The Swan House (45 page)

And my mouth must have been hanging open all day. Once again I had been wrong, thinking in my naïveté that I was the only Buckhead girl who cared about poverty. Seeing these friends around me that day made me feel awful about the way I'd judged so many people from my own neighborhood. Then I remembered that Miss Abigail had told me how she would have never made it in inner-city work without help from the ladies in Buckhead. That day, I finally understood what she meant.

At five o'clock we were filthy and exhausted. Pastor James came by and said, “We's all gonna meet in the sanctuary in about twenty minutes. Y'all start cleanin' things up.”

When all the young people got into the sanctuary, Pastor James said, “Let's have a time of singing praises to our Lawd for this glorious day He has given us.” So we reached for the hymnals. At first the songs that the pastor chose were unfamiliar to most of us white kids. But we listened, speechless, as the black teens sang and clapped, standing and swaying to the music that was being banged out on the old piano by a beaming Cassandra. Then Pastor James figured out some hymns that we all knew, and we white kids joined in singing for probably another twenty minutes, standing and clapping and even swaying a little right along with the black teenagers. And there was something there. I don't know what. Yes, yes, I do. A presence. Maybe it was God. All I know is that something deep inside made me tingle. When I looked over and saw Robbie with his hair all messy, sharing a hymnal with Carl, I could barely hold back the tears.

Then Pastor James started preaching an extemporaneous sermon. “Young men and women, we surely have witnessed here today a tiny glimpse of what our Lawd wants all across our nation. Jesus is the Great Heart Fixer and Mind Regulator, and when ya let Him in yore heart, well, He starts changin' things. I shore do hope that many of you sittin' here today will be part of fixin' up the problems between whites and blacks in the years ta come. Look at yorese'ves. You's tired and dirty from fixin' up this here church. Ain't gonna be no different if ya try to fix up this country. You is gonna git tired and dirty. But it's worth it, chil'un. It's worth it. I guarantee ya that.

“Some o' you come from white churches that are tryin' to help this situation. But lots of other white churches is tuckin' their tails between their legs and runnin' lickity-split away from the problem. They's afraid. Don't be afraid, boys and girls. If the Lawd is on yore side, ya ain't got nothin' to be afraid of.”

While he spoke, Puddin' sat beside me and braided my hair in cornrows, as she'd promised to do for a long time.

“You've come down here to he'p. You've come on a mission. And let me tell ya this. Missions is God's gift to liberate us, to he'p us git outside ourselves. Tonight I know you'll be mighty tired, but I hope you'll feel right good inside, 'cause ya spent a day not thinkin' about yorese'ves.

“An' I ain't jus' talkin' to the white kids here. 'Cause lots o' our problems is our own fault. Gotta quit bickerin' amongst ourse'ves. Gotta quit our fightin' and our stealin' and our cheatin' and our messin' around. Gotta quit our sinnin'. Big sins, little sins, all of 'em make the Lawd mighty sad. Gotta obey what the good Lawd says.”

We were all listening intently to Pastor James in spite of the fact that we were tired and sweaty. When he said those words about sin, something stabbed at my heart, and I felt dirty, the kind of dirty, though, that I didn't think ten hot baths could get clean. Dirty inside. But in a fleeting second the feeling was gone, replaced by the feeling that we had done something so very good that day.

It was nearly seven o'clock, and all the Buckhead crew had left the church, except for Rachel and me and Robbie, who was riding Mike and James and a few other boys around the block in his convertible. Rachel and I were talking with Carl, and Puddin' was holding her brother's hand. “She's done a mighty nice job on your hair, Mary Swan. You look right nice,” Carl said with laughter behind his eyes.

“Thanks! And thank you, Puddin'. And before you leave, I have something for you.” I went to Rachel's car and took out an armful of brightly wrapped presents. “Merry Christmas to all of you.” I gave the pile of packages to Carl, saying, “There's one for each of you, and for Miss Abigail and even for Aunt Neta.”

Puddin' threw her arms around my neck and hugged me tight. “Thanks, Mary Swan. Thanks!”

“Now, don't you open them 'til Christmas, you understand?”

Her brow creased and she frowned. “I don't have nothin' for you!”

I picked her up and swung her around. “Well, now, young lady, that's where you're wrong. You've already given me a great present. A new hairdo!”

We laughed happily, and as I hugged her to my chest, Carl nodded to me with eyes full of thankfulness, and something else, something strong and sure that would get me through the days before I saw him again. “Thank you, Mary Swan. Mighty thoughtful of ya,” he said. “You have a Merry Christmas too.”

Then Mike and James came back from their ride and, as they joined their brother and sister, Rachel, Robbie, and I waved and watched them disappear into the dark.

I went over to Robbie with so many strong, good feelings rushing through my heart. “I just want you to know that I was really proud of you today, Robbie. You did a great job organizing everything. Thank you.” I kissed him softly on the cheek and whispered, “Merry Christmas,” and I handed him a small gift too.

I still had that wonderful, satisfied feeling when I got home and rushed in the back door, the cold air making my cheeks red. Daddy came into the kitchen and started to greet me, but when he saw my hair all braided, his face got a twisted look. “What in the world have you done, Mary Swan?”

“Gotten cornrows, Daddy,” I said, ignoring his disapproving look.

“I see that. Where did you get that done?” Now he sounded a bit suspicious.

“Down at Grant Park today while we were helping out. A friend of mine did it for me.”

“Well, take it out. You look like a Negro.”

“So?”

“So?” Daddy's face got dark, and his voice rose in anger. “Mary Swan, don't you ever say that again, do you hear me? You know why? I'll tell you. Because you aren't black. You're from Buckhead, raised in a decent white family with everything you need. This city is segregated for a reason, you know, Swan. Blacks and whites aren't supposed to mix.”

I felt sick to my stomach. “Do you mean to say that blacks and whites can't be friends?”

“Yes.”

“And what about Ella Mae?”

“What about her? She's our maid, for goodness' sake.”

“She's my friend.”

He wiped his brow and sat down, shuffling the newspaper around nervously. “Swan, we all love Ella Mae. But she'll never be like us.”

“Well, whoever said all your friends have to be like you?” I asked, incredulous. Then I switched gears. “So you think all blacks are good for around here is to be slaves. Not friends.”

“Mary Swan, really . . .”

“I mean it. Think of what would happen to the homes in Buckhead if there weren't blacks to clean the houses and fix the meals and mow the yards and to serve you at the club and park your car and carry your golf clubs. Buckhead would be a mess without blacks!”

“Honestly.”

“You don't want to admit it, do you, Daddy?” I couldn't go on. I couldn't let myself keep talking to Daddy like that. I fought back the tears and said almost meekly, “If blacks can help out in Buckhead, isn't it all right for whites to help out in Grant Park?”

“Is that what this is all about?” He shook his head. “Help out, then, if you like, Swannee. But don't go getting your hair braided like a Negro. And don't try to be making friends down there. It'll only get you in trouble. Believe me, I know.”

I wanted to beg him to tell me how he knew, but I could tell by the way he said it that the conversation was over. So I ran upstairs and into my dressing room and sat in the chair in front of the vanity and just stared at myself as I took out those braids. Somewhere my heart was breaking. Daddy's philosophy was plain old Southern prejudice. Yet maybe he was right. Even Carl had said it'd be a long time coming before blacks and whites would really, could really be friends. But it was too late to follow Daddy's advice, even if I'd wanted to. I already had friends in Grant Park. A whole lot of them. And so I was stuck with one more big secret.

At least, I thought with a wave of relief, at least Daddy didn't forbid me to go down there anymore.

That special presence, that warm, satisfied feeling of having done something for others had disappeared with Daddy's burst of anger. I had no appetite and declined to come down for dinner when Daddy called to me. I hoped against hope that he might come upstairs and apologize, or at least talk to me. But he didn't. And I realized that seeing him so angry at me had shaken me up a lot.

I'd really only seen Daddy lose his temper twice before. Once when I was about seven or eight, the phone had rung in the evening. I was eager to answer it, grabbing the phone in the kitchen. Daddy must have picked up the phone in his study at the exact same time. I happily listened to the conversation, unbeknownst to Daddy. He was talking to another man, someone named Mitch. Suddenly his voice got gruff, and he exploded, swearing at the man. “No, we are not selling. What do you think you're talking about, Mitch? This is my client and my business, and you can't intimidate us into selling.” He had said a lot of bad words in that conversation, but I was petrified to put down the phone, for fear he might notice. So I held the receiver to my ear as if it were glued there until the end of the conversation. And Daddy never found out.

The other time was when I was probably ten. Daddy and Mama had just gotten back from a party. My room at the time was directly above theirs, and I was awakened by Daddy's loud ranting. I'd sneaked into the upstairs hall to listen. He was cursing and saying, “Sheila, why did you have to do that? Half of Atlanta was there, and you choose tonight to have your
crise des nerfs
. You better believe it'll make it into the society page tomorrow!” He swore again.

“JJ, dahling, please.” Mama was crying, and I could tell she was drunk. “Please let me explain. It's not at all what you think. Nothing like that.”

“Well, it had better not be, Sheila, because I won't have those stories circulating around here. You understand? I won't. If it happens again, I'll send you back, in a second I'll send you back!”

“I want to go back, JJ! I'll run back there myself. At least I'm understood and not treated like a pin-up doll. All you want is for me to dress up and look pretty for your business meetings and clients. Smile and bat my lashes! Well, I won't do it anymore, JJ. It makes me sick to my stomach. Just leave me alone and let me paint. Leave me alone.”

I'd heard a door slam shut and Daddy cursing under his breath. And as I tiptoed back to my room, I'd cried all the way.

Those memories were another proof of the way my parents had tried to handle their lives. I went to sleep that night feeling as if a huge wall, built stone by stone over a whole lot of years, stood between Daddy and me. In three days it would be Christmas, but all the hope and love and joy I had felt just a few hours ago had come undone, little by little, like the cornrows in my hair.

It was Sunday night, the night before Christmas Eve, and Daddy had another party to attend. Mama had always decorated the house like a showplace for Christmas, but this year, it was bare. Trixie had finally insisted on taking me to get a tree a few days earlier, but the big blue spruce she'd chosen stood naked in the entranceway by the steps. I gazed at it miserably. Not one present was under the tree. Jimmy and I used to love to wrap presents together and sneak them under the tree during the days before Christmas, but this year no one had thought of presents. At the moment Jimmy was lying in bed with a wet cloth on his forehead, trying to recover from the flu.

Daddy was fiddling with his bow tie, and he could not get it right. Trixie was smoking a cigarette while Lucy and I played a game of checkers. “Thanks for coming over like this, Trixie,” Daddy said, flustered with the tie.

“Oh, JJ, you know it's fine.”

“I'd leave the kids alone. I've done it dozens of times, but with Jimmy's fever—”

“JJ, it's not a problem. Swannee and Lucy and I are gonna decorate the tree.”

But I could tell it really bugged Daddy, as if he were treating Trixie like a maid or something. Or maybe he was just bothered because normally Trixie should be attending this fundraiser. As it was, she and Lucy were spending the evening with Jimmy and me.

He muttered under his breath as he left the room in search of a mirror.

Trixie laughed, put out her cigarette, and got up. “Come he-ah, JJ. I'll fix it for you.” And coming up behind him, she laced her tan arms around his neck and fiddled with the tie until it was in a perfect bow. She barely let her hands brush his shoulders, and it was done.

Somehow that felt extremely awkward for all of us, seeing Trixie's arms draped, however innocently, around Daddy's neck.

He cleared his throat. “Thanks, Trixie. You're a doll.” He winked at Lucy and gave me a kiss on the cheek and called up to Jimmy, “See you later, son.” And he was gone to pick up Amanda Hunnicutt in his sporty Jag.

As soon as he left, Trixie and Lucy and I traipsed up to the attic, which was attached to my room by a door that was cut into the wall. It took us three trips to bring down all the Christmas decorations, but Trixie insisted. “You know that I always used to help you decorate,” she laughed. “Some things never change.”

We set up the manger scene on the sideboard in the dining room and decorated the tree with dozens of sparkling white, red, and gold balls, the kind you could see your reflection in. Trixie draped real pine boughs that were tied together all along the banister to the second floor. She even put Bing Crosby's Christmas album on the phonograph in the den. It was a good thing that Lucy was there too, because she loved decorating, and her enthusiasm helped me forget all the other things we would have been doing at Christmastime if Mama had been here.