House of Wonder (21 page)

Meeting Martin

1973

S
illa hadn't quite gotten used to driving Stewart's Cutlass. Even though it was smaller than the cars her daddy always had, she checked her blind spot three times prior to switching lanes, then glided slowly over the pavement until she found a vacant spot at the curb and pulled up.

She heard the high roar of a plane taking off as she turned around and craned her neck over the seat back, running her eyes over the people that were standing there on the concrete, their suitcases at their feet. A tall, upright-looking pilot in a pressed uniform walked out of the terminal. He caught her eye and gave her a smile, which she returned tightly before looking away, wondering if she had any idea what it meant to be someone's wife.

Two months. That's it. That's how long she and Stewart had known each other before going to city hall one day and getting married. They had talked about it the night before, made their plans amid whispers and giddy giggles. And as Silla had packed her bag that evening, in the bedroom of her father's home, she'd wondered if she needed to bring her own toothpaste.
Or will I use Stewart's now?

It was out of character for Stewart to run off and marry a girl from Texas who hadn't even met his parents, but she was only just beginning to understand that. When they had stood next to each other and said their vows, she hadn't even known that he liked his steak rare. Later, she would once again see Stewart behave impetuously when it came to love, but then it would lead to the end of their marriage rather than to the beginning.

Seeing someone she thought might be her father-in-law, she raised her hand in a tentative wave, but he kept walking, so she lowered it again. She had seen pictures of Stewart's parents, but sometimes men just looked like men to Silla.
He'll find you,
Stewart had said. And when she had asked him how, he'd only wrapped his hand around her waist and said,
How many gorgeous redheads do you think there'll be driving an orange Cutlass at the airport this Thursday at two o'clock?
She sometimes laughed hearing him talk like that; he didn't realize that he still sounded like a Yankee trying on Southern charm. She wished he were here now. She wished he weren't working. She didn't want to meet Martin on her own.

Her eyes were on the glass doors, on the periodic bursts of bodies coming through them, when she heard her name.

“Priscilla?”

She startled slightly and saw a man standing next to the passenger side of the car, his posture straight, his sport coat draped over his forearm. He was looking at her with an amused, dignified curiosity. It took her a moment to process the fact that this must be Martin. “Oh!” she exclaimed. Quickly opening the door and stepping out of the car, she pulled up the neckline of her thin maroon polyester dress, wishing she had worn something a little more modest. Her heels clacked on the blacktop as she hurried over to her father-in-law.

She brushed her hair off her shoulder and extended a hand. Martin smiled and took it. “I'm so happy to meet you,” she said, pumping her arm vigorously up and down.

“Likewise,” he said. “Likewise.” They stood like that, shaking hands, until Martin brought his other hand up to steady Silla's. “Oh,” she said, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

His short hair was almost entirely gray, with only hints of the former sandy brown he'd once shared with Stewart. His eyes were watery and gentle, like small blue puddles. And perhaps it was her youth, but she thought that there was something almost grandfatherly about him, something wise and safe.

“Well, I suppose we can get going,” she said, fidgeting, not knowing where exactly to stand or what exactly to do with her hands. She eyed his suitcase.

Again, he smiled gently and nodded down to his suitcase. “I'll just put this in the trunk.”

If Silla was uncomfortable behind the wheel of Stewart's car when she was alone, she was doubly so with Martin next to her. He drove a car for a living, serving as the chauffeur for Harold
Barnes, the son of the founder of Millhouse Incorporated. He'd done so for the past thirty years. Silla knew that it was Martin's relationship with Harold that had helped Stewart get his job.

“So how was your flight?” she asked, her eyes on the rearview mirror as she waited for an opportunity to pull away from the curb. For a moment she thought she could make it, stepped on the gas, then changed her mind and hit the brakes.

“Just take your time,” said Martin calmly. “I'm not in any rush.” Martin had a way of carrying himself in the car—relaxed and alert and always watching the road, as if he were the one driving.

Once the airport was behind them, Silla started to feel more at ease “I'm so sorry that Eleanor couldn't join you,” she said. Eleanor was Stewart's mother. He had only said that she wasn't well enough to travel. Eleanor would later die of complications associated with alcoholism. Silla would know her to be a kind drunk.
Did you know I grew up in an orphanage?
Eleanor used to ask nearly every day at the end of her life.

Martin just smiled. “I'm sorry, too,” he said. “I know she's very eager to meet her
daughter-in-law
.” He ended the sentence with a jovial formality.

Silla smiled and blushed. “I hope you and Eleanor weren't upset by the way we did things,” she said, referring, of course, to the elopement.

“I suppose you had your reasons,” Martin said thoughtfully. And Silla's smile faded as she pictured Hattie's triumphant face.
You know they call it
Miss
America for a reason.
“How did your folks take the news?”

She hesitated as she always did now when talking about her
mother's death. Clearing her throat, she said, “Well, my mother passed away some time ago.”

Martin's brow furrowed in confusion. Perhaps Stewart hadn't told him. Perhaps he had forgotten. “I'm sorry to hear that,” he said.

“And my father . . .” Silla tried to make her voice lighter, tried to build up to her punch line. “I think he was just happy that he got out of paying for a wedding.” It was her standard bit, one that usually played well, but Martin just gave her a polite chuckle and adjusted the jacket that he had draped over his lap, pulling out a packet of cigarettes. “May I?” he said, angling them toward Silla.

She nodded. “Of course.”

He gave the bottom of the pack a tap and pulled out a cigarette, settling it between his lips as he retrieved his matches. Silla heard the strike, then smelled the burn of tobacco. Had she been more courageous, she would have asked him for one.

They rode in silence for a while, watching Houston's faded-looking buildings spread out against the dusty earth, before Martin said, his eyes still on the road, “Stewart tells me that you're a singer.”

Silla let out a shy gasp, but inside she was beaming. She loved being described as a singer. “I'm not a professional or anything,” she conceded. “But I do love to sing.”

“What sort of songs do you like?” he asked.

Again, she blushed. “Jazz,” she blurted out before she could stop herself. “I like singing old jazz standards.” It was a strange thing for a Texas beauty queen to admit during the 1970s.

Martin's eyebrows lifted—he was surprised, it seemed, but
pleasantly so. Without warning, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he began to sing. “I'm gonna love you like nobody's loved you, come rain or come shine.” His voice was deep and unhurried.

Silla felt her heart shudder and jump. “Come Rain or Come Shine” was one of her favorites. “High as a mountain,” she began, relishing the feeling of the words coming from somewhere deep within her, somewhere secret and safe, “and deep as a river, come rain or come shine.”

They sang the whole song that way, trading lines back and forth. And when they finished, they both laughed, squeezing each other's hands as Silla kept one on the wheel, a mutual and spontaneous congratulations for their impromptu performance.

Martin smiled. “I think we're going to get along just fine,” he said.

And Silla pressed against the seat back, her face young and glorious. She was Priscilla Parsons now. Nothing could touch her anymore.

Windstorm

T
he storm arrived that night. The relentless wind made our cottage feel like a boulder facing the steady rush of a river. The walls creaked as they withstood its force and I listened to the whistle of the trees as the gusts swept through their branches. But except for a few errant drops that whipped against the windows, there was no rain.

The gale built steadily all evening, so that by the time the power went off, Rose was already asleep, wrapped in her covers as the moonlight made shadow branches wave across her bedroom walls. Storms never scared Rose, though. She would have loved to see the trees dancing for her.

Gordo deposited himself on his bed, his head jerking up suddenly with the louder whips of wind, only to settle back
down again with a satisfied groan a few seconds later. I watched him from the couch, my feet tucked beneath me, until I slid down and sat next to him on the floor, my arm resting over the long curve of his back. Reaching for my cell phone, I picked it up and called my mother.

“How is everything?” I asked. The family room was lit by a handful of lopsided white candles, the hardened wax that dripped from their sides looking like the wet sand with which Warren and I had decorated our castles on the beach when we were little.

“Okay,” said my mother. We had already talked twice that afternoon. There was nothing more to say about the box, about the frame. She had gone through the house to try to locate all of her frames in an attempt to explain the origin of the one that the police confiscated, but that was a bit like looking for an absent sapling in a forest. We had gone through the possibilities and the maybes—the convoluted, desperate explanations—and now all we could do was wait. It felt as if we were holding vigil, anticipating a great event without knowing what it would be. But it seemed as though when the police carry a box from your house, even just one, the story isn't yet finished.

“We lost power,” I said. “About an hour ago.”

“You can come here,” said my mother hopefully.

And as I listened to the wind's empty scream, I wanted nothing more than to be at the house at 62 Royal Court, despite the notes and the thefts and the accusations. Despite how much I had run from it over the years. I realized that it was still, in a very real way, home. It was still where the collective memories of my family resided—the beautiful, the terrible, and the ones not yet spoken. “Rose is already sleeping,” I said.

We sat in silence for a moment. “Your father called,” said Mom. “He told me you two talked.”

I paused for a moment. “Yeah,” I admitted. “I called him.”

Her breath came through the phone, and I waited for her reprimand. But when she spoke, her voice was small. “I'm glad you did, honey,” she said. “There were some things we needed to discuss.” I remained silent, waiting for her to say more. After a few moments of quiet that was louder than the wind, she did. “He's calling Lewis Marshall,” she said.

I winced. Lewis Marshall had handled my father's end of my parents' divorce, but his firm's specialty was criminal defense.
He's got that damn shyster working for him!
I'd heard my mother say.

“No, it's good, honey,” said my mother. “I think it's good.”

Gordo shifted, kicking me with his back leg as he stretched out, exposing his warm, pink belly.

“So,” she said, “what does Bobby have to say about all this?”

“Oh,” I said lightly, trying to hide the crack in my voice, “I don't know. We haven't talked in a few days.”

There was a pause. “Are you still spending time with each other?”

“Well, he's so busy with his residency. And I've got my hands full with Wonderlux. So, I don't know if the timing is really right.”

From the pitch of the silence, I could picture the exact look on her face. Her head would be tilted to the side, her face soft and sad. “Jenna, you know,” she said, starting slowly, “when you and Warren were babies, I felt like I had to . . . hold him more.”

“It's okay, Mom,” I said, sensing her regret and wanting to stanch it. “He probably needed it.”

“It's just that he was so small. And you were happy just sitting in your little bouncer.”

“Mom,” I said, chuckling uncomfortably. “It's fine.”

“I shouldn't have done that,” she said, with remorseful resolve. “I shouldn't have always made you be the strong one.”

I swallowed, then opened my mouth, waiting for the words to come.

•   •   •

After I said good-bye to my mother, I went into Rose's room and lay down next to her on her bed, relegating my body to the tiniest sliver of mattress, lying on my side and staring at her. In the blue-tinged light, her skin looked almost phosphorescent, so pale that it seemed to glow, like snow in a black night. With her red hair spilling out around her head and framing her face, she might have been a beauty from a fairy tale, an elfin princess under the spell of sleep. And I imagined my mother and Warren at home. I wondered if Mom would still lie next to her child in his bed, tracing figure eights on his back and singing. I imagined she would. I imagined the song would be low and mournful—an old spiritual, maybe, once sung by the enslaved and encoded with the path to freedom.

Wade in the water

Wade in the water, children,

Wade in the water

God's a-going to trouble the water

The shadows of trees waved on Rose's wall and the storm outside had become so loud, it almost swallowed my voice. So when I spoke, it sounded like a dream.

“Your uncle Warren named you,” I told the sleeping Rose. “I didn't know what to call you.” I didn't like to think back to
Rose's early days, to the emptiness of the hospital room. “I was all alone when I had you, Rosie. Your nana wanted to be there, but . . .” Feeling my eyes grow warm and wet, I let out a soaked-sounding laugh. “I don't know, I thought that would be weird.” I swiped the back of my hand across my eyes and looked at Rose's face, at the lines of her profile, which was so much like my brother's. “You know your uncle Warren and I are twins. Kind of like those whirligig seeds I showed you,” I explained. “And I don't know what makes him the way he is, but I was afraid that if you ended up that way, too”—I hooked one of her curls around the tip of my finger—“I wouldn't be able to love you like Nana loves Uncle Warren. Because she loves him so much, Rosie. She never wanted him to be any different than how he was.” I paused, feeling the full weight of the past. “But I did,” I whispered. “For a long time, I did.”

I lay in Rose's bed that night, letting my mind enjoy a rare stillness. Gordo eventually lumbered in as well, climbing as discreetly as he could onto the foot of the bed and settling on my feet. I wiggled my toes against him and he grumbled in annoyance. I felt a chuckle come, private and fond, as I remembered how I used to drive Duncan crazy by doing that, back in our happier days. But thoughts of Duncan led to thoughts of Bobby, of his smiling face inches away from my own, the side of it pressed against my smooth white sheets. And in the dark of Rose's room, I thought of what I would say to him, how I would explain myself.

•   •   •

Rose, Gordo, and I slept together all night, and when we awoke the next morning, seemingly simultaneously, I felt the cold air rush into the warmth that had formed between our bodies.
Looking around the room, at the dead display on Rose's clock, at her dark butterfly night-light, I surmised that the power was still out and that meant we had no heat.

“I'm cold,” groaned Rose, her eyes still closed as she wiggled deeper under the blanket.

“I know, Rosie,” I said. “We'll get you warmed up.”

I stood up and, tucking the blankets up under her chin, began to make phone calls. Rose's school was without power and canceled for the day, so I called Maggie to let her know I wouldn't be in to the office. She didn't answer, but I left a message, asking her to call me when she could. Then I dialed my mother. She answered after the first ring.

“Are you two all right?” she asked.

“We're fine,” I said, snuggling back down with Rose. “Just freezing.”

“Why don't you two come over here?” she said. “It's nice and warm.”

Within five minutes, Rose, Gordo, and I were in the car on the way to Royal Court, the sound of the heat rushing from the vents muting the kids' music that was playing on the stereo. “My God,” I said to myself as I drove toward the highway, seeing the evidence of the storm's full impact. Huge trees lay on their side, their roots reaching from the ground like great gnarled old hands, rocks and earth still clinging to their twisted fingers. “I can't believe how many trees are down.”