The Swan House (28 page)

Something in the way Miss Abigail described Jesus' interaction with these women suddenly made me want to read the Bible. She was preaching me a sermon I'd never heard before. Or maybe it was simply that I'd never wanted to hear it.

“I'll tell you how I found Carl, Mary Swan.” Her voice suddenly sounded raspy and pained. “A policeman came to the church early one morning explaining that there had been a shooting down the street the night before. He asked me to come and see.

“I'd been in Atlanta barely three months at the time. I walked into a slum hovel—that's the only way to describe it. There was blood on the floor where the body had fallen. And squatting and crying in the three filthy rooms of that place were a bunch of children. Eight in all. Five belonged to Carl's mom, and three of them to his aunt. The aunt and her brother were trying to manage with all those children. They were in shock—all of them.

“Carl was the oldest sibling. At twelve he was trying to calm down all the little ones—skinny, dirty kids with runny noses and lice. His aunt's oldest daughter was thirteen and pregnant and had epilepsy. She died giving birth to her baby three months later. Two others of those eight children had TB and eventually died. One of them was Carl's other sister. She died at the age of eight.” Her eyes got a little misty. “It was nothing but a pure miracle that little Puddin' survived. Just a little scrawny, sickly baby.

“I'd seen places like that in the Detroit slums too. The dirty toilet on the back porch was their only link to anything modern. No hot water, no window screens, no lavatory, tub, or shower. And nothing in the refrigerator but an opened can of tuna. Flies all over the kitchen counter, along with a lot of other things I won't mention.”

Her story repulsed me. Surely Carl hadn't lived that way! “What did you do?” I asked.

“I gathered up those children and took them home with me. What else could I do? Got them clean and in school. But you know, Mary Swan, I never could have done it without all those lovely volunteers. Those ladies from your church and other churches in Buckhead who came down here and helped me wash the children and feed them and just hold the babies. The wealthy white ladies from Buckhead who loved Jesus bridged a gap in the inner city, Mary Swan. They became Jesus' hands and feet right here in this place.”

“Rich white ladies helped you care for Carl and his brothers and sisters?” I asked incredulously.

“Mary Swan,” she said, a peaceful expression on her face. “I love Buckhead. I love those precious women who volunteer their time down here. Did you think it was all me? The Lord knows how many a day He has kept me going because some sweet lady from Buckhead or another part of Atlanta was willing to help out.”

“They didn't mind the poverty or the smell or how dirty everything is?”

She got this twinkle in her eye and said, “Mary Swan, those ladies may live in fine homes in the northwest part of Atlanta, but their hearts are given to Jesus. And He shows them what to do. Every day.”

This was a revelation to me. “So you don't think it's bad to have money, lots of money?”

“No, I praise God for those kind women and their husbands. Many give generously, more than generously, to all kinds of charities, including the work going on here in Grant Park. Money is not the problem, Mary Swan. Do you know the verse that says, ‘Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also'?”

I shrugged and shook my head.

“Look it up sometime. It's in the seventh chapter of the gospel of Matthew. And in the epistle to Timothy, the apostle Paul says it's the
love
of money that causes all the problems. Anything we worship above the Lord gets us into trouble. It could be our big fancy house in Buck- head or a bottle of beer here in Grant Park. It could be a car or our education or a man. . . .”

She looked away as though she was remembering something. “Carl and his siblings are going to make it, and they are going to make a difference because of all the help those ladies gave us. And those children know it. They know that God reached down to them in the middle of their suffering and picked them up. They've seen God do some mighty things in their lives. Miracles, Mary Swan.

“Lotta temptations out there for them, but I pray every day they remember how many people came, how many still come, week after week, just like you, to help out. I pray they remember what the hands and feet of Jesus look like. They may be white or black or any other color, but they are hands and feet that put Jesus first.”

When Miss Abigail felt really passionate about something, her voice rose and her eyes got misty. I felt as though I had a golf ball in my throat. I couldn't speak.

She kept right on talking. “That's what God does with suffering, Mary Swan. Where it could breed violence and hatred and cruelty, God's love changes it into a sacrifice of love for Him. He changes it.” Quite suddenly, she dropped to her knees and began to cry.

I think I was sitting up really stifflike, my back straight against the pew. I wanted to be on my knees, weeping beside Miss Abigail. Her story absolutely broke my heart. But I could not bear to let it get inside me. Not all that stuff about God and sacrifice and Him changing all the awful circumstances into good. Somehow I knew that if I really concentrated on her words, the God she spoke about so freely, so intimately, might come into my heart too. And I wasn't ready.

“Bless the children, mighty, holy Lord,” she was praying with her eyes closed, tears trickling down her face. “You keep these children safe, all of them. I can't and their parents can't. But you can.”

By now I had pushed my emotions so far back in my mind that my whole body felt hard and embarrassed by the open tears of Miss Abigail. The crushing, vulnerable feeling inside my chest was gone. When I spoke, I was surprised to hear the aloofness in my voice. “Do you always have children living with you?”

She got off her knees rather slowly, stood up, and walked over to one of the stained-glass windows. “Often, but not always.”

“And you've never had any kids of your own?”

“No.”

“Did you ever want to be married?”

“I was married once, Mary Swan.” She turned around to face me, and suddenly her voice caught. “Married a boy I knew from school, a boy from a fine family in Detroit. Smart and funny and a head full of black curls, and eyes that could sweep you away with a look.” Her smile was sad.

“I was really young, barely eighteen. He was three years older, had been off to school, and knew a lot of things. And he'd been with a lot of women. Of course, I didn't know that then. I don't know why he married me—yes, I guess it was love.” But she said it as though she was trying to convince herself that it was true.

I wanted to tell her to stop, stop talking because she had already broken my heart with Carl's story, and I could tell that this one was going to be awful and sad too, and I didn't have any right to hear it.

But she kept on. “He married me, and right away, I was scared of him. He'd drink and stay out late with friends—fine young boys too, mind you—and do heaven knows what. He hardly ever even touched me, and then when he did, he'd slap me in the face. I used to have to use a whole pot of makeup to cover up the bruises before going to Sunday dinner at his mother's or mine. Mama and Daddy must have known something was going on, but they couldn't bear to admit it. Then one time he really hurt me, and I left. I left, and I never went back. And oh, Mary Swan, it was like a knife sticking through me, because I loved that man. I did.”

I swallowed hard and started to say something, but Miss Abigail didn't even notice. “I was always thankful we never had kids, and then I was heartbroken at the same time, because I wanted a child. But you see, God has given me many, many babies to care for after all that.”

The whole time she'd been talking, I was thinking to myself,
Why
is she telling me this? Why?
I blurted out, “What kind of a good God would give you such a rotten husband and make you go through all that and then ask you to leave your nice comfortable home and live in the inner city and work with these poor, pitiful people who never change? I don't want a God like that!”

But Miss Abigail just said, “Mary Swan, do you think Carl is pitiful? And what about Puddin'? Or Cassandra and Jessie?”

“Oh gosh,” I mumbled, so ashamed of myself that a wave of nausea swept over me. “I'm sorry.”

Her voice was full of sympathy. “What God called me to do has nothing to do with what He's asking of you. Don't look at me and compare and be afraid. If you look at Scripture, you'll see it. God always provides just what is needed for what He asks, only it takes His supernatural strength to do it. But He still keeps in mind our personalities and our hearts' desires. And if you let Him, Mary Swan, He'll change those desires until they become exactly what He has planned for you. It says in the Psalms, ‘Delight thyself also in the Lord and He shall give thee the desires of thine heart.' Your desires become His desires, because you love Him so much and want to please Him. And He'll give you the biggest peace and joy you ever knew. He's done that for me, right here in the middle of the inner city.” Her face got all radiant again.

“It's always easier to hold out your arm and say, ‘Don't get near me, Jesus,' and then just criticize all the bad things around us. It is scary, Mary Swan, to get to know Jesus the way you know your best friend. But if you want to change, that's what has got to happen. There's no other religion that has a personal God, Mary Swan. No other religion where their god came down to earth and sacrificed himself out of love. If you want to be a Christian, you've got to realize that it's all about knowing God, knowing Jesus. Not a religion. Not just going to church.”

After a minute, when I didn't say a word, she added, “Anyway, Mary Swan, it seems to me you're putting the cart before the horse, as they say. Right now you should be more concerned with getting to know Jesus than with what He wants you to do with your life. 'Cause He can't be directing you until you're His.”

I started feeling really uncomfortable then, especially when she kept saying
Jesus
. I don't know why, but it was almost like she'd said some horrible word. I didn't want her to pronounce that name again. My palms got all sweaty, and I glanced down at my watch and said too quickly, “I need to get back downstairs. A friend of mine is meeting me here.”

Miss Abigail didn't budge. I got up and left her standing by the stained-glass window as I ran out of the sanctuary and down the stairs to the basement.

Rachel showed up about ten minutes later. I met her out on the street where her brother, Jamie, let her off. She waved to him and whispered, “Mom and Dad would absolutely die if they knew I was here.”

“Are you ready to go inside?” I asked, a bit dramatically.

“Of course,” she retorted, as though I'd insulted her.

I'd told her to dress casually, but casual to Rachel was chic to Grant Park. Right away heads began to turn. Carl was still talking to Cassandra. When he saw me come back into the basement with Rachel, he stood up, with Cassandra at his heels, and came over to us.

Rachel had that self-confidence that never wavered; she stuck out her hand and smiled and said, “Nice to meet you, Carl. Mary Swan's told me a lot about you.”

“Same here, Rachel. Glad to meet you.”

Cassandra looked a bit bewildered, so I quickly introduced her. “And this is Cassandra. Cassandra, my best friend, Rachel.”

“Hi, Cassandra,” Rachel said.

“Hi there,” Cassandra responded, grinning. “Y'all gonna make some music for us?” she asked, nodding at the case that Rachel had stuck under her arm.

“No. Just practicing a little. For fun.”

“You gonna play too, Carl?”

“'Course. I invited them. If you wanna come round, Cassandra, you're mighty welcome.”

She beamed at Carl and giggled. “I've gotta git Jessie home for her nap. Nice to meet ya. Bye.” And she hurried over to where her mother was still talking with the other women and patting little Jessie on the back.

On the way to Carl's house, he commented to Rachel, “Mary Swan's told me all about you being a much better flutist than she is.” He winked at me.

“Don't believe a word she says!” was Rachel's comeback.

“That's what I told Mary Swan. I don't have to believe it. I'll hear it soon enough. Then I'll know.”

His aunt didn't look one bit pleased to see Rachel and me arriving at her house. She was sitting on the front porch talking to a man who was leaning over the railing. Carl shook the man's hand. “Nice to see you, Mr. Jones.”

The man spit a wad of tobacco in the yard and just nodded at Carl.

We walked inside the house. “This is Puddin',” Carl said, hugging his little sister to him.

Rachel leaned down and said, “Good to meet you, Puddin'.”

Puddin' let go of her brother and grabbed hold of my hand, and then whispered in my ear, “She's perty! Really perty!”

“I know,” I whispered back.

“Y'all 'scuse me for a minute,” Carl said. “You can start practicing if you want.” He motioned for us to stay in the front room. “I just want to listen to the news on the radio for a minute.” He went into the kitchen and fiddled with the radio dials while Rachel and I waited.

“He's hopin' to hear about James Mer'dith,” Puddin' said, as if she was confiding a great secret. “Today's the day we'll know if Mr. Mer'dith gits into that white college in Miss, Missa, Missassippi.”

I gave Rachel a perplexed look and she leaned over and whispered, “Haven't you heard about James Meredith applying to get into Ole Miss?”

I shrugged. I wasn't much for news.

She rolled her eyes as if to say,
You're hopeless
. “Today's the day they're supposed to let him in. The first time a Negro has been allowed to attend a white university.”