The Evidence Against Her (24 page)

When her father came by Scofields on his way to Columbus to let Agnes know about William, so unreal to Agnes was anything in the world other than her preoccupation with her husband that for the most part what she felt was a guilty relief at not having to find some comfort to offer Bernice Dameron or Mrs. Longacre or William’s parents. There was no end of things that, at nineteen, Agnes would fail to mourn satisfactorily until long after the fact.

•  •  •

Catherine Claytor was almost eight months pregnant by October, and she was nearly driven mad by her sons’ being out of school and at loose ends all around the house. The legislature still had a good deal of business to conduct, and Dwight Claytor took Richard and Howie with him to Columbus, where they stayed in the rooms he kept at the Curtis Hotel. It would keep them busy, and Dwight thought the whole notion of trying to avoid contagion by huddling inside, not venturing beyond your own doorstep, was simply superstitious foolishness. He was certain that whether or not anyone caught this influenza was no more than good luck or bad.

Howie was fifteen and Richard was sixteen, but Edson, at age eleven, was simply too young to be at large on his own in Columbus, and besides, someone needed to be at home with Catherine. Mrs. Longacre only came over every now and then, and in the absence of any other distractions, Catherine and Edson entered a remote and intricate world of their own. Life inside the Claytor house out on Newark Road was pretty much cut asunder from the ongoing life of the world.

Edson would wake up early and go down to the kitchen and make himself a plate of three or four slices of bread and butter, slathered with Mrs. Longacre’s currant jam, to take back to his bedroom. He would arrange everything carefully on his bed— his sheet and blanket neatly pulled up and tucked in so that if Mrs. Longacre happened to come by she wouldn’t toss the bedding on the floor for washing. He used his pillow to hold open whatever book he was reading at the moment. He would settle cross-legged in the exact middle of the bed to read, and he would meticulously nibble off all the crusts of each piece of bread and then slowly relish the softer centers.

He moved right along from
The Lawrenceville Stories
and
Stover at Yale
to Robert Louis Stevenson, Dickens, and finally even Edith Wharton—anything he liked from the book-shelves, in fact—not caring much if he knew precisely what the author was getting at. The reading itself was the thing, all the words just rolling on page after page. Even if the morning was chilly he opened his window so he would be sure to hear the clank of the bolt on the barn door being thrown when Mr. Evans came to see about the horses. Then Edson pulled a shirt and trousers over his pajamas and went to take out old Dilly for some exercise while Mr. Evans saw to Buckeye. Bandit was stabled at Scofields now, of course.

Edson lent Mr. Evans a hand, but Mr. Evans’s silence was generally complete and uninterrupted even by a greeting, so at first it seemed to Edson an awkwardly negotiated hour or so in each day. But eventually the whole interlude was oddly reassuring and peaceful, and effectively marked the middle of the day. Edson communed more with old Dilly, as he swung up on her broad back, than he did with Mack Evans, who rarely said a single word unless he felt compelled to give some brief instruction.

The abrupt peacefulness that had fallen over the Claytor place in the wake of the great stir that Agnes’s engagement and wedding had caused—followed by the chaotic effort of getting Howie and Richard off to Columbus—was a surprise to Edson. He was not worried about anything at all, although he didn’t realize that it was mostly the cessation of anxiety that had thrown him into the dreamy golden serenity of the glorious fall days. The sunlight illuminated the brilliant red leaves of the sugar maples and the yellow flickering of the fragile leaves of the old walnuts, and Edson enjoyed every moment without the heavy work of being alert to fluctuations of the mood of the household.

In the afternoons he would join his mother, who had taken to spending hours on end in what was also used as a sewing room. It was furnished with odds and ends of bureaus, a cot tucked against the back wall, and a long table in the center of the room. Two mirrors were arranged so that a hem could be checked simultaneously front and back, and an old sofa was pushed up against the windows.

Catherine and Edson would each curl up on opposite ends of the sofa and read their separate books. Or she might look up with pleasure at his company and tell him all about his family in Natchez, about the fact that he, Edson, was directly related to Aaron Burr, and also Jefferson Davis, through Davis’s second wife, Varina Howell, and most telling, because it’s where the Alcorns—she herself, in fact—came to have their fair complexions, their dark blond hair, General George Armstrong Custer.

“Of course, I never
met
him. He was my mother’s first cousin. They had been so close as children that people took them for brother and sister. They looked so much alike, you see. I’ll tell you, he was a handsome man! Dashing and quite a rake. But he was with the Union, and my mother had become a real Southerner. Oh, she . . . Well . . . Of course she never forgave him. But she never put away his picture either, and, you know, you
do
look very much like him when he was a boy.”

Pocahontas, too, was part of his ancestry. “Which is why you’ll
never
be bothered with a heavy beard. Now that’s on my father’s side. I’ll tell you, I never thought about it before, but maybe Agnes’s hair . . . It might be
that’s
why her hair . . . I never thought of that. . . .” Catherine’s train of thought occasionally wandered off on some trail of its own, but as soon as Edson grew restless she brought her attention back to him. He was flattered by everything she said, delighted by her interest in his company. His mother managed to convey the idea that these grand family connections were an unusual achievement of Edson’s himself, and that she admired him for it.

Catherine even took to inventing long stories about Uncle Tidbit and Aunt Butterbean, and although Edson knew he was too old for them, he sat transfixed as his mother wound out those tales, falling spontaneously into each character’s voice, each character’s manner, just as she had when he was a small child. She was unstudied in her storytelling—she spoke with the enthusiasm of someone highly entertained herself by what she was saying—and that’s what had drawn each one of her children in at some time in their lives. Any contrived effort by an adult to charm a child only confirms that child’s darkest suspicions of the slippery nature of the larger world, but Catherine had no gift for artfulness; she was genuine in whatever she did, and she was a marvelous teller of stories.

“Of course, Edson, it was a beautifully warm and sunny day in Natchez. Oh, the weather there is so glorious! But Aunt Butterbean was all at sixes and sevens and wasn’t enjoying it one bit because she couldn’t find Uncle Tidbit anywhere. Not in any of his regular hiding places—or, as he always said whenever Aunt Butterbean discovered him, ‘I was just meditating, my dear, in this little
retreat
I’ve found.’ But on this particular day Aunt Butterbean had taken a great deal of trouble to make her wonderful coconut raisin cake. Seven layers high and chock-full of fruit and coconut, which was Uncle Tidbit’s favorite flavor ever since he had come back from India.

“Finally she found him coming from the old smokehouse his great-granddaddy had built but that no one used anymore.” Catherine’s face became wide and curious, and her voice fell into a surprised drawl that conveyed the maddening innocence and intolerable good nature of the long-suffering Aunt Butterbean. “‘Why, Tidbit,’ Aunt Butterbean fairly shouted—you remember that she was very hard of hearing—‘I’ve been looking high and low for you. Where
have
you been off to?’

“Uncle Tidbit was awfully cross at having his new retreat found out so quickly by Miss Butterbean, but he collected himself on the spot.” Catherine drew her brows together to imply the self-importance of Uncle Tidbit. She puffed out her cheeks and her voice was furry and pompous, “‘Well, my dear, I’ve wanted to surprise you for some time. Ever since I was in India I’ve had a powerful interest in those fellows over there who can play a little tune and just charm a snake right out of a great, tall woven-reed basket. I said to myself that there couldn’t be anything much more useful to know than a thing like that. No end of what you could do, don’t you see? I’ve been practicing every day out in the smokehouse.’

“But of course Miss Butterbean was too vain to use her ear trumpet, and she didn’t get it quite right. ‘You’ve been smoking in the house, you say? But where? I looked in every room, Tidbit, and I didn’t see you.’

“‘No, no, Miss Butterbean. I say I’ve been practicing my new skills in the smokehouse.’

“‘Oh, Tidbit, I’ve told you that I won’t have you still smoking in the house. Cigars, I imagine. If only you’d take up a pipe. So much more distinguished, you see. And it wouldn’t cause a bit of trouble, because it would just remind me of my own dear father. But cigars, Tidbit, are quite another matter. Oh, dear. You really must stop. And to think you were hiding from me. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’” His mother’s voice was that of poor Miss Butterbean, sweet and plaintive, her head cocked wistfully to one side. Then she straightened up and became the very embodiment of frustration.

“‘
Miss
Butterbean! I am not in the
least
ashamed of myself! I say I’ve been
charming snakes!
Why, I’ve got quite good at it. The little critters’ll do exactly as I say. I’ve been training them with a bit of food.’

“‘Well! For goodness sake, Tidbit! If the sheiks are charming and need food, then please bring them to dinner. I’ve made my special seven-layer coconut raisin cake for dessert.’

“Well, I tell you, Edson! Uncle Tidbit was so vexed that he could hardly say a word, and whenever he was in
that
state of mind, as you know, he simply sputtered about helplessly. ‘Bring them to dinner? Bring those snakes to dinner? Why, Miss Butterbean, I do think it would serve you right. I do indeed!’

“‘Oh,’ said Miss Butterbean, ‘you mustn’t think of it as a good deed. Why, I’m sure it will be my pleasure!’

“But at dinner that night, at the beautiful long table Miss Butterbean’s mother had inherited from
her
mother, who had inherited it from her grandmother—and no one knows which side of the family had passed it on to her, but it would easily seat twenty-six people. And, oh! Edson! Miss Butterbean had set it with her great-grandmother’s finest lace tablecloth, and a cut crystal bowl with gardenias, and the two great candelabras, each lit with thirty tall candles!

“But . . . Well . . . I’ll tell you, Edson, things simply didn’t go very well. No matter how persuasively Uncle Tidbit played his flute, the snakes would not come out of that basket—which, of course, was placed on the chair to Miss Butterbean’s right, because she had insisted that Uncle Tidbit’s guests be her guests of honor. She’d expected to receive a number of gentlemen in turbans, and she had been very worried about whether to offer to put the turbans in the cloakroom, as if they were hats, or if the gentlemen were in the habit of wearing them at the table. She was a little relieved when the sheiks didn’t appear in time for supper. ‘I suppose your sheiks will join us for dessert?’ she said to Uncle Tidbit.

“‘Miss Butterbean! Surely even
you
can see I’m trying with all my might and main to get them to make an appearance! They’re very sensitive creatures. Perhaps they’re put off by your voice! You do sound rather like a thundering mouse! It’s quite unsettling.’

“Well, Miss Butterbean
was
hard of hearing. She did rather shout when she spoke, but one of the odd characteristics of her hearing was that she was quite sensitive to the high-pitched notes of any wind instrument. And the sound of Tidbit’s flute grated on her nerves so that she really was feeling that she was about to jump out of her skin. And although poor Aunt Butterbean’s feelings were hurt, and she was surprised by Tidbit’s bad humor and his persistence in playing the flute all during dinner, she decided it was the better part of wisdom to keep her own counsel about his behavior. He really hadn’t been quite himself ever since returning from India, where he hadn’t had much luck in the spice trade. But she saw neither hide nor hair of these sheiks of Tidbit’s through the first course, or when Tidbit carved the roast beef.

“Of course, some guests are simply eccentric, she thought to herself, and nothing you could do about it. And she made general conversation so that Tidbit wouldn’t feel he was disturbing her pleasure by playing the same dreary little tune over and over on his flute. She talked right over the music and at great length about the weather, the garden, the upcoming cotillion—until she had exhausted every topic she could think of. She really was at her wit’s end by the time she cut towering slices of her beautiful coconut raisin cake.

“And only then—after Tidbit had put aside his flute—‘I think the blasted thing’s not working at all!’ he’d said with disgust. Only when the delicious cake was set out on Miss Butterbean’s nicest silver platter did those snakes finally shoot out their hooded heads and flick their long, forked tongues to seize a slice of Miss Butterbean’s famous coconut raisin cake.

“Miss Butterbean looked apologetically at Uncle Tidbit, who was just disappointed no end. She finally leaned toward him and said in the softest voice she could manage, so as not for one minute to be rude, ‘Why, Tidbit, I don’t think I agree with you at all. You’re simply too generous by nature, and you think well of everyone. Which I’ve always said is a great credit to you altogether. But, dear, to tell you the truth, I don’t think your snakes are a
bit
charming.’”

Later in their lives Catherine Claytor’s children would tell these same tales of the adventures of Uncle Tidbit and Aunt Butterbean to their own children, but those children would gaze off politely, not paying attention, or wander away just in the middle, because the stories weren’t in themselves particularly entertaining. What Catherine’s children had reveled in was the evocation of the entire magical world of their mother’s childhood itself—of tables that would seat twenty-six passed down from parents to children, of the tradition of observed occasions, for instance: particular meals, exquisite linens, fresh candles with the wicks always burned so as not to sputter, a fine patina on the wafer-thin silver, and always the expectation of impeccable manners. They were enchanted by their mother’s remembrance of the fabulous condition of unmitigated graciousness to which they, too, were at least slightly connected. But the whole idea lost its luster when repeated secondhand, because no enthusiastic familiarity informed those stories as repeated by Catherine’s children. After all, the stories weren’t anything like what they remembered of their own childhoods.