If anything, I thought, it had been wonderful. I had kissed a boy . . . full on the lips and for the first time! It hadn't been like it was in Mamma's romance novels. Niles hadn't put his arms around me and pulled me to him, sweeping me off my feet; but to me, it was just as exciting as those long, famous kisses the women in Mamma's books always had, their hair blowing in the wind or the shoulders bare so that the man's lips would find the way to them over their necks. The thought of his doing that both frightened
and excited me. Would I swoon? Would I grow limp in his arms and become helpless like the women in Mamma's novels?
I sprawled out on my bed to dream about it, to dream about Niles and me and . . .
Suddenly, I heard the sound of heavy footsteps in the hallway, but it wasn't Emily's and it wasn't Mamma's. It was Papa's heavy steps. The click of his boot heels on the wooden floor were unmistakable. I sat up quickly and held my breath, expecting him to go by to his bed
room, but he paused at my door and a moment later, opened it and stepped in, closing the door softly behind him.
Papa rarely came to my room. I thought I could count the times on my fingers when he had. Once, Mamma brought him in to show him where she wanted some work done on my closets, claiming they had to be expanded. Then when I'd had the measles, he came just inside the doorway to see me, but he hated being around sick children, and visited with Eugenia only a little more than he did with me. Whenever he did step into my room, I remember thinking how big he was and how small my things looked beside him. It was like Gulliver in Lilliput, I thought, recalling the story I had just recently read.
But Papa always seemed different to me in different rooms. He was most uncomfortable in the living room with all of its dainty furnishings and accoutrements. It was as if he thought his merely touching Mamma's expensive vases and figurines with his big hands and thick fingers would crumble them to dust. He looked very ill at ease on the silk settee or in the thin-framed, high-backed chair. He wanted his furniture thick, wide, firm and heavy, and he roared with displeasure every time Mamma complained about the way he plopped down in one of her expensive French Provencal chairs.
He never raised his voice in Eugenia's room. He moved about it reverently. I knew that he was just as afraid of touching Eugenia as he was of touching Mamma's precious things. But he was never one to show great affection. If he kissed Eugenia or me when we were little girls, it was always a quick peck on the cheek, his lips snapping on our skin. And then, as if it made him choke to do so, he always had to clear his throat. I never saw him kiss Emily. He behaved the same way toward Mamma, never holding her or kissing her, never embracing her in any loving way in our presence. She didn't seem to mind though, so Eugenia and I, whenever we discussed it, simply assumed that that was the way things should be between husband and wife, no matter what we read in books. However, I couldn't help but wonder if that was why Mamma loved her romance novels so much—it was the only place she found any romance.
At the dinner table, Papa always appeared the most aloof, bearing down on us during the religious readings and blessings like some high official of the church just visiting, and then becoming lost in his meal and his own thoughts unless something Mamma said snapped him out of them. His voice was usually deeper, harsher. Whenever he had to speak or answer a question, he usually did so quickly, giving me the feeling he wished he could take his dinners alone and not be distracted by his family.
In his office, he was always the Captain, sitting behind his desk or moving about with a military demeanor—his shoulders back and straight, his head high, his chest out. Under the portrait of his father dressed in his Confederate army uniform with his saber glinting in the sunlight, Papa sat booming orders to the servants and especially to Henry, who often entered only a few inches past the doorway and stood waiting, hat in hand. Everyone was afraid to disturb him when he was in his office. Even Mamma would moan, "Oh dear, oh dear, I have to go tell the Captain," as if she had to walk through fire or over a bed of coals. As a child I was terrified of going in the office when he was there. I wouldn't so much as cross in front of the doorway if I could avoid it.
And when he was gone and I could go in there to look at his books and things, it was as if I had entered some sacred room, that part of a church where precious religious icons were stored. I would tiptoe over the floor and pull out the books as softly and as quietly as I could, always gazing at the desk to be sure Papa hadn't suddenly materialized out of thin air. As I grew older, my confidence grew and I didn't look upon the office with as much trepidation, but I never stopped being afraid of crossing Papa and making him angry.
And so when he entered my room, his face brooding, his eyes dark, I felt my heart stop and then begin to pound. He straightened up, his hands behind his back and fixed his gaze on me for a long moment without speaking. His eyes seemed to sizzle as they blazed down at me. I twisted my fingers around each other and waited anxiously.
"Stand up," he suddenly commanded.
"What, Papa?" Panic seized me in a tight grip and for a moment I couldn't move.
"Stand up," he repeated. "I want to take a good look at you, a new look at you," he said, nodding. "Yes. Stand up."
I did so, straightening my skirt.
"Doesn't that teacher teach you about good posture?" he snapped. "Don't she make you walk around with a book on your head?"
"No, Papa."
"Humph," he said, and approached me. He gripped my shoulders between his strong fingers and thumb and pressed so hard, it hurt. "Pull your shoulders back, Lillian, or you'll end up walking and looking like Emily," he added, which surprised me. He never criticized her in my presence before. "Yes, that's better," he said. His eyes scanned me critically, his gaze centering on my budding bosom. He nodded.
"You have grown a few years' worth overnight," he remarked. "I've been so busy lately, I haven't had time to pay attention to what's going on right beneath my feet." He pulled himself into a straight position again. "Your Mamma's told you about the birds and the bees, I assume?"
"Birds and the bees, Papa?" I thought a moment and shook my head. He cleared his throat.
"Well, I don't mean the birds and the bees exactly, Lillian. That's just an expression. I mean about what goes on between a man and a woman. You're apparently a woman already; you should know something."
"She told me how babies are made," I said.
"Uh-huh. And that's it?"
"She told me about some women in her books and . . ."
"Oh, her damn books!" he cried. He pointed his thick right forefinger at me. "That will get you into trouble faster than anything else," he warned.
"What will, Papa?"
"Those stupid stories." He straightened up again. "Emily's come in to see me about your behavior," he said. "And no wonder, if you've been reading your mother's books."
"I didn't do anything bad, Papa. Honest, I . . ." He put up his hand.
"I want the truth and I want it fast. Did you come running out of the forest like Emily says?"