Читать книгу What To Keep - Mary Schramski - Страница 10

Magnolia Hally

Greensville, NC

June 2000

Ron Tanner and I are in his black BMW headed down a magnolia-lined, gravel driveway. It’s been three days since I got fired from the Golden Nugget. That night I ended up drinking the last four beers in the fridge, sitting on the couch, in a beer-hazed stupor for, I guess, about an hour thinking about how my life had not just turned to crap, but how it had always been crap and I needed to do something about it. Leanne’s words kept thumping through my mind. How I’d get ripped off if I didn’t go back to sell the house. And I’m tired of people pissing on me.

I nodded off on the couch, then stumbled to bed, didn’t bother to take off my black pants and white dealer’s shirt until twelve the next day. When I got up, I walked down to the 7-Eleven and called the Golden Nugget, asked to speak to the blackjack pit boss and when Joe answered, I whispered, “You asshole,” then hung up, my hand shaking a little. I knew it was stupid and immature, but I did feel better.

I went home, brushed my teeth then sat on the couch wondering how I was going to pay the rent and feed myself. I dug in my purse and found my checkbook, thumbed through the register. Ten minutes later, and a hundred-and-eighteen dollars overdrawn from a subtraction error I’d made standing in line at Walgreen’s, I put my checkbook back in my purse.

I had one credit card that wasn’t maxed out and the thirty-two dollars I’d left on the coffee table. Without changing clothes, I slung my purse over my shoulder, walked back to the pay phone, called the Delta eight-hundred number, got a flight for $694.50, leaving at six-thirty the next morning, with a two-hour layover in Des Moines. Then I called Ron, the lawyer. I told him I’d be in Greensville tomorrow and could he pick me up from the airport? He put me on hold, came back and said he would, and that it was a good idea I was coming.

Now Magnolia Hall, a two-story brick house with white-trimmed porch and dull green shutters, sits at the end of the lane, looking much smaller than I remember.

I glance over at Ron. He doesn’t look like I thought he would, either. His black hair is cut short—I expected longer blond, for some reason. I guess because the last man I saw in Greensville had blond hair. It’s funny what our memories become and what they do to our perceptions.

Ron stops in the circle driveway, in front of the house. Closer, I can see someone has painted the bricks to make it look like the house still has green shutters. He shuts down the engine. The digital clock stays on—it’s three-thirty.

I stare through the tinted window, try to remember more about this house, but can’t. Ron gets out, comes around and opens my door.

“Thanks.” He’s parked in the shade of a huge magnolia and it’s relatively cool. There’s no breeze, no noise.

“This is it,” I say, glancing around. The yard is overgrown.

“Yes.”

“It’s pretty run-down.”

“I talked to the housekeeper. She said Mr. Alexander fell on hard times before he died. You never heard from him?”

“No.” I leave out that I might not have recognized the man if he had a sign around his neck on a deserted street. I’m sure Ron has heard too many stories, him being an attorney and all. I cross the yard to the porch, climb the stairs, turn around. Huge trees surround the house, cut the ground from the cloudless sky. The air smells green—unfamiliar, and I wish I could dig up more memories to take me back to the last time I was here, but it’s impossible. I was too little and it’s been so long. Besides, thirty-five years in a desert town has imprinted dust and cement on my soul.

Ron pulls my black carry-on out of the trunk.

“I’ll get that,” I say, feeling embarrassed I forgot my suitcase. He shakes his head, carries it up to the front door.

“Want me to put it inside?” He nods toward the door.

“No, thanks. It’s not heavy.”

Ron’s face is tan. I’d guess he’s about forty-five. Really mainstream America, clean-cut. Father and mother probably still play golf at some expensive country club, his two brothers, maybe a sister, all have families, dogs, the works.

He’s loosened his tie enough so he could undo the top button on his white-and-blue oxford shirt, but he hasn’t. I bet his wife picks up his shirts from the cleaners every Wednesday. She’s probably someone he met in college, who put him through law school by teaching third grade and is now in good standing with the Greensville Junior League. But there’s no ring on his left hand, not even a tan line.

“I have the key to the house,” he says, and digs in his pocket.

“Thanks for picking me up at the airport.”

Ron takes his hand out of his pocket. He walks to the edge of the steps, stands across from me. A tiny breeze brings his aftershave to me. It’s one of those citrusy, clean kinds. I imagine him splashing it on this morning, standing in front of his bathroom mirror, naked from the waist up, a towel wrapped around his somewhat slim, forty-five-year-old waist.

“This happens every once in a while,” he says.

“What?” I look at him. He’s staring at me, then he smiles.

“Houses dumped on unsuspecting, long-lost relatives.”

I shake my head. “No way.”

“I specialize in wills, probate, estate tax. Believe me, this happens. Sometimes there’s no immediate family. If the deceased hasn’t left a will, then it all goes to the closest relative or the state. Your uncle was lucky he had you.”

“I’m not sure how lucky, since he’s dead.”

We laugh at the same time, and then all of a sudden for some odd reason I think about my mother and when she died two years ago. How I had to sort through her underwear, wonder if I should put her Hanes size-seven briefs in the Goodwill bag. I decided that her underwear being worn by a homeless woman who lived one block off Main Street in a cardboard box was too sad. So through guilty feelings, I threw the crotch-stained nylon panties in the kitchen trash.

“One relative is better than none. But too many can make for big problems,” Ron says.

I smile. “Never had that problem. As you know my family’s pretty small—really nonexistent.” I look up and notice the white trim under the porch roof is flaking badly. On the airplane I let myself daydream of what I’d find, all the while telling myself that doing it was dangerous. Yet I let my imagination dredge up an out-of-focus, black-and-white photograph—a large house—breathtaking, like in one of those happy movies, easy to sell, a cash deal.

Ron’s voice cuts in. “I did a complete search. There was your uncle’s sister, who passed away years ago, and your father. That’s it.”

My mother’s monotone voice had always told me thin stories about strange ex-in-laws. She had acted as if I wasn’t related to them, as if I’d only been issued from her.

Ron’s cell phone, in his slacks pocket, rings. Bill and I both had cell phones when we first got married. We’d call each other all the time until we couldn’t pay the bill.

“Your pocket’s ringing,” I say, and then wonder why I said something so stupid.

He laughs, checks the caller ID then looks at me. “Mind if I take this?”

“No, go ahead.” It’s probably his wife, the one who doesn’t make him wear a ring, checking in, seeing if he’ll be home for dinner.

He walks to the other side of the battered porch, clicks a button and begins talking. And I’m glad I don’t have to say anything for a few minutes.

I push my hair back. My face is sweaty. I look out into the yard. There are no houses close, just magnolias and overgrown bushes, dirty brown with dead spring blooms. This land has to be worth something.

“Sorry about that,” Ron says as he walks back. “Major problem with a client. I should get back to the office.”

“Thanks for bringing me out here.” I glance around. “You said there was a car?”

“Carport is at the back of the house. I never gave you the house keys.” He digs into his other pocket, finds a set of keys. “Buick Riviera, 1977. Eighty thousand miles. A cream puff. I came over after you called and started it. Even has air. Drove it to charge the battery. If you want to sell it, I’m sure you’ll find a buyer.”

“I want to sell it.” I take the keys. They swing, glint, hit my palm.

“House key’s the one with the red yarn tied in a bow. I think your uncle’s housekeeper did that.”

I pick it out while Ron walks down the steps. He turns around. “I had my secretary arrange for a county inspection late this afternoon. Every house over a hundred years old in Guilford County has to be inspected before it’s put on the market.”

“Do you think it’ll pass?”

“I don’t know. They’re pretty stringent these days.”

“I hashed out a plan on the airplane—sell the house or at least sign with a Realtor that I trust and get back to Vegas.”

“Sounds like a workable plan. The county wants to save the historical homes, so the owner is responsible for repairs. That way when it’s sold, the buyer knows what they’re getting into. You have my card. Call if you have any questions, problems. I’ll need you to sign the probate papers when they’re finished, which should be in the next couple of days.”

“What about your fee?” I just finished paying six hundred dollars for my latest divorce. God only knows what a probate attorney costs.

“My billing clerk will get in touch with you when everything is assessed.”

“Great.” I watch as he walks to his car, climbs in. He’s tall, well built and moves with confidence. I go to the front door, try again to remember standing on this porch but can’t. I slide the key in the lock, turn it the wrong way then back again. The dead bolt clunks open, and I seize the knob and open the door.

“This wall has to be fixed.”

“Fixed! Why? It looks fine to me,” I say.

Clay, the Guilford County inspector, is running his finger down the bedroom wall. I’ve been following him for the past thirty minutes, hoping—no, wishing—the house passes inspection. And now, it looks like I’m not going to get what I want.

“See this green line? Mildew. Happens all the time. Rain seeps in and mildew takes over just like that.” Clay snaps his fingers.

I squint, barely able to see the mossy green line. “Are you sure? Maybe it’s just a stain.”

He looks at me and grunts. “Lady, I’ve been doing this kind of work for a very long time. This is mildew.”

Half-moon sweat stains are rising on his blue work shirt. The house is hot, stuffy. I didn’t have time to open windows, if they’ll open. And Clay has informed me of many other things. Greensville is experiencing a heat wave, the likes of which the folks here haven’t seen in fifty years. Some have dropped over from the heat. I expect Clay to be one of them any minute. He’s also told me outsiders, mostly Northerners, are coming down in droves—with this information, he gave me a sidelong look—building in the area has exploded, and more important, Magnolia Hall is a dump.

Clay thumbs through papers on his clipboard then searches in his back pocket, finds a white handkerchief and mops his forehead.

“If you plan on selling your house anytime soon you can forget it.”

“Look, can’t you just sign off? The green line is barely there.” I move closer to the wall. “I swear it’s so small you—”

“Underneath there’s trouble. Doesn’t seem like much from the outside. Can’t give you the okay until the wall’s cleaned up. You’re darned fortunate that’s all that’s wrong, the way this place has been let go.”

Resolved, I step back. “How do you fix something like that?”

“The way the town’s growing, it’ll take you a month of Sundays to get someone out here. Does that air conditioner work?” Clay nods to the old unit clinging to the windowsill.

“I don’t know.” I walk over, find the On switch and push it in. Nothing. I look at Clay. His lips press together.

“Preventative maintenance, that’s the key to these old houses.”

“I inherited this place. That wall,” I say, “sounds like a major expense. I have less than zero money.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this, for God’s sake. What does he care?

Clay taps the checklist. “Depends on what you consider major. Some of those new construction companies charge a lot. First thing with mildew is you gotta get to the problem. From what I can tell, it’s coming from the window.” He walks over to the window, three feet from the mildew, runs his hand over the sill. “I’m surprised the one with the air-conditioning unit isn’t leaking. Best thing to do is seal all the way around, that’ll stop more damage, then when the wall’s replaced make sure they seal it up real tight.”

“Wall replaced?”

“Gotta take down part of the plasterboard.” Clay taps one of the dull white-and-green magnolias that make up the wallpaper.

“Christ! I don’t have the time or money for this.”

“You aren’t a Southern gal, are you?”

“No.”

Clay looks at me like he’s about to take pity on me. “You can buy caulk at Home Depot. Probably only take half a tube.” He shakes his head. “After the drywall’s taken down, they’ll wash the wood to get rid of the mildew then put up new drywall, tape, paint or wallpaper.”

“Right,” I say, but feel overwhelmed. “How much do you think this is gonna cost?”

“’Bout eight hundred dollars.”

“Oh, God!”

A bead of sweat trickles down my forehead into my right eye, and I blink, wipe at it, know I’m smearing my mascara.

“Plaster dust gets into everything and there’s nothing you can do about that. Make sure whoever does the job puts Visqueen up.”

“Are you sure I can’t buy some Lysol and wipe down the wall? I’ll seal the window.”

“No. When it’s gone this far, you can’t. It’s like the silent killer of walls.”

“Shit. The silent killer, ha-ha.”

“Just sign on the line.”

I take the blue pen and clipboard that says Guilford County and look at the small-print form. It’s smudged with Clay’s sweat, now mine. “There’s no other way?”

Clay looks at me like I might be trying to bribe him. I laugh.

“Something funny?”

I study the paper. “Am I signing my life away?”

He straightens a little. His face is red, more sweaty than mine. I changed into shorts and T-shirt after Ron left, thank God, but now they’re sticking to my skin. As soon as Clay is gone I’m going to open windows, drink some water.

“Your signature acknowledges you’re aware of this infraction and that you’ll be in compliance before you sell.”

“Right. And what if I’m not?”

His eyebrow rises. “County can sue you.”

“Guess I won’t go there.” I write my name, wish I would have asked the judge who granted me my quickie divorce to change my name back to one I can stand.

“Okay, that’s about all. When you get the repairs done, give me a call.” He hands me a copy of the paper I’ve just signed, takes back his pen and points to a phone number in the right-hand corner. “If I’m not there just leave a message.”

I nod, walk to the edge of the doorway and look back. Clay is still writing. The room is empty except for a four-poster bed with white sheets and a yellow blanket. I look at the wall and realize I could easily begin to hate this house. He finishes, clips his pen in his shirt pocket, holds the clipboard like a football and walks toward the door.

“Don’t feel bad about the mildew. Lots of folks have problems and don’t even know about them.”

“Lucky them.”

Hemsley House

Greensville, NC

March 1861

I am to marry James Alexander in three days!

Father insists we not wait. He stated clearly he believes Mr. Alexander to be the right choice. Thankfully, Father didn’t mention I have not had any other proposals and that is why I am expected to marry James Alexander.

When my father announced what he wanted for me, I stamped my foot and fussed. Mama ushered me to my room, and informed me I will behave like a lady and a dutiful daughter. I did not tell her I don’t want a “lord and master” to honor and obey, for I knew then as I know now, my words would not change her or Father’s mind.

More than anything my parents want their only daughter to be a wife. As my father clearly stated, he and my brother do not need an old maid in this house and on their hands.

Months back, when I arrived at the age of eighteen, I heard my parents discussing with much trepidation that their eldest would not find a husband if she remained so quiet.

I am not quiet! I am just not very social. I don’t understand myself sometimes. I do not like to go to parties like other girls. I have always liked to read, write letters, write in my diary. My parents do not believe this behavior is good for their aging daughter.

“Who will marry her?” they whispered to each other in not so gentle whispers.

Then, three days ago after Mr. Alexander asked for my hand, they decided I should accept his proposal. The next day, when neither would listen to me, I started sobbing. I ran up to my room, stood by the window and thought about leaping to the ground. Maybe my bones would break, then they would listen.

I imagined my body drifting out the window, lifting up into the air then plunging through the warm Carolina sunshine, like a bird in flight. I felt the air on my face, the breeze fanning my ankles as I leaned out farther.

Suddenly I knew I could not smash myself on the ground. However, I remained by the window until the sky was silvery and sugar-strewn with moonlight.

After Father had gone to bed, Mama came to see me. Her face was drawn, her mouth tight. Her fingers touched my hairline, smoothed it back from my temples. She spoke softly, claiming that it would be much easier on all of us if I accepted my fate. Father was doing what was best for me, and I needed to trust in him and the Lord.

I seized her hand and asked if she could do what I had to do, marry someone she wasn’t sure she loved, someone she hardly knew. She tried to laugh, then breathed in deeply, brought her hand to her throat.

“Charlotte, don’t make yourself weak trying to be happy. If you do not hate Mr. Alexander, you might love him one day, like I do your father.”

I do admire Mr. Alexander. We became acquainted a year ago, a month after he moved to Greensville. He always has a kind look about him. He told me he likes to read history books, then he smiled a nice smile. And his laughter brought to mind the large church bell ringing across Greensville on a Sunday morning.

Yet my heart never pounds hard in my chest like I heard other girls say their hearts do when they are around someone they are fond of. I know I do not love him.

Will I ever love him? I do not know. Mama told me not to worry about married love, it will surely find me. And as long as I’m a good wife to Mr. Alexander, that is all that matters.

In the past few weeks, Mama has schooled me on how to handle the servants, how to plan meals and tell the cook what to prepare. All the general ways to keep a home. She also whispered in my ear there are certain other obligations I will have as a wife. Then suddenly she pulled back, her round face pale as a magnolia blossom, her lips flat against each other. She fanned herself with her hand.

“You’ll find out soon enough, oh, Heavenly Father!”

Soon she left my side, marched down the stairs and called in a high-pitched voice for her servant, Isabell. I know the obligations she whispered are what the other, more sophisticated girls giggle about—the duty of a wife. Some say these duties are very uncomfortable.

Night after night, I sit by my window and wonder how I will feel when my life as a—

Mama came in and I hid this book in the folds of my skirt. She would be very upset to know I’ve been writing before my wedding. Many, along with Father, believe writing leads to worry for young ladies.

I would think she would be desolate that Mr. Alexander is building a home miles from town and I will live so far away. When I hint at these fears, Mama shakes her head and claims I am a true Southern girl, one who is too attached to her family and someday I will be happy and not want to come home.

This morning Mama found me sitting by the window, tears dried upon my cheeks. She said very sternly that I must grow up and start a family of my own because it will soon be time to have babies. I feel like cloth being torn and readied for a wedding dress. I pray James Alexander is a patient man, for he will have to be with his new bride. He will need years of tolerance, because it is difficult for me to imagine myself old and stooped over and still his wife with adult children, if the Lord sees fit to give us their souls.

I do not understand fate, my life, and said so to Mama. She told me I think too much for a young woman. I should trust in Father’s decision. The Lord’s purpose is to make me a wife—what I was born for. Try as hard as I might, I do not believe this. Yet, I am now resolved that in three days, Mr. Alexander will be my lord and master for eternity. Tonight as I contemplate giving up everything that is familiar, I do not believe eighteen is so very old.