Swan Place (39 page)

“Yes.” She studied me for a long time, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips. I could almost see her thoughts flying around like startled birds for a few seconds, then calming down, and finally lighting on the branches of a tree that seemed to stand right in the middle of her forehead.

“Put your hand on this Bible,” she commanded.

“Why?” I asked, feeling all that anger coming back on me and not knowing why.

“You do as I say!” Buzzard yelled.

“You’re not my mother!” I yelled back.

Molly and Little Ellis had woke up and come to the kitchen door. They were standing there staring at us, because they’d never heard Buzzard or me raise our voices before, especially not at each other.

“It’s okay,” Buzzard tried to croon at Molly and Little Ellis. “Me and Dove just having us a little talk is all. You all go on back to bed now. And cover up nice and warm.” Obedient as always, they turned and went out of the kitchen. Buzzard reached across the table, grabbed my hand, put it on the Bible, and before I could move it away, she clamped both of her large, warm hands over mine.

“Now say this,” Buzzard whispered. “I swear on the Bible, God’s Holy Word
 . . .
”

“Why?” I asked again, feeling some surge of terrible power over her. Because after all, I was the head of my family now!

“Do it!” Buzzard whispered loudly, and with her cheeks shaking. So, head of my family or not, I knew I had to give in.

“Okay, okay. I swear on the Bible, God’s Holy Word
 . . .
”

“That I will
never
 . . .
” Buzzard bark-whispered the word.

“That I will
never
 . . .
”

“Tell anybody what Buzzard’s fixing to tell me.”

“Tell anybody what Buzzard’s fixing to tell me.”

Buzzard gave one big nod of her head. “Do you know what’ll happen to you, if you break your word what you swore to on the Bible?”

“No,” I said, but I’d been to church with Aunt Bett often enough to know about breaking your word and what would happen to you if you did.

“You’ll burn in everlasting hellfire,” she warned in a long, terrible whisper. “You’ll go
straight
to hell when you die.” And for some reason, even through all my hurting, those words hit me like swords going into my heart, and I could feel blistering flames licking at my ankles.

“I won’t break my word!” I said, and almost at once, the flames were gone, and I could feel God’s cool, blue breath blowing across my feet. “But if you think you can tell me anything that’s going to make me feel better about what’s happened, you’re crazy as a bed-bug!” I added.

“That’s the hurt talking again,” Buzzard pronounced. “Now just listen to me,” she started out again. “You need to know that this house and everything that’s in it”—her gaze swept around that good, big kitchen—”is
mine.”

What?

“What about Miz Swan?” I demanded. Because what Buzzard was saying didn’t make a bit of sense in this world.

“Let’s just leave that subject out of it,” Buzzard said, lowering her eyes.

“But how can it be yours, if it’s Miz Swan’s?”

“I’ll explain that later,” Buzzard insisted. “I really don’t want to tell you about it right now.” But I never could stand not knowing things, and besides, I didn’t understand what Buzzard’s “secret” had to do with anything.

“Tell me,” I whispered.

“It’ll be one more bad thing for you to hear,” she warned.

“I have to know, Buzzard,” I said. “And I have to know what who owns this house has to do with anything that’s happened to us.”

“Okay,” Buzzard agreed. “But just you remember I warned you.”

“Okay.” And I braced myself for the next bad thing I would hear.

“Miz Swan’s in France, sure enough, and she won’t be coming back. Because she passed away.”

“Passed away? Miz Swan’s
dead
?” I gulped. Buzzard nodded her head, with her eyes still on me so hard, they almost pinned me to the wall.

“Been dead around two years now. And she left this house to
me
. This is
my
house. And everything that’s in it.” Crazily, I thought at once about what the people in town were saying about Buzzard maybe not taking good care of
Miz Swan’s beautiful things
.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why do you act like she’s still alive?”

“Because
 . . .
” Buzzard went on very slowly. “If folks kept getting reminded that a black woman owns this beautiful house, they wouldn’t know what to think. It’s kind of a game we all play, so they can pretend they don’t know the house is mine. We all play our parts, me pretending Miz Swan’s still in France and that I’m just her maid, taking care of her house. And all the white folks in town pretend the same thing. It’s a way we have of trying to stay comfortable with each other.”

All of a sudden, I remembered my story of the young Mr. and Mrs. Swan and their great love for each other. “She’s buried in France?” I asked.

“Not buried,” Buzzard said. “She was cremated too, just like Mr. Swan.” Her voice tried to choke up, and she cleared her throat. “When she found out she was going to
 . . .
pass on, she made out a will that said she was to be cremated and her ashes put into the Seine River. Guess she figured that since Mr. Swan’s ashes went into the Savannah River, maybe their ashes could meet up—somewhere out in the middle of the ocean. Or something like that.” Buzzard wiped her eyes and then closed them and tilted her face up toward the ceiling. “In the will, she said exactly this: ‘The Swan Place in its entirety and all the furnishings go to my good friend and long companion, Buzzard. She’s cleaned it and taken care of it for over forty years, so it’s right for her to have it.’” Buzzard blew her nose loudly. “You know, of course, that the Swans didn’t have any children. No family at all. No kinfolks. Not a one. Anyway—when Miz Swan made out her will, she had it sent to her attorney here in town, and she suggested this game we all play, because she knew how the old ways of doing things die so hard, ‘specially in small towns. So she left me this house and everything in it and a bank account that she’d transferred over into my own name. It has lots of money in it, and I got more from her insurance—but the lawyer takes care of sending that money to me through a bank in far-off New York City. And she left me all her investments too—though I surely don’t know what they are—and another lawyer in Salt Lake City, Utah, sends me what he calls dividend checks every single month.” When she stopped talking, I just sat there, trying to let it all soak in.

“And, Dove
 . . .
” Buzzard finally went on. “That’s how I came up with the idea of pretending you all were the late Mr. Swan’s great-nieces and nephews, once I’d made up my mind to help you out. Because when the Great God Almighty let me have all this big house and all this beautiful furniture—and anything anybody could ever need: bed linens and blankets and pots and pans—and plenty of money too—I promised Him I’d try to use it to help His children.”

I thought for a moment, “So she isn’t coming back.”

“That’s right.” Buzzard echoed me, “She isn’t coming back.”

“So we don’t have to leave?” It was a profound question, so profound that it made my voice tremble.

“That’s right. So now, let’s just let you get used to what I’ve told you. I know it’s broken your heart for Crystal to run off like she did, and I know you’re awful worried about taking care of Mary Elizabeth and Little Ellis and Molly, but I’ve got plenty of money for us all. So you don’t have to worry about that.”

While I was sitting there trying to take in everything Buzzard had told me, she stood up and picked up the big Bible. “You just remember that you put your hands on this and
swore
!” she warned one last time. “If and when I decide not to play the game anymore, I’ll be more open about this house being my very own.” She stomped off to the living room.

So then I had more to think about
:
How it would feel
not
going back to Aunt Bett’s? In one way, it made me feel good that we wouldn’t have to pile in on her, and her with such a big family to take care of. But in another way, it felt kind of sad. How could we all live here in this big, beautiful house with Buzzard and have everything in the world we would ever need? And Aunt Bett still making pickles to trade for clothes?

“Hey, Buzzard,” I called. “Why didn’t you tell any of this to Crystal? If she’d known, maybe she wouldn’t have run away!”

“I told Crystal there was plenty of money, and that was all she needed to know,” Buzzard said as she came back into the kitchen. “She didn’t run off because of money. She ran off because she’s nothing but a child herself, and it was all too much for her.”

“She tried,” I whispered, suddenly wanting to defend Crystal, even though I’d been so mad at her before.

“She sure did that,” Buzzard agreed.

“I hope she’ll come back,” I said, even though I had only meant to think it.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Buzzard muttered. “
Hoping
is fine, but we have to deal with what
is
—not what we hope for.”

It made sense, what Buzzard said. So what I had to do was deal with the way things really were, right there at that minute. Crystal was gone. Me and Molly and Little Ellis
 . . .
and Mary Elizabeth, too
 . . .
all had to have a home, and Buzzard had said we could stay right where we were, at the Swan Place.

Somehow, I had a vision of Mary Elizabeth being able to grow up in such a beautiful house, maybe even a vision of her as a beautiful young woman, wearing a white dress with ribbons on it and walking around the pond on a golden afternoon.

“I wish the pond still had swans to glide around in it,” I said. Buzzard looked at me and frowned. “Where’d they go anyway?” I added.

Buzzard shrugged her shoulders. “Well, the swans got old, and finally one of them died and the next day, so did the other one.”

Oh, it was such a sad thing to hear! I could imagine those snowy-white, crumpled bodies floating in the pond, their beautiful, proud necks limp and unfurled.

“Of course, they did have some young, and if they’d survived, we might still have swans in the pond, right to this very day,” Buzzard said.

“The babies died too?” It was such a terrible question, I almost couldn’t ask it.

“Yes,” Buzzard said easily. “Fox got ‘em.”

I don’t know why, but it was one of the worst things I ever heard in all my life. Worse, even, than Crystal being gone and Miz Swan being dead. It was the saddest thing I could hear about and still be able to breathe! The beautiful swan mother and father trying to protect their babies and them getting eaten up by a mean old fox.

And suddenly, I was angry all over again.

“Why’d you tell me
that
?” I hollered at Buzzard, and she looked as surprised as I’ve ever seen anyone look. “Why’d you tell me something so awful?”

“Why, Dove!” She was completely perplexed, and so was I, but I wouldn’t have admitted it for anything. Like there was another big buildup of steam inside of me, and it had to come out and there was only one way—through my mouth. My mean, stupid mouth. And while Buzzard stood there staring at me, what I really wanted to do was reach all the way up to Heaven, grab the great God Almighty, look right into His face and ask Him
Why?
Why mamas and daddies die and why new mamas get so sad they run off and leave their own babies. And why Aunt Bett had to work so hard, trading her pickles to get clothes for her children. And, especially, why He lets foxes eat baby swans!

A big, loud moan—something I didn’t even know was there—came out of me, out of some place buried so deep, I couldn’t even imagine where it was. Buzzard was still staring at me, and I just sat there like a stupid lump, wondering what on earth was happening to me.

Finally, Buzzard spoke: “It’s been a lot on you,” she pronounced solemnly. Just as she said that, I thought about Aunt Bett, could almost see all those jars of pickles. Aunt Bett, who didn’t know about Mary Elizabeth or about Crystal running off. Why, if Crystal had just stayed around, maybe we could have gone back. Maybe even lived in that same little house all together. But now, with just us left, we’d probably have to crowd into Aunt Bett’s house and it already bulging at the seams with children.