All I Wanted (or a Tribute to Kate Chopin’s The Storm)

"storm clouds" by Jo Naylor

by Elisa Rosario  

This wasn’t supposed to happen. 

We had all these rules. We made promises that were supposed to be permanent as the ink they were written in. But one thing that I never promised was that I would fall in love. With my husband’s best friend of all people!  

The root of these troubles can be traced to the first week of summer. Bibi just got out of school, and Bobinôt disappeared to the emporium. Like every other morning, I made breakfast, kissed my husband goodbye and then off with the chores. I beat the rug until dust flew away and pinned our soaked garments onto the clothesline after a thorough washing. Fortunately, I wasn’t alone. My cousin Sylvie, who lives on the other side, often visits and assists me in domestic duties or watches Bibi while I’m otherwise occupied. She was reading to him in the parlor when I came back from tending to the chickens. He looked so jubilant as he sat listening that I joined him. 

Suddenly, I remembered something. In an instant, I asked Sylvie if she could stay put while I ran to the general store to gather a few things for Bobinôt’s soiree with his business partners. As always, Sylvie obliged, though not without reminding me that I ought to hire a maid. I quipped back good-naturedly that I can do the work of a thousand maids with my hands tied. 

Heat simmered off the ground as I finally reached Main Street, thick as a cloud of mist. By then, I was a huffing, squinting, damp mess. Even the grass itself sweltered, or maybe it’s leftover residue from yesterday’s thunderstorm. Lord knows we’ve been getting more of those lately. 

I’d been sidetracked by the dress shop’s window display when I bumped into somebody. In an apologetic fret, I looked up, and I’ll be damned if it wasn’t Josephine Lainer! 

She’s my bon ami since we were schoolgirls. She was a brazen spirit next to my shrinking violet, with raven black hair and deep, dark eyes that hypnotize any man who bores into them. No one was shocked when at just seventeen, against her mother’s wishes, she fled to New York after graduation instead of looking for an eligible suitor. Her letters are filled with adventures of studying under prestigious writers, mingling at parties, living with traveling artists–even posing nude for one of them! 

Last time I heard, she mentioned moving into her uncle and aunt’s plantation and taking a secretary job, which, according to Josephine, she dropped quite recently. Now, she’s a columnist for New Orleans’ local newspaper. 

She didn’t mind me continuing my errands as she talked. She relished in being on the scene with her own voice, no pen name required, and, to her delight, she wasn’t the only colored woman in the office. Though Josephine added that the society people she covered judged everyone, whether they moved or even breathed wrong. She never received such treatment over at Oneida. 

“Who’re they?” I asked. 

This was how I learned that she spent her late teens in a group located in Oneida, a hamlet in New York, where members shared far more than clothing and food. Each other’s bodies, to be exact. 

“You’ve been intimate?” 

She nodded. “Does it bother you?” I blinked twice. “No.” 

Josephine proceeded to reassure me there was no sin if you’re all bonded together in a divine connection. “Of course,” she added with a slight smirk, “Our Holy Father might not appreciate the knowledge of how many positions I’ve–” 

“I think I understand the big picture now,” I cut her off, unwilling to visualize such a scenario. 

She chuckled before turning to me with a sobering look. “No, but seriously, that community provided me with so much. For once, nobody dismissed me, nor made suggestions on conduct and propriety. I had free will to choose, to choose only for myself, and to choose the one I love without hesitation. Don’t you miss that feeling?” 

“I wish I did,” I murmured, twisting my wedding ring. 

***** 

I won’t tell you what it took for Bobinôt to agree to this arrangement. Just be happy he didn’t ship me off to a convent. 

The first “Free Love” party was at a townhouse in the French Quarter. Josephine had written down the address on a napkin and slipped it into my purse with careful discretion. Bobinôt and I got up early enough to enlist Sylvie to stay at our place overnight to keep Bibi company, and we caught the afternoon train to New Orleans right when it was about to depart. We spent what little time we had strolling the vibrant streets and listening to ragtime musicians play on the balcony. At least I hadn’t lied to Sylvie when I said we were going to see a concerto. 

As soon as the sun rested, we found the house. It stood tall in rust-colored stucco with iron fences and Spanish roof tiles. The second floor had light blue curtains so thin you could make out human-like shadows flitting about. We went up the stairs to an empty hallway. A woman, Antonia, who Josephine mentioned as being an old acquaintance of hers, answered the door in nothing but a long chemise, and I thought we came at an inappropriate moment before she pulled us in. Turns out, all of the guests were in various states of dress and lack thereof. Blush rose to my already rouged cheeks as I witnessed a couple on the couch in a deep kiss with, along with other images that I can’t illustrate in this letter. Bobinôt and I nodded at one another and split up to proceed with our exploration. As I moved slowly through the crowd, one figure stuck out clear as day: Alcée Laballiére. 

I spotted him across the drawing room. A strange, warm sensation tugged at my heart, and suddenly, I was transported back to my wedding day. Sitting at the dinner table, riddled with nervous excitement, trying to make an impression on the in-laws when Alcée arrived with Bobinôt by his side. Like any good groomsman, he entertained everyone with his wit and charm, even got the perpetually disgruntled belle-mère to crack a smile. As for me, I was beaming as if he were the sun clearing all the dark, dreary clouds. That very same thought reappeared as I watched him engage in lively discussion with some frisky lady whose laughter was a little too frequent. You’ll be scandalized that I made the first move! I marched right over and politely asked for his attention. Just keep in mind, Bobinôt was preoccupied. He didn’t even know Alcée was there until I revealed it to him the day after. 

Alcée and I were inseparable. If any other potential partners were available, I hardly saw them. Everything felt natural. In one swift movement, his hand brushed against my back with the softness of a dove’s feather, before gradually sliding across my waist. I couldn’t help but melt into him, my restraint fluttering out like a candle wick flooded with wax. 

We dove into an empty room. He backed me against a wall and our lips crashed, his hands grasping my face with such firm tenderness. Then, they made their long descent toward….well, you know, until I shoved him off. His eyes shone with concern, and blackened as I immediately turned around. The gown was comfortable, and consisted of straps that fell to my shoulders, sans bustle pad. Pale pink, silky, with a gorgeous leaf pattern that spilled all over the floor as I slowly moved out of it. That’s when he began to unlace my corset too, peeling back a bit to kiss the skin above. 

So much unraveled that night, and if I must be frank, I screamed louder than I had during my marital consummation. Twice, believe it or not! 

Thank goodness for that womb veil! I know it mustn't have been easy to procure without detection, but I’m grateful that you did. I felt guilty because I obscured the actual purpose behind using it. 

If you believe Alcèe and I lost contact afterwards, you’d be sorely mistaken. 

***** 

We met only on Saturdays. With no other commitments scheduled, Bobinôt and I were free to meet our respective partners at the best locations. Usually inns on the town outskirts, Antonia’s residence or, in my case, Alcèe’s cabin for his work travels. Being a merchant does take you everywhere, you know. 

I longed for those days. Every time we made love, there was release. I would be less tense and frustrated. I stopped worrying over the tiniest thing. I even displayed less affection with Bobinôt. It was almost as if the string that tethered my being to him withered into dust. But his love never waned, and God bless him for being so wrapped up in his engagements to hardly notice any disturbance. Peace may have been restored, but that didn’t mean the loneliness went away. 

During those days of dreadful solitude, I would retreat to the backyard for fresh air with Bibi tagging along. We would play hide and seek or feed the chickens at their little shack. I made it a tradition to carry a basket of sandwiches with us, and we sat by the river as we ate. In an act of indulgence, I returned to sketching with the scenery as my muse. I filled in as many pages as I could, and added watercolor to every blank space. The only witnesses to my drawings are Sylvie and Bibi. I’ve never had the courage to show them to anybody else. 

In a private sense, I fantasized Alcèe being present. He’d lie down and gather me in his arms, gently smoothing down the hairs of my temple like he always does after a rather intense session, lulling me to a calm stupor. In some of these dreams, he plays with little Bibi. Alas, the source of my guilt! 

Of course, Alcèe has children of his own, so what right do I have to project him onto my son whilst his father is available and devoted? 

I tried adamantly to erase him from my mind, hoping this sudden adoration dies with lust sated yet, I was powerless. I can’t explain it well but …. he leaves impressions that burrow into your heart, and you feel them deeply whenever you ache. Even when you try to ignore him. Even when he drives you mad. But no other person is relentless enough to understand me better than Alcèe. That man will cling to every word you say, including the ones you don’t remember. I never had to hide behind any pretense, because he can read my true emotions etched onto my face, and doesn’t regard me with disdain once I express them aloud. It frightens me to admit this, but he might be the one to make me feel alive for the first time. 

As much as I love Bobinôt, I don’t think we have that same connection anymore. 

***** 

Alcèe wrote to me the following day after that fateful storm. I hid the letter in an old shoebox along with several others we exchanged. “To rewrite one’s fate, your sole hand must hold the pen and act without assistance, even if you end up disappointing your loved ones,” he wrote. 

I was crying from his words alone.  

All my life, everything was preordained. You taught me that a woman's place co-exists with her husband’s entity, how being the angel of the house and tending to the needs of others are essential duties, as if her own aren’t worthy enough. 

I feel as if I’m trapped between two paths, safety and happiness, and these forces are pulling me either way, adding a strain to my already worn soul. How could I make my own destiny despite the world refusing women a glimpse into the future once they’re out? 

How will I survive like you did after Papa died? 

I will say that, for every bleak outcome, there’s one silver lining. Such as when I left Bobinôt. 

Honest to God, Alcèe didn’t influence my decision. It was an instant reaction. 

Early in the morning, I was busying myself with sewing the rest of the new curtains when Bobinôt shouted at me to come to our room. That’s when I saw him with the shoebox, and he poured out all the letters. My stomach dropped as I stared into his glare. 

“What is the meaning of this?” He fumed. “Is this what you’ve been up to in all your free time?” 

I tried to come up with a rational explanation, but he stormed out. I followed him into the parlor. Thank heavens our child was asleep, or only I can imagine what he would’ve heard. 

It was a dreadful argument. Plenty was said that is neither repeatable nor suitable to be put to paper. 

I yelled so hard that it reverberated in painful aftershocks in my chest. He blamed me for my “wonton pleasures” and referred to me as the devil’s mistress, while forgetting he was far from innocent in this matter, especially when he brought one of his women to the house—with Bibi in the next room for God’s sake! Nevertheless, his words cut deep. 

Later that day, I reported to Bobinôt that I had to go over to Sylvie’s to help, and marched out, suitcase and sleeping child in tow, without so much as a glance in his direction. 

I huffed and steamed all the way until I reached the bayou, and went through. 

Through a wooden bridge to the other side. I apologize. This letter really grew in length. 

Before I disappear to bed, I’ll make it short: Sylvie has been more than generous in offering us shelter and lending an ear to my troubles. It’s amazing that she hasn’t banished me this minute for my desire to petition for a divorce. 

There’s no money. No petty savagery and retribution. They are not what my heart longs for. All I wanted, more than anything, was freedom. For my opinions to be framed and heard on my terms instead of someone else’s, and to live as comfortably as I choose to. 

All I wanted was to be a separate person again. 

Alcèe would’ve been proud of me, though this isn’t about him. But if you run into him by chance, please let me know. If you could come as fast as you can, that would be appreciated. I may shortly need your help. 

As someone who often describes change as the start of a catastrophic event, I’m starting to believe maybe this change will promise bright horizons ahead. Perhaps there’s nothing to be scared of anymore? We’ll see.