Deviant Damnation

By R.H. Peronneau

This period piece truly reflects the mores still existing as part of today's world, which hold greed and self, to be paramount within the singular mind. This, regardless of another and our endearments or obligations to others. You will find the characters, whom you will meet on a personal level, to be ever changing in their progression within this truly emotionally charged, memorable story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 30, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453541852

R.H. Peronneau

R. H. Peronneau, an army veteran, is presently living in his 'home town' of Brooklyn, New York; he received a degree from NYSU. This is his second novel. A third, whereby a murder is central to the plot, is well underway.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

If it be true that there are only two sides to any divide, then existence should be all the easier for the choice of but one or the other. Ah, but seldom are the trials of mortals so precisely defined as to be unfettered by some element of their counterpart, for nothing is ever truly half of a whole. Rather, both halves of any divide are often shaded, each harboring a sometimes hostile part in regards to its other half. Therein, acknowledged or not, the deviant in either divide lies dormant, an intrinsic part of the absolute, ready to fester and dominate even those most virtuous. This is true of all who are rational as a result of thought or unbridled instinct, be they puritan or heretic. For each has its divide and the fault therein, which can lift a beast to a sudden mauling and a man to a disposition so obdurate that he places himself on a course toward eventual damnation.

The foresaid being true, it can then be said that blessed are the few who behold their own perversions and do hold fast to their prudent ways. For amongst the living, too often wisdom’s way is disavowed by some narcissistic interlude in which one does become ensnared, leaving that person, when death’s knoll begins its ever-louder toll, to wonder, when in reverie of time that has gone by, How is it that this is what I came to be?

R.H. Peronneau

CHAPTER ONE

Jonathan James knew his theater of existence would be one in which he would have a need to persevere in spite of all existing disadvantages as to time and circumstance. This presumption could not be extricated from his every thought and proved to be a truth by his thirty-first year. In his thirty-one years, he had overcome many obstacles, the most devastating of which was the loss of his beloved wife, Emily, his companion of four years, who died of some still-unknown scourge that ravaged and tormented her form for three days. Though she was gone, their son, Gideon, remained to bring an unmeasured amount of joy to his father.

Unfortunately, Emily had no family member able to help care for and provide the young boy a home, and Jonathan’s family members, though willing, were all involved with their own lives. So, following his wife’s death, it became necessary for the young widower to give up his position of cook on the Clyde ship line to remain in Charleston as a day worker. Each night he came home to that which he considered his full worth, his son, Gideon, who was boarded during the day with neighbors. When she could, the boy’s aging grandmother, Henrietta James, whom almost everyone called Aunt Hennie, cared for the boy. She was an older, God-fearing woman who worked as housekeeper at Ondell, the home of the Cornell family, whose wealth and dominion extended past national borders.

When Gideon was just past his sixth year, Ephraim Cornell, the master of Ondell, allowed his aged housekeeper the favor of working only six days a week, whereby she was able to return home every evening. Thus, Jonathan took up his old job of pastry cook under the tutelage of his two uncles, who were chiefs with the Clyde Line.

At one time Henrietta’s home had been full. There had been a number of aunts and uncles for her seven children to admire and a load of cousins to grow up with. Now, with people moving from the South and going all over the place, few were left, and those few were established in homes an uncomfortable distance from her own, leaving her virtually alone except for Jonathan and Gideon. Of all those who were once so close, only Jonathan and Gideon now lived at the Mulligan Alley home, though Henrietta was grateful for having two other sons living close by. Most everyone else had moved west or gone north, that is, those that hadn’t died. Recently, she had begun to think of her own mortality and wondered what would become of Gideon. She hoped Jonathan wouldn’t have the need to place him with the lecherous Mrs. Mallart, that he would instead find some nice place to board the boy till he could take care of himself, and father and son would live together till Gideon married. She was sure Jonathan himself would never marry again, not after Emily. She knew that he had loved her so much and still thought about her to this day. Maybe if he didn’t have that Mallart woman to go to, he’d think on marriage, but she was there and welcoming, so he went, for all the wrong it was.

It was true: he did have the physical outlet of one Mrs. Mallart, the much older, overbearing proprietress of the local general store, above which she lived with her cowering, aged husband. Though she wanted to take care of Gideon, Jonathan believed he would be somewhat derelict in allowing her to do so, but he saw no other course should something happen to his mother. After all, he had to work in order to provide. The Clyde Line paid a decent wage, and he had come to benefit by way of his employ, which had begun as occasional kitchen work, only when needed and then not too often. Now, he had the specialty of pastry cook under his belt; being black, he dared not openly use the word chef just yet, though his mentors, his two uncles, employees of long standing, did now apply the title of chef as their listing with the Clyde. In time he knew he would be able to do the same, though by some means, he wanted more. Unlike his uncles, who had been slaves when young and so took comfort in their sense of achievement—as rightfully they should—Jonathan wanted to have his own establishment. He didn’t want a shipping line (fancy that—a black owning his own shipping line thirty-three years after emancipation, and in South Carolina yet!). No, his desires were set squarely on being the preeminent caterer to Charleston’s high society. A job of service was something a black could aspire to, as, for all its dignity; it was seen as non-threatening to whites, a near continuance of the unpaid servitude of the past.

When at work, Jonathan had come across an inept moment or two, usually as a result of some misplaced white who, attending an elite function and wanting to gain favor, chose to belittle the ever-convenient black. During such times, Jonathan, a man easy to anger, had kept a solemn, slightly hostile look about him, then turning his back, would walk away at the first opportunity. Wisely, the offender had always chosen not to continue his disparaging remarks, perhaps having been dissuaded from doing so by one of the many persons of position who had come to know Jonathan during their numerous trips aboard a Clyde steamer. How fortunate for all, including Jonathan, who, as did many a man, carried a side and had a temper as quick as its trigger.

Jonathan had made use of his three-year return aboard ship to come to some financial stability. Just a little more time was needed. Not for the learning of his craft, which he had mastered, thanks to his uncles, but for the saving of money to start an enterprise. He did have some monies ready for that purpose, money pinched from his pay and stowed away, along with money given him for some unexpected duty when aboard ship. He knew a few more coins could be put aside if he were to discontinue the occasional practice of buying, when he could, from Jacksonville to Boston, an acre or two of barren land for a dollar an acre. He called it an investment for the future and felt it was not draining as he only indulged in this practice at times when the tips were exceptionally good, which, sorrowfully, wasn’t often. Saving was slow and would be slower still now that his mother had recently learned that she would have to leave her place of longevity within the Cornell household, not by choice, but as a result of fading health. Even the shortened hours agreed upon some years ago could not be considered when she was told she had only two years to live.

So she had struck a bargain with the master of Ondell for her friend, Mrs. Florence La Fay, to replace her in the household where she had been so well treated. Florence had been reluctant to take on the position because her eldest daughter, Fiona, was about to come of age and needed to be watched. Knowing Florence did want the job, Mrs. James said, You take the job and bring Fiona to stay at my place till she’s ‘finished’ and knows how to take care of herself. She won’t be a bother. She can help me with all the white folks’ washing I’ll be takin’ on, and whatever. Meanwhile, you got yourself a job for life.

When told of the arrangement, Jonathan wasn’t that keen on the idea of the girl living in the house, or having her mother around on her off-time, which he was sure would be the case. Not that there wasn’t the space, because there was; in fact, there was room a-plenty. It was just that, though he was seldom home, he liked his privacy, and how was that to be had with a stranger about? Still, Jonathan knew she would be of great help for the while. After all, her stay was to be a short one. Then, no longer having to be watched, she would return to her home on the outer island of Edisto and again it would be a household of three—mother, son, and grandson. At that time, with Fiona gone and the matriarch less able, much would be left to young Gideon’s doing. Of course, the nine-year-old would comply, as such was his nature, but his grandmother’s condition was sure to become worse, and then what would they do? At that point, Jonathan’s strong box would not yet hold enough for his intended enterprise, and so it would become drained or stagnant from the doling out of monies for the boy’s care. Not being able to realize his ambition of proprietorship, he and Gideon would undoubtedly be regulated to a life of marginal existence in a world where he and his kind would be thought of as irrelevant. With this likelihood, and given that the boy had his father’s temperament and as of yet showed not the slightest sign of patience, the fear was that he’d not make his sixteenth year. The boy needed a strong figure on hand, such as his grandmother, which of course was not to be. Of course, Jonathan could leave the Clyde and stay here, on Mulligan Alley, with its narrow dirt street and plank ‘n’ stone sidewalk. All hoped-for possibilities would be gone, and they, father and son, would struggle simply to remain on the Alley, as their hair turned to gray and they each faded away, as would Mulligan Alley one day.

Horribly, the boarding of Gideon with the conniving Mrs. Mallart seemed to be the only progression to Jonathan’s desired end. The thought of nearly giving up his much-loved son was tempered only by the reasoning that they would be together at the Mulligan Alley home whenever he was in port. So it seemed as though things could be worked out, as long as he were able to keep his job with the Clyde; this, too, was a concern, as the growing use of the nation’s rail system was threatening the leisurely, somewhat genteel way of a coastal voyage. His hope was for at least another five or so years of work, time in which enough monies could be gathered to perhaps open a bakery shop. At that time, he would need no further help from the lecherous Mrs. Mallart, of whom he was becoming increasingly wary, though he could not seem to break free.

It was true that her gifted ability to satisfy his extraordinary carnal appetite did quell and calm him, though sometimes he felt quite uncomfortable in regards to their financial exchange and her almost zealous agreement to the boarding of Gideon. The entire matter, when coupled with his musing, seemed to be inexplicably perverse, tainted, though unwittingly so, by past tradition that was now and forever a major constituent to even his slightest deed.

Florence La Fay’s eldest daughter, Fiona, was a loving, slightly mischievous soul, as sweet as the best of chocolate, which she so dearly loved. Children, especially those who were as Fiona, poor and black, deserved a whole lot of chocolate along with an equal spooning of kindly spoken phrases, both of which were a needed food—nourishment so to speak—to be given for the most part by those with whom they lived.

Blessedly, Fiona did get the chocolate, though rarely so without the use of her wits, which she employed often. Her astuteness allowed her to be satiated knowing the much-desired chocolate would come to hand at will and again she would feel its exhilarating effect. She was certain of this, for her father was a great lover of chocolate, and through her cunning ways, Fiona had learned early on his hiding place. Being resourceful was a necessity to having most anything in a household of eight children, seven of whom were younger than her twelve years. It was quite a simple undertaking once Fiona knew where the chocolate was tenant. She would snap off a piece—not too big, mind you, for she didn’t require much—and leave the brick of chocolate seemingly untouched by hands other than its rightful owner.

It was the other component, the kind phrases that eluded all her paths’ end. Fiona was a compassionate child of genteel bearing, assigned by birth to an unaffectionate gathering of kinfolk, and though she was most often to be seen scurrying about within the house doing all kinds of general work as mandated by her mother and doing it well, praise of even the slightest sort was not forthcoming. In truth, her mother and grandmother were known to reprimand her far beyond need for even the slightest little thing. As it were, Fiona’s overbearing mother was now beside her, holding herself in that particular stiff-back, haughty way that was a peculiar characteristic of many a black come from a line that was free years before emancipation. That Fiona, her eldest, and at the onset of being able to bring forth, showed no signs of this particular posture, which was thought to be a desirable trait, set a worry to the bewildered woman, who couldn’t understand the self-contained ways of her prettiest child. Florence La Fay would never come to believe her constant reproaches to be, in part, cause for the quiet reserve of her beloved daughter, who longed to be warmed by perhaps a compassionate smile or some doting expression emanating from either her mother or old granny, the more formidable of the two. Not since her father had left a few months ago to work in the North had Fiona felt herself to be anything other than a useful servant to all members of her family. Not that her sisters and little Willie didn’t do chores of some kind or other about their Edisto Island farm; it just seemed to her as though she was doing so much so soon, with hardly a day’s rest, and this bothered her. The often-heard explanation of ’cause you’re the eldest did nothing to relieve the belief of being put upon. With no relief coming from her feeble complaints, she soon found it best to just do as she was told since she was going to be made to do whatever was directed in any case. Perhaps at the chore’s completion, there would be a little time for her to play with her siblings, or just to sit in the company of her greatest friend, which she, herself; was eating bits of the unusually large store of chocolate that had been abandoned when her father left for the thought-to-be paradise of New York. Always, as she nibbled, she conjured up fond thoughts of how things would be when all family members, immediate and extended, were there in the North, in New York. That, of course, would be something for the passing days to bring. At the present time, Fiona, sitting next to her mother, had the unpleasant jogging of the ill-driven horse-buggy and the probability of a disagreeable, five or so months in the city of Charleston to contend with.

Once across the bay and in the wharf area, Fiona and her mother were met by an Irishman at the reins of a small buggy sent by her mother’s new employer, Master Cornell of Ondell. Mother and daughter would have been made to ride forward of the open rig had there been sufficient room on the driver’s bench. However, since there was not, they rode in the carriage of the unpretentious buggy, whose plank seats were devoid of any cushioned comfort. Mama La Fay had instructed little Fiona to gather her skirt to her backside and sit on the bunched-up gathering for some protection to her bony derriere. Poor child! She had been so thin as to cause her kin folk to worry as to when she’d put some meat on those bones, which, thankfully, she was just beginning to do, a sure sign her time was near. The grandmother had cautioned Fiona’s mother that the child was sure to be a bleeder. The old woman, an active midwife, should know, having delivered dozens of scowling, bloody masses of flesh.

Lord, she always complained, newborns are some ugly things, more puffy and cranky than the eldest of men. Seems like they is born old, to get young, to become old.

The buggy was going through a particularly rugged area, causing the two, Mrs. La Fay and Fiona, to be bounced and jiggled as though the devil or the Lord had got a hold of them. It was like that sometimes, opposites delivering the same feelings. Like fear of the devil and fear of God, neither of which had much to do with this particular ride one way or the other. Mama La Fay, she blamed the Irisher. He could have avoided at least some of the ruts in the road. She knew he would have done so for his master. It was, she was sure, just because they were black. Thinking about the uppity foreigner sitting there in a padded seat, where in the days a colored man would be, made her angry. He could not have been in the country more than two snaps of your fingers. In her opinion, foreigners were just taking over everything, making it hard for the colored to keep much that had been gained after the war, regulating the former slaves to once again be under the barrel, so to speak, as everybody seemed to be coming here, challenging the Negro’s position as the greater source of the nation’s working class.

Annoyed as she