The Swan House (43 page)

“And?”

“And I didn't get it.”

“No, I see that. Mary Swan, you can make the Bible say what you want. Lots of people twist the meaning to support whatever they believe. So you have to be careful when you read the Scriptures. Ever heard of hermeneutics?”

“Never.”

“Well, it's a big word that means there's a way to study Scripture. You can't just grab a verse and use it to defend something without looking at what was going on in the verses preceding and following it, without looking at the kind of literature it is—poetry or proverbs or history or letters.”

I wrinkled my brow, confused.

“Here, let me give you an example.” She flipped through her Bible until she found what she was looking for. “Look, here it says, ‘And Judas went and hanged himself.'” Then she turned to another part of the Bible and read, “‘Go and do likewise.'”

I smiled and raised my eyebrows a little. “Okay, I get it.”

“What I'm trying to show you is that you're taking Jesus' words about truth and fitting them into your situation. But you need to understand that Jesus was talking about eternal truth. God's truth. The truth of who He is and who He wants to be in your life—
that
truth will make you free.”

“Oh,” I said, brightening. “That makes sense. Just the way when you're studying poetry or literature, you have to be careful not to read too much into what the author said. You have to look at the time the author lived and his culture and that culture's traditions and morals to understand the book's message.”

“Exactly.”

“Hmmm. Okay. But I have another question. You've had so many bad things happen in your life. It doesn't seem fair, when all you want is to do God's work. Why has it turned out that way for you?”

“God's work is never easy. He tells us we'll be hurt when we work for Him, that hardships will come our way.”

“Then why do you want to do it?”

“That's part of the supernatural beauty of the gospel. What Jesus gives us is so much better than all the terrible things that can happen here on earth that you almost consider it a privilege to suffer for Him. The Bible is full of stories of men and women of faith and courage. They didn't get some great reward here on earth, but they knew they would get one afterward.”

“So what is the reward?”

“Eternal life. Eternity with Jesus. Seated around His throne, singing praises.”

“Oh.” My face fell. “Sounds a little boring. You're gonna be singing forever and ever? That's all?”

That made Miss Abigail give a full belly laugh, which pleased me. “Mary Swan Middleton, if your middle name isn't honest, I don't know what it is! Heaven is a place of eternal joy. God himself promises no more tears, no more sorrow. Sounds pretty good to me.”

“So you're saying that all the awful junk that you have to endure down here will be worth it? Is that what you're saying?”

“Yes. And there's something else very important you need to know, Mary Swan. All the ‘awful junk,' as you call it, can either just sit there as awful junk, or it can be used by God to do something good, very good, in our heart.”

“Like what?”

“Like making us more like Jesus. The Bible is clear, Mary Swan. It says we all will suffer, and it says if we seek to live for the Lord, we'll be persecuted for our faith. But it's also very clear that God never wastes our pain. And He never leaves us alone.”

Then she closed her eyes and smiled, as if she was seeing Jesus on a throne right then, and she started reciting something from memory. “‘For which cause we faint not; but though our outward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day. For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory. While we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen are temporal; but the things which are not seen are eternal.' Second Corinthians, chapter four, verse sixteen.”

“That's beautiful and interesting and hard to understand,” I said, momentarily caught up in her reverence. “I like it.”

“It's just one of many verses that adorn my bulletin board.” She let her hand sweep through the air, indicating the large bulletin board that hung above her desk. It looked a little bit like her refrigerator—filled with old curling pictures on it, snips of paper with addresses, and lots of little white cards with Bible verses written on them.

I inspected the board more closely and read another verse. “‘Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort; who comforteth us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God. For as the sufferings of Christ abound in us, so our consolation also aboundeth by Christ.' Second Corinthians chapter one, verses three through five.” I shrugged. “Lots of comfort in that verse, seems like.”

“Yes.” Miss Abigail beamed. “Our suffering will be used by God to help someone else who is suffering. Never wasted, Mary Swan. Just remember, it's never wasted. And look at that one—James chapter one, verses two through four.”

I read the scribbled words, “‘My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into diverse temptations; knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience. But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.'”

She opened her eyes, those perfectly plain brown eyes, and leaned forward. “God's Word is incredibly rich. His Bible provides us with all we need to know to live in this hard, hard world, Mary Swan. The more you get to know the Bible, the more you'll find what Scripture calls a ‘peace which passeth all understanding.'”

My mind was too full of ideas to answer her right then. Something about the way she was explaining things to me made sense. I was thinking that if I could memorize a bunch of poems for school, it probably would be a cinch to memorize some of those Bible verses. I scanned the bulletin board again. One picture, curling at the corners, showed Carl and Mike and James and Puddin'. Carl was about Jimmy's age in the photo and Puddin' only a toddler. My throat went dry, and I felt tears prickling my eyes. There were others photos of this family, school pictures that showed them toothless and grinning. As my eyes traveled across the large bulletin board, I let them suddenly rest on a slip of paper tacked up beside her Bible verses.

I pointed to the paper. “Is this from the Bible?”

She got her sad smile again and said, “No, but it's one of my favorite poems. A blind missionary wrote it, a woman who knew great suffering, a woman who served God by rescuing Indian girls from temple prostitution.”

I walked over to it and read the faded writing out loud:

“No wound. No scar?
Yet as the Master shall the servant be,
And pierced are the feet that follow Me,
But thine are whole,
Can he have followed far who has no wound,
No scar?”

Tears suddenly filled my eyes. “That is beautiful,” I whispered.

“Yes. Isn't it?”

“Thank you for taking the time to talk to me, Miss Abigail.”

“My pleasure, Mary Swan. Any time.”

I left her office, deeply moved. This was something so revolutionary to me that my head was reeling. I had tears falling down my cheeks, and instead of hearing “Song of the Chattahoochee” or “Little Orphant Annie” or “The Charge of the Light Brigade” in my mind, all I could hear was one phrase: “Can he have followed far who has no wound, no scar?”

“You look absolutely stunning,” Rachel pronounced as she finished rolling my hair on the ends and sprayed it in place. Like the trooper she was, Rachel had gone with me to J. P. Allen's at Lennox Square and helped me pick out my dress. It was pale green with thin straps, what we called spaghetti straps, and there were three layers of thin crepe chiffon material. It fell to my ankles, and Rachel had chosen little gold sandals to go with it.

She had also gone with me to introduce Carl's band to Mrs. Appleby. I could still see her satisfied smile when Mrs. Appleby had exclaimed, “My, you boys can certainly play jazz. I'm thrilled to have you at the dance!”

Later, when we were alone, Rachel had confided to me, “I think just seeing the pride in Carl's eyes, in all of their eyes, when Mrs. Appleby was so enthusiastic was better than even being at the dance.”

Now, as I waited for Robbie to pick me up, she inspected me. “Turn around and let me see.”

I twirled in a circle, feeling the crepe material swish around my legs.

“Perfect. Very flattering. It shows off your tiny waist and gives the impression that you have a little more up top than you really do.” I stuck out my tongue at that. “Well, I gotta get home.” She hugged me tightly. “Have a great time. Have a good enough time for both of us, you hear? And don't think about anything else. Just have fun.”

“Thanks gobs, Rach. Thanks for everything. I'll call you tomorrow.”

“You look beautiful, Mary Swan!” Robbie handed me a corsage, and I awkwardly tried to pin it on.

“You look great too.” He wore a black tuxedo, the required attire, which gave him a very sophisticated air, but I noticed that one strand of hair fell over his right eye, just the way I liked.

Daddy beamed from the hallway. “Y'all have a great time, kids.” And even Jimmy waved out to us from his window on the first floor.

The Piedmont Driving Club was one of Atlanta's oldest clubs, and in contrast to the Capital City Club, which could be for business or pleasure, the PDC was purely for social events. That night, the club was decorated with red poinsettias and white lace, with red candles burning in silver candelabra in every room. The ballroom was grand, with intricately carved flowers on the tall ceiling from which hung two ornate chandeliers. Twenty or more round tables covered with white linen tablecloths were set for dinner. The centerpieces were mistletoe and holly and thick green candles, and cards with our names written in calligraphy indicated each person's seat. Delicate arches with sculpted laurels lined either side of the room, leaving the center of the room open for dancing on its beautiful hardwood floor. The stage was at the far end of the room.

We had just found our places and were chatting with Patty Masters and her date, Doug, when Carl's band began to play. I immediately broke out in a cold sweat. My palms were sticky, and I let go of Robbie's hand. My eyes were glued to the stage, and I felt terrified and so proud I could burst.

Finally I whispered to Robbie, “Those are my friends from Grant Park. The ones who were in the fight.” Carl and Larry and Leo and Nickie and Big Man were all dressed in white tuxedos with black pants, provided by the club. They looked like professionals, but I knew how nervous they really were. I could still hear Mrs. Appleby explaining on Wednesday, “Now, boys, you'll have the introduction, while all the guests are arriving. You'll play for forty-five minutes, maybe an hour. Will that be a problem?”

“Not at all, ma'am,” Carl had assured her.

“You see, Mary Swan,” Robbie said loudly in my ear, over the buzz in the room. “You can organize things. You did a great job getting them this chance to play.”

I simply nodded, not wanting to miss one single note from the band. When Carl played his solo part, I let out a long sigh.

At first the crowd gave polite applause. But the longer and louder and jazzier the band played, the more excited the kids got.

“Do you want to get something to eat?” Robbie fairly shouted.

“Not yet, Robbie,” I said. Then I took my eyes off of Carl and the others and faced him. “Do you mind? I really want to hear them play.”

“Sure, I'll get some drinks. What'll you have?”

“Coke would be good. Thanks,” I called after him.

Gradually, as the band changed from jazz to rock 'n' roll, we all moved out onto the dance floor. Robbie and I jitterbugged gleefully with the rest of the high school kids for at least thirty minutes. As their final number, Carl's band played “Rock Around the Clock.” When the song ended, a great “Hurrah!” went up from the crowd for the musicians, and we applauded so loudly that, even though it was supposed to be their last song, they agreed to an encore.

It was a slow dance. Robbie held me tight against his chest. I fixed my eyes on Carl as we slowly turned around and around. Then our eyes met across that wide dance floor, and he nodded in a way that I knew was meant for me while he blew out his heart on that horn.

At the end of the song, Mrs. Appleby came onto the stage and said happily into the microphone, “Well, it's quite obvious that everyone has appreciated Carl Matthews' Jazz Band from Grant Park. Thank you, boys, for coming.” There was another round of enthusiastic applause.

As they left the stage, I said to Robbie, “I'll be right back.”

He grabbed my hand. “Hold on, Mary Swan. Can't I come with you? I'd like to meet your friends too.”

“Sure. Absolutely. Of course.” I felt the blood pumping in my temples.

We caught up with them backstage. “Carl! Wait up!” I called, out of breath.

“Oh, Mary Swan! Good to see you, sweetheart,” Mrs. Appleby said.

“It was wonderful!” I enthused with my eyes on Carl. Then I smiled at Robbie and said, “Robbie Bartholomew, I'd like you to meet my friends, Larry and Leo and Carl and Big Man and Nickie.”

They all shook hands, and my heart fluttered a little when Robbie and Carl's hands touched.

“Nice to meet you,” Robbie said smoothly. “I really enjoyed your music. Do you play anywhere regularly?”

“Nope. Occasional high school football game is all.”

“Well, you should. You're talented.”

“Well, it's thanks to Mary Swan that we've had this opportunity,” Carl said politely. I beamed.