Читать книгу What To Keep - Mary Schramski - Страница 11

Magnolia Hall

Greensville, NC

June 2000

Clay climbs in his white utility truck, starts the almost soundless engine and rolls up the window. Then he leans over and fiddles with the air-conditioning. He looks back, doesn’t smile. Why couldn’t he have just signed off on the inspection? My life would be a lot easier.

I walk back into the house. Late-afternoon sunlight races down the hallway before I close the door, turning the scratched oak floor, for a moment, into a gleaming lake.

Two summers ago, four weeks after we met, Bill and I spent a July week on Lake Mead, right outside Las Vegas. We rented a houseboat at the marina, packed the boat’s kitchen with sliced ham, soft wheat bread, Swiss cheese, medium-priced merlot, three six-packs of Coors, bottled water and my new CD player.

I have to admit we were in a sexual frenzy, and this trip only increased it. Lake Mead, a man-made lake, is a breathtaking lie, and in the summer the air is hot, dry—like another planet that’s closer to the sun.

That week Bill drank all the beer and most of the wine. The idea I’d found the perfect person made me drunk with happiness—who needed booze? What I didn’t know then was I should have drunk myself into a stupor, jumped overboard and swum to shore. But of course I fooled myself into believing the relationship was just right. I was blind to the truth. Bill shoved signs in my face that he was a shit-heel right from the beginning. In the houseboat-rental office, he claimed he’d forgotten his credit card and I let myself overlook that tired old excuse! I paid for the entire trip, as if I were some rich broad with a gigolo. I knew he was a con artist. I really did, but I lied to myself.

I walk into Magnolia Hall’s living room and drag my toe across one of the carpet dents where a piece of furniture used to rest. I pull the white sheer curtain back, yank on the roll-up window shade and expect a cloud of dust.

There isn’t any. The fading sunlight showers the room in pink hues, accenting the emptiness. I turn the old window locks out, lift the window. Moist, cooler air floats in, bellows the curtains around my legs.

Two brocade chairs sit in the middle of the room and look like old ladies who have forgotten to leave. I must have been in this room when I was little, but I don’t remember.

After Ron left, before the inspection from hell took place, I walked around the house, and I’m still astounded that there is hardly any furniture in the house. Magnolia Hall is shaped like a two-story box with a hallway running down the middle. Downstairs there are two front rooms, this one and the one across the hall. That room only contains a sagging green couch.

Behind it is a library or office with floor-to-ceiling bookcases where five tired books stand on one shelf. There’s a rocking chair in the corner by one of the windows. Across the hall a dining-room table and three chairs stand polished, ready, lonely except for a small hutch.

Upstairs there are three bedrooms, two of them completely bare. The huge bathroom has a claw-foot bathtub, no shower. A blue towel and three bars of Ivory soap, still in their wrappers, are stacked neatly on the back of the toilet.

And there’s no trace of Grey Alexander.

I looked in the medicine chest and the old white chest by the door. Nothing. What happened to the man’s razor, comb, shampoo? And his clothes? It’s as if he never lived here. I expected piles of things, or at least some pictures, something to prove he was alive.

The living room curtain fans against my legs again. I walk back to the kitchen, touch the dead rotary phone that sits on a tiny table. There’s something very ironic in the fact that I’m still going to have to haul my ass down to the local convenience store because I don’t have a working phone.

I walk to the room with the bookcases and notice the fireplace is immaculate. At one of the bookcases, I draw my finger on a shelf. There’s no dust. I trace the spines of all five books. I pull out the Mark Twain Anthology, look at the bookmark. It’s a picture of a man with light hair, straight nose and thin lips. He’s wearing a tuxedo, a white pleated shirt and bow tie. On the back is written in pencil “Grey Alexander.” In this picture, he looks like I remember my father looked the last time I saw him thirty-four years ago. My heart hurts a little.

Grey’s hair is cut just so, his tie so straight. I wonder how he could ignore the upstairs mildewed wall, and why isn’t there more of him in this house? His silent black-and-white eyes stare back at me.

Magnolia Hall

March 1861

It has been two weeks since I was married and my husband brought me to his new home. I try not to think about how far I have come in these few short weeks. I miss so much—my mother and father, my room, the house I lived in since the day I was born. I also miss the mornings in Greensville, the soft footsteps of servants around Hemsley. I am so sick with feelings of loss I do not know what to do.

I did my best to hide my feelings the day Mr. Alexander and I left Greensville after the wedding, but Mama detected my sadness as I was dressing. She petted my hair and told me my life would be fine someday. I looked up at her, asked how she knew, how she could be so very sure.

With my question she straightened as if something had come over her and announced I was acting foolish, I was a married woman, with a good husband and I should be happy, and if I were not, I was to find some way to make myself happy—I was to endure. Then she sat down beside me as if she could not make up her mind, either, took my hand in hers, and said she would always love me, but for her sake I had to endure until I found a way to be happy.

I asked why Father wanted me to go away, why was it so important that I wed.

Mama shook her head, studied my fingers for a moment too long.

“That is just the way our lives are. Father wants you married, and you do not seem capable of choosing a husband or even finding and keeping a suitor. You are too shy, Charlotte. Reservedness is becoming—however, you are very queer in your actions.”

I have always lived away from people. I do not know why. I feel a distance at times. I am not one for change or exciting events. I have always liked to stay home, be in the same place. I love a room when I have been in it a thousand times. I adored the everyday view from my window.

My husband and I are different in that way. Mr. Alexander seems joyful with the house he built. He talks about the newness of the entry hall and the sitting room, the fine dining room and library. How, over time, he will bring new and beautiful things to our new home.

The house is beautiful. Late in the afternoon, when the front door is open, sunlight turns the floor to glistening silk. I saw happiness burst forth on my husband’s face yesterday afternoon when he walked through the front door and the house was ablaze with sunset.

Two nights ago after dinner, my husband asked me into the parlor. I went in thinking he wanted to discuss the management of the house or the night’s menu—that the greens were bitter or the bread was too tough.

He sat next to me on the divan, took my hand in his. In the firelight his eyes looked bluer than I have ever seen them. I asked him if he were displeased about my management of the house, the kitchen?

“No, I am not.” Then he said very quickly, “I worry you are not happy.”

I blinked, looked down at my lap, embarrassed that my feelings are so transparent.

“Charlotte, you must always be truthful. I am your husband and you must be honest with me.”

I could only nod.

“I do not want you to be sad and I sense that you are, Charlotte.” And then he squeezed my hand. I dipped my chin more. I did not wish to dampen his spirits.

“Tell me, Charlotte.”

And suddenly words began to pour out of me.

“My sorrow for what I used to know is great, silly as that is. I am afraid this makes me a very selfish person.”

His arm went around my shoulders and we sat silently.

A moment later he stood, announced that he would retire to the library, he had much work to do. He kissed my forehead and I was alone and could think more clearly.

I watched the flames of the fire, forced myself to remember how long ago I attended the Greensville sewing circles with Mama. There I heard women professing their adoration for their husbands, and I began hoping to experience the same kind of union. I am still praying some wifely devotion will find me—make me tremble on the veranda when my husband appears from the foggy mist.

Last night Mr. Alexander and I were sitting out on the veranda, and he told me in a delicate way how much he has loved me from the moment his eyes fell upon me at the evening party my parents hosted. With the night breeze fanning my warm face, I smiled.

“Thank you, for the very dear compliment, Mr. Alexander.”

“Why don’t you refer to me as James, it being a more familiar, loving term?”

When I did not answer, he stood and stared down at me.

Why didn’t I tell him the truth—that I am blind to what a wife should feel or do for her husband. The sadness in his eyes told me he knew, yet he did not press me. Late that night when he held me close and whispered promises to me, I felt dizzy and wondered what it will be like to spend the rest of my life in his arms.

But I did not say a word.

Magnolia Hall

Greensville, NC

June 2000

“Good holy God!”

A black woman is standing on the back porch with her face pressed against the kitchen screen door and my heart is thumping into my throat.

“You shouldn’t use the Lord’s name in vain,” she says, and straightens a little.

“What? What do you want?” I ask, then step back and wonder if there’s a knife close by. I came into the kitchen this morning hoping to find coffee, maybe tea. But there was nothing. And now this!

The woman laughs and puts her hands on her hips. “Why, child, don’t you remember me? I’m Tildy Butler.”

Tight black curls lie in swirls close to her head. She smiles again and her teeth, very white and perfect, take up a lot of her unfamiliar face.

“Hope I didn’t scare you.” She opens the screen, comes into the kitchen. “I was going to call and then I remembered the phone had been shut down, so I thought, well, Tildy Butler, you are acting inhospitable. Then I decided I needed to come right over and see Miss Juliette.”

I take a step back and wish my heart would quit beating so hard. “Who did you say you are?”

She gives me an up-down look. “My, you look the same. A little bigger, but you’re still that pretty little blond child. How are you, Miss Juliette?”

“I’m afraid—”

“You don’t remember me? I was hoping you would. No one likes to be forgotten. I’m Tildy, your uncle’s housekeeper. I met you a long time ago. Remember?”

“Oh…yes,” I say, because I do remember that my uncle had a housekeeper, but I don’t remember this woman specifically.

She smiles, nods. “My, it’s good to have you back. My friend Sara found out you were in town through her brother-in-law’s son who works for the attorney who’s taking care of Mr. Grey’s things. I hear he’s a very nice man. She called me right away, told me I’d better get over here and help you out.”

I mentally follow the trail. “Oh.”

“Honey, it’s so good to see you.”

“Thank you.” I finally offer my hand, but she brushes it away and her arms go around me. She feels smaller than she looks and smells like lemons or bleach, maybe a mixture of the two.

“Honey, it’s been so long.” She pats my back then lets go, steps back.

“It has.”

“And what? You’re twenty now?” She laughs, her head back, her hand over her heart.

“More like forty.”

“Thirty-five years? Seems like yesterday. It’s about time you came home. I’m so happy I get to tend you and Magnolia Hall. Why, I’ve been missing you both.”

“What?”

“Why, honey, you can’t take care of the house all by yourself. This place needs me, like you do. Everybody needs some help now and then.” Tildy claps her hands as a child would, and through the screen I see a cardinal dart from the tree and disappear.

I blink. “I’m leaving soon, selling the house.”

“I’ve taken care of all the owners of Magnolia Hall, I couldn’t stop with you.”

She turns, goes out to the porch and comes back with a shopping bag and places it in the corner by the refrigerator. “Brought some food. Didn’t think you would have time to go to the market. Isn’t it a beautiful summer morning? You’re going to love it here.”

“I’m only staying until I can list with a Realtor,” I say again.

Her head turns a little like a dog hearing a high-pitched whistle. “I grew up in this kitchen. Know Magnolia Hall like the back of my hand.”

I suddenly realize I’m tired. I didn’t sleep well last night, between thinking about the wall, wondering how the hell I’m going to get it repaired when I don’t have any money or space left on my credit cards. Then, about one in the morning, I started wondering where I’m going to find another dealing job when I get back to Vegas. After all that, sleeping wasn’t an option. Besides, the house is noisy with groans and cracks—probably more structural problems.

“Mr. Grey always talked about your daddy. He was crazy about his brother. It’s too bad he couldn’t come home much. And then when we lost him, why it was like losing Charlotte all over again.” Tildy smiles, nods.

Charlotte. My mother would sit on the couch, full glass in one hand, cigarette in the other. She always described how my father’s family had canonized Charlotte, his sister. Charlotte this, Charlotte that, only because she died so young.

“I’m sorry about your daddy. Didn’t see him much after Charlotte passed, but we still loved him. Mr. Grey always said his brother needed to come home. Now his daughter has. How’s your mama? I knew her, too. Not well, but when they moved back to Greensville for that brief time, she seemed so nice. Very pretty, like a movie star.”

“She passed away a couple of years ago,” I say, then add, “liver cancer.”

Tildy’s eyes widen. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” She leans forward. “My goodness, you’re an orphan now.”

I blink. I’d never thought of myself like that. But she’s right, I am. “Yes, I guess so.”

“That’s why it’s good you’ve come home. This is where you belong. Everything’s going to be all right now.”

It would take a million bucks to make my life all right, but I don’t say this. “This isn’t my home.”

Tildy crosses the room, digs through her shopping bag, pulls out a cooked chicken wrapped in plastic. “Thought I’d make some chicken salad. That’s always good in the summer. Cool, refreshing. When I heard Magnolia Hall was yours I was so thankful. Mr. Grey wasn’t much for contacting people. I told him he ought to call you, but he always said he’d do it later. Then it was too late for later.”

She opens the fridge, clucks her tongue, finds the plug and sticks it in the electrical socket. A giant hum grinds through the room.

“Thank the good Lord the electricity is on. You get it turned on?”

I shake my head. “No, the lawyer must have.”

“Nice man to be worrying about all that.”

“He’s getting paid as soon as I sell the house.” I look around, laugh. I’m standing in a strange kitchen, talking to a woman I don’t know, about people who, after this, I will never see again, and I’m jobless.

“See, you’re happy. My, Mr. Grey loved people to be happy at Magnolia Hall. And he loved this house like she was one of his relatives. So he’d want you to have her. You know he would.”

“I don’t know that. He hadn’t seen me in thirty-five years.”

“Honey, you’re family. That’s all that matters.”

Tildy walks to the large stack of paper plates I left on the counter last night, turns back and raises an eyebrow. “These paper things are for picnics, not dining in the house.”

“I picked up Chinese last night,” I say, but for a moment I feel like a kid who just made a mud pie on the kitchen floor.

Tildy lifts her brow again. “That’s no excuse. There’s beautiful china and silver for meals, especially supper. Mr. Grey would expect you to use the right dishes. They’re yours now.”

“I didn’t want to dirty the…” I stop, wonder why the hell I’m explaining myself.

“The blue-and-white morning dishes are what you should use when it’s not fancy.” She points to the cabinet in front of her. “They’re stronger than they look. You need to use the china, child. Why let it go to waste?”

“China! There are only two plates, from what I could see. Unless there’s more somewhere else.”

Last night I went through the cabinets and drawers. I found the kitchen immaculate but almost empty, like the rest of the house. An old set of pots and pans in the space by the stove, and dishes, two of each piece, were stacked neatly in the cabinet next to the sink.

“Quality, not quantity, is important. The best dishes are in the dining room.” Tildy raises her arms a little, as if she’s announcing this information to a crowd.

“I looked in there. There are only two plates.”

“Your next meal, you should eat off the china, honey. We use the blue-and-white before five. The Minton for dinner and supper, the Adams for holidays.”

“Mrs. Butler, I’m fine. When I’m home I use paper all the time. Really, I’m from Las Vegas, we’re very informal out there.”

My apartment has crappy garage-sale furniture, plastic forks I stole from the casino coffee shop—and now I wish I had taken more—paper napkins and cheap orange plastic plates I bought at Sam’s Club.

“My name’s Tildy, really Matilda is my given, but everyone calls me Tildy. You can do the same, honey.”

She turns as if I haven’t said a word and reseals the paper plates then crosses the kitchen and puts them on a shelf in the pantry and comes back smiling.

“You are just gonna love Magnolia Hall. I’ll help you. Talk in town is the county might be taking the house for back taxes if they couldn’t find any family to come home.

“Back taxes?”

“Oh, they’re paid up. I was thinking last night if you don’t have a lot of cash we can go to garage sales and pick up a few things, maybe paint. Everything’s better when you take care of—”

“Tildy, I’m going back to Las Vegas just as soon as I can. And now I have to worry about back taxes.”

She stares at me for a moment like I’ve turned a cold hose on her, but then she shakes her head.

“Honey, that back-tax thing was just a rumor. In case they didn’t find you. I know Mr. Grey paid them up. And you’ll change your mind about leaving. We’ll do some of the fixing up. New curtains in here would be nice. I saw some daisy curtains with scalloped edges at The Big K over off Market Street. They’d look real fine at that window—not too expensive, either.”

I rub my tongue against the back of my teeth and wonder what I should say, wonder if she’s got a screw loose. But before I can think of anything, she starts up again.

“Mr. Grey didn’t know how to add the feminine touches around here. Now you and I can make the changes we need to. Might take some time, but we’ll get it all done. Some people don’t realize that a little bit every day makes a world of difference, makes a person feel at home. Soon you got a whole big pile of good in front of you.”

“I can’t stay. I’m going home.”

“Magnolia Hall is your family home. Now you have to take care of her. You don’t give back a gift. A gift is a gift!”

“He didn’t give me the house! It’s mine because I’m the only one left!”

“It’s all the same. You are the rightful owner.”

“I’m selling the house just as soon as I can. You wouldn’t want to buy it, would you?”

“Goodness, no. I don’t have that kind of money after I put my child through school. You gonna sell it as soon as you can?”

“The wall upstairs didn’t pass the county inspection.”

“I knew it wouldn’t. Mr. Grey was sick the last few years. We didn’t have much time for fixing. I took care of him till his dying day. Then Jeff Hollis, fine young police officer, came out and locked up the place. That was the very first time after Miss Charlotte and Mr. James built her nobody lived here. Mr. Grey used to talk about the first Miss Charlotte all the time.”

“My father’s sister?”

“No, he talked about her, too, but I’m talking about your great-great-great, oh, you know a long time ago, her husband, James Alexander built this house in 1860. Your daddy’s sister was named after her.”

“Oh.” I look around and think about how much I don’t know about this family.

“Now you’re here. Too bad you didn’t get back before your uncle died.”

“I didn’t know he was sick.”

“That’s right. I told him to call you. Your daddy would have told you, though, if he was still here.”

“I didn’t have any contact with my father, either.” I say, and cross my arms.

“My land, your daddy was such a nice man.”

“I wouldn’t know about—”

“I remember years ago, when he came home for three weeks in the spring. Told me you’d moved to Nevada with your mama. He seemed so sad. I’ve never been there. Actually I’ve never been out of the state.”

“Maybe you should travel,” I say, but I’m thinking of my father and wondering why he never wanted to share me with his family.

“Are you married?” Tildy glances at my left hand.

“Not anymore.”

“Oh, child. I’m sorry.”

I realize Tildy is the first person to say this to me. People in Las Vegas expect divorce—don’t think anything about a marriage dissolving into lies and crap.

“It was for the better. I couldn’t afford the man’s bad habits.”

Tildy touches my hand for a moment. Her skin is cooler than I expect. “Honey, everything is going to be okay. You just wait and see.”