The Swan House (17 page)

I just whispered to Carl, “What's up with those guys?”

“Nothin'.”

“Something's bothering you about them.”

“Ain't nothin', Mary Swan. Don't pay any attention to them.” His voice was firm.

They left us near the entrance to the High Museum. As soon as the rednecks were out of sight, I exploded, albeit in a whisper, “I hate guys like that. I hate them! Why do they have to act that way?”

But Carl didn't say a thing.

“Don't you hate them? Don't you think they're awful?” I asked, when I had calmed down a bit.

Carl cocked his head to the side, as if he wasn't sure whether to confide in me. Finally he said, “It's just the way things are, Mary Swan. It's like just because of the color of your skin, you're cursed forever. And there's nothing you can do about it, no matter what the people say. I respect Reverend King. I have a friend who went on the Freedom Rides, and I was involved in all the sit-ins in the cafeterias downtown last year, and I intend to be a part of every freedom rally I can. But I can feel it, Mary Swan. It'll be a long time comin' before we aren't judged by our skin color, before we ever get to say a word.

“We made some progress. At least we can sit where we want on the bus.” He gave me a wry grin. “We can even sit beside a white girl. But we aren't equal. Far, far from it.”

For the first time, I saw a look of discouragement on Carl's face.

“It ain't no fun being a Negro, Mary Swan. It ain't no fun.” Then he asked, “Are we almost to that museum?”

In answer, I stopped in front of a red-brick building at 1032 Peach-tree Street. “The High Museum,” I announced dramatically. We walked up the steps leading to the entrance, which was all glass with four white columns out front.

Carl held the door open for me, and we went into the lobby with its marble floors. I must admit Carl looked out of place as I presented my dad's patron's card to the woman who was taking tickets at the reception desk. I knew Mrs. MacIlvain well, so I said, “This is my friend Carl. He's with me.” To which, with more than a quizzical look, the woman let us in.

“So this is what you call a museum?” Carl said right out loud.

“Shh!” I reprimanded him. “Whisper in a museum. Whisper.” I pointed out the window. “The museum started out in that old Tudor house next door. It was sold to the Art Association in the 1920s by this lady named Hattie High.” I knew the history of the museum by heart.

“Hattie High—now, don't that beat all.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought it was called the High Museum 'cause it was tall or somethin'.”

I smiled. “Everybody thinks that. No, it's named after Mrs. High. She was a wealthy widow who was very involved in civic affairs. The Art Association had been looking for a place to build a museum for years, and then, out of the blue, Hattie High sold them her house for ten dollars.”

“Ten dollars!” Carl screwed up his face. “You're pullin' my leg, girl.”

“No, it's absolutely true.” And to prove it, I led him to the portrait of Hattie High that was prominently displayed in the lobby. Mama had always liked the painting. Hattie High sat comfortably but aristocratically in a chair, her graying hair pulled back from her face, a long strand of pearls falling over her shimmering silk dress, and a delicate silk scarf around her shoulders.

“She looks like royalty or somethin'.”

“She's about as close to royalty as we come in Atlanta. Mama said she was a member of nine different ancestral societies. Traces her family back to European nobility.”

“Ya don't say.” Carl was standing smack in front of the portrait, so close that his wide nose almost grazed Hattie High's sequined dress.

“You're not supposed to stand so close. Makes the security guards nervous. They'll think you're going to touch the painting.”

He rolled his eyes at me, so I added, “It's really bad for a painting to be touched.”

Carl smiled. “I may know more about washing dishes and calming screaming babies, but you got me beat when it comes to museums.”

I don't think he really cared, though. “When Mrs. High was alive, the museum mostly displayed works by American artists, like the man who painted her portrait the year the museum opened.”

“Sidney Edward Dickinson. Mighty fine name.” Carl read the plaque on the wall.

“Come on upstairs. There's lots more to see,” I said as we climbed the stairs to the second floor. “This is where the museum's two most important collections are housed. One is the Kress Collection. This new museum was built in 1955 to house it. The man who owns the dime stores called Kresgee's, Mr. Kress, divvied up his private art collection to thirteen cities. It was said to be worth 75 million dollars. Atlanta was one of the cities, but we had to agree to provide an appropriate facility for the collection—they're all Italian Renaissance—so the Art Association had this new museum built.”

“Italian Renaissance?” Carl screwed up his face. “What in the world does that mean?”

“It's the period of history when these works of art were painted. And they're all by Italian artists.”

He shrugged, saying, “Makes sense.” He stopped in front of a painting of the Madonna and Child. “Pa-ol-o dee Gee-o-van-i Fay,” he read. “Sure is hard to pronounce that artist's name. But I like the figures of Mary and Jesus—the way they're so much bigger than the angels and the other folk.” And slowly he walked around in the first gallery, admiring the works of art in the Kress Collection.

After a few minutes I interrupted him and said, “I'll show you something you'll really like.”

I led him into an adjoining gallery. “This room holds the Haverty Collection. Mr. J. J. Haverty was one of Atlanta's foremost art collectors.” We stopped in front of a landscape painting. “This one was painted by a colored man.”

“Ya don't say. Got pictures by Negroes in this museum?” He looked at the plaque. “Henry Ossawa Tanner.
Destruction of Sodom and
Gomorrah
.”

“Mr. Tanner was the son of a preacher, and he was very religious himself. Lots of his paintings are about things in the Bible. He even traveled to the Holy Land several times at the end of the century.”

Carl backed up and studied the painting intently. Then he exclaimed, all excited, “Why, that does just look like the story in the Old Testament. Mighty fine. Look at that sky! Just look at it! God's showin' His power right through nature. Looky there! Look at those colors—the layers of green and blue paint. You can barely see Lot and his daughters in that painting, but you shore can feel God's power!”

For at least ten minutes Carl examined the painting. He'd stand back across the room, peer at it with a wrinkled brow, then walk so quickly toward it that I was sure he'd touch it. He squinted his eyes and laughed and talked to himself, saying things like, “Those wicked, awful men, trying to entice Mr. Lot to give 'em the angels!” and “Now, if only he'd painted Lot's wife turning into a pillar of salt. . . .” And he chuckled.

I think Carl had forgotten I was beside him. I got a tingly feeling in my arms and head, the same as I got when I was pleased with one of my sketches.

Finally he nodded in approval. “That there is a mighty nice painting, Mary Swan.”

“You seem to know a lot about it.”

“'Bout the story, sure. I know that story by heart.” He cocked his head and asked, “Haven't you ever read that story in the Bible?”

“Never.” I was a little embarrassed that I'd never once thought of reading about the stories that Henry Tanner's paintings represented.

“You don't know anything about Sodom and Gomorrah, Mary Swan?” He was incredulous.

“Well, I know they were cities God destroyed because of their wickedness.”

“That's right. Ole Abraham tried to talk God out of it, seein' as how his nephew Lot lived there.” He chuckled again. “Good ole Abraham had a mighty int'restin' conversation with the Almighty. But in the end, there weren't any righteous folks in that town. Only a whole lot of wicked ones. And so the Lord jus' up and annihilated them all. And Lot and his family ran for their lives. But Lot's wife—” He stopped in midsentence. “Surely you've heard about Lot's wife, Mary Swan?”

“Well, you just said it, Carl. She turned into a pillar of salt.”

“Exactly. She disobeyed the Lord. He'd told them not to look back at the destruction. And poof, she became a pillar of salt.”

“Kind of a wild story. You don't believe it, do you?”

He was genuinely shocked, “'Course I do, Mary Swan. It's in the Bible.”

I was naïve, but even I knew that lots of stuff written in the Bible sounded like a fairy tale. But I didn't dwell on that. What I was thinking was that I liked watching Carl discover art. Because that's just what it was. A discovery. Nothing sophisticated. He reacted to it in the most natural way. It made me shiver again. Observing his enthusiasm, I decided I wanted to create art that anyone, black or white or rich or poor, could enjoy. Someday I wanted Carl to stand before one of my paintings with his eyes shining and say, “That's mighty fine, Mary Swan. Mighty fine.”

When we came to the gallery set up in memory of the artists who perished in the plane crash, I suddenly felt sickish inside, and I broke out in a cold sweat. “I need to go to the bathroom,” I mumbled, heading downstairs to the lobby with Carl following.

“I'll wait for you here,” he assured me, standing near Mrs. MacIlvain's desk.

“If you need to use the rest room,” she said, clearly embarrassed, “the rest room for Negroes is downstairs.”

“I'm fine,” he answered, declining her offer as I hurried down the hall. I hadn't even considered the possibility of separate bathrooms for blacks and whites. I was feeling worse by the second.

But I had regained my composure by the time I joined Carl at Mrs. MacIlvain's desk. Lillian MacIlvain had been a dear friend of Mama's. She smiled at us politely, but her cheeks turned light pink under her perfectly placed makeup.

“How can I help you, Mary Swan?” Her voice was syrupy sweet and tinged with a dose of pity.

“Well, can you keep a secret?” I asked. She nodded, leaning closer toward us. “A big secret?” Another nod and a bit of interest in her eyes. “I'd like to do some research on the three missing paintings. You know, the ones that disappeared last year before the exhibition.”

Mrs. MacIlvain's face fell, and she said softly, “Isn't that a bit morbid?”

“No, I need to find out, for me and for Mama. Please.”

“Do you really think it's wise, Mary Swan, especially right now, so soon . . .”

After the crash,
I bet she thought, but she didn't say it. She'd already been to our house five times during the summer, bringing food and helping Daddy sort through Mama's things. Fortunately, contrary to several other women who came a little too often to our house, she never posed a threat to Daddy. She was married with four kids, one of whom was in my class at Wellington.

“Oh yes, I need to. But you can't breathe a word, Mrs. MacIlvain. Not to Daddy or anyone else.”

She eyed Carl suspiciously, but I didn't feel like trying to explain why he was with me, helping in something I called secret. Lillian MacIlvain and Carl and I stood there awkwardly until at last I said, “Mrs. MacIlvain, I was wondering if you have any records about the paintings. The newspaper articles about the exhibition that was planned. Anything that might help me do a bit of research.”

She cleared her throat. “Yes, of course, we could get you that information, Mary Swan, if you're sure.”

“I'm sure, Mrs. MacIlvain. I need to do this.”

“I understand,” she said sweetly, and I think she really did. “Have you seen the exhibition upstairs in memory of the artists on the plane?”

“Not yet,” I said too quickly. “I was just going to take Carl up there.”

While Mrs. MacIlvain went searching through the files, Carl and I ventured back upstairs through the Kress Galleries. I hesitated before entering the gallery reserved for paintings painted by the crash victims. Then, taking a deep breath, I walked into the room with Carl close behind.

“There's Mama's painting,” I said proudly.

And he rewarded me with a real live, “Ya don't say!” He practically stuck his nose on the plaque and read, “Sheila McKenzie Middle-ton,
The Swan House
.”

It was one of Mama's numerous paintings of the famous mansion. “Beautiful, isn't it?”

Carl stared at the painting and then at me and then back at the painting. “Is it something symbolic, Mary Swan? Like those snakes in
Huckleberry Finn
or the turtle in
The Grapes of Wrath
?” Both of us had studied those books in school last year, and we'd talked about them just that morning.

“Sure, there's always symbolism in Mama's paintings.”

“No, I mean is that about you, Mary Swan? The Swan House—is that you?”

The way he asked the question, I could tell he really wanted to know. I liked the way Carl thought about things.

“No, it's not about me,” I said quickly, not wanting to confide that secret to him. “The Swan House really exists. In fact, it's right next door to where I live.”

“Ya don't say! You live next door to a mansion with fancy, tumblin' fountains in the front yard.”

I nodded. “Someday I'll take you to see it, if you'd like.”

His eyes grew wide, and he smiled and looked embarrassed. “We'll see about that, Mary Swan.”

“Come here quick,” I said. And then, “This
is
a painting of me.” I got tears in my eyes just seeing my beloved portrait hanging there in one of the museum's galleries.

“Ya don't say. That's you as a little girl!” He backed up, crossed his arms over his chest, and just stared at the painting. Finally, he said, “I like it. I like it a whole lot. I think your mama got it right. I think that must be just how you were as a little girl. All wild and free and pushing your feet out like you're trying to touch somethin' in another world. I do believe that's you.”