Anne DeCuir, Chp. 2, Gen. 4, 1766

     It had only been a few days since Melatiah and Anne had lived at the lemon-drop house.  Only a few days since Abigail Beaumont had cooked for them and looked after Anne.  Abigail had often asked of life in Charleston, and Melatiah had described the unruly and inpatient colonists with whom he lived near.  The Stamp Act had brought great grief among the colonists, requiring taxes on stamps and other small goods to be payed to England from citizens in the colonies.  Melatiah could tell that something big was going to happen soon; the colonists began to come together in small meetings and express their anger with each other about the taxes.








     Once, Melatiah had even attended such a meeting.  He was swallowed up in the colonists' rage; yelling, crowding, and even schemes.  It was all one reason why Melatiah wanted to escape Charleston.  Like the slaves who were treated like dirt, Melatiah had desired to escape to the North once again.
  
     Abigail displayed quite an interest in the happenings.  Her catlike eyes widened with wonder, fear, and interest.  On the first night, she had let Melatiah sleep in the master bedroom, but he had insisted after that night that she have it back; however, Melatiah was drawn to the very room.


     One early morning, when Abigail was still sleeping, Melatiah peered in.  Tiptoeing quietly, he gazed at the dresser and sighed.

     The master bedroom was not as he had remembered it so long ago.  Where there had once been an infant's crib, there was now a wooden carved dresser, filled with useless trinkets (at least to a man).  Sweet fragrances, bottles filled with disgusting liquid, day old tea, an oil lamp, an old candle.  Melatiah knew that Aphrodisia had used a fragrance.  His throat tightened.

     Melatiah felt out of place.  He had no need for these feminine sentiments; these useless bottles of perfume, the bottles that beckoned him closer only to leave a stench in his nose that made him sick.  Tea that left a dull taste in his mouth.  Candles that would not light a room.  He needed something else.

     He needed possibility; not doubt.  He needed a burst of color; not a thin line of blandness.  Though these thoughts were like seeds that could not find a patch of rich ground in his mind, he vaguely realized they were there.  Aphrodisia had shown him possibility.  Without her he was living in a stenciled-in world; a world he was struggling to out.  

     He needed a world where there was no limit...

     Dear cousin stirred beneath the covers.  She inhaled deeply and pushed the blankets away from her body, sitting up in bed.

     "Uh, Melatiah?"  Abigail was surprised.  "Cousin, what are you doing in here?"
     Melatiah furrowed his brow.  "I'm sorry, Abigail.  I'm really not sure why I entered.  I just... I just... I just needed to think."
     "Oh."  The look on her face said she did not comprehend.  "Well, in that case, good luck thinking.  I'll leave you to your thoughts."  Abigail started to leave the room.
     "Wait.  You trust me in your room alone?"
     "Should I not?"
     The question baffled him so much that he was left speechless for a moment.
     "Melatiah, I am not clueless.  I have no valuables here.  Nothing you would want."  With that, she left the room, leaving her cousin to his muddled thoughts.


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     "Good afternoon, dear," Abigail said later that day. 

     For the first time in the days that Anne had arrived in Detroit, she smiled.  But she did not speak.  

     Melatiah was concerned.  Anne had not spoken a word since they had arrived.  She had not even smiled (until now), and she rarely looked at her father in the eyes.  Abigail wanted to help the child.  Comfort her.  Coax her into talking again.  Melatiah would start to get upset if Anne did not continue talking again.

     "Anne, my sweet, would you like a ginger cookie for dessert after dinner?" Abigail offered hopefully.
     Smiling, Anne nodded.  She even laughed. 
     Abigail would not give up.  She had to get Anne to talk again.  Why was Anne staying silent?

    "Well, that's good that you want one, but you must ask for it politely.  Can you ask for it?"
     Anne stopped smiling.  She pursed her tiny lips and looked off into the distance.  It seemed to Abigail that Anne was trying to decide something.

     Anne looked back at Abigail and stared at her aunt doubtfully.

     "If you ask nicely, I'll even give you a spoonful of molasses!"  Abigail pleaded, clasping her hands together with hope.

     Anne pouted.  But slowly, the pout dissipated.  Anne opened her mouth slowly, and Abigail could see her forming the words silently.  The child began to relax and Abigail swore she could see a hint of a smile on the young girl's face.  Anne was about to speak when Melatiah charged down the steps.  
     "Anne talking yet?" He asked eagerly.

      Anne was startled.  Abigail watched her niece's face tighten with fear; the blueberry eyes filled with tears as Melatiah drew closer.  Anne started to cry and whimper.  Abigail stood up, turned on an oil lamp, as it was getting dark, and turned to her cousin.

     "What are you doing, Abigail?  I thought you were trying to get her to talk?  I come down here and my daughter's in tears!"  Melatiah yelled.
     "Cousin, I was.  She almost spoke to me, but then you came down here and she started crying."

     Melatiah was enraged.  "What's that supposed to mean?"
     "You tell me.  Why does your daughter shut down to everyone when you come in the room?"  Abigail shot back.  "Why is fear marked all over her face when she sees you?"

     "I do not know, Abigail.  You are spending so much time with her, maybe you're the one who is influencing her about untruthful things!"
     "Excuse me?  I'm spending time with her because you aren't!  Instead, you walk around in MY room while I'm SLEEPING, and you claim to be THINKING!  Why aren't you with your  daughter?  Melatiah, she's scared.  She's terrified.  I suggest that you do something.  Something that does not involve yelling!"  Abigail stalked away.

     Anne sat in a damp puddle of urine, shaking.  Melatiah did not want to admit it, but much of what Abigail had said was true.  He had not been there for Anne.  He was scaring her.  Maybe he was the cause of her silence.

     As he stepped up to pick up his daughter, he saw pieces of Aphrodisia in her face and features.

      "Anne, it's okay.  I'm sorry.  Can you speak to me?"  Melatiah whispered.
     Anne could not.  She wanted to say something.  She wanted to make him happy.  But she could not bring herself to bring words out of her mouth.  She was still scared of him.  She did not trust him.  She decided right then that she would never speak to anyone again.

     Anne had almost broken the silence that gripped her in fear.  She almost spoke to Abigail.  But now, Anne promised herself to stay silent forever, no matter how much her father loved her.  Silence seemed safe to Anne.  Noise was dangerous.


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*The Antique Legacy*

Anne DeCuir

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Anne DeCuir, Gen. 4, Chp. 1, 1766

     The bumpy ride seemed never-ending, especially to a child.  A child who desperately needed to relieve her uncomfortably full bladder.  A child who was afraid to ask if the carriage could stop, just for a minute.  She tried to ignore the urge to wet herself, though it was getting especially difficult.  Her big blue eyes filled with worry and she pouted, staring at her father.

     Her father took no notice, did not even hear his three-year-old daughter whimpering, did not even see the pool of urine surrounding her.  He did not even see the wet stains on the child's dress.  He had too many other things on his mind.

    

     The horses trotted ahead, and the child's heart was gripped with the fear of a three-year-old who was afraid to tell her father something.  The father sighed, and the child held her breath.  Nothing.

     "Papa?" The child asked, in a high-pitched chord.  The father did not stir.

     "Papa? I wet myself."  She could see her father's jaws clench together tightly.

     "Anne, what did I say about this last time? TELL me when you need to go!  I will stop the carriage if you tell me.  Now you're going to have to sit in that wet dress until we arrive." Melatiah scolded, not even trying to hid the anger from his voice.
     Anne's eyes filled with silent tears.  She did not believe her father.  He would have gotten angry if she had told him she needed to go.  He did that one time, and Anne had decided never to say it again.  Now, Anne decided to remain silent for the rest of the day.  Maybe even for a few days.

     They were getting near, and Anne was excited to get out of the carriage.  The trip had taken two months and Anne did not dare ask her father how close they were.  He might become angry again.
     Melatiah was anxious to arrive too.  He was beginning to regret not remarrying -- but not because he wanted another lover.  Only because he did not know how to raise his young daughter.  He had a feeling that he was doing a terrible job, but every time he laid his eyes upon his daughter's face, it hurt.  Anne had Aphrodisia's nose.  He felt that pain in his heart every time he saw that nose.  It was a terrible, terrible thing to feel, and what was worse was that Anne would never be able to understand it, especially not at such a young age.  Melatiah often tried to avoid looking at his daughter.  Tried to avoid talking to her, playing with her.  

     He knew that he needed to push past these emotions -- for the sake of his daughter, but at the moment, he was just not strong enough.

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     At the moment of the arrival, Melatiah nearly leaped out of the carriage.  Anne's worry-filled blueberry eyes watched her father as he grabbed their belongings out of the carriage.  Eyes filling with tears, the child looked at the ground, which was a long way down for a tiny girl. 
     Melatiah was about to walk up the path of the house without her, but when he heard her whimpering, he turned around.  Picking her up in his arms, Melatiah tried to avoid touching the damp dress.
     Once they were at the front door, the father dropped the suitcases of belongings and tried to open the door with one hand, Anne being held in the other.
     The door would not budge.
     "Hold on, Anne.  We've got to break it down."  He kicked it with a bang.  No success.  A second kick and the door gave way to the house and a screaming woman inside.

     Screaming and shrieking, the woman asked, "What in the name of our earth are you doing?  Is it money you are after?"

     Melatiah, shocked, gasped.  "No!  Of course not!  I am moving in here.  This house used to be my mother's, and before her, it was my grandmother's.  What are you doing here?  Are you readying it for me?  Why was the door locked?"
     The woman glared with such rage that Melatiah was worried that she would scream again.  "I LIVE HERE!  How dare you?  This is my home!  My grandmother lived here, then my mother did.  And now I do.  Whoever you are--"  The woman stopped.  "You -- you said your grandmother lived here?  And your mother?  Who -- who are you?"
     "My name is Melatiah DeCuir.  I'm Emilie DeCuir's son.  Who are you?"
     The woman looked at him with awe.  "I'm Abigail Beaumont... My mother was Hettie Beaumont.  You are my cousin."
     The two cousins stood there staring at each other in silence.  
     "Well, uh," Melatiah faltered, "I had no knowledge that you lived here.  We've come from Charles Town, South Carolina... Now we've got no place to stay."

     Anne squirmed slightly, and Melatiah winced when he felt the wet portion of the dress.
     Abigail looked at her feet.  "Well, it's just me living here; feel free to stay for awhile.  At least until you can find a new home..."
     Gratefully, Melatiah nodded, trying to hide his eagerness.  "That would be splendid.  How can I ever thank you?"  
     Abigail gave her cousin a tiny smile.  "There's no need.  Who's this?" She said, smiling at Anne.
     Anne stared at Abigail, not saying a word.  The silence stretched on.
     "Uh, this is my daughter, Anne.  I apologize for her rudeness...  Someone had a little accident in the carriage."  Melatiah grimaced.
     Abigail laughed.  "Oh, not to worry, Anne!  I would be more than happy to give your dress a nice cleaning!"


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     Anne felt an immediate liking to Abigail.  Abigail seemed like someone who could fix every single problem.  Abigail had gotten rid of the stinky, wet dress and had turned it into a fresh dry dress.  Anne couldn't be more thankful.


     Night had come.  Shadows filled every corner of the house.  Anne felt the shadows sneaking up around her and felt frozen with fear.  Where was the light to scare the shadows away?  The house was cold and unfamiliar in the dark.  Anne wanted to cry.
     She wanted to cry for Papa, to yell out.  But she could not.  She could not say a word.  Her voice was frozen, as cold as an icicle.  Sniffling, the three-year-old pushed back the bedspread and placed a single foot on the cold wood floor.

     She slid to the floor, biting each teeny fingernail, not trusting what she could not see in the dark.

     The child sat in the dark, wanting to move, but being unable to.  Wanting to speak, but being left speechless.  Needing Papa -- being desperate for Papa, but being afraid of him at the same time.  Afraid to see his angry face.  Afraid to be the cause of his anger.  Afraid to be yelled at.  Afraid to be unloved.
     Anne wanted her father to laugh and smile and hug her tightly.  She wanted her father to sing her to sleep.  She wanted her father to tuck her in and tell her not to be afraid of the dark.  She wanted her father to be happy.
     But there in the dark, Anne felt alone.  A small child sitting on the floor.  A small, lonely child, just wanting her Papa.  Or just wanting someone to care.

     Like magic, Anne found a surge of strength to move.  She stood up and wobbled over to the room her father was sleeping in.  Anne could not open the door.  It was closed and Anne was too small and the door was too tall and it was too hard and Anne was not strong enough.  Anne returned to the spot she had started from and plopped down to the ground.

    
     Bursting into tears, the child screamed and wailed, as loud as she possible could.  No one heard her.  She cried herself to sleep.


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     Abigail awoke at dawn.  She entered Anne's room and was surprised to find the child on the floor.
     "Anne, dear?" 

     But the child did not stir.  The child looked peaceful, but Abigail did not believe this appearance. 
     "What are you doing out of bed?  It's cold on the floor," Abigail whispered, not intending Anne to hear.  Abigail walked over to the girl and looked down upon her.

     As if out of nowhere, Melatiah came up behind her.
     "I'm so sorry about Anne.  I'm not sure what has come over her."
     "Oh, don't apologize for her.  She is fine.  I've always wanted a child but never did meet anyone I liked well enough."

     "You're very lucky to have such a beautiful young girl, Melatiah.  You don't know how lucky you are."
     Melatiah frowned.  "I'm not lucky.  Her mother died the day she was born.  Every time I look at my daughter I wince.  Every time she touches my arm or tries to hug me, I nearly pull back.  She has many features of my wife, and I cannot bear it."
     "That is very sad, cousin.  I am grateful for whatever I receive.  I hope you can still give your child love.  She deserves to be loved.  If you will not do it, I will."
     Yet another silence separated the three.

     "Uh, cousin," asked Abigail, embarrassed, "would you mind fixing the lock on the door?  You see, when you, uh, entered, it broke completely, and I do not know a thing about locks."

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*The Antique Legacy*

Anne DeCuir