The Swan House (61 page)

He walked over to where his band was set up under one of the basketball hoops. Larry and Big Man and Nickie waved to me. Leo winked at me and gave a drum roll.

“Shh!” I reprimanded, my face growing hotter by the second.

Then Carl glanced back over his shoulder at me and said, loud enough for those around me to hear, “You look really beautiful tonight, Mary Swan. A perfect reminder of the white swan and the black raven.”

That made my face turn beet red, which was probably good, because I'd been pale as a ghost up until then. In fact, I suddenly felt so light-headed and hot that I untied the black cape, took it off my shoulders, and draped it around one arm, thinking to myself,
A swan
and a raven. Good grief, Rachel and Carl, cut the symbolism and just help
me get through this night
.

The lights were down in the big gymnasium, and Larry was playing a solo on his trombone. I was seated in the bleachers with my class, and I kept looking up behind me. Where were Daddy and Jimmy? Then I caught sight of Amanda Hunnicutt, and my heart stopped. Did Daddy have to bring
her
to Mardi Gras? For heaven's sake, now everyone in town would know that my dad and Amanda were dating.

But as I squinted in the dark, it looked like Amanda Hunnicutt was sitting between two other women. I breathed a sigh of relief. But where was Daddy?

The freshman skit was announced and performed—the sophomore skit too. Carl's band played a brief interlude. I was working like mad to get one of the junior girl's costumes right. Another glance into the bleachers. Still no sign of Daddy and Jimmy. Or Robbie for that matter. He had promised to be there too. No more time to worry about that.

“Put your cape on!” Patty whispered, and I quickly threw the black velvet around my shoulders, tied it in place, stepped up to the microphone, and was blinded by the spotlight. I couldn't see a thing. My hands, which held my copy of the skit, were trembling, and I cleared my throat, turning from the mike. This was supposed to be the easy part, but I didn't know if I could get a sound out of my mouth.

I leaned toward the microphone and began,

“'Twas a warm day in Venice, the streets filled with crowds
The canals all a-shimmer, the sky filled with clouds
The pigeons were pecking at bread in the square
And everyone seemed to be going somewhere.
But alas, a fair maiden, with hair down to her waist,
Was alone, searching listlessly for something to taste
Her visage was thin, hunger hung in her eyes
When suddenly she fainted on the Bridge of Sighs.”

As I read the skit, my classmates enacted it before the audience. Julie Jacobs was playing the fair maiden, and she was a born actress. The spotlight left me and panned the floor, focusing on each player. Millie Garrett held a flashlight on my script so that I could still read.

“Below on the water a gondola passed under
The bridge just as the maiden slipped into her slumber
And Antonio, the gentle, brave gondola driver,
Happened to look up and on the bridge spied her.
He parked his long boat by the side of the river
And ran onto the bridge, where, with a gasp and a shiver,
The maiden had awakened. He took her by hand.
‘Can I help you, Fair Miss?' She whispered, ‘Sand.'
‘There's no sand on these banks,' he replied with a frown.
‘A sandwich is all I need.' She hung her head down.”

The audience chuckled, just as they were supposed to, and Antonio, played by Jane with a long, thin curving mustache drawn above her top lip, picked up the maiden, Julie—not without difficulty—and carried her to the gondola. I was into the skit now, my voice rising and falling with the rhythm, smiling with the corny jokes and feeling an occasional swell of pride at a particularly clever line. We'd peppered our medieval love story with plenty of 1960s humor and puns, and it seemed to be pleasing everyone.

After fifteen minutes of entertainment, I came to the end of the skit and pronounced these words,

“Ladies and gentlemen, that alas is our story
Of how a simple gondola man found his princess and glory.
'Tis a tale for romantics, but never forget
A kind deed done from the heart's a sure bet
To receive abundantly more than the clouds in the skies.
So ends our story of Venice and the Bridge of Sighs.”

The applause was enthusiastic as the spotlight was turned off and the lights came up. All of us who had taken part in the skit, which was almost everyone in the class, joined hands and took several bows. At least that part was over. As I glanced up into the bleachers, I finally saw Daddy clapping and laughing with Jimmy. Then he turned and put his arm around the woman beside him and gave her a warm, affectionate hug. My mouth fell open. It was Trixie! Daddy was sitting by Trixie and laughing with her and punching Jimmy, and suddenly they were all waving down at me, Daddy and Jimmy and Trixie and Lucy. And Mamie and Papy and Grandmom and Granddad were sitting there too, looking as though they might burst with pride.

My eyes lit up, and I waved back with what was probably a foolish-looking grin on my face.

I got a stinging in my eyes when Jamie and Jessica, the two junior “pullers,” slowly, matching step for step, pulled our gondola float out into the middle of the floor, and the spotlight focused on Rachel. She was a princess, a movie star, a Persian cat, eyes sparkling, a soft curl of a smile on her lips. Light bulbs flashed all over the room, and everyone was whistling and yelling, “Great job, juniors!” while Carl and the band played a hyped-up version of “The Carnival of Venice.” All the girls in the junior class were hugging each another and squealing with relief and delight. And I think that Rachel, beautiful, Jewish Rachel was happy, maybe even delighted, to be the fair maiden of the junior class at Wellington Prep School.

“We've got it hands down,” Patty stated, when we finally hushed up and the lights dimmed again. “The skit was perfect, and our float is tons better than the others.”

But all I could think about was that there was just the senior float left, and then it would be my turn again as the Raven was revealed.

Mrs. Alexander came to the microphone. “As most of you know, it has been a tradition at Wellington since its inception in 1929 to pick a rising junior girl at the end of the school year to be Wellington's Raven. She has nine months to solve a riddle or dare, if you will, that has been thought up by the incoming senior class officers. As you well remember, it has been very rare that the Raven has solved her riddle. Traditionally, the Raven, the Dare, and the results are presented at the end of Mardi Gras.

“I would like to clarify that this year's dare was thought up in late May, cleared with me by the rising seniors, and given secretly to the would-be Raven on June first. I say this due to the odd nature of the Dare and in view of the circumstances that followed on the heels of the naming of the Raven. I will read the Dare and ask that our Raven join me now. The Raven for 1962–63 is . . . Mary Swan Middleton.”

There was polite applause as I wiggled my way out of the bleachers. I could hear comments all around by classmates, saying, “Wow. She never breathed a word. We wouldn't have guessed.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Daddy and Trixie whispering to each other.

When I was standing by Mrs. Alexander, again blinded by the spotlight, she said, “Let me read to you the dare that Mary Swan received on June first of last year. ‘You, Mary Swan Middleton, Raven of Wellington for the school year of 1962 and 63, have been chosen to locate three missing works of art before the end of the annual Mardi Gras Festival on Friday, February 8, 1963. These paintings were given to the Atlanta High Museum of Art by an anonymous donor and were due to be delivered on April 29 of the past year, 1961. But the paintings never arrived. There was rumor of theft, but the donor never complained to the authorities. In fact, there was never another word received from the donor, and no one knows who this mysterious person is. Locate the paintings and become one of the few successful Ravens in Wellington's history.'

“‘And here are the titles of the paintings and the artists:
Spring
Bouquet
—Henry Becker, 1958.
Child at Rest
—Sheila Middleton, 1952.
Joie de Vivre
—Leslie Leschamps, 1956.'”

I heard murmurs from the audience when she pronounced Mama's name. I glanced up at Daddy, who had just flashed a picture and now leaned intently forward, elbows on his knees.

Mrs. Alexander placed her arm around my shoulder. “Mary Swan has always been one of my most”—she looked at me slyly—“shall we say,
creative
students. I love her enthusiasm for literature and her talent for poetry. She wrote the junior skit. But Mary Swan received a task much harder than simply being chosen as the Raven this year. She was asked to solve a mystery in which her mother was implicated, and then, as a tragic twist of fate, her mother was taken from her in the Orly crash.

“I spoke with Mary Swan during the summer, offering that she back out if she wanted. But Mary Swan is not a girl who gives up easily. As I have watched her conduct herself this year in spite of the terrible personal tragedy that came upon her and her family, I have been most impressed. And now I will let Mary Swan tell you what she discovered.

“But first, I'd like to present Mary Swan with her escort, who happens to be a close personal friend. Robbie Bartholomew asked to be beside you as you speak.” From behind the bleachers, Robbie appeared. My knees grew weak as he lifted his eyebrows, gave a quick wink, and showed his dimples. Then he took me in his arms and whispered in my ear, “Surprise, silly girl,” while the audience clapped and whistled.

I was eternally grateful for his presence there. I held on to his arm for dear life as my other hand clutched the speech I'd prepared. “Um, thank you, Mrs. Alexander. You've been a great help in spite of all the times I corrupted poems in your class.” Several of the junior girls were giggling and nodding. I took a big gulp of air. “Well, as Mrs. Alexander said, it was a strange twist of fate that made the Raven Dare end up being very personal for me. I was determined to find Mama's missing painting and the other two so that they could hang in the High Museum where they were supposed to be. I felt it was the least I could do for my mother . . . and my dad.” I glanced up at Daddy.

“But it turned out to be a whole lot harder than anything I've ever, ever done before. I'd like to thank my two assistants, Carl Matthews and Rachel Abrams, for all their help. I wanted to give up many times, and they were always there to encourage me. Rachel's the one on the float. Wave, Rach!” She glared down at me from her perch on the gondola, and then broke into a smile and waved.

“And Carl's the one on the sax.” Carl stood briefly, and people murmured amongst themselves. “They've been wonderful friends to me, better than I could possibly say. And Robbie . . . Robbie came along after I'd chosen my two assistants, but he helped me, more than he knows, to walk through a whole lot of pain.”

I licked my lips and realized I was taking too long. I unfolded the paper in my hands and looked down at the words. “What I want to say, what I need to say, is that my mother was a very talented woman. But she struggled as we all do at times with hard things.” Herbert Thomas was locked on me. “Mama struggled with seasonal depression, and my dad and some other great people helped her. And a really good doctor was willing to work with her. And what I found out, what I found out is that Mama had three distinct styles of painting, and that actually, the missing paintings were not by three artists, but by one and one only, my mother, Sheila McKenzie Middleton.”

There was another murmur in the crowd. Robbie felt me trembling and placed his hand over mine.

“What I discovered was that my mother loved life and painted passionately and differently according to her moods. Many people in Atlanta know her for the portraits she painted, but she also did many paintings of the outdoors, following a technique that was used by some of the great Impressionist painters. Mama actually used pseudonyms for many of her paintings, in homage to two dear people who had helped her through her illness. I had the privilege of meeting these two people, Henry Becker and Leslie Leschamps.”

Again people whispered among themselves as they recognized the names of the other two artists.

“I also met Mama's physician, Dr. Clark. And he showed me many other paintings painted by my mother while she was in therapy.” I paused. “Although she longed to show her different styles of painting, I think she was also terribly afraid to reveal them to the public. Dr. Clark believes that she destroyed the three missing paintings. In any case, I cannot present them to you tonight.

“But even though I'm not a successful Raven, the things I learned about Mama and the people I love are far, far more important. It's been the hardest year of my life, but I'm glad for the Dare, because I found out the truth about Mama. She was a fine, complicated, extremely talented woman.

“I just want to say thank you to everyone who helped me this year. And I'll end with a quote from a very famous man. It's been my favorite lesson from this year. ‘You shall know the truth, and the truth will make you free.' Jesus said it, and I've found that it's true.”

Tears were blurring the words on the page. Robbie put his arm around my waist and whispered, “Great job,” and we turned to leave.

But Mrs. Alexander stopped us. “I believe someone has one more announcement.” She caught my eye, and I'll swear hers were filled with mischief, as if she'd just corrupted one of
my
poems.

Suddenly Carl was beside us, and Leo and Big Man were busy setting up three big easels right there on the basketball court. Then Nickie appeared carrying a painting and Larry came in with two others, one under each arm. I watched in shock as they carefully placed those beautifully framed paintings, Mama's paintings, on the easels!