The Swan House (22 page)

That made me think about the way everyone at school kind of worshipped Elvis Presley and Marilyn Monroe. And Natalie Wood.

“Uh-uh, my chile. Don't you be worryin' none about beauty. You'll turn out jus' fine. Be sure of what you want, of what you pray for. If I was you, I'd want to have a good head on my shoulders and a heart that loves God. He's the one in charge, ya know. My, my, chile.” She plugged in the cord to the vacuum cleaner and took another look at the dresses. Then with a smile on her lips, she pointed to the pale yellow off-the-shoulder dress. “Dat one will be mighty fine on you, Mary Swan. Mighty fine.”

While Ella Mae vacuumed, I looked at my face in the mirror and wondered if it really was okay to be how I was. I had braces on my teeth, the color of my hair was a rather plain mousy brown. I was skinny, that was the only word for it. Skinny when all the other girls were becoming nicely rounded in all the right places. But I did like my eyes. They were a bright blue-green with black lashes, thick and long, surrounding them. Once Mary Alice Underwood, one of the popular girls in my class, but not particularly known for her tact, had remarked, “Too bad, Mary Swan, that the rest of you doesn't match up with your eyes.”

They were Mama's eyes, striking. Of course all of Mama's appearance had been striking. A natural blonde with a little red in her hair (and a little help now and then), she had perfect jade green eyes and black lashes and a pouty, full mouth. She always looked like she should be on the cover of a magazine. She called herself
coquette
, which in French meant that she loved stylish clothes and fancy affairs, but at home she looked terrific in Dad's paint-splattered old blue Oxford shirt and those tight Audrey Hepburn black stretch pants with ballerina slippers.

I thought about Ella Mae's words and agreed with her. Mama's beauty had been an asset in some ways, but I think it had driven her crazy too. She wanted to be recognized as a fine painter without the addition of the “very lovely Sheila Middleton” tagged on, as if the fact that she was physically attractive made her a better painter.

Ella Mae was right. Beauty was nothing you earned. It didn't deserve the recognition we gave it. It was a curse for those who had it and those who admired it. I agreed with all of that in my head.

But in my heart, for the night of my first dance, I longed with everything within me to be beautiful.

When Robbie picked me up the next night, I had on that off-the-shoulder dress and a little of Mama's blush and lipstick and perfume, and Rachel had shown me how to curl my hair on the ends. Robbie wore a plaid sport coat and khaki pants and white bucks. He had slicked down his auburn hair and parted it to the side, which made him look a little older. That night I noticed how his eyes really were topaz, almost like the gem I had on a ring Mama had given me. He towered over me, which made me feel safe.

I liked the way he looked that night, even if everything about him did match. Plus he said the words I had longed to hear.

“You look great, Mary Swan. Really pretty.”

I beamed. “Thanks.” And after an awkward moment of Robbie shaking Daddy's hand, while Jimmy raced down the steps to say hello, we went outside and got into his fancy new convertible. I noticed with a mixture of excitement and relief that no one else occupied the backseat.

It took us forty-five minutes to drive to the party, so with the top down on the convertible, my hair was pretty much ruined before we even arrived. But that didn't matter. Robbie and I laughed and talked about all kinds of stuff, and to my great delight, I found it wasn't hard at all to make conversation. He even thought that my jokes were funny.

For the third year in a row, the Back-to-School Ball was held on George Dixon's sprawling horse farm in Carollton, Georgia. Mr. Dixon had two sons at Mendon's Private School for Boys and a daughter at Wellington and enough money to treat half of Atlanta to a party. Under one striped tent were four long tables, the kind you can rent, laden with rare roast beef and horseradish, spicy meatballs, stuffed mushrooms, cheese balls, fresh fruit, raw vegetables and dips, smoked salmon, and various potato and vegetable salads. Robbie and I sampled every bit of food on each table, and then, when we were stuffed beyond belief, we laughed foolishly and arm in arm made our way to the other big tent, the one with the live band.

“You want to dance?” Robbie asked, a little shyly.

“I'd love to, but I'm not that great at it.”

“Me either. Let's give it a try.”

So we danced to almost all of the songs the band played, and when Robbie held my hands as we jitterbugged, I felt those familiar prickles. My hair fell limply on my bare shoulders and perspiration dotted my cheeks, but I didn't care. I felt like Mama's portrait of me as a little girl, happy, happy, happy! I thought that maybe this was the best night of my life, and I hoped it would go on forever.

We were both burning up after the latest jitterbug. “Need something to drink?” Robbie asked, wiping perspiration from his forehead.

“Yes, some punch!”

So with punch glasses in hand, we stood outside the tent and listened to the laughter and the music, and I looked up at the sky, which had turned suddenly very dark and was flecked with stars. “A million of them, don't you bet, Robbie?”

“At least.”

I closed my eyes and breathed so deeply. “Absolutely perfect.”

“What is?”

“This evening.”

“Then make up a poem about it, Mary Swan.” His eyes were twinkling, and a shy smile played on his lips. “Everybody says that you're a genius with poems.”

“They do?” I blushed.

He nodded eagerly.

“Okay, but you have to understand that it's not really poetry. Just silly rhymes.”

“That's fine by me.” And the way Robbie was looking at me, I felt like I might be able to reach up and grab one of those million stars.

I ran my fingers through my damp hair, crinkled up my nose, and made my eyes into little slits that captured a half moon and a few hundred twinkling specks. “I'd rather see stars than ride in cars or eat cookies out of jars or go to bars. I'd rather see stars. I'd rather see lakes than have tummy aches from chocolate cakes or double-takes. I'd rather see lakes. . . .”

“I'd rather dance.”

I shrugged. “Okay. I'd rather dance than wear your pants or water your plants or advance in a trance.”

“That's a good one!”

“I'd rather stay up late than contemplate or radiate or initiate. I like to stay up late.”

“Me too.”

“I'd rather read a book than ever cook or take a look at a—”

“Fish on a hook!”

“Exactly. A fish on a hook. I'd rather read a book. I'd rather laugh out loud than be in a crowd or learn to be proud or live on a cloud. I'd rather laugh out loud.” Which we both did, and which made the moment seem suddenly almost magical.

“Where'd you learn to do that anyway?” he asked with admiration.

“Oh, I didn't ever learn it. I was just born with silly rhymes in my head. I guess the way some people are good with numbers. Not that it's worth anything.”

“Someday it might be. Can't say playing football is worth that much either.”

“Are you crazy? Everyone knows you'll get offered a bunch of scholarships to college.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.” I liked the way he didn't seem very impressed with himself. “Do you want to write later on? I mean, as a job?”

I didn't hesitate. “No, I don't want to write. I want to paint. Like Mama.”

He fumbled with a button on his shirt and took a sip of punch. “Is it hard, thinking about her. . . ?”

“Since she's dead,” I helped him out. “Actually, I think that knowing about Mama's talent gives me a lot of motivation. . . .”
To solve the
riddle,
I almost said, and stopped myself just in time. “Gives me motivation to pursue art. Someday. In her honor, you know? Mama sketched in almost every famous European city. Someday I'll go back and visit.” I rattled on as we walked back to the food tent. “And someday her paintings are going to be hanging in the most famous museums.”

“Really?”

“Well, I hope so. Two of her paintings are at the High right now, as part of a special exhibition for—well, you know, for the painters who were victims.”

“Yeah, I remember Mom saying something about it.”

A group of three other couples stood beside us, half listening to our conversation. All three of the girls were in my class at Wellington, Millie Garrett and Julie Jacobs and Gail Anderson, and their dates were from Mendon.

“I've seen your mom's paintings there,” Millie Garrett commented. “Julie and I went with our moms right before school started.” She lowered her voice respectfully. “I love that painting of the Swan House. It makes you want to
live
in that mansion. And that painting of you as a little girl—well, I laughed and I cried when I saw that!”

I felt like hugging Millie at that moment, the way she was raving about Mama.

“I didn't realize that your mom was such a good painter, Mary Swan!” Julie Jacobs added enthusiastically. “I mean, I knew she was an artist, but imagine maybe one day having her paintings in really famous museums!”

Somehow, talking about Mama as an artist didn't hurt. I felt proud. “She painted the most beautiful things.”

Herbert Thomas and Virginia Lawson joined the group at that moment. I hardly paid any attention until Herbert stumbled over to me and I caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath. For those students who craved beer, the Dixons' land offered a number of woodsy areas where kegs could be concealed. I don't think the adults worried much about beer, anyway. The hard stuff was what bothered them.

By this time in the evening Herbert had found plenty of hard stuff, and his swagger and slightly drooping eyes betrayed him before he even opened his mouth. When he did speak, the words were slurred and almost incomprehensible.

Robbie rolled his eyes and whispered, “Let's go back outside.”

But I ignored him. “As I was saying, she painted great portraits and still li—”

“Your mama was crazy, Mary Swan. A raving lunatic, that Sheila Middleton,” Herbert butted in. He started to laugh this awful, drunken cackle. Everyone stopped talking and stared. He had fairly shouted it.

At first I didn't react. Robbie's face turned a dark-stained red, and he started to say something to Herbert, but before he could, I blurted out, “What are you talking about? She was an artist!”

“A lunatic,” he repeated.

An extremely uncomfortable silence ensued. Everyone in the group was staring at me, and I got a sick, quivery feeling inside.

“My mother was not a lunatic.”

Eyes sagging, Herbert shrugged, “No one ever wanted you to know the truth about your mom. That's all.”

Virginia's face was bright red. “Herbert, please,” she said with a nervous little giggle. Then she whispered, “You're talking about the dead. It isn't right.”

He fiddled with his glass and muttered, “Sorry,” with a silly smile.

“You should be sorry, Herbert!” Robbie said angrily, coming right up to his face.

“You're the lunatic!” Millie Garrett seethed at Herbert. “You make me sick.”

And the others in the group were nodding their heads and saying things like “Don't pay any attention to him, Mary Swan. He's just a good-for-nothing louse.”

Robbie took hold of my arm. “He has no idea what he's saying, Mary Swan. He's drunk out of his mind.”

I shook off his arm when we were outside and whispered way too loud, “But he said Mama was crazy!” I was shaking.

“Forget it, Mary Swan. He doesn't know anything.”

“But he does! He knows something I don't. A secret about my mother!”

“Mary Swan.” Robbie was both alarmed and annoyed by my reaction. “For heaven's sake, the guy's drunk. Don't you think you're being a little bit oversensitive?” Then he saw the blaze in my eyes and added, “It's understandable, of course. With all you've been through. Come on, let's go get a Coke.” He took my arm again gently, but I flung it away.

“I need to be alone for a minute,” I said, half angrily, half apologetically, walking away from him. Something was throbbing in the back of my head, some memory trying to escape. Then it came to me.

I was about five years old, and I was sitting in Ella Mae's lap as I often did at the end of the day, waiting for Mama to get home from the doctor's. Except that this day she didn't go to the doctor's office. This day, for some reason, she was still at home, upstairs in her studio. And suddenly I wasn't in Ella Mae's lap anymore, but standing wide-eyed in the entrance hall watching Ella Mae carry Mama's limp body into Daddy's study and lay her on the couch.

Ella Mae turned and saw me and did something she'd never done before. She yelled, “Git up to yore room, Mary Swan!”

Me climbing the steps to my room and seeing blood on the carpet in the hall.

Trixie appearing from nowhere. Jimmy crying. The sound of a siren screaming outside.

Trixie explaining, “Your mama fell and hurt herself. But it'll be okay. It'll be okay.”

Me looking at Trixie's tear-stained face that was all smudged with mascara.

And later, Daddy and Jimmy and I going to visit Mama at a fancy kind of hospital. Mama had been sick, was all they told me.

I put my head in my hands, sank to the ground, and cried.

Poor Robbie found me there. “Mary Swan! What's the matter?”

But I shook my head and motioned with my hand for him to stay away. He must have gone to find Rachel, because a moment later she came running over to me.

“Swan—what in the world. . . ?”

“I want to get drunk,” I whispered.

Rachel narrowed her eyes. “What is the matter with you?”