Victory Over Japan by Ellen Gilchrist Page A

Armand getting his own summer house now that he sold out of ours. Every single time I want to go Armand’s there. You might remember I’m your daughter. You might give that some thought…you might act like…” But Mrs. Sarpie had hung up. That was how the Sarpies ended their conversations with each other. Whoever got fed up, hung up.
    Lady Margaret put the phone down on its receiver and began to pace up and down the living room, feeling the grainy surface of the oriental rug beneath her feet. The rug was very old and wrinkled in the center. The texture of the rug came up through the soles of Lady Margaret’s feet, moved into her bloodstream, arrived at her tongue. Her mouth felt dry, grainy and dry. Some terrible memory of the desert assailed her. The desert, and captive women weaving in the sun, spitting out the threads, weaving and spitting, spitting and weaving.
    I could catch anything from this rug, she thought. God knows where this rug’s been.
    It was hot in the room. The air pressed against her arms. A ceiling fan turned slowly above her head. The air was thick and close, thick and tight. Lady Margaret could hardly breathe. She lay her fingers against her throat, searching for the pulse. She closed her eyes and imagined air-conditioning. Being poor wasn’t working out. Being poor and living in a shotgun apartment wasn’t working out. It was terrible. It wasn’t working out. Nothing was working out.
    I need some Homer, she decided. I’ll listen to Homer. Homer’ll fix me up. She took a Homer Davis album out of its cover and set it down on the turntable. She looked down at the cover, at the black face with the wild teeth and the terrible patch over one eye. The patch was black with a star in the center where the eye used to be. One night when she was drunk Lady Margaret had sat beside Homer on a piano bench at Tipitina’s. She had put a twenty-dollar bill into the tip jar and sat beside him while he played, her hip almost touching his hip. He had gone on playing as if she wasn’t even there. The song was called “Parchman Farm.” When it was over he lifted his hands from the keys and turned to her. He reached up and removed the patch from his eye. Lady Margaret had stared into the darkness of the scar. She could not stop looking. She could not pull her eyes away.
    â€œWhat you want to hear now, white lady?” Homer had said. “What you want Homer Davis to play for you?”
    The music started. The strange deadly voice filled the room. “Am I getting through to you…that’s what I want to know…am I getting through to you…that’s what I’m wondering about….” Lady Margaret moved through the house, swaying to the music. Through the dining room and into the bedroom where her cousin, Devoie Denery, was passed out on the bed, the pale blue sheets wrapped around her legs, her blond crotch wild and exposed, her breasts fallen against her arm. Devoie was an actress. Even in sleep she posed. What is she dreaming? Lady Margaret wondered. What outrageous performance is she watching on the screen of her mind? Devoie sighed and pursed out her lips, sinking further into the pillow. “Wake up,” Lady Margaret said. “It’s eleven o’clock in the morning. I promised Settle we’d go with him to the races. Don’t you remember, Devoie? You said you’d go.”
    â€œI thought we were going to Mandeville. You said you were getting the house.”
    â€œWe are going. After the races. Armand’s over there. Mother gave Armand the house. First she buys his half for God knows how much, then she lets him go over all the time. Well, we’ll just crowd in on top of him.”
    â€œWho’s he got with him?”
    â€œI don’t know. Someone to fuck, I imagine. He always has someone to fuck.”
    ***
    â€œOh, your love washes on me like moonlight on the Lacassine.” Homer was