The Swan House (38 page)

Puddin' ran over to Carl and kissed his cheek, her little face distraught. Then she threw her arms around his neck and started sobbing.

“Don't you be cryin' none, Sissy,” Carl mumbled as he rubbed Puddin's braids. “Looks like it's me whose got the bandages now, sweet'un. You jus' got outta that there cast and now I's got me one myse'f. Ain't that somethin'.” He tried to smile.

Miss Abigail and Aunt Neta were sitting side by side, grasping each other's hands. Miss Abigail gave me an exhausted smile. “Hello, Mary Swan. Thank you for watching the children.” Aunt Neta nodded my way, looking like the life had been beaten out of her, but her eyes were soft toward me for the first time.

Carl looked at me tenderly and said in a raspy voice, which was barely audible, “Thanks for comin', Mary Swan.”

There weren't any more chairs left, so I just stood by his bedside, biting my lip and trying desperately to think of something to say. “I let them play hide 'n' seek at Oakland.”

“That's fine. Mighty fine. Puddin' and Mike got themselves some tough hidin' spots at Oakland.” Carl poked Mike in the ribs with his bandaged hand, and both boys giggled.

Ella Mae motioned to me with her eyes. “Well, we've gotta go now, Mary Swan. Don't want yore daddy to be gettin' worried. Miss Abigail'll git the chil'un home later.”

“I'll be thinking about you, Carl,” I whispered. “I'm so sorry.” And then without knowing why, I added, “And I'll be praying for you.”

That's when our eyes locked, for just one second, and he smiled. “You do that, girl. That'll be jus' fine.”

Chapter 18

S
unday morning at church, I tried to pray for Carl and for Larry, but I didn't really know how. So I just kept repeating in my mind,
Let them be okay, God. Let them be okay.
I walked to Rachel's after lunch, and we went to the barn. The weather in Atlanta in November can be chilly, even downright cold, or it can be mild. This Sunday afternoon, the air was cool, the sky was perfectly blue, and the woods around the barn were filled with fallen leaves, some of which still retained their orange or yellow or red tint. I picked a few and thought of how much Carl had enjoyed seeing the flaming hills.

“Still thinking about Carl, aren't you, Swan?”

Rachel, of course, knew everything about “the hug,” as we'd been calling it all week.

“I've been thinking about him in another way, Rach. He got beat up last Thursday, he and a few of his friends from the band. Coming out from a church meeting in Morrow.” I told her about the day I'd spent at Grant Park and seeing Carl at Grady Hospital and the fact that Larry might not make it.

“That's sick,” she mumbled. “Absolutely awful. How could anyone do that?”

“Pure hatred.”

“Inbred hatred, Swan. People being taught from the time they are little to hate others.”

We pulled on our rubber boots and our hard hats and saddled up our mares, leading them by the reins up the hill to the riding ring. Bonnie darted to the side twice at a rustling leaf. The cool weather always left her dancing on pins and needles.

“You'll have your hands full today, Swan,” Rachel laughed, putting her foot in the stirrup and swinging effortlessly across the back of her own mare, Brandy, a magnificent bay.

In fact, both our mares were skittish the whole afternoon. We worked them hard at the trot and the canter, practicing dressage, keeping them under control. Then we let them go at a hand gallop, still holding them under a tight rein while we lifted our seats out of the saddle and leaned forward over their necks. I loved the feel of Bonnie's red mane tickling my face as we galloped. I loved to feel her strength beneath me, the way her powerful legs, so fragile and yet so strong, thrust themselves out in front.

The riding ring, which was over half the size of a football field, had ten or twelve different jumps interspersed throughout it. A chicken coop, a fake brick wall (made out of plywood and painted by Mama to look very real), a small brush, and plenty of poles we could set to any height. We started jumping the lowest fences, gradually going to the higher ones, until we felt the mares were warmed up enough to try a series of jumps in a row.

“I'll make up the course!” Rachel volunteered. She hopped off Brandy and began to place the striped poles on their stands. “How high d'ya wanna go today, Swan?”

“Three feet nine.”

Rachel lifted her eyebrows. “You sure? That's pretty high when you haven't ridden much this fall.”

“Three nine,” I insisted.

My mare could practically jump the moon, but Rachel was right. I was out of practice, and I knew it was unwise. Mrs. Abrams would have forbidden it if she'd been there. But I needed to do something daring today. I needed to do something bigger than myself, something to make the adrenaline pump in my ears, something that would require all my concentration so I wouldn't think about Grant Park and black boys lying in hospital beds.

So after Rachel had set the order for the jumps, I cantered Bonnie in a small circle near the gate, then headed her straight for the first fence, a small brush. We took it easily, and I let her gallop forcefully to the next fence, three striped yellow poles, straight up and down. She sailed over it, and I pulled her up a bit to make the turn and came down through the center of the ring, cutting it in half diagonally and taking the wide brick wall and then the chicken coop. All these we jumped with ease.

It was the next line, along the railing of the ring, that would be the hardest. An in-and-out at three six with four strides to the oxer, all three feet nine of it. Three feet nine inches was the height that show jumpers started at. And not only was the oxer three feet nine high, it was also four feet wide with poles mounting gradually in height. I had to get Bonnie to the in-and-out correctly, for as soon as she landed over the first jump, she took only one stride and jumped “out” of the other side. Four more strides then took her to the formidable oxer.

We thundered to this line as I kept the reins taut, Bonnie's head up, me sitting high in the saddle. Bonnie had a thing about in-and-outs. Sometimes she jumped the first one and then took two rough, ugly strides before jumping out. Other times she simply skidded to a stop in front of the “out” part or dodged to the side, missing the jump completely. And once she had crashed through the second, falling to the ground and throwing me hard against a pine tree.

So naturally today, I felt my heart pumping hard as we lifted off the ground. As soon as she landed, I kicked her hard with my heels, driving her to the next fence. She sailed over it without a problem. The oxer ahead looked enormous. For only a second I considered pulling over to the side and galloping around it. Even with that thought I was counting the strides in my head. “One, two, three, four . . .” and again I dug my heels deep into her flanks, moved my hands far up her neck to give her the rein she needed, gripped my thighs tightly into the saddle, and felt her gracefully jump the wide fence.

“Beautiful!” Rachel exclaimed as we hit the ground. “Perfect! You're ready for Madison Square Garden!” As I cantered Bonnie around the ring and then slowed her to a trot, patting her heartily on the shoulder, I smiled to myself. I had conquered my fear.

I showered and finished memorizing the tables for chemistry, then I brushed on some of Mama's mascara. I fiddled with my damp hair, toying with the idea of having it cut in a bob as Patty had suggested. I had an hour before Robbie picked me up for dinner at the Varsity.

Lying on my bed, trying to scratch out a few ideas for an English paper on comparative poetry, I kept hearing all the voices of those I cared about in my head. Daddy saying,
“Mary Swan, the best thing I can
give you is a good education.”
Rachel saying,
“Oh, Swan, just enjoy it!
Enjoy having two boys' attention.”
Patty telling me to put on makeup and cut my hair. Trixie pleading with me to leave everything I was finding out about Mama alone. Ella Mae warning me,
“You don't be messin'
around none, Mary Swan. Ya heah me?”
And then Cassandra saying,
“I'm
gonna try to stop messing around now that I got Jesus.”
Robbie saying that he really wanted to get to know me better, and Carl saying that he hoped I would solve the Raven Dare so I could find peace in my head. And then finally there was Miss Abigail telling me that it was the truth that would make me free.

And I think down inside, I wanted to have it all. A good education and a fancy hairdo and nice clothes and the fun of being sixteen in Buckhead. And I wanted to be able to leave all the past alone and just enjoy it. And I didn't want to get anyone in trouble with whatever messing around I might do. But even deeper down, I thought Carl and Miss Abigail were right. I needed to figure this thing out. I needed to know the truth. I wanted to be free.

I didn't much think that going to Wellington or belonging to the club or being invited to the Piedmont Driving Club Christmas Dance or even riding my mare or reciting poetry or visiting the museum were going to help me get free. I wasn't even sure that going to St. Philip's Episcopal Church, or any other church for that matter, would help me. But I was pretty sure that if I would dare reach over and take down the white leather Bible and read some of the stuff Miss Abigail had been harping on me to read, well, then I might find some answers.

Then again, I wasn't sure.

All these thoughts were tumbling around in my head when I went downstairs to the kitchen. Daddy grunted at me from behind the Sunday paper, “Coke stock's up two points, Mary Swan.”

“Great, Dad. Now you can afford to send me to an Ivy League school,” I said sarcastically.

With an astounded look on his face, he set down his newspaper. “Do you mind telling me what's wrong, dear?”

“Nothing's wrong. Everything's just great. Like always. Why would you think anything is wrong? You've got dates with Amanda Hunnicutt, who's from a fine Atlanta family, and I'm dating a boy from another fine Atlanta family, and Jimmy is best friends with a boy from that same fine Atlanta family, and we are, of course, another very fine Atlanta family. . . .”

“Mary Swan! Stop it!”

My face grew hot. “Sorry, Daddy.” I felt like crying, ashamed of my outburst. “It's just that while we're hanging around all these fine Atlanta people, there's this boy, this really great guy who plays the trombone in a jazz band and cracks great jokes and has a heart as big as anyone I've ever known, who is about to die in Grady Hospital. He's not from a fine family. He's black and he's dirt poor, but it's still awful. Absolutely awful.”

Daddy looked stunned. “Is this boy someone you know?”

I started to measure my words, but then exploded, “Yes, I know him, Daddy! I know him from Grant Park. You know what happened to him? He and his friends were coming out of a church meeting when a bunch of white guys jumped on them. The white boys had knives and ropes. All the black boys had were their Bibles. They tried to hang him. Beat him to a pulp. Almost killed him, Daddy. And the whole neighborhood of Grant Park is waiting to see if he'll live. But nothing will ever happen to those white kids. Nothing! Who knows, maybe they're from fine Atlanta families too!”

“Sweetheart, I'm sorry about your friend. It's terrible. Barbaric. These are hard times.”

I could tell that Daddy was too shocked at my outburst to comment any further, and fortunately, Robbie rang the doorbell at that moment. So I kissed Daddy on the cheek and said, “I'll be back later.”

“Be careful, Mary Swan” was all he said.

We were sitting in the part of the Varsity parking lot called Buttermilk Bottom, smiling at each other as we ate. But I felt tired, my whole body worn out from the physical exertion of riding and the mental exertion of everything else in my life, especially leaving my dad with those mean accusations still on my tongue.

Robbie noticed it immediately. “Mary Swan, what's the matter? Is it something I've done?”

“No, not at all, Robbie. Just some bad news. I keep getting bad news.” I picked at my onion rings and cheeseburger.

“Is it something you want to talk about?”

“I don't know. Maybe, if you want to hear it.”

“Sure, I do.” He looked so sincere that I decided I'd just plunge ahead with whatever details I could reveal. “Well, first off, I'm finding out a lot of depressing stuff about my mother.”

He didn't question me at all, which I appreciated. He just listened, slurping occasionally on his frosted orange.

“It turns out that what Herbert said about her was kind of true. She did go to a sanatorium. Lots of times. And Daddy didn't tell me.”

He put his arm around me. “That can't be fun to find out.”

“No, it's rotten. And besides that, some boys I know from the inner city, nice decent Christian boys, got beat up, beaten to a pulp by some white guys when they were coming out of a civil rights meeting at a church in Morrow. It's not like they had knives or something. They had Bibles.”

I didn't want him to see that I was on the brink of tears, because it seemed like that's what happened every time I went out with him. “One of them almost died. Can you believe it, Robbie? These white kids almost killed him. Tried to hang him. And last night, they still weren't sure he'd make it.”

I leaned forward against the dashboard and watched a black waiter dashing to an old Buick, calling, “Pick up in Decatur.” Any appetite I had left immediately.

Robbie reached over and took my hand. “If you want, I'll take you home.”

“No, I don't want to go home.” I said it rather brusquely. “I'm sorry. I'm really tired, Robbie. But I don't want to go home. You know where I really want to go?”

“No, where?”

“I want to go for a drive. Down to Grant Park. Will you take me?”