The Swan House (25 page)

I brushed her for at least fifteen minutes without saying a word to Rachel. Then I went back into the tack room and grabbed a bridle and a hard hat and said, “Let's go.”

So even though Rachel had just spent the afternoon riding, she happily joined me as we slipped the bridles on our mares and led them out of the stable and up a hill to the riding ring. Then we climbed onto the fence, coaxed the mares to come alongside us, and hopped onto their bare backs. And as soon as my bottom touched Bonnie's warm sleek coat and I wrapped my legs around her smooth, rounded barrel, I forgot about Mama and Herbert and the Back-to-School Ball. It was the best therapy in the world, riding around the ring with a cloudless blue sky above and the faintest hint of autumn in the air.

Chapter 12

M
ary Swan, time for church!” Daddy's voice carried up the stairs. Then he added, “We'll be eating lunch at the club with Grand-mom and Granddad.”

I groaned. The last two places I wanted to be that Sunday were at church and at the club. Plenty of kids who were at the Back-to-School Ball would be both places. And Rachel wouldn't be at either. Her parents belonged to the Jewish club in town.

Eating lunch at the club with Grandmom and Granddad after church on Sundays was as much of a tradition in our family as going to church itself. But we hadn't been to eat at the club since Mama and Daddy had left on the European tour.

During the church service I ignored Virginia Lawson as she peered over the top of numerous ladies' hats to stare at me from three pews up and over on the right side. Jane Springfield was sitting by her, and as soon as she caught my eye, Virginia whispered something to Jane and they laughed into their white gloves. Millie Garrett looked away quickly when I caught sight of her coming down the aisle with her family. At least Herbert didn't attend St. Philip's.

I considered crawling under the pews to hide from any other possible sources of embarrassment, but settled instead on simply sinking to my knees on the kneeler. Then the congregation stood and began singing a hymn as the verger, the crucifer, and the acolytes paraded solemnly down the aisle. I was hiding my face in a hymnal when, to my horror, Robbie passed right beside me, carrying the tall gold candle holder. Of course Robbie the Boy Scout was also Robbie the acolyte.

Without missing a step, he mouthed the words, “Are you okay?” and I nodded so quickly that my straw hat with the blue satin ribbon and the fake daisies floated off my head and onto Jimmy's lap. Robbie was long past and Jimmy still guffawing by the time I got the hat back on my head. And Daddy gave me a stern look that meant,
Really, Mary
Swan! We're in church
.

Usually after church a group of teenagers stood outside in the gardens to talk. Today I hid in the bathroom and waited for fifteen minutes to pass so that I could safely head to the car without seeing any of them.

Unfortunately, Patty Masters stepped into the powder room just as I was stepping out. “Mary Swan,” she said sympathetically. “How are you?”

“Fine,” I said dryly.

“Real convincing, Swan,” she teased. “I saw you nipping in the bourbon the other night.” She took me by the shoulders in a playful way, but since she was almost six feet tall, it still seemed a bit intimidating. “That's not like you. Don't you let a scum ball like Herbert drive you to drink. There are better things in life.” Then she stuck her tongue in her lower lip and made one of the ridiculous faces she was known for, and I giggled in spite of my foul mood.

“Half fine, then,” I confessed.

“Good ole Herbert. Leave it to the idiot of Mendon to spoil a perfectly delightful evening.”

I shrugged.

“If it makes you feel any better, I heard that Virginia broke up with him that night after he insulted your mom. He's heartbroken.” She made a mock-sad face, stuck her tongue in her lower lip again, and crossed her eyes.

This time I laughed out loud.

“Anyway, don't let it get to you. Not someone like him. Now quit powdering your nose and go on out to the parking lot. Robbie's looking all over for you.” Right before she closed the door to the bathroom stall, she added, “Swell guy, that Robbie Bartholomew.”

But I didn't want to see Robbie. Apologizing on the phone was one thing; dealing with it face-to-face was another. In the end, Robbie found me walking swiftly to my dad's Jaguar. He jogged to catch up with me, and his cheeks were all red when he got there.

He grabbed my hand and before I could pull it away, said, “Thanks for calling yesterday. I was so worried about you. I didn't sleep a wink Friday night. Are you okay now?”

“Yeah. I'm fine, except that everyone is looking at me like I have two heads. I really have to go, Robbie.”

“Wait, Swan. Please.” The topaz eyes met mine. “Could we maybe go somewhere tonight?”

“Don't even mention the Varsity. Out of the question.”

He smiled, but with a pained look on his face. “I was thinking somewhere alone, just you and me.”

I felt a twinge in my stomach. “I don't know, Robbie. Why would you possibly want to go anywhere with me after the way I acted Friday night?”

He grinned, “To give you another chance? Naw, I'm just kidding. I thought a movie would be fun. Light. Popcorn and Coke. Definitely no bourbon.”

I found myself smiling and blushing. Robbie Bartholomew had a sense of humor!

“Well, I don't know. I've gotta go. Daddy's taking us all to the club for lunch.”

“See you at seven, then,” he said, touching my arm and giving me a wink. He left before I could say anything else.

“Wooweee, Swannee and Robbie,” Jimmy sang triumphantly when I got to the car.

“Oh, hush up,” I hissed.

“Seems like such a nice boy,” Grandmom Middleton commented as she got into her big Cadillac, which was parked close to Daddy's car.

“Fine family,” Granddad mumbled. “And I believe he's quite the football player. Tall and smart. Halfback.”

They puttered out of the parking lot with Jimmy in the backseat making faces at me while Daddy and I followed in the Jaguar.

“Nice boy, that Robbie Bartholomew,” Daddy said. “From a real fine family.”

I rolled my eyes. Sometimes it was scary how much he and Granddad thought alike. He turned on the radio and listened to the news and then adjusted the dial to the sports station. So with the radio blaring and the windows down, I settled into my seat and thought about how Robbie Bartholomew had cracked a joke and winked at me and was taking me to the movies in just six hours. And I forgot to be worried about whom I might see at the club.

As it turned out, it wasn't who I saw at the club that was the problem. It was all about who wanted to see Daddy.

The Capital City Country Club sprawled over many acres way out Peachtree Street. The main building was built of beautiful sand-colored stone. A black valet always met us at the entrance, opened the car doors, let us out, and then parked the car. Club members could choose between the snack bar by the pool or the fancy restaurant upstairs. The club had a golf course and a swimming pool and tennis courts and a great lake for fishing.

When I was little, Granddad used to take Jimmy and me fishing. But I hated to see the half-dead fish floating on their sides in the bucket of water, and one time, when we were halfway back to his house, I had made Granddad turn around and let me throw the fish back into the lake. That was my last fishing expedition with Granddad.

Heading to our table in the formal dining room, I noticed with relief that Daddy stopped to joke with a few men on the way. “Did ya see what the Dow Jones did Friday, Bill? Looks like Coca-Cola might be on the move again.”

“Listen, John Jason, you better get ready for the biggest surprise of the year when there's a merger in the automobile industry. And that Disney stock is gonna be worth something someday. I swear it!”

Daddy slapped Bill Henderson on the back and walked over to Jerry Webster, one of his fraternity brothers from Georgia Tech. “Got any tips on the Yellow Jackets for the fall, Jerry? Didn't look half bad yesterday against the Blue Devils.”

And so the friendly banter went. I felt in a wonderful, hopeful mood for a number of reasons. I had a date later that night, and my reputation apparently wasn't tarnished beyond repair. Daddy had played golf at the club yesterday and was swapping stock stories with his buddies today. And he was all shaven and looking handsome. Jimmy was his same ole bratty self. And we were with Grandmom and Granddad, just like old times. So maybe that meant we were all on the road to recovery.

The waiters put us at a new table, not the one we used to sit at when Mama was alive. This table was in front of the big window that looked out onto the swimming pool. It was a round table with just enough room for the five of us, so it didn't seem like someone was missing, even though we were all probably feeling awkward that Mama wasn't there asking for her Bloody Mary.

“Sure do love those buttered crackers,” Grandmom said to break the silence, reaching for the small silver tray that held the club's specialty. “And I've just got to try the vichyssoise today!”

“That's what you have every time, Jennie,” Granddad said, raising his eyebrows and winking at me.

A waiter came over and silently placed himself by Granddad. When Granddad finished speaking, the waiter said, “Good to see you here today, Mr. Middleton. You doin' all right?”

“Just fine, Tony. Just fine. And how are you today? Lotta business, it looks like.”

“Business goin' well, Mr. Middleton. Are y'all ready to order?”

“I believe we are,” Granddad said jovially. So Tony turned to Grandmom first, and one after another we ordered.

All the waiters knew every club member by name, and most of the members knew the waiters by name too. I noticed in a different way from before that all the waiters were black. They wore black tuxes with starched white shirts and black bow ties, and the waitresses wore black dresses with bright white, frilly aprons tied around their waists. I wondered if a white person could be hired to work as a waiter at the club.

The meal went along just fine with me telling Grandmom all about the dress I wore to the Back-to-School Ball and how the Dixons had decorated the farm and the big tents and the food and the band and the dancing. I made it sound like the whole evening had been a dream come true. Daddy and Granddad droned on about the stock market, and Jimmy watched the swimmers and would occasionally comment, “Nice dive!”

But then, near the end of the meal, several women stopped by the table, one at a time, to say hello to Daddy. Very charming and very unattached women. I'd heard it said that there was nothing like a rich widower to attract the best and worst of the city's women, and I found out it was true. That day at the club, I recognized these three as women who had periodically shown up at our house throughout the summer with all kinds of steaming casseroles: Helen Goodman and Amanda Hunnicutt and Jennifer Peabody. They'd never stayed long, and I'd not given it a second thought.

But on this day, each one at separate intervals stopped by to chat with us as we were eating. And for some reason, that made me feel queasy inside. I lost my appetite and couldn't finish my absolutely favorite meal of prime rib and scalloped potatoes. Amanda Hunnicutt even found a way to lean over close to Daddy so that her more-than-ample cleavage showed. Then, at Daddy's invitation, she joined us for coffee.

“Oh, JJ. How sweet of you. Well, I can only stay for a sec. Just a sec,” she said in her syrupy voice, and then she let out this piercing giggle that sent shivers down my spine.

Daddy motioned to a waiter and asked him to bring a chair over for Miss Hunnicutt, and I had to scoot over closer to Grandmom so that Miss Hunnicutt could fit in beside Daddy. Jimmy just sat and stared at her with his mouth hanging half open. I think he was more fascinated with her low-cut dress than her high-pitched laugh. I finally stomped on his foot under the table, and he snapped his mouth shut.

I didn't say a word but silently appraised the situation. Didn't these women know anything about proper etiquette? I was sure it was written in Emily Post somewhere that widowers got a year of peace to grieve before they were preyed upon by society's most eligible ladies.

If there was one thing I had learned at my girls' school, it was etiquette. In our sophomore year, we were required to take a class called Fashion and Poise, which met once a week to instruct us young ladies in all the essentials of womanly grace. We had been unapologetic in our ridicule of the class and of the teacher until I had gotten one of my great ideas. I had announced to my classmates one day before the teacher arrived that the course had been given a new name. Hereafter, instead of learning about Fashion and Poise, we were gleaning helpful hints about Passion and Boys. My classmates loved the name, so it stuck. And every sophomore soon was whispering gleefully about their class on Passion and Boys. Somehow that made learning about how to use an emery board and paint your fingernails and apply deodorant and what to wear to a funeral much more bearable.

But in the fall of 1962 it was Passion and Women, and Daddy was the target. And I made up my mind, sitting there at the round table at the club with Grandmom and Granddad and Jimmy and Daddy and Amanda Hunnicutt, that not a one of these high-society ladies would get her hands on Daddy and his fortune.

Robbie picked me up at seven o'clock sharp, and we drove with the top down on the convertible to the drive-in where the latest Elvis Presley movie was showing. Since his fancy little red convertible had the gearshift in the middle, I couldn't exactly sit next to him, and he couldn't really get his arm around my shoulder, so we watched the movie passing the box of popcorn between us. The credits were rolling at the end of the film when we first heard the skirmish behind us. A black boy with a ridiculous-looking paper hat on his head advertising a soft drink was serving a car several rows back.