The Swan House (15 page)

A
nd so the summer just went right along into muggy, sticky August. Marilyn Monroe died. She took an overdose of sleeping pills and killed herself. I wasn't a big fan of Marilyn Monroe—not the way I was with Natalie Wood—but still, everyone knew about her, and the fact that she'd killed herself did nothing to help my depression.

Robbie Bartholomew never called about the Varsity, and Daddy stayed in his office and politely received casseroles from a lot of single ladies who seemed to have their eye on him.

About twice a week Rachel came to spend the night. Sometimes she and I stayed up late into the night brainstorming about the Raven Dare, Rachel curled under the sheets of the twin bed in my room. We didn't seem to be making much progress, except that I did finally tell her about Carl being my other assistant, and I did ask her to go with Carl and me to the High Museum and gather all the information available about the disappearance of the three paintings. But we couldn't set a date because I hadn't seen Carl since that day we met up with the rednecks.

Ella Mae dusted and mopped and vacuumed and fried chicken and watched me out of the corner of her eye. But mostly, she refused to take me back to Mt. Carmel.

“Ain't safe,” she said a hundred times, scowling at me in a disapproving way. She'd been mad at me ever since my dad remarked that I'd had a mighty big problem with a door. “I don't approve of ya lyin' to Mista Middleton, Mary Swan. Ain't right.”

And when she was really irritated, she'd say, “I've a good mind to tell him myself. My, my, young'un. Yore gonna git me in a heap o' troubles, Mary Swan. A heap o' troubles.”

But I knew she'd never say anything to Daddy. It wasn't her place. And off she went mumbling and perspiring in that gray-and-white maid's uniform that was at least two sizes too small for her.

One day I trotted after her, saying, “I'm sorry, Ella Mae. Pleeese take me back this Saturday. I promise to stay at the church. I promise! My face is all healed, and I won't step outside if you don't want. I promise.”

“Hmmph!” was her reply. She must have thought about it all day, waddling from room to room and humming some of those Negro spirituals that I knew so well. Right before she left that afternoon, she took me aside and said, “All right, Mary Swan. Ya can come on Saturday. Stay all day long and follow Miss Abigail around. Ya stick with her—ya hear me?”

“Oh, Ella Mae! Thanks!” I wrapped my skinny, white, freckled arms around her thick waist and hugged her so tight that she said, “Mary Swan! My, my! Ya like to squeeze me ta death!” She wrinkled her black brow as though she was cross, but I could see a smile playing on her lips.

Three long weeks had passed since my last visit to Mt. Carmel, since three white boys taught me about hatred and cruelty, and since I had seen Carl Matthews. My heart was hammering in my chest when Ella Mae and I entered the big room in the basement. Immediately the smells of spaghetti sauce and garlic bread overtook me and I felt—how did I feel? Good, happy to be there, like a part of me had just walked in the front door of a house I'd never known was home.

When I saw Carl, I didn't know what to say. I felt like hugging him and thanking him again for saving me from the rednecks and apologizing for being away for so long.

“Nice to see ya, Mary Swan.” Those white teeth! He looked intently at my face, then smiled again. “You look good as new.”

I swallowed hard and nodded. But all the things I had planned to say to him just went straight out of my mind. We served up spaghetti in silence.

When we were washing up the dishes, Miss Abigail came over. “I guess I'm following you around today,” I said. She nodded. “Is there something you want me to do now?”

“You'll see, Mary Swan,” she answered in her no-nonsense way and hurried off to greet a young black girl with a baby.

Carl and I washed every dish and put them away and swept the kitchen and the main room while he told me all about what Mike and James and Puddin' had been up to lately. I finally got up the courage to ask him a question. “Would you be willing to come with me to the museum next week? After we finish up here, I mean?”

He cocked his head and shrugged. “Shore, Mary Swan. Why not? I want ta see your mother's paintings.” Then he winked. “And it's about time we get our hands on that big black raven, ain't it?”

I felt my cheeks burning. I nodded and then peeked out into the main room to see if Miss Abigail was ready for my help. She was engrossed in conversation with a young black teen who had the skinniest arms I'd ever seen. And she was holding a baby. A really small baby.

After a while, the baby started screaming so loudly that I guess the two could hardly hear themselves think. I was waiting, a little impatiently, and wondering if Miss Abigail had forgotten that I was staying with her today. But she hadn't.

“Mary Swan,” she called out to me. I was poised holding the broom, staring at the pitiful girl and her baby.

“Could you please take little Jessie so that Cassandra and I can talk?” When Miss Abigail wanted something, she stated it nicely but firmly. I didn't dare say no.

But inwardly I was horrified. I didn't know what to do with a screaming baby. I wasn't the kind of girl who oohed and ahhed over babies. They made me nervous. In fact, I don't think I'd ever held a baby in my life.

I bent down, and Miss Abigail must have seen how petrified I looked, because she took the baby out of Cassandra's arms and carefully placed her in mine. “Just snuggle her tight on your shoulder, Mary Swan. Be careful of her head. You need to support it.”

I smiled faintly, feeling my pulse pounding in my head. Little Jessie was furious.

“If'n ya keep walkin' her, she'll git quiet,” Cassandra said, looking relieved to not be holding the baby. Cassandra couldn't have been more than fourteen or fifteen.

So there I was, holding this tiny black baby girl, my head throbbing, wondering what in the world I was supposed to do with her. I remembered I'd seen Ella Mae patting an infant's back, so I tried that, to no avail. Jessie screamed all the harder.

I walked outside, because Miss Abigail and Cassandra were back into their conversation, and I could tell that I was supposed to leave. Right beside the church was a patch of land all grown up with brown grass and weeds. I walked her there. I wasn't about to walk her down the street and have all the neighbors staring at me, wondering why some white girl was holding a black baby and why she couldn't get her to calm down.

And then Carl appeared. I thought he'd already gone home. He was smiling that smile again, and I thought if he said one word about how to hold a baby, I'd explode.

“My, my, Jessie!” he said, drawing his face up to the little one's. He was talking in a soft, sweet way. “Ain't you mad today, young'un.”

I was holding her awkwardly with both arms in front of me, and Carl just reached down and took her from my hands and cradled her in his arms as if he'd been doing it all his life. And he looked that baby right in the eyes and cooed at her and bounced her really gently until she stopped screaming and stared at him.

That was the first time I really looked at Jessie. She had round black eyes and perfectly smooth black skin and tiny black curls on her head. And when she smiled, her whole little body seemed to be smiling.

“How did you get her to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Stop yelling and smile?”

Carl laughed lightly, shrugged, and said, “Mary Swan, I've been takin' care of babies ever since my mama died. Ya know what I mean? I helped raise Mike and James and Puddin' and my aunt's children and just about every other kid around here. Miss Abigail's always bringing babies over who need a bit of lovin.'”

I swallowed hard, feeling that fierce pride rise within me and that shame, too, for not having any idea of how to handle a baby. But Carl didn't seem to notice. He went on talking to Jessie and patting her bottom and walking around in the dying grass.

Finally Miss Abigail came outside with Cassandra, and they were both smiling in a funny way. Their faces looked happy but wet, like they'd been crying.

“Thank you, Mary Swan. Carl.” Miss Abigail took Cassandra's hand. “Let me introduce you to our new sister.”

Carl broke into his wide, white grin and said, “Well, ya don't say. That's mighty fine, Cassandra. Mighty fine.”

I furrowed my brow and looked from Carl to Miss Abigail to Cassandra. I had no idea why Miss Abigail was calling Cassandra their new sister. Had she adopted her? But Carl seemed to understand perfectly and to be more than pleased.

Miss Abigail took little Jessie in her arms and snuggled her close. “Your mama's made a very important decision,” she whispered. “The most important one in her whole life. You are a blessed baby.”

Then she gave Jessie to Cassandra, hugged them both, and said, “You go on home now, dear. I'll be along later with some diapers and food and that refrigerator.”

“Thank ya, Miss Abigail. Thank ya for everything. And thank ya, Mary Swan and Carl,” Cassandra said in a trembling voice. As she left, I wondered how this girl, probably younger than I, could possibly take care of that little baby, and the inner city once again felt like some foreign country.

“I best be goin',” Carl said to Miss Abigail. “Got a lot of work to do for Monday.” He nodded to me, and I felt a funny little quiver in my stomach, as if I didn't want him to leave.

So I cleared my throat and said, “See ya next week.” And off he went while I tried, to no avail, to keep my face from turning two shades of pink.

Miss Abigail didn't seem to notice but said, “Bye, Carl,” with the sweetest look on her face. Then she turned to me. “Would you like to stop by my house for a glass of iced tea, Mary Swan?”

“Go to your house? Why not?” I said. “Thanks.” At that moment iced tea sounded as refreshing as a dip in the pool.

Miss Abigail's old Ford station wagon was parked across the street from the church, its backseat crammed with bags full of clothes. When she opened the door, the air inside was so thick I thought I might be able to scoop it up in my hand. The cracked vinyl on the seats was broiling hot. I rolled down the window and stuck my head out. We drove past row after row of houses, their miniscule yards at times littered with spare car parts or children's toys or beer cans. The men and women sitting on the front porches would lift a hand and wave as Miss Abigail drove by.

She told me about her past, how her dad had made a lot of money in the automobile industry and how she lived in a “very comfortable neighborhood,” as she put it, in Detroit. But she'd left all that years ago, first to work in the slums of Detroit and now here in Atlanta. I wished she could live in a big white antebellum structure with a wraparound porch and sparkling hardwood floors and a big mimosa tree hanging over the porch. I wanted the inside of her home to be filled with her family china and silver and old photographs of family members, and I wanted her to have a long, curving wooden staircase leading to the second floor. Miss Abigail deserved a place like that, a retreat after her long days in the inner city.

But, of course, I knew all that was just another romantic dream from my big imagination. Still, I wasn't prepared for where she really lived. She pulled into the driveway of a pale blue house with peeling paint and a front porch cluttered with boxes and brown bags. It looked a lot like the other houses in Grant Park, badly in need of repair. She parked the Ford by the sidewalk, turned off the motor, and said, “Welcome to my house.”

Nothing fancy or new or different. No safe retreat. Just a roughshod house about a mile from Mt. Carmel Church. At first, I felt sorry for Miss Abigail, then I felt inspired by her, proud of her sacrifice. Those were fleeting emotions. I finally settled on the one that fit her. Everything I had observed about Miss Abigail in the past six weeks testified to one fact: This woman would naturally live among the people she worked with and loved.

On one side of the porch sat three old vinyl chairs with cracking upholstery and what looked like about ten brown bags filled with toys and puzzles and clothes. On the other side of the porch there was a wooden swing where a big brown-and-white cat was sleeping. An old refrigerator was lying on its side behind the swing.

Miss Abigail pushed open the screen door. I noticed that the screen had come loose in one corner and was rusted, and the door made a grinding squeal when she opened it. “Carl said he'd fix this door next week,” she stated unapologetically.

The front room had a sagging couch covered in a floral material that had long since faded, two old armchairs, and a coffee table. Plus there was a big desk along one wall that was stacked high with different piles of papers. Miss Abigail must have noticed me staring at her desk, because she gave a dry laugh and said, “What I need is a secretary to help me keep up with all the paper work.”

We walked to the back of the house. “Here we are,” she said happily, indicating a large, airy kitchen. “Have a seat, Mary Swan.” The table was rectangular and bigger than the oak table in our breakfast room. “A table is my most important piece of furniture. As long as I have a table, I can feed the children. The Lord knew I'd need a big kitchen and a big table for my work. And He gave me just that!”

She brought out two tall glasses and placed them on the table, and there was real pleasure in her gesture. Then she took a tray of ice from the freezer and dropped ice cubes into the glasses, filling them from a pitcher she took from the refrigerator.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

The refrigerator door had rust spots showing through, but mostly it was covered with pictures that had been taped all over it. Pictures of smiling children and young girls and a few elderly couples. And a picture of Carl with his siblings.

The iced tea tasted like a mixture of lemon and raspberry, and I closed my eyes, relishing the cold drink and the ice as it touched my lips.