14. Scarlett

"You wanted a different kind of wife," I said to Rhett as we walked back to Peachtree Street after dinner at the National - it was the initial volley in those fights we would start in the months after his recovery.

They never lasted all that long.

"You should have married someone more like Melly."

"If I wanted to marry someone like Miss Melly I would have married someone like Miss Melly," Rhett would say, at first patiently, then less so.

I am writing now as the end of the first year approaches.

The Atlanta sky is dark when I go to bed at seven in the evening. The child grows stronger, bigger than my others. A boy, Mammy predicts, a strong healthy boy for Rhett.

My sign from Melly. And from Mother. A profession of faith in the future. I do not feel this faith in the future just yet, with all the uncertainties of this year after - but I invent them, when I can. I notice that I have lost the skills for ordinary social encounters, however undeveloped those skills might have been, that I had a year ago.

I can only answer to who I am now. I am what I am. I am Scarlett O'Hara Butler. I am guilty of various and sundry sins, several of which I believe are unpardonable. I have been disappointed in love. I have suffered much.

Those facts are neither ambiguous nor open to interpretation. From my mother I inherited my looks and my proclivity toward chronic disappointment. From my father I inherited an unbridled optimism which has somehow never left me, even in those hours which seemed dominated by darkness.

I was born in Clayton County, moved seventeen years later to Atlanta and remained there, with intermittent returns home. My home is my home because my father won the house and land in a poker game and happened to marry my broken-hearted, blue-blooded mother. At least, that was what we were told. Anyway, he bought it or won it or maybe someone willed it to him, I'm not sure which and it certainly doesn't matter to me, not now. When I was sixteen, the war came and my way of life came and went along with it. I had four children, two who survived, one who died early and one who was not born at all, a victim of its own parents' foolishness. I was raised to believe that what came in on the next roll would always be better than what went out on the last. I no longer believe that, but I have told you how it was, up until a year ago.

What I had in Melanie Wilkes was someone who can and will never be replaced. And I pretended to be her friend for twelve years. I say "pretend" because it was ofttimes false on my part; but never hers. As it happened, the man who I had always counted on came nowhere near fulfilling my expectations. Money ran out and my parents died and everyone leaned on me. So I did what I had to do. I did what Melly could have never done, for all her inner strength of character and heart.

"You were always twenty years before your time," Rhett observed to me one night, one where we stayed at the National for no good reason but to get out of the house. "The Frank Kennedy scheme, the store, the mills, and what do you see today? An independent woman who makes all of her own decisions. You could be an Andrew Carnegie in Atlanta today."

"That girl doesn't exist anymore," I said. "That girl is no longer me."

"I'm speaking about then, Scarlett. As it was."

Then Rhett called for a shot of Jameson, a brand of Irish whiskey I had never known anyone but my Pa to order, then he raised his glass the great Gerald O'Hara. I gave him my poker chips to play for me and went to the ladies' room and remained there. I passed a window and found myself swimming in the color blue: I mean, the light that swept in through the window was blue. As blue as the eyes that Bonnie had shared with Pa. After a few minutes it seemed to deepen to the color of her blue velvet riding habit, the one she'd been wearing the day that she fell. Then, out of nowhere, it faded. And I stood in the lavatory looking at my reflection in the mirror: that of a stranger. She stared back at me, impassive. Full cheeks like apples and clear, bright eyes. Hair that glowed with the health and radiance of a steady diet. Full breasts barely hidden under a Chantilly lace shawl. A swelling belly, noticeable only to those who looked for it. A husband, one who loved me unconditionally and for myself.

The next day, Rhett and I were walking with Wade and Ella around the lake in the middle of the park when we decided to cut across to Oakwood. We visited Bonnie and Melly, and then Charles and Frank. The next night, Ella wanted to go again, if only to repeat the interesting adventure.

Rhett took her without Wade and I. We rested on the bench at the entrance. Dolly Merriwether's eyes ogling my boy and I. "I declare, Wade Hampton, if you aren't the very picture of Charles Hamilton," the old buffalo cried. "Scarlett, dear, I've been meaning to call on you since you've returned to Atlanta. How is Captain Butler's health?"

I must have answered her, and Rhett must have finished the tour. We were walking back to the house and Wade was telling him what a strange thing had occurred.

"As if she would really call," I said.

Rhett shrugged. "Perhaps you should let her. Let her know who you really are."

Later that night, I was brushing Ella's hair. She really was a pretty child. She had a lot of Frank in her, and a lot of Mother. But mostly me. Same with Wade. The picture of Charles Hamilton. But they were mine; a part of me.

I finished the year by letting them know who I was.

And the Atlanta Old Guard appeared. At the time it seemed unexpected. A week later, we were on our way to Charleston to see Rhett's mother. I had to turn down Wade and Ella's invitations to parties.

We sailed down the Ashley River - Wade, Ella, Rhett, and me. I commented haphazardly, thinking about the happenings of the year before: "We're here on this sailboat in lieu of filing for divorce."

Rhett laughed. "A far better alternative, my dear."

"Indeed," I replied. "Take us to sea, Captain Butler."