Heaven and Hell (106 page)

HEAVEN AND HELL

sloppily poured himself a drink. "Don't spill on my carpet, it's imported from Belgium," she said. "And for your information, my name is Mrs. Brett."

"I can't believe this," Villers said, sagging into a chair beside the great teak desk. "I've never been here before. Two of the Fenway peddlers are in town, so I thought we'd go on a spree. How long have you run this place?"

Ashton's face, smoothly and carefully powdered, still showed a slight puffiness. She was forty, and had trouble controlling her weight.

"Since it opened. That was shortly after I left Will. I wasn't exactly
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prepared to support myself. If you're a proper Southern girl, your education consists of learning to simper and curtsy. At least that was so in my day. Consequently, when you grow up, all you know how to do is be a wife or a whore. In the case of my first husband, who was a spineless no-good, I was the former and felt like the latter. You know, LeGrand, the ladies of Charleston would lynch me for saying this, but lately I've begun to think the suffragists aren't entirely crazy. I've given a local group a very large donation two years in a row." She feigned a demure expression. "Anonymously, of course. I wouldn't want to compromise my reputation."

He laughed. "How'd you get started here?"

"With the help of a patron."

"Yes, you'd have no trouble finding a platoon of patrons. You're as handsome as ever."

"Thank you, LeGrand. How's Will?"

"Making millions, the old son of a bitch. The judges in Philadelphia gave our Ashton model one of their bronze medals. Isn't that something?

Now tell me, what happened when you left? One day you're back from Carolina, and the next--whiz. Gone."

"Will and I had a major disagreement." No sense telling him more. No sense in revealing that she'd had the bad luck to be away from Chateau Villard the day the mail brought Favor Herrington's last bill. Will was at home, recovering from summer influenza. He opened the letter from the unfamiliar law firm and then wanted to know why she had hired an attorney when, according to what she'd told him, all she'd done in South Carolina was visit. She evaded, lied, resisted as long as she could, but he was a stubborn old devil, and success had only strengthened him. When she screamed that she'd roast in hell before she told him anything, he shrugged and said he'd telegraph Favor Herrington and demand an explanation. He would exercise his marital rights and insist that Herrington could not claim confidentiality because Ashton was spending his money. Terrified, Ashton confessed to pledg Crossing Jordan 675

ing an enormous sum for Mont Royal by means of a letter of credit on their bank.

She tried to put the best possible face on what she'd done, but she knew she was failing when she saw loathing narrow his eyes and twist his normally relaxed mouth. When it was all out, when she'd admitted she'd almost taken Mont Royal away from her own family, he reminded her of his warning after she murdered the senora's brother-in-law in
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Santa Fe.

"I said I'd never tolerate-meanness like that again. I love you, Ashton, old fool that I am. But I'll be cursed if I'll live with someone so low. I want you packed and out of here by noon tomorrow."

Villers said, "A disagreement, you say. You divorced him, did you?"

Ashton shook her head. She hated the feeling of sentimental longing this conversation was generating. It was a feeling all too familiar.

"It's possible he divorced me, though. I don't know."

"He hasn't that I know of," Villers said. "Does he know where you are?"

"No, but I don't expect he cares. I'm perfectly happy," she lied.

"If a woman has her health and her beauty and some regular income, what more does she need?" Why had Will been so damned upright? Often, in the middle of the night she desperately missed cozying up to

his skinny old body under a thick comforter.

Her dark eyes widened in her powder-white face. Villers was studying her in a way she didn't like. "What is it, LeGrand?"

"Just thinking. I appreciate that you and Will must have had a good reason for the split-up. But he was your husband. Maybe he still is. He's going to be mighty sorry to hear what's become of you;"

Her heartbeat quickened. "You wouldn't be a snake and tell him about me."

"You care about the old bastard's feelings?"

"Why, no, I--I just want to preserve my privacy."

"I'll preserve it." Villers eyed her. "In exchange for a little taste of the old times."

Ashton's fine bust lifted like a ship's prow heaving from the water.

All outraged gentility, she said, "I own the Carolina Club. I am not one of the workers."

He unfolded himself from the chair. "All right, then I can't promise to hold my tongue."

She seized his hand and rubbed the palm with her thumb. "Of course I can always change my policy for an evening."

Villers licked his lips. "No charge?"

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She wanted to hit him. She wanted to weep. She smiled, tossing her head back; her elaborately pinned dark hair shimmered.

"Why of course not. Never a charge for a friend."

Later, while the notes of Princess Lou's "Hail, Columbia" drifted upstairs--aside from some patriotic bunting on the portico, it was the club's sole acknowledgment of Independence Day--LeGrand Villers finished for the third time, not having roused her once.

As he rolled away, he accidentally touched the soft rounded ridge of fat that kept growing and growing above her mons, no matter how little she ate. The Fenway sales manager wasn't so rude as to say anything, but she felt his fingers hesitate before he drew them from her stomach.

Somehow that touch destroyed her. She was a strong woman, and a successful one, but there was nothing left for her except decay, the slow ruin of her beauty, death. And every once in a while she was forced to confront that.

Soon Villers was snoring. Ashton lay on her side, hands tucked under her chin, knees drawn up to her breasts, wide-eyed and wishing she were a child playing with Brett at Mont Royal once again.

On Thursday night, twenty-nine members of the Main and Hazard families gathered in the private dining room set aside for them by the hotel. At the open end of the horseshoe table, an easel displayed the architect's rendering of the white-columned facade of the new Mont Royal plantation house. Madeline described the house, then invited everyone to come visit whenever they could. She sat down to warm applause.

George rose, proper and polished. The room was quiet except for the rustle of Willa's skirts; she was holding little Alfred and gently bouncing him up and down to soothe his fussiness. He began to drowse, thumb in his mouth.

George cleared his throat. Charles lit another of the cigars whose smoke hung heavy in the airless room.

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"I am glad we are together on this momentous anniversary. We share so much that is important, though, unfortunately, I cannot include good Republican politics in that statement."

Everyone laughed, Champ Nevin as heartily as anyone. A cigarette balanced on the edge of his coffee cup sent off smoke in an ascending corkscrew. Two places away, Stanley coughed into his napkin, making a show of it and shooting looks at Patricia's husband. Earlier, Stanley and the young newsman had had a row over Grant's 1869 treaty of annexation of Santo Domingo, which the President's emissaries had Crossing Jordan 677

negotiated without the knowledge or consent of Congress or the cabinet.

The Senate had killed the treaty, and the whole affair had started the defection of important Republicans such as George from the regular wing to a new reform wing of the party. Champ Nevin had nearly given Stanley a seizure when he called Grant's behavior "criminal."

George continued: "I was trying to organize some appropriate remarks when I thought of the city of Philadelphia's Independence Day poster. Have you seen it?" Several of them nodded. "Allow me to quote from it." He consulted anote, reading the words about 1776 and 1876. He dropped the note beside his water glass.

"That is an expert summation of our country, and our own lives.

Since the Mains and the Hazards were first drawn together by a friendship forged at the Military Academy, we have all changed, and so has the nation. We will never again be as we were, be what we were, except in one regard. Our affection, one family for the other, is immutable."

Never again as we were, Madeline thought. How right he is. Constance was gone. Cooper had not been invited, though everyone

keenly regretted Judith's absence. Ashton was presumably in Chicago with her millionaire husband--no loss. Charles and Billy, whose lives had diverged on such different courses, showed clear signs of awkwardness with one another, despite their strong ties from West Point and the war period.

Over there, bored and blank, Stanley sat beside his churlish son, no doubt puzzling as to why either of them had agreed to attend George's reunion.

And, most important, her dear Orry was gone. ...

"That affection has carried us through a time of national crisis and testing," George said. "Through dark days of warfare and political strife, the bond has grown thin but it has never broken. It remains strong to this day.

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"My mother believed the mountain laurel has a special strength that enables it to withstand the ravages of the seasons. She said only love and family could generate a similar strength in human beings, and I believe it's true. You are the proof, We have grown from two families into one, and we have survived. That strength and closeness, born of friendship and love, is one of Orry Main's great gifts to us, and the reason he is very much with us tonight. I loved my friend Orry, and I love every one of you. Thank you for coming to Philadelphia to reaffirm--to--"

He

cleared his throat again, bowed his head. He quickly rubbed a finger in his right eye.

"Thank you," he said in the silence. "Goodnight."

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Charles and Willa were the first to leave the dining room. Charles noticed a peculiar hush in the lobby. Guests conversed in whispers, or stood reading newspapers. He patted Gus's shoulder and strode to the desk.

The clerk put down his copy of the Inquirer. "What's wrong?"

Charles asked.

Pale, the clerk said, "General Custer is massacred. And all his men with him."

GREAT INDIAN BATTLE.

Sanguinary Fighting in the

West.

The Ground Piled with Bodies.

Over Three Hundred Killed.

THE INDIAN MASSACRE.

Confirmation of the Sad News.

A General Indian War Expected.

list of the killed and missing.

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Gen. Custer Heads the Roll.

His Brother Slain by His Side.

THE INDIAN WAR.

How Are the Mighty Fallen.

First Rumors All Too True.

Forty-Eight Hours' Fighting.

Rescue Arrives at Last.

Cause of the Catastrophe.

Custer Unaccountably

Precipitate.

Philadelphia Inquirer

July 6-7-8, 1876

The moon washed the roofs of Philadelphia and the face of the man at the hotel window. He wore his trousers and nothing else. It was half past one. He couldn't sleep. Because of that, neither could Willa.

He heard her shifting in the bed behind him.

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Musing, he said, "I'm glad Magee's coming down to the ranch to visit when he gets leave. I want to know what he thinks of the massacre."

"It's

upset you, hasn't it?"

Charles nodded.

"What do you think about it?" she asked.

"It's hard to decide without all the facts. The dispatches are still pretty muddled. No two agree. I'm sorry for the men who served under Custer, and for his wife, but God help me, I don't feel sadness for him.

I don't know, Willa, it's like--like watching a wheel come full circle.

A lot of men said Custer took us to the Washita because his reputation had suffered as a result of his discipline and he wanted public favor again. He needed a victory. He got one, but it was dirty. He never quite canceled out the Washita, and this time it sounds like he was after another victory in hopes of doing it. There's some indication that he disobeyed
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orders and rushed in where he shouldn't."

He let out a long breath. "I keep thinking he was hunting the presidency, not the Sioux. I wish I could say I liked the poor son of a bitch now he's dead."

She heard the confusion in his voice, the echo of bad memories.

He saw her outstretched hands glimmer in the light. "I love you, Charles Main. Come here, let me hold you."

He was halfway to the bed when Gus screamed.

Wildly, he crashed the bedroom door back, lunged across the parlor and into the smaller bedroom. Gus was fighting the sheet, rolling to and fro, crying, "Don't do that, don't do that."

"Gus, it's Pa. You're all right. You're all right!" He gathered the boy in his arms and pressed him close. He stroked his hair. It was damp from sweat.

Presently Charles sat back, and Gus stared at him with a bewildered air. The scar looked black in the moonlight. Charles silently cursed all the Bents and Custers of the world.

Gus's huge, terrified eyes focused. "Pa."

Charles's shoulders sagged. The tension left him. "Yes," he said.

Virgilia's was the only white face in the small, plain restaurant.

She and Scipio and Jane had come there for a farewell breakfast. Eggs, fried fish, corn bread--all deliciously hot. The other tables held some people who evidently came from the neighborhood, and there was one waiter, the cook's son.

"I'm very glad we had this chance to meet," Virgilia said as she finished.

Jane said, "I am too. I wish my husband could have seen the 680 HEAVEN AND HELL

exhibition." There was no self-pity in the statement, merely a solemn declaration.

"I don't know as I'd wish that," Scipio said.

"Why not?" Virgilia asked.