about motherhood. Why, an alleycat’s a better mother than you. What have you ever done for the children? Wade and Ella are frightened to death of you, and if it wasn’t for Melanie Wilkes, they’d never know what love and affection are. But Bonnie, my Bonnie. Do you think I can’t take better care of her than you? You don’t think I’ll ever let you bully her and break her spirit the way you’ve broken Wade’s and Ella’s. Hell no! Have her packed up and ready to go in an hour, or I’ll warn you, what happened the other night will be mild beside what will happen. I’ve always thought a lashing with a buggy whip would benefit you immensely.”

Needless to say, Papa never whipped her. That’s why the mention of it was so shocking. Maybe he should have, because Scarlett wasn’t daunted at all. On the contrary, she went right to work on her plan to keep him corralled at the Chalet by means of deceit. I confess, I was her accomplice, despite my great respect for Papa’s whip - - riding crop - - that we heard whacking horses day and night. Nag and the steeds were the only ones around who ever felt the sting of it, but the mere sound of leather on horse hide began to sting me a little, after my conscience became guilty of deceit.

The next morning Scarlett called me to her and revealed her plan to me, after reminding me I was at risk of abandonment, if Papa moved. Before she had even told me my role in her plan, I pledged myself to it. It hinged upon Bonnie, and Scarlett’s explosive suggestion that Papa would expose the girl to Belle’s brothel.

“Tease her. She hates being left behind, especially if she’s forbidden.”

“What if she asks ‘Where?’”

“Tell her. She’ll pitch a fit, and beg Rhett to go along.”

“Speak of Belle to Bonnie? He’ll have my hide!”

She shrugged. That was her plan, precisely. “I’ll try to distract him. I’ll raise Cain over it, when Bonnie asks about Belle. He’ll be too distracted to trifle with you.”

I gulped.

“Next, you must drive the buggy there, looking for Captain Butler.”

“Alone?”

She nodded. “For appearances. Folks’ll think you’ve taken Bonnie in search of Captain Butler.”

“Who?” I was really dreading this.

“Belle and her floozies. Rhett maybe. Stay there long enough to be noticed, then turn around and come back, as if you were bringing Bonnie home where she belongs.”

13. MY TREACHERY

2010-03-13T17:50:00.000-08:00

I didn’t do it - - what I had planned - - yet.

She glared at me and shook her head whenever I passed the door to her dressing room. At the dinner table, she wouldn’t eat. She sipped her wine and stared off into the distance until her food was cold. Papa finally commented upon it, she snapped, "Don’t worry yourself over a pork chop. Does food matter more to you than family?” She glared at me too, as if I had given offense.

At first, Papa didn’t take the bait. He’d been coping with her moodiness for years. “I’m right here with you. I could have gotten food somewhere else.”

“Your heart is somewhere else - - over on Broad Street."

“I’m here so much, I know immediately when you’re irritable.”

“Yes, it seems more often these days. There’s a good reason for it.”

“I forgive your irritability. Never fear.”

“It’s easy to forgive when you don’t care - - when you’ve got one boot out the door. Bonnie’s mad too.”

“Bonnie? She’s happy as a junebug.”

Suddenly, Scarlett shocked me when she nodded at me and said, “Would you please excuse him from the table? I feel outnumbered.”

“Don’t be silly. He’s here to eat. Has Jacques run afoul of you too?”

She dropped it, but Papa pressed her. “You want Jacques to leave? You just complained that you’ve been lonely. I fear you’d pitch a fit if he ever left your sight.”

“Never mind. I’ll mind my own feelings, thank you - - mine and Bonnie’s. After all, I see her much more than you do.”

“That’s not true.”

“How would you know? As a matter of fact, last night she spent half the night in my bed. Yours was empty and cold.”

“Scarlett, don’t tell stories.”

“I may lie about myself, but not about an innocent child. Ask Bonnie yourself, if you care. Of course, it’s dinner time now. Too late to ask a child what happened the night before.” She shook her head at him. “Too late, Rhett.”

“Stop it. I wouldn’t quiz Bonnie about you or anyone else. That’s shameful.”

“Indeed it is. And I do feel shame sometimes, unlike you. You’ll go anywhere –“

He jumped up. “Stop it. You don’t have to provoke me to make me leave you. Just give me Bonnie.” He spread his arms. “Keep all of this for yourself and Ashley Wilkes to enjoy.” He let that sink in. “Just Bonnie.”

“Ashley wouldn’t set foot in this house without a personal invitation from you.”

“I just made him one. Hell, I gave him the keys to the place!”

AN ERRAND FOR A BUGGY

I never spoke the name Belle Watling to anyone, not even Papa, until the day arrived to work Scarlett’s plan. I knew Miss Watling, of course, had known who she was since the day I hit town. I knew I should have been ashamed - - in Papa’s words - - when I spoke to Bonnie, the “innocent child” about visiting Belle’s. But, that’s why I knew Scarlett’s plan would succeed. It was shrewd, and easy as pie, so I felt no shame at all, until later.

I found Bonnie in the kitchen, at table with Ella. Mammy occupied the rest of the room, from cupboard to counter, while giving orders to two other house niggers in completely separate rooms of the house. It was the last time I ever lunched with “the babies.” After the scandal that erupted over my naughty conversation with Bonnie, I was forbidden to eat with the babies anymore. I had seldom dined there anyway, since I had been a seated as a guest in the dining room since I first arrived. Until the day I was forbidden, I could sit at table in the kitchen like anyone else, anyone who could find a seat there. Wade had been allowed into the dining room about the time I had arrived, for basically the same reason - - arguing with the babies.

As long as us babies were chatting between ourselves contentedly, Mammy pay us no mind. It gave me a chance to plant the crucial idea in Bonnie’s mind.

“She’s got lemon drops.”

“Gum drops?”

“Yep, those too. Cherry and orange.”

“Bring me some?”

“No, it’s not a store. I have to eat ‘em there.”

“Why?” Before she’d heard my reply, she turned and ran for Scarlett, begging to go to Belle Watling’s house. I turned and made for the stables where the buggy was parked.

Driving the buggy belonging to Scarlett and Bonnie across town that day felt like the rottenest thing I’d ever done. The Awful consequences to Papa would be unavoidable. Like planting a murder weapon in his front yard - - he’d be judged for it. In turn, he’d surely judge me. Anybody would. I reassured myself that I simply wanted to pay a call on Belle, or anyone else at home, in order to make my presence known. I’d claim to be searching for Papa, then up and scram before anyone was the wiser.

That buggy was all for show, as broad as a big laundry basket with an interior of overstuffed calf skin, dyed white as cotton. The running board was slung low to the pavement, so a lady could climb aboard without carrying her hoopskirt in her arms. I couldn’t even hear Bonnie’s voice from up front, unless she climbed up the seat and shouted at the back of my head. Back there, she looked even tinier than she was. Driving around empty, it looked like I forgotten somebody. Pedestrians peeked in. Like everything else about Scarlett, it drew attention to itself.

I panicked before I ever arrived at Belle’s. I had reached the last block of the street approaching her house, and I needed to check if the coast was clear. I didn’t want to be caught in the act by Papa, if he happened to be sitting on Belle’s front porch. I parked the buggy in front of a neighbor’s house, dismounted and walked away, leaving it and the horse, Trotter, unattended. This act alone was probably the most damnable thing I’d done since I’d been with Papa. Trotter was likely to spook any second, since he was nervous - - already neighing. He wouldn’t stand to be deserted by me on the side of the road in a strange place.

I stopped in my tracks, in utter confusion, thinking of Papa, who had fatherly pride in his voice when he first handed me the reins of the buggy and said,” Soon you’ll be my second chauffer.” Why was I squandering his trust? I had an urge to face up to Papa and confess what was on my mind.

Several times before, I’d called his attention to some dilemma I’d been worrying about. Usually, he simply ignored me and kept focused upon the task at hand, which was usually his horsemanship, while on Nag. Thus he’d indicated he thought my dilemma was too trivial to discuss. But he never snapped at me for begging his attention, or scolded me for trifling. He had scolded me for everything else I did, but not for that. In fact, the matters he’d scolded me hardest for was fearfulness, and squeamishness, and timidity. “You’re as flighty as a hen,” he said, the first time I saw Nag rear up. After picking up a nail, Nag had suddenly neighed and reared, then gone lame. By the time we could calm her down, her hoof was one big messy clot. We had to find the nail before she could take another step, but my stomach had already turned at the sight of blood. I wouldn’t even hold her leg stationary, until Papa snatched me by the sleeve and wrapped my trembling hands around it. I’d have gotten a lashing on the spot if I hadn’t gripped that leg like a banister. I didn’t let loose till Papa himself gave the word. I had learned that Papa despised cowards.

Now, I stood there in the burning glare, mid-way between performing my bravest stunt in years, and shrinking back in fear. If Papa caught me and lashed me for it, at least he’d respect my daring. On the other hand, when he heard that I’d gone half-way to Belle’s only to lose my nerve and quit, he’d surely whack me just the same, out of pure disgust. In Papa’s mind, cowardice coupled with treacherous intentions would be worse than actually striking him a treacherous blow outright.

Trotter neighed at me from where I had left him. Finally, I remembered Scarlett’s words, “It’s best for Rhett, yet he can’t help himself. Only you can do this for him.” Anyway, the deed was almost done. All I had to do was pull into Belle’s driveway, yell yoo hoo, and turn around and scram.

I told the horse to shut up, and ran up to Belle’s driveway. Her house looked deserted. Neither man nor beast in sight.

I turned around and ran back toward Trotter, and a speeding wagon approached him from the rear. It was rattling down the middle of the road, stirring up a cloud. A near miss, and Trotter would spook into a gallop. They whipped up so much dust, Trotter and our buggy disappeared. After they passed us, I could finally see that it had veered way left of Trotter, leaving room to spare. Dust and noise were all that hit him, so he hardly stirred. I ran to him and hugged his neck.

I proceeded into Belle’s driveway. A thin woman came out the front door and slouched on the bench. She wore wrinkled, sleeveless frock and her oily hair hung across her face. She looked up, all bloodshot and grey circles. I asked for Belle and she replied, but she seemed have no strength to get up. I tied Trotter to the hitching post and I looked up again, the woman had gone.

Belle’s voice sounded from inside, fussing at Ruthie. Belle invited me in. She looked officious, for a madam, with bifocal glasses balanced on her nose and hair pinned up in a bun. She hadn’t bothered with slippers. Even barefoot, she was my same height, which was tall for a white woman. Still, she was plump, and most of it was up top. Her cleavage always competed with her eyes for attention. Her shawl gave her cozy look, more like a librarian than a madam.

“Is Scarlett outside? I put on shoes,” she said.

“Oh no. Nobody’s out there.”

“You chauffeured Scarlett somewhere?”

I nodded.

“Get that thing out of here, before the whole world sees it. What are you trying to do?”

She was onto me. I tried to scat.

She caught me by the arm. “Scarlett put you up to this, didn’t she? She’s trying to catch Rhett with his pants down. You’re in cahoots with the devil.”

I denied it and claimed to have a message for Rhett.

“A message, eh? Tell me.” She tried to shake me.

“Scarlett - - um - - needs some money - - for the florist.” My own words sounded shaky, and I could hardly complete the sentence.

“Rat!” I tried to flee but she followed me to her front door.

“Listen here, you gotta do better than that, or Rhett’ll murder you. Don’t try to outsmart him. Drive that thing up to the bakery and have yourself a biscuit, and forget that you ever came here.” I got the door open while she fussed in my ear. “You gotta get Scarlett’s claws out of you, or she’ll ruin you. She’s already ruined Rhett.” I slipped out the door and she kicked me in the pants. Of course, she couldn’t do any harm, kicking me with her boots off.

Out in the buggy was Ruthie, laying flat on her face across the seat where Scarlett had sat, just an hour ago. Again, I startled the woman, and when she sat up, she left a spot of red lipstick on the white upholstery. I shooed her away and wiped the seat with my handkerchief.

With my tail already between my legs, I needed some reassurance from Scarlett, my partner in deception. All the way home, I imagined her welcoming me into her private sitting room, shutting the door behind me and kissing me on the cheek. She’d listen gratefully as I told her of my mission accomplished.

When I entered the driveway, I passed under the dining room window. I looked up and saw Scarlett in her yellow housecoat. I halted and gave her the thumbs up. She threw up the sash and demanded, “What’s that?” I turned around to see what she was pointing at. From above, the red spot on the seat looked huge.

I looked back at her, and she was pulling Papa to the window. He glared at the buggy and cursed me. I could read his lips.

I got into the stable and barely had wiped off the upholstery before Papa burst through the gate. In his boots and waistcoat, he hadn’t been home long enough to dress for dinner. He grabbed me by the lapel. “Did you drive it to Belle’s?”

“It was all harnessed up. I thought you needed it - - went lookin’ for you. It was all harnessed up.”

“You know I keep it harnessed.” His eyes pierced me. “What happened to it?”

“A woman wiped some lip stick -”

“You damn fool! Scarlett saw it and she’s raisin’ Cain.”

“Scarlett’s mad?”

“You had a whore in her buggy!” He shook me. “You talked to Bonnie about it too.”

“I said she couldn’t ride with me.”

“Never say ‘Belle’ again. Stay away from there, too. You hear?” He shoved me away from him.

I had nothing to say for myself.

He slammed the stable gate behind him. At that moment, I couldn’t remember why in the world I had double-crossed Papa. The words “Who do you think you are?” were on my mind, although Papa hadn’t yet said them. I lugged myself up to the hay loft and slumped.

The hay loft was my home for a few of days, a very long time, even in mild weather. Indeed, I watched from the barn as Scarlett evicted me. Dilsey and Prissy brought my clothes, papers and pens out the back door of the house. Scarlett was on their heels, pointing to the gutter. They made a neat pile on the curb. She swore at them for disobeying, and she herself kicked my fine woolens and parchments into the muck. Of course, Scarlett knew where I was, so her rage was meant for my eyes, and for the coloreds, who would report straight to Papa.

Later, I saw Mammy in the driveway, who was indignant with me. “What got into you?” She told me I wasn’t ever coming back inside. “I hope Rhett Butler is gone too. Let him go where he belongs.”

“It wasn’t his fault.”

As I said it, she looked me in the eyes. “The both of you, then. This house too fine for your kind.” The only sympathy she gave me was, “I’ll send a basket for your dirty clothes.”

* * *

Another morning, the sun woke me early. I climbed down from the loft and I was startled to see Bonnie. She was sitting alone in the buggy, which was parked in its stall. With a wary look, she seemed to be holding her place there. She said, “I know you’re up there.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“Are you leaving?”

“I don’t know.” I shooed her, “Get down and go inside.”

“I’m leaving too, with Papa.”

“Who said Papa’s leaving?”

“Mama.”

“Want did Papa say?”

“I can’t remember,” Bonnie said, “But he’ll take me with him.”

“You can get down from there. He won’t leave you.”

“It’s mine.” She stroked the upholstery.

“It’s not yours.”

“Uh huh,” she nodded hard.

Of course, she was right, but I wouldn’t let her boss me. “I’m the driver.”

“Nuh uh. Papa is.”

“I’ve driven it, for real,” I said.

“Mama fussed at you.”

I shrugged. “She’s done fussing, now.”

“Then come home, Jacques. Right now.”

“Maybe.” I took her hand and we went out in the daylight.

Scarlett herself didn’t miss her chance to berate me. She was sitting in the gazebo in the lawn on the Euclid Street side of the house, painting her nails. I crept past within range of her voice.

“You ruined everything.” I stepped closer, lest someone should hear. “You ran off without permission.”

“But he’s here, Aunt Scarlett. He’s not moving.”

“You were to wait - - wait till you had a proper reason - - legitimate - - a charitable - - yes a charitable reason - - like returning a lost glove or -”

“I went looking for Papa,” I lied, and my face turned red.

“That’s my buggy! Not his. I don’t go near whore houses. I shudder to think what goes on there. Shame on you, for sneaking over there, as if you had something nasty in mind.”

I kept my mouth shut.

She stretched out on the bench, yawned, and

said,” Never take my buggy again, without permission.”

I begged to take my leave. Before I could get away, she called me. I gritted my

teeth and returned.

She held out her hand, keeping a straight face. Five dollars!

* * *

Papa never moved to Miss Watling’s, so I should’ve been “home free” and finally

welcomed back into the Chalet. But Scarlett wanted to do an encore of her role as the

scandalized spouse, and she hadn’t yet finished betraying me, her co-conspirator. Of

course, when Scarlett had something to say about someone, the whole household heard it,

and from there, the whole town as well. Actually, I heard it second hand, like the rest of

Atlanta, since Scarlett hadn’t yet invited me back inside.

I got it from Mammy, of all people. She herself appeared at my stable gate,

delivering my laundered clothes back to me. Instead of handing it to me, she held it on

her hip for a moment. “I’ll tell you what they said about you. Scarlett said, ‘He doesn’t

seem to like it here, despite everything I’ve done for him. He seems to like it over at that brothel.’

‘He goes wherever I go. He’s mine.”

‘He’s your ward. Bonnie’s your child.’

I asked Mammy if I could return home.

“Wait till after dinner.” She handed me the basket.

* * *

From then on, I minded my business and made myself useful to Papa. I felt lucky to be with him, luckier than ever, since I was so undeserving. I had never deserved Papa’s kindness. Now, after having betrayed him, I deserved his fist.

About a week later, he asked me to follow him on horseback, on an errand. When I realized we were headed to Belle’s, I said,” I haven’t been near there since before, when I went astray.”

“Nag hates it there too, since there’s no barn. You’re a better man than I, Jacques Boudreau. Lord knows I can’t keep away from Belle’s.”

“Not me. I like it better here.” I nodded toward the hayloft.

“Don’t be a tramp, or you’ll never set foot in my parlor again.” He sounded like my papa again. “I used to be restless, until now. With Bonnie here, I feel at home for the first time in my life. I’m Baron von Butler, with my daughter and my estate to tend to.”

“Not Captain Butler anymore?”

“It was just a nickname. I was never a ship captain.” I probably sighed with relief to hear him talk of home.

* * *

I couldn’t keep Scarlett’s plot a secret very long. I had to set things right with Papa, and I had no business protecting Scarlett. After a couple weeks, tempers had cooled and he disappeared again at night. Since his last disappearance, he had installed a lock on his bedroom door that kept passersby from checking whether he was home in bed, or not.

But I knew, of course, because I knew what to look for. He never left home before Bonnie was asleep, or before Scarlett had retired to her dressing room. On his way out, he never removed his cloak from its hook in the mud room.

The stable contained the earliest clue of his intent to skip out. When he kept Nag saddled, rather than having her brushed and blanketed for the night, I knew he planned to steal away, after his girls had gone to bed.

One evening before supper, I went to checked how he had left Nag. She stood in her stall with a saddle on her back and her head in a bucket of oats. To mount up, all Papa need do was strap on her bridle, which hung on a nail overhead.

After supper, Papa seemed quite settled in the library in his overstuffed chair, wearing his housecoat and slippers and reading specs. In one hand was a snifter of brandy, in the other was a paper invoice.

I walked in and sat in the matching chair without interrupting him. After a sip of brandy he said, “Anything amiss in the stable?”

I was stunned by his interest in me, for the hundredth time. Why a whopper of a man like Rhett Butler would be aware of a twelve your old kid like me was beyond me.

“No, no Sir.”

He looked me in the eye.

“Yes Sir,” I said,” Something’s amiss. Nag needs to be [unsaddled] and groomed.”

“You’re very kind to worry about that animal. Anything else amiss?”

“Nothing in the stable’s amiss –“ I was lying again, like a snake. I had to stop it or I’d have to choke myself.

“Anything else?”

“I - - Scarlett says that you’re – you were gonna move out.”

“When? When did she say that? Back before you messed up?” Already, he began nodding his head, having figured it all out. “I’ll be damned. You stabbed me in the back, didn’t you? You and her.” He had a look I’d never seen before, not a blush, not a sneer.

“I didn’t mean no harm, Papa.”

“Not to me - - couldn’t harm my reputation if you tried - - but what about Bonnie? Bonnie at a brothel?”

“I’d never take her there.” I couldn’t explain myself, since I was so ashamed.

“I know Scarlett talked you into it. But why didn’t you tell me?”

“She said your mind was made up. No more talk.”

He sneered. “Do you think you won? - - that you kept me from moving?”

He knew my mind, since Scarlett and me had gotten our way. I mumbled, “I was an idiot.”

He nodded. “Scarlett makes idiots of everyone, especially me.”

“You?”

He spread his arms wide. “Hell, I hitched my whole wagon train to that woman. But she gave me Bonnie, so I’m content.”

“You’re staying here at the Chalet for good?”

“That’s my business. You mind your own. Hear me?”

I agreed. It sounded easy, after what I’d been doing lately.

14. PAPA'S DEATH

2010-03-13T17:10:00.000-08:00

Scarlett was the only one who could’ve killed Rhett Butler. He never gave anyone else a clear shot at him. I’m not calling Scarlett a murderer, I'm just stating a fact.

This won’t be the last chapter of my criticism of GONE WITH THE WIND, I hope, because I haven’t told it all yet. Even the title Mrs. Mitchell chose was odd, since neither Scarlett nor Rhett were gone. What was gone? The romance between them, but that didn’t keep them apart.

Rhett Butler’s final days have never been chronicled, thank heavens, so there’s no slander yet on that score. Consequently, I’m rushing to get the bare facts down, before Mrs. Mitchell has a chance at it. She has already misquoted Papa’s personal thoughts on the subject of death, however, so I must address that here, lest people think him a bitter old cynic.

Scarlett acted so pitifully during Papa’s last days that Mrs. Mitchell suppressed the true facts. They tell volumes about Scarlett, though they won’t surprise those of you who knew her. Did her own state of grief over Rhett’s condition excuse her misbehavior? Consider what happened if you will, and judge for yourself.

She was closeby enough to make an appearance when she chose to do so, but not close enough to be relied upon for help. Sadly, Papa still longed for Scarlett, no matter what her response to him. That’s why she had the unique ability to deal the fatal blow.

I guess Papa was too stout to die from common causes - - riding fall or a derringer shot. And after Scarlett, his heart could beat its way through anything. But the pain of his disease of the bowels was worse than any of those. Longer, therefore worse. Finally, the meddling he suffered from folks forced him to retreat to a solitary place. All he needed was a listening ear, since the disease had silenced his voice to a whisper.

His hair and sideburns were thinner and grey, but he wasn’t bald or stooped like other old men of his height. He had thinned in the waist, so he cinched up the slack in his pants. It contrasted with his swollen red nose, that of a glutton, though he was no glutton for food. Yet, the gin he craved didn’t ruin him in the end and neither did the disease of the gut. His ruination was a woman who had pestered him for years, from near and from afar, which was plain to everyone including him. Now the writer, Ms. Mitchell, has rubbed his nose in it, by presenting his personal decline as if it was his final chapter.

He lived his last months in a four room cottage on Ninth Street in Atlanta, where rents were too high. Crape myrtles to the rooftop provided him a shady front porch. I found him there, the first time I visited, the day after he moved in, and six months before he died. The sun was high, but he was still sipping coffee and reading yesterday’s mail. I asked for cold tea, since I was already perspiring. Out in the glare, it had seemed more like July than September. Of course, I thought the cottage too cramped for him, since he had always seemed like a baron, bigger than any mansion - - a cosmopolitan, bigger than any town. Yet there he was, perfectly content. There was no place in the cottage for me, which I confess, was my first thought. I’d had my own apartment for years, but somehow I still thought of Papa’s place as home, and everyone who occupied it as family. The Chalet had been a world unto itself back when he and I were there, at the time I needed a home the most. I wished he was still there.

“Where have you been?” he croaked, before I had a chance to say “boo.” It was still his voice, but it lacked power, unless you listened well. The disease was coming from deep down. Somehow, conversation came easier than ever before, on that narrow porch in the shade.

“I wish you had a decent veranda on this cottage.”

“It’s all I want. Something different.”

I said, “My door’s open - - always - - if you need some relaxation.”

“Never relaxed on my sloop, and the Chalet was, well you know.“

“A beehive.”

“I never slept a wink in that house.” He looked me in the eye. “A chalet is not a plantation. We tried to make it one, with all the livestock, but it was just a chalet. She didn’t know anything else but plantations. We had chickens in the gutters! They’re probably still there.”

“Now you’re sleeping better?”

“No, but I know I will sleep. I’ll sleep fine, as soon as this

bout is over. It’s a long one . . . killing me . . . but it’ll pass.” He paused. “Here it’s calm - - he spread his hands - - the calm I’ve been wanting.”

I knew he couldn’t mount up anymore, but I just had to say, “There’s no stable here.”

He flipped his thumb. “The young pacer’s out back, ready for harness. How many mounts does one man need?”

“One’s plenty. A stable would cost you more, too. Your rent’s high enough, I’m sure.”

“Rent?” He sneered. “This is Tommy Wellburn‘s place. I’m keepin’ an eye on it for him.”

“Wellburn?”

“Leave him be. He hasn’t worn a hood in fifteen years. It was Tom, his daddy, who got him to ride with the clan, years ago. It’s for young fools - - losers and thugs with nothing better to do. Tom lived in this house till the end, last January. The pneumonia got him.”

I cringed. “I hope you aired the house out.”

“That was six months ago! Can’t you stomach the thought of death?”

I shrugged.

“You joke about it with your buddies, why with me?”

“Because it’s gonna be awful,” I said.

“Oh, for God’s sake, I know some good ones!” He pounded the arm of his rocker, reminding me of the roar he’d have made, ten years ago.

I changed the subject back to the cottage.

Later, I got quiet, and realized what a coward I had been. I said,” I guess I’m still shy of the subject of death.”

He nodded. “We’re city boys. We didn’t grow up around it like farmers who send their sows and heifers to the slaughter every day. Of course, the war changed that and got me used to it. This whole city died before my eyes.”

“I was a kid.”

“I was afraid of it when I was your age, and back when things were going my way. Not anymore. I know men who’d welcome it.” He paused to let it sink in.

I took my cue. “Who?”

“Ashley Wilkes and his kind. They’re living in the past. Like I told Scarlett, when she was fretting over Wilkes. ‘If he had died in battle, his troubles would’ve been over. He’d have been spared the humiliation of a loser. Survivors like Wilkes aren’t happy, the dead are happy, because their troubles are over.”’

“What kind of troubles?”

“Humiliation. The Yankees will rub salt in their wounds forever.”

“You’re not humiliated?” What a stupid question. I wanted it back as soon as I said it. We were all laid low, every Georgian, every Southerner, whether we actually marched into battle or not.

“Look at me!”

That’s when I realized he was dying. Until then, I had never seen him as he was - - aged. He hadn’t outlived his personal sorrows the way he outlived the war. The loss of Bonnie and his estrangement from Scarlett were worse - - too bad to outlive. He wanted to be done with them.

“You don’t have to be alone,’ I said, believing I could help. But fuss as I might, I didn’t help a bit. He didn’t even seem to hear me, his sorrow was so deep. Sadly, that was the last full conversation I had with him.

I’ve always wished he’d died happier, but he always kept me guessing. The older I get, however, the truer I find his insight to be, that the dead are happy. I see more clearly now, that he was speaking of himself as much as he was of Ashley Wilkes, when he repeated it to me for the last time. Nevertheless, I feel privileged to have had such an intimate conversation with him, the kind that only a father and son can share. Sometimes happiness isn’t the emotion I cherish the most.

* * *

He was in a coma the next time I saw him, and happier for it, I’m sure, since the foolishness that occurred during his last four days in this world would have enraged him.

There were some moments of consciousness, when he was aware of our presence and spoke to me or to Mildred. He seemed to be aware of his own frailty, as well.

The last time I heard his voice, he had awoke and had taken

some broth for the first time in days. When Doctor Meade had finished with him, I sat down and told him how long he’d been down and he nodded his head. Then he asked,

“Any word from Tara?”

“Not today.”

There was never any word from Scarlett until twenty-four hours before he died, when she appeared on his doorstep, unannounced.

Of course, she didn’t come alone to Rhett’s house, which would have been the decent thing to do. She needed a whole entourage alongside her, lest she should be ignored. It took a second carriage to seat her priest, her lawyer, and the lawyer’s wife who was also his secretary. The fourth was a woman called Betty, her maid, who busied herself fretting over Scarlett. At her age, Scarlett was most definitely ailing from time to time, due to the hardships and wounds she had suffered, lo those forty-two years. She could still wear her gay blouses with shoulders as narrow as a doe’s, but office work in the city and travel from there to Jonesboro had taken their toll on her figure. She filled every dress out like a hoop skirt, and the balance was gone from her feet. None of this was a surprise to me, since I’d spotted her around town, but her sudden arrival at Papa’s little cottage certainly startled Mildred and I. We’d given up trying to anticipate it by the time Papa’s pneumonia had already persisted ten days. In hindsight, their absence had ironically been a blessing, because their shuffling across the porch was enough to disturb an ailing patient.

She knocked on the door herself, and stood unaided on the doorstep, while the rest of them paraded behind her.

“Hello Aunt Scarlett,” I said and a surprising sense of relief came over me, despite myself. After all, Papa had asked for her and I wanted nothing more than to comfort him, however he himself wished.

“Dear Jacques,” she said, and inclined her cheek to be kissed. She looked quite somber in a charcoal suit and maroon hat and matching blouse. She made no effort to introduce her companions, which didn’t bother me at all. I had no interest in them, since none of them seemed capable of doing Papa any good. Her lawyer introduced himself and the others as friends of Scarlett’s, in a perfectly solicitous voice. He was dressed for a funeral, as were the rest. I didn’t yet suspect that he had written a new version of Papa’s will that would disinherit me. I was resting in the assurance that Papa had signed, sealed and delivered his will two years earlier, which he had. He was utterly reliable, for the simple purpose of putting folks’ minds at ease. All that remained for us heirs was to unseal it and read it.

This had eased my mind greatly, since Scarlett had been pulling the rug out from under me since I’d known her. I won’t harp on it here, since I’ve mentioned it previously in this account. As I’ve said, on this day when they arrived at Papa’s bedside, I had no reason to question their motives.

We all proceeded to sit and wait and hope that Papa would regain consciousness. Some sat on the porch, while Scarlett and others sat around the dining room table. When we started a hand of bridge, Scarlett declined to join.

I had wished to talk with Scarlett, and exchange sympathies as is proper for mourners. We might have reminisced of our years together, if only to pass the hours. Instead, she refused. I said, “How’s Ella?”

She mumbled that Ella’s engaged to be married, which Ella had been for about fifteen years, without plans for a wedding. However, when I mentioned that Papa always had a soft spot for Ella, Scarlett sniffled and dabbed her nose, as if the mere mention of Papa was too much for her to bear. Her maid rushed to her and actually shrouded Scarlett’s head in her shawl, as if Scarlett herself was sickly. Smothered was my gentlemanly attempt to engage Scarlett. Indeed I had appeared insensitive to her, by making her cry.

Needless to say, Scarlett found constant reasons to sniffle, in the midst of Papa’s ointments and salves and remedies. In fact, I never saw her eyes again that day, but only the top of her head and her wadded handkerchief. Not one audible word did she speak to anyone but her attendant. Was she simply too grief-stricken to speak? Maybe, but I doubt it, due to my past experiences with her.

For decades past, I had often gotten the cold shoulder from Scarlett, so I looked upon her silence and sniffles with skepticism. Cynicism may be a better word, since I felt little sympathy for her. She had taught me early on, to recognize her methods of bossing everyone around the Chalet, and the cold shoulder had been one of her shrewdest.

Papa was forced to scold her repeatedly for giving the cold shoulder to him too, which would come as no surprise to my readers, except possibly to readers who are personally unfamiliar with the misery of marital strife such as that depicted in GONE WITH THE WIND.

Her brashest, coldest use of this method was on the day when she purposely broke Papa’s heart. She broke it mercilessly too, only to turn around moments later and relent and make up to him for her harshness.

It occurred after Frank Kennedy died, when Scarlett became single again for the first time in four years. She had moved to Aunt Pittypat’s, her aunt by law from her first marriage. She was pretending to grieve over Frank’s death, but in reality she was pleased and relieved that the marriage had ended. She was glad to be free of the bonds of marriage to Frank.

Papa wasted no time finding where she was staying and appearing in person upon her doorstep. Scarlett asked him directly what news he had for her, and in reply, he didn’t hesitate. He honestly said he wanted her hand in marriage. It was a uniquely candid request by Papa, without the cleverness he had always employed to great effect. In proposing marriage to her, he abandoned all pretence. She dodged the question, and he said, “I’m asking you to marry me. Would you be convinced if I knelt down?”

“Scarlett’s response to him was shockingly cold. “I don’t love you,” she said. “I don’t ever want to get married again.” He persevered, and later managed to get her consent, in exchange for his money.

It was Scarlett’s history of muteness when Papa most needed her most, that I thought of when she did it to us, that night in his dining room. I know I should be more sympathetic, but I had seen Scarlett’s crocodile tears before. While weeping, she was actually working her scheme to rewrite Papa’s will. I’ll describe the scheme in due course.

Scarlett never called for Papa on the night, a decade earlier, when he had tried to revive their dying love for each. It followed a disastrous month, that began with Scarlett and Ashley being caught in the act of romantic embrace. In response, Papa made a heroic gesture of faith and loyalty to her. He unabashedly escorted her to a party at Ashley’s own home, then whisked her away in a flourish and made passionate love to her in the sanctity of their marriage bed. The pregnancy that followed was the quintessential sign to the world of marital well-being. Nevertheless, Scarlett ignored Papa and failed to call for him during her discomfort and miscarriage. In the process, she actually imagined him dead, along with the baby. They lost the baby as well as the love they’d been nursing along.

The family hoped Papa would come out of his coma, but for different reasons. I don’t question Scarlett’s interest in Papa’s welfare, but she and her lawyer had other plans as well. They were tactful enough to refrain from mentioning Papa’s will in the presence of us heirs. We spent long hours around Papa’s small dining table, playing euchre, drinking Papa’s liquor or sipping iced tea. But when he recovered for a few days, Scarlett demanded to see him, as if she had a right.

Of course, I knew her purpose because of the lawyer, but I had no power to thwart them. Mildred tried to prepare Papa for seeing her. “What’s she doing here?” Papa asked.

Mildred said Scarlett had heard Papa was dying.

Scarlett intruded at that moment, carrying a sheaf of papers, before Papa had a chance to plead for solitude. She had disguised her black mourning clothes with a gold silk scarf across her bodice and she had taken her hair down. I later learned what happened from Mildred, who doggedly remained at Papa’s side.

“I’m not dying, Scarlett, so go back to the Chalet.”

She began to boo hoo as soon as she laid eyes on Rhett. She said she was worried about him and fussed at him for not taking better care. She vowed not to leave his side.

Papa interrupted her to ask what she was carrying.

Scarlett said, “A will. Your old one’s no good, Mr. Dawdry said so.”

“I don’t need that, and neither do you. You’ve already got everything. The Chalet, the livestock, the valuables - - What else could you possibly take, the shirt off my back?” He snatched the papers from her.

“He’s a cracker-jack lawyer,” she said. “Here, let me -“

“No,” he grunted, as loud as he could. “You’re not shoving it down my throat.” He clutched the document while Mildred fetched his spectacles. The pristine paper was newly typed, without a mark or fold.

Rhett read aloud, “Scarlett O’Hara Butler is sole surviving heir.’ What about Jacques? He’s right outside, and he’s gonna survive you, Scarlett.”

“I’ll look after Jacques. I’ve always been generous.”

“Generous?” His voice was almost gone. “You’re trying to steal his share, just like you took all of mine!” He grabbed her neck and choked her. “Bitch!”

Her tiny fists seemed to be deadly, since his body suddenly went slack. The breath left him and he slid off the edge of the bed. Scarlett blocked his slide, and Mildred helped lift him onto the pillow. His eyes were closed.

“Rhett,” Scarlett gasped.

* * *

Of course, I assembled a memorial service at Peachtree Methodist, where he had once joined. He'd stopped attending after Bonnie died, so few of the Methodists attended. Scarlett, however, felt her Catholic family had been slighted, so she declined my invitation. Ashley Wilkes and his daughter were there, and he stood up and spoke a gracious word or two.
At graveside, I demurred to her. According to Papa's wishes, her priest offered only a benediction and a prayer. She was flanked by her lawyer and maid, so not even Wade could reach her. She vanished from sight, somewhere between the “Shall we pray” and the “amen.”

The End.