The Swan House (36 page)

So Mr. Becker and I took a slow stroll around his land. “A fine woman, yore mama. Fragile, she was. But the kind a woman who, as soon as she started feelin' better, well, she wanted to he'p out. Sometimes she let others paint. She'd git them an easel and set them up right next to her, and they'd paint. I tell you what, several of them patients, the ones who didn't hardly eva' smile, several of them started paintin' a little here and there with yore mama lookin' on. And they took to smilin'. Doctor didn't like it much, tho'. Said Miz Sheila needed to concentrate all her energy on gettin' well.

“Like I said, she wasn't supposed to paint at Resthaven. She was supposed to rest. Some of the otha' doctors argued that painting tired her out and made her more depressed. But she said it was the opposite. Paintin' was the way she survived when she got real down. Finally them doctors started talkin' 'bout how paintin' and writin' and other things like that could maybe be used to he'p people git better.”

We were back at the house. Carl and Rachel stood by the car, and Mrs. Becker joined her husband. Mr. Becker scratched his head before he went on. “Somethin' else I wanted ya ta know, Mary Swan. I ain't never said a word about this to no one, ya understand. So you keep it to yorese'f, please. But mebbe it kin he'p ya. Ya see, Martha and me is mighty thankful for all of Miz Sheila's he'p to our family. She was a very generous woman, yore mama.”

I think my mouth must have been hanging open. “What do you mean, Mr. Becker?”

“I jus' wanted you ta know that your mama tried to he'p others even when she wasn't feelin' too good herself. She had a way of talkin' with people and listenin' to ya, listenin' with her eyes, and before ya knew it, she'd heard all about yore problems.”

Mrs. Becker suddenly spoke up. “She gave me the two hundred dollars to git my grandbaby to the hospital in 'lanta. Wudda done died if it hadn't been for her.” She sniffed a moment, then limped off to the house. She returned a moment later holding the picture of a young girl. “That's her school pitcha' from last year.” She gave a big smile. “Fine young girl, she is. Lisa, our Lisa.”

“And that's not the only time yore mama he'ped us. Somehow she seemed to know when things was real bad.” Henry Becker shook his head. “I thought ya might wanna know, seein' as how you is finding out about Resthaven and all. And she ain't around no more. Jus' wanted you to know.”

Then Mrs. Becker caught me in a tight embrace and said, “Means the world to us to meet you, Mary Swan. And we shore is sorry to hear about yore sweet mama. If there is anything we kin do, eva', you don't hesitate to ask, ya hear?”

I nodded in a fog. And found myself wiping away tears.

Chapter 17

W
e drove the first fifteen minutes in silence, broken only by my unending sniffles. Finally I whispered, “I have to go back by Resthaven. I have to try to see Leslie Leschamps. And the doctor.” I'd written his name down. “Alfred Clark.”

Carl shook his head. “You can see them some other time, Mary Swan, but not today. I believe you've heard enough for today. We've got a long road ahead, and I won't be gettin' us in trouble.” He was insistent.

On the ride home, as I was desperately trying to understand this new revelation, I reasoned out loud with Rachel and Carl listening in. “Mr. Becker says Mama painted lots at Resthaven. But the painting she gave him doesn't look a thing like what she normally painted. And Henry Becker isn't a painter. He was only the yardman, and Leslie Leschamps is only a nurse. Where in the world does that get us except for totally confused?”

“Maybe those names were pseudonyms. You know, to keep the painter anonymous,” Rachel volunteered.

“But who would choose those names? Why would anyone choose names of people from Resthaven. Names only my mom knew?”

“Maybe because all the paintings were painted by the same person,” Rachel stated matter-of-factly.

“Sounds good to me,” Carl piped in.

“But who . . .” And then what Rachel was implying hit me. “Are you saying that my mom painted a lot at Resthaven and that she signed those paintings either Henry Becker or Leslie Leschamps? Why? Why wouldn't she want anyone to know that she painted them?”

“Well, gee, Swan, don't you see? She painted differently at Resthaven. You yourself didn't recognize the painting in the Beckers' bedroom. It was to protect herself. She already had a reputation in Atlanta. Maybe she thought people wouldn't believe those were her paintings. Or maybe she was afraid they'd find out that she went away to Resthaven, or took medication, or I don't know. Lots of things. Don't you see, Swan? She used his name because she was indebted to him for helping her. And I bet you'll find that Leslie Leschamps helped her too. It was a way of thanking them.”

I gave a horrible sigh and said, “I can't talk about it right now. I can't talk about anything!”

And so, of course, we didn't say another word on the way back. Carl hummed to himself, and Rachel stared out the window, and somewhere along the road as the sun went down on the flaming hillsides, I fell asleep.

When I woke up we were entering Atlanta, and Carl and Rachel were whispering about something. “What's up?” I said groggily.

“We're just trying to decide where to let Carl off.”

“I wanted to show you the Swan House, Carl.”

“It's getting late, Swan, don't you think?” Rachel said cautiously. I looked at my wristwatch. “It's only five-thirty.”

“I need to be getting on home, Mary Swan,” Carl said.

I think he was really nervous, but I paid no attention. “It'll only take a sec for you to see it. Just pull over at the filling station on the corner and hide yourself in the back. I'll drive the last few miles.”

I knew he didn't like the idea, but he seemed to bend to my desire as if once he'd spoken his mind, saying anything more, rebuking a white girl, well, it just wasn't done. So Carl, all six-feet-two of him, climbed into the backseat and crouched down while Rachel and I got up front.

I dropped Rachel at her house, drove to my house, and maneuvered up our driveway. Daddy's Jaguar was not in the garage. “Wait here a sec,” I whispered back to Carl. I ran inside and called around to make sure Jimmy wasn't home. The only sound was my echo. “Coast is clear,” I called out.

So he unfolded himself like one of those chairs you take to the beach and followed me in the back door. “One big house you got here, Mary Swan.”

I nodded, only half listening, because my ears were pounding with the sound of my heart pumping awful hard. Carl was in my home!

“Come on up to Mama's
atelier
. I'll show you the sketchbooks.”

“I don't think I should, Mary Swan. I sure don't want your dad findin' me alone in the house with you. It would get us both in a lot of trouble.”

“He's not here. Don't worry.” Again, I was oblivious to his discomfort.

He followed me through the back door, his eyes darting all around in every room of the house. He ran his hand along the shining curved hand railing of the marble staircase and gave a low whistle. “You're the one who lives in a mansion, Mary Swan.”

“Just wait 'til you see the Swan House.”

I opened the door to the
atelier
and gently pushed him inside, closing the door behind us. I quickly took my painting off the easel and placed it against the wall so Carl couldn't see it. He was standing by the window, looking out on the backyard at dusk.

“Here are Mama's unfinished paintings, and over there in her desk is where we found the letter from Henry Becker.”

“So this is where she painted,” he said softly, almost reverently. “Nice big window she had here, lookin' out on the woods and the garage and the swimming pool. I believe you live at one of those fancy country clubs, Mary Swan.”

I felt suddenly embarrassed and tried to change the subject. “And this is where she hid all the sketchbooks.” I handed one to him.

“Just exactly what will you get if you find those missing paintings?” he asked, flipping through it.

“Honor. The honor of being a successful Raven. And I get a little silver plaque with my name engraved on it. And money to give away. I'll get to choose a charitable organization that will receive lots of money from different businesses in Atlanta.”

“Well, I certainly hope you solve the Dare then, Mary Swan.” He sounded distant, unimpressed, maybe even a little bit mocking.

“And, of course, it would help with everything about Mama,” I said lamely, almost defensively.

He turned his attention to me immediately. “Oh, don't get me wrong, Mary Swan. It's a fine thing you're doing. I didn't mean it in a bad way. You need to solve it for yourself, more than anything. For you right here.” And he touched the middle of my forehead with his index finger. “So you won't keep persecuting yourself about the past. Gotta let it go, Mary Swan.”

Hearing the compassion in his voice was all it took. I burst into tears. “I thought it would help to go to Resthaven. Rachel said I'd learned the worst, that it couldn't be harder.” I turned my back to him and stood looking out the window, wiping the tears. “But it is. Every time I think I'm closer to understanding, I find out something else, and it just gets more confusing.” I was heaving big, break-your-heart sighs now.

“Like why did she sign those paintings with other names? And if they are all by her, well, was she the anonymous donor after all? And if so, why did she decide not to donate the paintings to the museum at the last minute? Why,
why
?” Sniff. “It doesn't make sense. Why did I have to get chosen for this thing? It's a cruel trick, that's what it is. To make me miserable! And why did she have to die right then?”

I was crying so hard that I think Carl didn't know what to do. He kept saying things like “Now, Mary Swan. My, my, girl, calm down.”

And then he did what I'd wanted him to do all along. I'm not saying I intentionally planned it, but in my heart, I knew it was what I longed for. He put his big strong arms around me, and he hugged me. Awkwardly at first, like I might break. And then harder, tighter, so that I was crushed into his powerful chest and could hear the beating of his heart. “Shh, Mary Swan. Shh now, girl.”

And I kept crying harder and harder, and he stroked my hair and said, “It'll be all right. You'll see.”

And I relished every second of his arms around me, so much so that I didn't see his anxiety, didn't feel the terror in his touch, the fear that, at any minute, he might be caught holding a white girl.

I don't know what would have happened next, and I never got the chance to find out. A door slammed, and Jimmy called from downstairs, “Hey, Dad? Swan? Anybody home?”

Carl let go of me in a flash, and I wiped my eyes quickly, and he looked at me with a scared—no, a terrified look. The same expression as when we'd met the rednecks at Oakland Cemetery.

“I gotta get outta here, Mary Swan,” he whispered.

I wanted to reassure him that there was no danger, that it was only my pesky little brother, but I could tell that Carl wanted only one thing. To be gone from my house. Far away.

I put my finger to my lips and grabbed his hand and peeked out into the hall. Empty. We tiptoed down the hall at a half run, which felt pretty comical to me, and then down the back steps that led beside the kitchen. I pushed him out the back door, the one with the screen door and the lamppost where Robbie and I liked to stand and kiss. I caught sight of Jimmy's back as he pulled out a bag of chips from the kitchen cabinets, but he didn't see me.

“Wait for me in the woods over there,” I whispered to Carl. Then I went into the kitchen, and when Jimmy looked up, I said, “Hi.”

“I thought I heard you, Swan. What's up?”

“Nothing,” I said in my most nonchalant voice. “I'm just going out for a sec. Dad's not home yet. But when I get back, I'll fix you a grilled cheese sandwich if you want.”

“Gee, thanks.”

I found Carl crouching behind the Cadillac, which I had not yet parked in the garage. I grabbed his hand again, and we tore off through the woods. We came out at a spot near the bottom of the Swan House property.

“There it is. There's the Swan House,” I said proudly, huffing and puffing, as I pointed up to the mansion far away.

He stopped, out of breath himself, and gazed at the fountains and the house and the manicured yard. “Nice, Mary Swan,” he said in a polite way. But the excited, innocent expression that he'd had when he'd seen the paintings at the High Museum or the colors of the Northern Georgia leaves wasn't there. “Mary Swan, I don't have time to look at this mansion. I gotta get outta here. Pretty soon there won't be a bus left.”

I was hurt, and he could see it on my face. My twisted little game, my adventure, my conquest of Carl was over. I saw in his eyes that he was annoyed, maybe angry, and definitely worried.

“Okay. Follow me. It's just right up the street.” I wasn't holding his hand anymore. A huge rock had landed in the bottom of my stomach, and I was thinking to myself,
Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl! Now
he's gonna hate you
.

I left him at the bus stop. Two maids were waiting there, so I didn't even get to tell him thanks for taking us to Resthaven or any of the other hundred things I wanted to say. I just mumbled, “Bye,” and he nodded at me without a word, without a smile.

I don't know why I didn't pick up on it earlier, how uncomfortable he was. I reprimanded myself for being so stupidly insensitive. How could I make flirting with a black man a game? He'd probably seen people get killed over a lot less. He'd been nervous, brooding, like one of Rachel's horses, pacing back and forth in the stall during a thunderstorm. I hadn't seen how preoccupied he was. I should have noticed because Daddy always acted the same way, pretending to listen when his mind was really on something else. All day, Carl had done that. Humoring me, with his mind on something else a million miles away. I'd just been thinking about me and my dare and my life.