Amethyst Quarters: Chapter Two

As I approached the end of the staircase, I found my mother and father waiting impatiently at the forefront. I stopped myself on the third-to-last step, unable to move any further without making physical contact with them.

The story of their initial introduction to one another is one of little depth. My father, Alessandro Loiacono, had parents who were originally from Sicily, Italy. His mother and father moved to Louisiana directly after they married. My father and all of his siblings were then born and raised in America on their sugarcane plantation.  

My mother, Cosette Loiacono, was English on her father’s side and French on her mother’s. She lived in Paris for the first 15 years of her life and had substantial amounts of money while living there. Her family fell on hard times, so they moved to Louisiana to live with some of her mother’s relatives. My mother always yearned to have money once again; to be treated like royalty once again. She was always spending time in the city and dreamed of having a life there. She wished to be the most respected and upper-class woman in all of New Orleans. She longed to be envied by all women and loved by all men.

One day, while my father, Alessandro, and my mother, Cosette, were both in the city, their path’s crossed. She was 16 and he was 22. My father could give her all the things she desired and she was someone he could show off and dominate. So they married a year later.  

I observed my father. Being Sicilian, his skin was dark, he was rather tall, and his stature was large. His head and jaw were square and strong. His thick hair curled ever so slightly and was black as night. His eyes were round, sunken, heavy lidded, and colored like tree bark. His crooked nose consumed a large portion of his face and offsetting it were his small, thin lips. With bushy eyebrows, and deep wrinkles that creased along his forehead. His expression usually consisted of an intimidating smirk.

I then looked over at the beautiful creature that was my mother. She stood at an extremely petite height and was graced with an amazingly small frame. Her waist was one of the slimmest I had seen, and her figure was delicate and ladylike. Her skin was the color of cream and her hair varied between shades of honey and sand-like colors. Her head, small and ovular, with a charming and elegant chin. Her eyes were almond shaped, piercing, and blue as the sky. They were so light in color, it sometimes seemed as if you could see right through them. Her eyebrows were the color of her skin and very sparse. Her nose was dainty, round and possessed a few small freckles. Her lips were plump and pink and down-turned regularly.

My mother bore a hole trough me as she looked me up and down, “Well, what are you doing staring at us? We need to leave for church. Now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied. I tried to proceed to the next step so we would be on our way, but she raised her hand, showing that she wanted me to stay in my place.

"Wait. Why is your hair down?” Her voice was high and severe. Her French accent was still crisp and potent. She gave me little time to respond before she interrupted my thought process. “Well, Scarlett, why?” she snapped.

"Because I prefer it this way. You know that, Mama.” I had told her this time and time again, but she consistently ignored my wishes. I was so flustered that I added, “I like it down,” unable to say anything else.

"Well...I don’t,” she clicked her handbag closed as she remarked on my appearance. Although she was short and three steps beneath me, I felt as if she gradually began towering over me with every word she said. I wanted to make her stop, but there was nothing I could say.

She turned her back to me and made her way towards exiting the house. Without even facing my direction, she said quietly and sweetly, “Go have Betsy put your hair up so that it is presentable.”

"Yes, ma’am,” I replied and readied myself to go back into my room.

She stopped dead in her tracks and turned around in a brisk motion. It was almost as if I could hear her dress make a swoosh noise.

"And take that red lipstick off,” she recited it so slowly that it felt as if every word was on the tip of a knife, and they were individually stabbing me in the stomach. “For God’s sake, you look like a lady of the night. Do you really think I would be seen with you like that…anywhere? Most certainly not church.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.

My father grabbed my mother’s forearm and said, “Cosette, you are becoming hysterical. Now stop all of this nonsense. We need to go.” I knew he agreed with her, but he was growing more antsy and felt the need to scold someone.

"Of course, Alessandro,” she bowed her head in shame. She always did what my father told her to do.

He then turned to me and said with a loud boom, “We will be leaving without you. You’ve made us late enough as it is.” He then thrust my mother’s arm out of his hand. I could see on her pale skin a reddish imprint where his fingers and palm had been.

They headed through the door and as he slammed it shut, he shouted with all his might, “And don’t expect us to save a seat for you!”

I ran as quickly as I could to my bedroom, trying to avoid treading on my gown. My eyes started to blink rapidly, holding back tears. But as soon as Betsy entered the room, I couldn’t control myself.

“Honey, what’s goin’ on? I heard so much shoutin’ and doors-,” she saw my dampened face and silenced herself mid-sentence.

“She wants my hair up. I don’t want it up, Betsy. I like it down! Why won’t she let me wear it the way I like it?” I knew there was no way for her to answer that question, but I couldn’t help myself. I was acting like a small child who got their most beloved toy taken away from them. I wiped my tears furiously, pushing down on my face so hard that marks started encroaching across my cheeks. Betsy embraced me and the tears diminished.

I let out one last time, “I don’t want it up,” as Betsy made a comforting shh sound and sat me in front of my vanity.

“I know you don’, baby. But it’s gotta be the way your mama wants it. You look pretty no matter what way your hair is,” she reassured me. I took a deep breath, and gave her a look to signify that I was okay. She then rummaged through my drawers and began manipulating my hair into the desired fashion.

My hair really was beautiful, and that’s why I loved it cascading down my body like a waterfall topples over a cliff. I felt somewhat pretty when my hair distracted from the rest of me.

We both let our mind’s wander in the sweet silence. I gazed at myself in the mirror, confused how my mother birthed a child that bore none of the breathtaking qualities she acquired. My face was round, with high cheek bones. My hair was black, wavy, thick and fell to my waist. My nose was round, neither large nor small. My eyes were almond shaped like my mother’s, but brown like my father’s. They were definitely brown, but when the light caught them, they would flicker with a hint of gold. My eyelashes resembled my hair and my eyebrows were feminine, black and came to a pointed arch. My lips were round and slightly plump, but not nearly as pink as my mother’s. My skin was colored as if both of my parent’s skin had been mixed together.

I was astonishingly tall, like my father, and it displeased me ever so much. I just wanted to be built like all the other girls, but that was something that was not under my control.

So many times I stood in front of that mirror and saw nothing but disappointment. Scarlett Cosette Loiacono, nothing but a mess.

Betsy’s voice came abruptly, which broke the silence and caused me to shake as I took my eyes off of their fixed point. “All done,” she declared. She smiled at me in the reflection. I returned the smile and then spotted my lips. I remembered that I was told to take off my lipstick. I focused my vision on Betsy’s marvelous eyes, “I need to go get a wet towel for my mouth,” I told her.  

“I’ll get it,” she replied. She patted me on the shoulder as she hurried off. Normally I would have objected, but I was so distressed that I did not want to move unless I had to. She came back and handed me her findings. I gently pressed the cold rag to my face. It was a shame such beautiful lipstick had to go to waste. It brought out the magnificent artistry of my red and black lace dress I was wearing. There was so much detail in every little stitch. It fit me perfectly, which was hard to find, and made me feel confident whenever I encased myself with it. Red was by far my favorite color and it made me joyful whenever I wore it. I was so lucky to own such a splendid garment and even luckier that my next piece of clothing would be made by the same dressmaker.

I understood that not all people had as much money as my family was so fortunate to obtain. But I knew that if I were to ever live a simpler life, I wouldn’t complain. I never took what I had for granted and I always tried to help ones in need as much as I could.

Once my face was clear of all things unacceptable to my mother, I pivoted my head towards Betsy and said genuinely and wholeheartedly, “Thank you, Betsy.”

“My pleasure. Are you gonna be okay, Scarlett?” she asked. I could tell from her tone that she was worried.

“Let’s hope so,” I smiled. I pointed my thumb behind me towards the door, and began to back away. She nodded her head and grinned as I left.

I was currently on the third floor, with all the bedrooms. I ran down the first flight of stairs to the second story of the building which had the parlor, kitchen and such. I then made my way down the second set of steps which led to my father’s pharmacy. As I advanced to the end of the staircase, I found Henry manning his station behind the counter in the shop. He picked up a broom and began sweeping with his back facing my direction. I made a loud thud as I hit the level floor. It was impossible to not notice the big red and black mass frantically racing to the door.

“Hello, Miss Scarlett,” he greeted me cheerily.

“Hello, Henry. How are you? I honestly have no time to chat. I’m dreadfully late. Have a good day,” I spewed out in a sea of chaotic, unintelligible blabber. By the time I had finished the last sentence, I was outside and positive he hadn’t heard or understood most of it.

I ran down the streets of Jackson Square and finally reached the church. Trying not to lose my balance, my right hand reached out in front of me, on the verge of opening one of the building’s grand, wooden doors. I dropped my arm, realizing that I looked like a monstrosity. As I peered around me at the empty streets of the French Quarter, my breathing became louder and more rapid. I rested my hands on my thighs to catch my breath, then I wiped a drip of sweat off of my forehead. I forced my body to go upright, convincing myself that everything was going to be fine.

I smelled the humid air of New Orleans and heard the clip-clop of a horses hooves against pavement in the distance. I craned my neck in hopes of seeing the top of the chapel. With no luck, I then took three paces backward. The sun shot rays of light into my eyes as I found myself looking at the cross on the highest peak. I took in the beauty of the amazing structure. It was truly gorgeous.

St. Louis Cathedral, what a majestic sight to behold.