The Swan House (51 page)

We went back to school on January seventh, and as soon as that happened, I felt like I was on a downhill sprint. All the hype about Mardi Gras and the Raven Dare hit me full force, and I knew I couldn't simply give up. The pressure was on. I'd had seven months to solve the Dare, and now I only had seven weeks remaining. Seven short weeks, and I'd exhausted all my possibilities for clues.

The teachers always complained that January and February were lost months, because the only thing we girls thought about was Mardi Gras. But we complained that we worked extra hours every day to keep up with the school's tradition, and the least the teachers could do was to lighten up a little on the homework. But nothing ever changed either way, and that was part of the tradition too.

The senior girls called an assembly that Monday afternoon, and all the girls in the freshmen through senior classes crowded into the auditorium for the announcement of the theme of Mardi Gras. One year it had been “Baskin-Robbins' Thirty-One Flavors of Ice Cream.” Another year “The Wonderful World of Disney.”

“Is everybody ready for Mardi Gras?” Jane McClatchey, the senior class president, asked enthusiastically.

“Yes!” we yelled back equally enthusiastically.

“This year's theme is ‘Shakespeare's Comedies.' The senior class has chosen the play
The Taming of the Shrew
. There are eleven other comedies to choose from. As soon as you have decided, please register your choice with the senior class officers. As you know, you must build a float and write a skit that has something to do with the title that you choose.”

In my freshman year, when the theme had been “The Wonderful World of Disney,” our class had chosen the film
Fantasia
.We'd decided, for some insane reason, to build a dragon, a great big papier-mâché dragon for our float. We'd gotten so disgusted with the whole thing that by the time of Mardi Gras we didn't care if our dragon breathed fire or soap.

As soon as the theme was announced, we split up into classes and started brainstorming. “All right, everyone. Be quiet, now, y'all. I mean it.” Jane Springfield, our class president, was the original organizer if ever there was one. “Listen. We've got to decide quickly, before the freshmen or sophomores can steal our idea.”

“The freshmen have already got
AMidsummer Night's Dream,”
volunteered Karen Jones.

“And we know the seniors are doing
The Taming of the Shrew,”
someone else reminded Jane.

“Great,” grumbled Jane. “We've got to get a move on it. Swan, you're our creative dreamer. Any ideas?”

I shrugged, mind spinning. I could hardly wait to get my hands on some of Willie's poetry and make it into mine. Then I'd have the best of the lot turning over in his grave! “Maybe
The Merchant of Venice
? We could have the float be a gondola going under the Bridge of Sighs.”

“Good idea,” several girls enthused.

“And romantic music.”

“And we could have a dance scene in the middle of St. Peter's Square with the pope looking on.”

We all giggled, and the ideas started flowing.

“Okay, then is it unanimous for
The Merchant of Venice
?” Jane screamed above our chatter. “Let's vote.” We put our heads down and hands up, and
The Merchant of Venice
was chosen. Millie Garrett ran down the long aisle to the front of the auditorium and reported our decision to the senior class officers.

Jane didn't miss a beat. “Now let's form our committees. Let's see. I guess Griffin will head up the float committee again. Is that okay with you, Griff?”

Betty Griffin, stocky with jet-black hair and plenty of muscles, grinned and nodded.

“Good. Well, who wants to work with Griff?” About seven hands shot up, the gals with brains for math who liked to figure out how things worked.

“And what about the skit? Swan, you got a poem dancing around in your head this year?”

I shrugged. Of course I had a poem. I had ten of them bumping back and forth into each other even as she spoke. For the past two years I'd written the skit, almost every word, clever limericks, simple rhyme schemes. It was high time to try iambic pentameter and sonnets.

“And who wants to help Swan?”

Millie Garrett and Julie Jacobs, the essay finalists from last year, both volunteered.

“As soon as you girls have written the skit, then we can set up the different committees for the dances and the costumes and the music,” Jane explained. We knew the procedure all too well. The next few days meant lots of pressure for the writers.

“Great. And the last thing we have to do today is choose who will ride on the float and which two girls will pull it.”

The girl who would ride the float was supposed to be beautiful. I'd never even gotten nominated.

“Ginny McDougall!” Patty called out. Ginny was petite with straight blond hair that went down below her waist.

“Lauralee Turnbull!” That was an obvious nomination because Lauralee, although not a real beauty, was the cutest, most popular girl in our class.

My hand went up. “Rachel Abrams.”

Rachel yanked it down immediately. “What are you doing?” she hissed.

“I'm nominating you, idiot,” I hissed back.

“Well, I don't want to be nominated.”

“Are you still mad about the Christmas dance?”

She shrugged.

In the end, five girls were nominated. Gail Anderson handed out slips of paper, and we all voted. While the class secretary counted the votes, we started nominating the “pullers.” These were two girls who supposedly looked something alike and would pull the float on the night of Mardi Gras. Rachel was pretending not to care one iota about the results of the vote, but she gave herself away by twirling a strand of hair around one finger, something she only did before flute competitions when she didn't know her piece well.

Jane stood up on a wooden pew and clapped her hands together. “Okay, y'all. I've got the name of the girl who will ride the float.”

Several girls gave Rachel a squeeze on the shoulder and whispered, “Good luck.” Rachel didn't crack a smile.

“This year, the girl who will ride the junior float in the Mardi Gras competition for Wellington School is—” She paused dramatically, which was a bit irritating. “Rachel Abrams!”

“Great! Super!” I yelled so loud that several girls started laughing, and Rachel elbowed me. Everyone clapped happily and started whispering among themselves about what a good choice it was because Rachel was so beautiful. Rachel didn't say a word. I thought I saw a smile on her lips, but then again, you could never tell with Rachel.

Most of the girls hung around in the auditorium. But Millie and Julie and I left to find a quiet room to lock ourselves in for several hours of brainstorming. We had a skit to write.

And I had a dare to solve. What none of them knew except Rachel was that I had a raven flapping its ugly black wings inside my head, reminding me that time was quickly running out.

Chapter 24

R
oy called a little while ago,” Daddy announced to me that Friday when I came in from a late afternoon skit-writing marathon. “Ella Mae's sick. Very sick. Hasn't eaten in three days. Throwing up everything she puts in her mouth, even liquids. He thinks he's going to have to take her to the hospital.”

Ella Mae had not been at the house all week. I had never known her to miss three days of work before. “Are you worried about her, Daddy? Is there something we can do?”

“I'm concerned, Mary Swan. But she's got a lot of her people looking after her. I told Roy to let me know if she's hospitalized so we can visit her.”

Feeling sobered and unsettled, I asked, “Could you take me to Grant Park tomorrow morning, since Ella Mae can't do it? Then maybe Miss Abigail could take me over to see her after we serve lunch. I'm sure Miss Abigail knows where she lives.”

Daddy's face clouded, so I added quickly, “Besides, it's the worst time of the year for Miss Abigail. She's said it lots of times. She needs my help. She's counting on me.”

Three long weeks had passed since the Day at the Park, since I had last seen Miss Abigail and Carl and Cassandra and everyone else at Mt. Carmel. Even as I considered that, I heard Robbie's accusation in my mind.
“You just go there to see your friend. That's it, isn't it?”

“No,”
I argued back.
“I go there to help out. They need me there.”

Daddy took a deep breath and cocked his head with a funny look on his face. “You know your mother used to help out among the poor. Ella Mae got her involved too. I was always a bit wary of her being in those neighborhoods.”

“I'm careful, Daddy. I promise.”

“You and Jimmy are all I've got, sweetheart.”

“I swear it, Daddy. I'll be careful.”

“All right, then.” He came over and kissed me on the forehead. “Be sure to bundle up. They're announcing snow for tomorrow.”

“Oh, Daddy! Thanks!” I threw my arms around him and kissed him hard on the cheek, and he just shook his head and muttered, “Imagine me taking my daughter down to the inner city on the coldest day of the year.”

The next morning I had on my heavy coat, a scarf, and gloves and felt very cozy inside the Jaguar with the heat going. Daddy needed no instructions to get to Mt. Carmel.

“So you've been here before?”

“I've lived in this city for over forty years, Mary Swan. I know just about all the nooks and crannies there are.”

“Do you want to come in? You could meet Miss Abigail,” I suggested as we pulled up in front of the church.

“Not today. You go on in.”

“Just hold on a sec, and I'll see if Miss Abigail can bring me home.”

I'd never seen so many people in the fellowship hall. Carl was setting up extra tables, and Miss Abigail was adding noodles to a pot of boiling water. She looked tired. When she saw me, she smiled wearily.

“Mary Swan, thank the Lord you're here. We've got a sell-out crowd today.”

“Daddy brought me down because Ella Mae's sick, but I was wondering if you could give me a ride home later on.” Seeing her rushing about, I didn't dare mention about her taking me to visit Ella Mae. I'd talk about that later.

“Honey, if you can stay all afternoon, that'd be a big help. I've gotta get a baby to the hospital right after lunch is served, and I'm supposed to be handing out blankets and shoes over at the Baptist church on Moreland Avenue. We've got a nasty night coming. See if you can stay, and I'll get you home later this afternoon.”

They need me, Robbie. See! They need me. Miss Abigail just said it.
My help is needed!
I rushed back out to Daddy's car, which several boys were inspecting from afar. “Miss Abigail will bring me home, Daddy. It'll be later in the afternoon, so don't worry.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Take care now, Swan.” He grasped my hand hard, and that made me smile.

As I walked back to the church, I thought about Miss Abigail's question,
“Why do you come down here, Mary Swan?”
and my answer,
“To help out and then I feel better when I go back home.”
How that had made Miss Abigail laugh! Was that it, then? Did I help out to feel better about myself and to see Carl Matthews?

“
Why do you do what you do, Miss Abigail, and how?”

“It's a calling. God shows me how every day and I leave the why to
Him.”

I stepped back inside the kitchen, taking off my coat, scarf, and gloves and laying them on a chair in the fellowship hall.

“We need a bread-and-fishes miracle today,” Miss Abigail murmured to Carl and me as we strained to set the big pots of sauce on the table. “Too many needy folk. Lord Jesus, you provide today, just as you have always done.”

And I guess He did, because over the course of the next hour, every last hungry person in that hall was fed. And in between the “Lord bless you's” served up with ladles of sauce, I told Carl about going back to Resthaven.

“Did you find out anything more about your mama?”

“I found out that she had painted a lot more paintings, beautiful, wild, expressive paintings, and that they are at Resthaven. And you and Rachel were right—she painted all three of the paintings in the Raven Dare. But the bad news is . . .” I paused to take an empty pot back into the kitchen and retrieve the last full one. “The bad news is that her doctor thinks she destroyed those three paintings. So that pretty much means I won't solve the Dare.”

“But you did solve it!” He slopped spaghetti sauce on Larry's plate and said, “Whatch you doin' here, brotha'?”

Larry shrugged. “Ain't got much food at home. Mama sent me down here with the young'uns.”

“Hi, Larry,” I said.

“Hi, Mary Swan. You doin' all right today?”

“Yeah. Kind of cold outside, though. Think it might snow?”

Larry shrugged, smiled, and passed through the line with his younger siblings.

Carl returned to our conversation. “You found out the paintin's were destroyed. That should count for somethin'. And you discovered a lot more important things about your mother and found a bunch of her other paintin's and my, my girl. I think you've done a good job. What's a silly dare compared to knowin' 'bout how fine a painter your mother was?”

“Yeah, I know you're right,” I admitted. It was the same conclusion I'd come to myself. I changed the subject. “Rachel's been chosen to ride on the float at Mardi Gras, and I'm writing the skit.”

“What kinda skit is it?”

“Oh, it's silly and funny and clever, tells the story of a lost girl in Venice, with modern songs and dances woven in too.”

“And you're spending your time on that?”