The Swan House (37 page)

What I really wanted was for Carl to be able to hold me and kiss me and care for me. Really care. I wanted it, and so I made it happen in my mind. And while I flipped the grilled cheese sandwiches for Jimmy and me, I let myself relive his hold, his hug, his gentle, kind words.

I went to sleep that night thinking of Carl's strong, powerful grip. And hearing him singing that soulful song. But when I woke up in the middle of the night from a strange dream in which a crowd of people were marching in front of the High Museum and chanting, “Sheila is a fraud,” it was Henry Becker's eyes I saw and his voice I heard. “Yore mama did a lot of good things for people, Mary Swan. I jus' thought you might need to know it with all the other things you're finding out.”

Thank heaven for chemistry class on that next Tuesday. It was the one time during that week when I laughed, sandwiched in between two very hard Saturdays. Mrs. Tillman, the chemistry teacher, had just reminded us that we had to finish memorizing the periodic table of elements for a test on Thursday. “Now, before we do our experiments, girls, I have a question for you.”

We loved Mrs. Tillman's questions. She was a sharp, serious teacher who wore cat-eye glasses and tailored business suits and rarely smiled. But she had a great sense of humor, and she liked to catch us off guard with her “questions.”

“Did you hear about the scientist who crossed a sheep with a porcupine?”

Several girls shook their heads as we all waited for the punch line.

“They got an animal that knits its own sweaters.”

We giggled lightly among ourselves while Patty Masters rolled her eyes and whispered to me, “I can do better than that. Did you hear about the two TV antennas that got married? The wedding was terrible, but the reception was excellent!”

That definitely made me laugh out loud as we got up from our desks and went to the back of the room to the lab tables. Patty was my lab partner, which was very fortunate because I was hopelessly lost in chemistry and she was a whiz. Not only did she tell great jokes and laugh really loud, she also performed all our experiments single-handedly. All I had to do was give her the beakers and test tubes and matches.

“How's your dad doing anyway? Been out with any eligible ladies lately?” She was reading the directions for the experiment as she talked.

“Too many.”

“Well, widowers never stay that way for long.” She looked up from the chemistry book and lifted one eyebrow.

“Really?” I was astonished. “Why not?”

“Honestly, Mary Swan. What do you think? A man is a man.”

“Oh,” I said, pretending to understand. “Well, the worst part is that he's been seeing Amanda Hunnicutt a lot.” Patty knew her because Miss Hunnicutt attended St. Philip's. “She has the personality of this cork stopper.” I held up a thin test tube and plucked the stopper from it.

“That's not what I've heard,” Patty stated matter-of-factly, pouring the clear liquid from the beaker into the test tube.

“What do you mean?”

Eyes gleaming, she said, “I've heard that when she's around a man, she lights up like this Bunsen burner!” And to prove her point, she lit a match and held it to the little rope attached to the burner. It burst into flame.

I blushed, and Patty laughed at me. “You are such a ninny! What about you and Robbie? Are you gonna invite him to the Piedmont Driving Club Christmas Dance?”

“I guess, yeah.”

“Well, how are you two doing anyway?” Now she nimbly poured another concoction into the test tube, pushed in the stopper, and swished the test tube carefully to mix the solutions.

“Fine.”

“Fine? That's all you can say? Fine? Not terrific or heavenly or at least great?” She attached the test tube to the little metal rack that held it in place over the Bunsen burner. “If all you can say about dating Robbie Bartholomew is ‘Fine,' I think you should spend more time worrying about your own love life than your dad's. Robbie's a great guy.”

“I know it. He is.”

Patty surveyed me carefully, then gathered my hair in one hand and pulled it up above my shoulders. “You should cut your hair, Mary Swan. It's a little bit . . . stringy. No offense, but I bet it would look super in a little bob below the ears, just like Jackie Kennedy's.”

“Really? You think so?”

“Sure. Everybody's getting it cut that way. I mean, if you had hair like Rachel's, well, I wouldn't dream of suggesting it. Her hair is absolutely gorgeous. She should be in a Breck commercial or something. But yours would get a little bounce, a little life to it, if you cut it. And wear a little makeup. Mascara. You've got those great eyes. Show them off. I guarantee if you do that, you won't be telling me next time that you and Robbie are just fine. You'll be—”

At that moment, we heard a loud POP and smelled a burning odor.

Julie Jacobs, who was right beside us, yelled, “Look at that!” And we turned around just in time to see a little cork fly through the air and land with a plunk on her partner's head.

“Watch out, flying cork! Danger!” Patty said in a silly voice. By then the whole class was laughing. It was our cork that had taken flight, and our test tube that was black as soot sitting on the Bunsen burner and smelling up the room.

Not missing a beat, Patty picked up the test tube by the top, blew out the fire in the Bunsen burner, and said, as if she'd been instructing me all along, “And that, my dear Swan, is why you must never leave a stopper in the test tube when it's heating!”

“Open the windows, girls! Hurry up!” Mrs. Tillman remonstrated, looking out at us over her glasses with the hint of a grin in her eyes.

Julie was laughing so hard that she was choking, and Patty and I had joined in. “Did you see that?” she squeezed out, with tears in her eyes. “A perfect takeoff from Cape Canaveral!”

“Pitiful landing, though,” Patty added, pushing up the window and fanning the air.

“Stop it!” I squealed in between fits of laughter. “Oh, my stomach! You're making my stomach hurt!”

So I never found out what Patty thought Robbie would do when I cut my hair and put on makeup, but that night I stood in front of the mirror in my dressing room and held my hair up the way she had done and put on some of Mama's black mascara.

But I wasn't wondering about what Robbie would think. I was wondering about Carl.

Carl wasn't at the church the next Saturday. I had anticipated the moment when I'd see him and had memorized my speech—my thankfulness, my apologies for being so insensitive, my interest in whatever was on his mind. But none of it mattered at all. He wasn't there. I could hardly keep my disappointment hidden as I brought the pans of spaghetti sauce and noodles from the kitchen and laid them on the tables in the main room.

“Mary Swan, kin we he'p ya in the kitchen?” Carl's little brothers, James and Mike, looked eager to be of use.

“Sure, bring out the bowls of lettuce,” I instructed absentmindedly, wondering where Carl could be and if he was purposely avoiding me.

I did open my arms wide to Puddin' when she came running to me. “Look, Mary Swan! I gots my cast off! Arm's good as new!” she bragged.

“That's great, sweetie.” I picked her up carefully and held her in my arms. It was then I noticed that the basement was strangely quiet, that many of the regular women weren't around and that several men were talking together in hushed tones. Miss Abigail was nowhere in sight, and Ella Mae was huddled amongst a few other women, whispering excitedly.

With Puddin' hanging on to my arm, I walked up to the group of women and asked, “Where's Miss Abigail?”

“She had an emergency last night,” Ella Mae replied, avoiding my eyes.

“Shore did. Had to go to the hospital,” another woman added bitterly.

“Is someone hurt?” I asked.

Ella Mae looked over at Puddin' and said to her, “Run along and play with yore brothers, sugah chile.”

Obediently Puddin' trotted off toward Mike and James.

“What happened?” I begged. “Ella Mae, you've gotta tell me.”

“My, my, chile. A few of our boys from Mt. Carmel decided to attend a youth rally at a church down in Morrow, Georgia. Preacher there was gonna talk to the young folks about civil rights. Whole big group of young'uns from all over was gonna be there. Our boys left on Thursday, they did.”

“That's right, Ella Mae, on Thursday, to join their brotha's and sista's in the Lawd. A lotta Christian young people!” Cassandra's mother affirmed.

“There was some kind o' skirmish with some white boys last night as they was leavin' the meetin' place. Them white boys done roughed 'em up real good.” Ella Mae's voice was shaky.

“Lawd have mercy!” two women cried. “Our babies! Goin' ta church.”

That awful, sick-to-my-stomach feeling swept over me. “Was it Carl? Was he one of them?”

Ella Mae didn't meet my eyes but just nodded.

“Well, is he hurt bad? Tell me, Ella Mae! Is he hurt bad?”

All the women were staring at me with sad, sad eyes.

“Carl's mighty beat up. Whole head full o' stitches. Perty bad. But it's Larry—well, he might not make it.” Several women were moaning now. “They liked to near hanged him and beat him somethin' awful.” Ella Mae's big brown eyes were misting up. “Imagine someone hurtin' these boys. Weren't doin' nothin' but carryin' their Bibles and singin'.”

My head was spinning so that everything was blurry. I sat down in a nearby chair as a wave of nausea made me gag.

“You want me ta take ya on home, sugah?” Ella Mae asked.

I took a deep breath and shook my head. Ella Mae was crouching by my chair, looking caught between her two worlds. Torn. The duty part wanted to scoop me up in her arms and carry me back to Buck-head, away from the reality of the inner city. But the other part wanted to,
needed
to be here, with her people, in a time of tragedy. She was already getting out the car keys from her purse.

“No, Ella Mae. They need you here.”

“I shore do hate for you ta havta hear it, Mary Swan. With all you've been through. Shore do hate it.”

“I'll be fine, Ella Mae. Just tell me what I can do to help.”

“Ain't nothin', darlin', ain't nothin' you can do but pray.”

“Does Puddin' know?”

“Naw. We ain't told Puddin' or the boys. Carl's aunt is mighty shaken up. She's at the hospital with Miss Abigail right now.”

“Then I'll take care of Puddin' and the boys, Ella Mae. I'll keep them today.”

Ella Mae gave a heavy sigh, the kind that made her big bosom rise and fall. “That'd be right fine, Mary Swan. You do that, darlin'. You play with 'em awhile so's they don't worry none.”

“Were there any other boys hurt?”

“Two others from the band was there, Leo and Nickie was with Carl and Larry. They's not hurt quite so badly, but ain't nothin' good to see. Some of us women folk, we's gonna see what we kin do ta he'p.”

“If you need to take someone to the hospital, Ella Mae, you can use the Cadillac. Daddy would understand.”

She patted my head. “Thank ya, Mary Swan.” Then she looked at the pans of spaghetti and sauce and said, “Ain't nobody round heah much feels like eatin' nothin' today, I don't reckon.”

I don't know what got me through that day or how I smiled while I was jumping rope with Puddin' or throwing the football with James and Mike. Every molecule inside of me wanted to be at the hospital, wanted to know that Carl was going to be okay. Carl and Larry and Leo and Nickie. The boys in the jazz band! I thought of Larry. Big, fat Larry who made us laugh when he puffed out his cheeks as he played the trombone or when he turned his horn upside down and emptied a puddle of spittle on the floor. Ella Mae had said he might not make it. He might not make it!

I took the children to Oakland Cemetery, where we played hide 'n' seek among the tombstones. They assured me that they went there all the time. At least I had a chance to wipe my eyes when they were hiding.

Once I sneaked away for a few minutes to sit beside Mama's grave. “The most awful things are happening in my life, Mama. Some of them have to do with you. So much of it. But a lot is about this part of town too. I'm so tired, Mama. So very tired.”

As I headed back to find the kids, I could hear Miss Abigail saying,
“We're the hands and feet of Jesus, Mary Swan.”
So while the kids dashed in and out of the tombstones, squealing when I found them, I kept saying in my mind,
God, if you are real, do something. I don't know what
to ask you to do. Just please, do something.

It was almost five o'clock when Ella Mae came to get me at Carl's house. Her beautiful face, her round ebony face, just sagged, and I was petrified to ask her anything. Right off she said, “If it's all right by you, Mary Swan, I think we'll take these chil'un to see their brother at the hospital.”

“Sure. Of course.”

We herded Mike and James and Puddin' into the backseat of the car. “Yo' brother's gotten roughed up a bit, chil'un,” Ella Mae explained. “But he's gonna be fine. Jus' fine. Shore would make him smile to see you'uns, tho'. Sho' would.”

On the way to the hospital, Ella Mae said quietly, so that the kids couldn't hear, “Larry's still doin' mighty poorly, honey. Still ain't shore he's gonna make it.”

I leaned my head against the window and began to weep.

“We ain't told Carl yet.”

When I stepped into the room at Grady Hospital, no bright light shined in my face and nothing said, “Attention! This is foreshadowing,” the way it would in a novel. I had no idea I'd find myself there again in a matter of months. All I knew was that a black boy whom I cared about was lying in bed, everything covered in white but a part of his face—a face so swollen that I didn't recognize him. One eye was bandaged shut.