The Woman Who Fell From Grace (4 page)

I followed her, rubbing my shoulder. I’d have a welt there by morning. Outside, eight or ten rough, old, wooden outbuildings were clustered around a big kitchen garden. A gaunt old man in baggy, dark-green work clothes and a John Deere cap was slowly turning over the garden soil with a spading fork.

Fern pointed to the buildings. “That was the toolhouse, cobbler’s shop, counting house, smokehouse, joinery, blacksmith … They didn’t have no shopping mall to run down to in those days. Had to do everything themselves on a plantation this size. Be resourceful. That’s what’s wrong with people today — don’t have to use our brains anymore. Nothing but a mess of jelly up there now.”

“That would explain prime-time television.”

She let out her big, hearty laugh. “Want y’all to come meet Roy. He’s caretaker, head gardener.”

“It must take a big staff to run this place,” I said as we started over to the old man with the fork.

“All of it’s day help from Staunton,” she replied. “Custodians, housekeepers, gardeners, tour guides — everybody except for me and Roy. He has an apartment over the garage. Does his own cooking. Is good for maybe three, four words a year. Roy? Say hello to Hoagy. He’ll be living here awhile. The short one’s Lulu.”

Roy was close to eighty, and mostly bone and gristle and leather. His face and neck were deeply tanned and creased, his big hands scarred and knuckly. He had a wad of tobacco in one cheek.

“Glad to meet you, Roy,” I said, sticking out my hand.

He gave me a brief glance. His eyes were deep set and pale blue and gave away about as much as the ones you see on a sea bass under a blanket of shaved ice at the fish market. He spat some tobacco juice in the general direction of my kid-leather ankle boots, the ones I’d had made for me in London at Maxwell’s. Then he went back to his forking. My hand he ignored.

Lulu growled at him from beside me.

We chose not to linger.

“Don’t mind Roy,” advised Fern as we started back to the main house. “At first, I thought he was rude. Then I decided he was slow. He ain’t neither. He just hasn’t got anything to say. Been working here forever, and I never have figured out why, since he’s not exactly what you’d call competent. Of course, one thing you’re gonna discover is things don’t always make sense around here.”

“Sounds not dissimilar to everywhere else.”

We took the covered brick arcade back to the old house. Six of the Shenandoah peacocks were out on the lawn now, strutting and preening. One of them honked at us, a flat, derisive Bronx cheer of a honk.

“That’s Floyd,” declared Fern. “He’s the biggest.”

Not that any of them were exactly small. They were big as torn turkeys. Their electric-blue necks were nearly three feet long, and their train of tail feathers was twice that. They were aware of us watching them. They watched us back. They didn’t look very friendly. One of them spread his fan of plumage for us to see. It was not unimpressive.

“That’s Wally. He’s all ham.”

I felt something at my feet. Lulu was crouched between my legs, trembling.

Fern looked down at her and laughed. “I guess we don’t have to worry about her at that.”

The great lawn sloped downward from the back of the house. A circular footpath ringed it, the border beds planted with tulips and daffodils. Beyond were orchards, a pond and gazebo, the family cemetery, where Alma Glaze was buried. For a backdrop there were the Alleghenies. The sun was setting over them.

“If you’re going to live in a museum,” I observed, “this isn’t a terrible one.”

“Mavis, she feels America has a right to see Shenandoah,” Fern said with more than a trace of pride. “After all, it’s a national treasure. Family doesn’t make a nickel off the proceeds, y’know. All goes to the Society for the Preservation of Virginia Antiquities, of which Mavis happens to be president.”

“Been here long, Fern?”

“Thirty-five years,” she replied. “Longer, if you figure in the movie. I was in it, y’know. What’s wrong, honey? Don’t I look like your idea of a movie star?” She laughed hugely. It had been a long time since I’d met anyone who laughed so easily and often. “Fact is, damned near everybody in town was in it, with all them crowd and battle scenes. But me, I was picked out of fifteen other girls in the tenth-grade class to play Vangie’s little sister, Lavinia. Had me one whole line of dialogue, too: ‘Why, thank you, Mistuh Randolph,’ ” she declared with a dainty curtsy. “Miss Laurel Barrett, she was a fine actress and lady, and very, very kind to me. I sure felt sorry she had so much misery in her life. … ” She looked up at me very seriously for a moment as if she wanted to tell me something. But then she changed her mind and went and got my suitcases.

There was less grandeur in the east wing. The ceilings were lower, the floors carpeted, the decor 1950s English country estate, complete with chintz-covered furniture and flowery wallpaper. Lots of peacock art, too. Framed peacock watercolors. Vases of peacock-feather arrangements. Peacock needlepoint pillows. You’d be surprised just how little it takes to make a really powerful peacock statement. A short hallway led to the kitchen, which was big and modern and cluttered. A round oak table piled with papers sat in the middle of it. Fern’s bedroom and a suite of offices were off the kitchen.

“This here’s kind of the nerve center of the estate,” Fern explained. “Though I reckon you’ll find wherever Mavis happens to be at the moment is the nerve center.” She laughed. “She and Charlotte do their business here. Charlotte is her assistant. Nice quiet girl. Handles her correspondence, her schedule, and so forth. She’s up in Chicago with Mave and Richard right now.”

We went out the kitchen door to an L-shaped brick courtyard that was the modern service yard. There was a three-car garage, a garden shed, a workshop. The tractor mower was parked here next to a pair of battered pickups. At the far end of the courtyard was a row of low, attached, wood-framed cottages that looked quite old.

“Guest rooms,” Fern informed me as we headed toward them.

“Converted carriage houses?” I asked.

“Slaves’ quarters,” she replied matter-of-factly.

“Perfect.”

Mine had a small sitting room that faced onto the courtyard. There was a pine student’s desk, matching easy chair and love seat, and a fireplace. Lulu promptly tested the easy chair for fit. It passed.

“I put in that little fridge you asked for,” Fern pointed out. It was over next to the desk. “Stocked it with milk, imported mineral water, and anchovies, like you wanted. What y’all do with cold anchovies anyway?”

“You don’t want to know.”

A spiral staircase led up to the bath and sleeping loft. The bed had a skylight and ceiling fan over it, and a fine old quilt on it.

“We’ll be more than comfortable here,” I assured her.

“Y’all need anything, just let me know,” she said. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Come on in and eat when you’re ready.”

The place was a bit stuffy. I left the screen door open while I got settled. Lulu busily cased the place, large black nose to the floor. She wasn’t crazy about the spiral staircase. The steps just weren’t made for someone with her body and her nonlegs. She had to descend sort of sideways, with a
hop-thump-thump
,
hop-thump-thump
. She sounded like a bowling ball going down. Before I did anything else I opened up a tin of chilled anchovies and wrapped one tightly around one of her allergy pills. She devoured this with a single chomp. She prefers them chilled — the oil clings to them better. Then I unpacked her bowl and spooned a can of her Nine Lives mackerel for cats and very weird dogs into it and set it by the front door. While she dove in, I opened the bottle of aged Macallan single malt I’d thoughtfully brought along, and I poured two fingers in a water glass. I sipped it as I unpacked my faithful late-fifties-vintage, solid-steel Olympia manual portable, my electric coffeemaker, my tape player, my tapes. I’d brought Erroll Garner with me. Something had told me it was going to be his kind of project. Then I went upstairs and hung up my clothes and changed into a polo sweater of black cashmere and a pair of old khakis that were soft as flannel.

Lulu was waiting for me at the bottom of the staircase with a mournful expression on her face, mournful even for her. When I asked her what her problem was, she whimpered and glanced over in the direction of her supper dish, greatly distraught.

A kitten was finishing her mackerel.

“Well, what do you expect me to do about it?” I demanded. “You’re the huntress, not me. Defend your turf.”

She did try. She growled at the kitten. Even bared her teeth, a sight known to throw sheer terror into the hearts of more than a few baby squirrels. The kitten just ignored her — it was pretty pathetic — while it licked the mackerel bowl clean.

It was maybe four months old and on the scrawny side. Its ears stuck straight up and made it look a little like a bat. Gray mostly, with white belly and paws and a gray-and-black-striped tail. Its eyes were a yellowish green. I suppose it was cute, if you happen to care for cats. I don’t. I’ve never understood the strange power they hold over people. All they ever do is sleep or hide behind the furniture. People who live in apartments even let them shit in the house.

There weren’t supposed to be any cats around Shenandoah. I wondered whom it belonged to.

Its meal completed, it arched its back and leisurely came over to me and attempted familiarity. Rubbed against my leg. Bumped my ankle with its head. Made small motorboat noises. This business got Lulu growling again. I reached down and picked the damned thing up and showed her — it was a her — the screen door. I latched it behind her. I’d have to remember to keep it latched in the future, or Lulu would starve.

This kitten didn’t know how to take a hint. She tried to push the screen door open again. When she failed, she started yowling out there in the growing dark. I had to shoo her off. She darted under one of the pickups, her eyes glowing.

I poured myself another Macallan. I was unpacking my briefcase when someone tapped at the screen door. I went over to discover a midget human life-form, type male, standing out there looking warily up at me. I opened the door. He was maybe eight years old, with a mess of dirty-blond hair and freckles and narrow shoulders. He wore a blue sweatshirt cut off at the elbows, soiled khakis, and high-topped sneakers.

“Thorry to bother ya, mithter,” he said. He was missing a couple of front teeth. “Can I … ” He looked nervously over his shoulder at the house, then turned back to me. “Can you keep a theecret?” he whispered urgently.

“I doubt it,” I replied. I ought to tell you right off — I like cats a lot more than I like kids. Kids I rate dead even with large, spiny reptiles. “What kind of secret?”

He hesitated, swallowed. “Y’all theen Thaydie?” he asked gravely.

I frowned. “Thaydie?”

“Not Thaydie,” he said, shaking his head. “
Thaydie
.”

“Sadie.”

“Have ya?”

“That all depends,” I said, tugging at my ear. “Is she small and furry? Has a tail?”

He nodded eagerly.

“Under that pickup over there.”

He scampered over to the truck, knelt, and talked her out softly. Then he carried her back to me, hugging her tightly to his small chest. “Thankth, mithter. Thankth a whole lot.”

“No problem. I’m a big believer in happy endings.”

He glanced inside at my sitting room through the screen door. “Y’all have a
dog
? Wow!” Thrilled, he barged inside, handed me Sadie, and bounded over to Lulu.

“Sure thing,” I muttered. “Come right on in.”

“What’th her name?”

“Lulu.”

“Hey, Lulu.” He fell to his knees and began stroking her.

She suffered this quietly. She isn’t crazy about kids herself. Most of them tend to tug on her ears and call her Dumbo. Sadie, meanwhile, began wriggling in my arms. When I tightened my hold on her, she bit my thumb. Her teeth were razor sharp. Wincing, I put her down on the sofa.

“I thought cats weren’t allowed here,” I said as she made herself at home.

“She’s
mine
!” he cried, suddenly terrified.

“Okay, okay. She’s yours.”

He relaxed. “She’th a thtray. I found her. Been hidin’ her, feedin’ her from my plate. Don’t tell the witch, okay? She’ll take her off to the pound to get murdered, for sure.”

“The witch?”

“That of Fern.”

“Seems pretty nice to me.”

“I
hate
her.”

“I’m Hoagy by the way.”

“I’m Gordie. Live in the cottage next to ya, Mithter Hoagy.”

“Make it plain Hoagy, seeing as how we’re neighbors.”

He gave Lulu a final pat and jumped to his feet. “Wanna play catch? I can throw a thpitter.”

“Darn. I didn’t think to bring my mitt down with me.”

“Wanna watch a movie? Got me a tape with my favorite actor in it.”

Before I could reply, someone outside called out his name. It was Fern.

“Oh, no!” he gasped, shoving Sadie at me. “Hide her, quick! She’ll
kill
her!”

“Gordie?” called Fern from my doorway. “You in here?” She put her glasses on and saw he was and came in after him.

I hid Sadie under my sweater, wondering just how I’d gotten myself into this.

“Gordie, you’re supposed to be taking yourself a bath,” Fern barked, every inch the drill sergeant. “You ain’t supposed to be bothering Hoagy here.”

“He wasn’t,” I assured her.

Gordie said nothing. Just stood there stiffly.

She pointed a finger at him. “Bathe yourself, Gordie. Or I’ll be in to do it for ya, hear me?”

He still said nothing. His manner had changed noticeably in her presence. He’d withdrawn into himself. His face was now a mask, betraying nothing.

Exasperated, she grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “You hear me!”

“Yeth’m,” he finally said softly and obediently.

“That’s better. C’mon, Hoagy.”
Thwack
. “Dinner’s waiting.”

“I’m right behind you.”

Gordie relaxed as soon as she left. I gave him Sadie back.

“Thankth, Hoagy,” he said. “
You
take baths?”

“Frequently.”

He shrugged, disappointed. “Well, ’night.”