Spinning the Moon (2 page)

The law of humanity ought to be composed of the past,
the present, and the future, that we bear within us;
whoever possesses but one of these terms, has but a fragment of the law of the moral world.

—EDGAR
QUINET

T
he house stood strong and silent, bidding me to come nearer as if it were an old friend needing companionship. The windows stared at me with familiarity, and the feeling of having been there before hit me with a force so strong I had to stop. I grabbed Michael's hand and pulled him back across the brick sidewalk.

“I want this house.”

My husband turned to me as if to say something. He was very well acquainted with my particular brand of stubbornness.

Weeds as high as my pregnant swell grew behind the dilapidated picket fence, and the roof over the porch sagged desperately. Shattered panes looked out of the two dormer windows, and the entire place needed painting. A large fan window crowned the massive front door, while white rocking chairs perched invitingly on the porch. It was a remarkable house, but there was something else about it that caused me to pause before it. Some sort of unexplainable connection. Four stately columns stood sentry at the front, and I could picture in my mind's eye beautiful belles and gallant gentlemen from a time gone by sweeping down the still-graceful steps.

“I hate to disappoint you, Laura, but I don't think it's for sale. I don't see a Realtor's sign.”

I was already pushing open the front gate, its rusty hinges squeaking in protest.

“We'll never know unless we ask.” I waddled up the front steps to the porch, grasping tightly to the chipped and peeling wood banister.

Due to the imminent expansion of our family, our Atlanta apartment was no longer large enough. We needed a house. Not just brick, mortar, and roof shingles, but a home to love and call our own and raise our family in. An older house with creaky wood floors and impossible-to-heat
rooms with high ceilings. This was my house. I was so convinced of this that I didn't pause to think how a different approach might be more civilized. But there was something about this house that told me I shouldn't wait.

In the absence of a doorbell, I grabbed the dull brass knocker and banged a little too loudly. Michael had his back to the door and was surveying the wreckage of the front yard and porch. I didn't need to see his face to know what expression he was wearing.

I stood, waiting, ignoring the urge to tap my foot. I was about to knock again when the sound of a latch being drawn from inside rattled the heavy wood door.

The woman who opened the door was tall like me, but her shoulders were slightly stooped. The intensity of her blue eyes seemed to add height and strength to her willowy figure. A halo of white hair framed an oval-shaped face with smooth, supple skin. She could have been anywhere from sixty to eighty years old. I made a mental note to ask her what she used for skin care.

Her smile revealed a row of white, evenly spaced teeth. “Oh, my! You're finally here.”

I looked at her in confusion. “Have we met?”

She opened the door wider, and I caught a whiff of mothballs and furniture polish. I inadvertently wrinkled my nose and stifled a cough. My sense of smell had become acutely sensitive since I became pregnant, and even the slightest odor could overwhelm me. I must have staggered a bit, because the old lady grabbed my forearm in a surprisingly firm grasp and brought me inside through the receiving hall to a sofa in the front parlor, Michael following closely behind us.

“My dear, you must be careful of this heat in your condition.” She motioned Michael to take a seat opposite me in a fiddleback chair. Her voice was rich with the warm accent reminiscent of the Deep South.

I should have been embarrassed by the situation. Michael obviously was, as he kept trying to stand and offer apologies to our impromptu hostess, but, strangely, I felt very much at ease in this lady's presence and in her house.

The old woman disregarded Michael's sputtering and excused herself
to get us all some iced tea and refreshments. Michael was raised up north in Connecticut, where I figured people didn't just drop in on strangers to have tea with them. I'd never done it before, either, but for some reason, it didn't seem as if the owner thought we were imposing on her. There was something in the way she looked at me, as if she knew me.

Situated against one wall was an upright piano, its polished surface markedly different from the dusty, worn pieces of furniture in the room. The ivory veneer was missing on the G key above middle C, as if something heavy had dropped on it and chipped it off.

“Laura, what are we doing here?” Michael busily eyed the cracked wall plaster and water stain on the ceiling. “You can't possibly be thinking of buying this house.”

I walked to stand behind him and put my arms around his waist. Standing on tiptoes to kiss him on his cheek, I followed his gaze toward a mess of wires hanging from the ceiling. “Michael, you've got to look beneath the surface to see the real beauty here. Look at those dentil moldings on the ceiling, and the wood floors. I bet these walls are a foot thick.” I moved over to one and tapped it lightly to make my point. I didn't really care. The emotions I was feeling had nothing to do with plumbing and insulation. The sense of home surrounded me, emanating from the walls. The roof could have been falling in and I still would have wanted to buy the house.

I sat down just as our hostess came back bearing a large silver tray and tall iced-tea glasses. A china plate in the center was laden with an assortment of cookies and small cakes.

She smiled as she handed me a plate and a frosted glass. “I hope you don't mind me serving you leftovers from yesterday's ladies' bridge meeting. They are just so delicious and my housekeeper and I could never eat them all before they spoiled.”

I realized I was starving, but my manners finally interceded. I struggled to sit up. “We really hate to intrude. We're Laura and Michael Truitt, and we were merely inquiring about the—”

“House,” she said, completing my sentence. “I knew you were coming. Someone told me to expect you. I just didn't know when. I've been wanting to sell this house for years now, but knew I needed to wait for
you.” She smiled serenely and settled back against a once-elegant but now-faded sofa. “When you've got your strength back, I'll be happy to give you the grand tour.”

I glanced over at Michael, who had edged himself to the front of his seat, as if preparing to make his escape. I, too, was feeling a bit strange, but not in the least bit wary.

“I don't understand.” I shifted in my seat and knocked a cookie off my lap and onto the threadbare needlepoint carpet.

As sprightly as a teenager, the white-haired lady leapt up and retrieved the cookie.

“I bet that sounded odd, didn't it?” she asked. “Perhaps I should introduce myself. I'm Margaret-Ann Cudahy.” She paused to let it sink in or to wait for a reaction from us. Neither was forthcoming, as the name meant absolutely nothing to me or, I was sure, to Michael.

“Do you know my mother, Mrs. Cudahy?” I asked, trying to find a common thread. “Her name is Nancy Chrisler.”

She shook her head. “No, I don't believe so. The person who told me you were coming was my great-grandmother, and she passed on many years ago. She didn't explain it to me fully, since it didn't really concern me, but she said you would understand it all eventually.”

Unease brushed the back of my neck, but I was unwilling to leave. The overwhelming feeling of being home surrounded me, and this woman and her house intrigued me.

“How long has your great-grandmother been dead, Mrs. Cudahy?” I asked, trying to figure out how her relative could have known me.

“Oh, since 1935. I remember it well. It was the middle of the Great Depression, and I was nine years old. She died three days after her hundredth birthday.”

“I don't understand. I wasn't born until 1985. She couldn't have known about me.” I looked at Michael as he sprang from his chair and walked quickly over to me.

“I think we need to be going, Laura.” He grasped both of my hands and tried to haul me off the sofa.

I held tightly to his hands, but gave a quick shake of my head.

“No, Michael. Not yet.” His eyes searched my face, and then he let
go. He kept his hand resting on my shoulder. I reached for him, my fingers brushing his gold wedding band.

I turned my attention to Mrs. Cudahy. “If you don't mind, could we see the house now?”

“Of course, dear.” After Michael helped me off the sofa, she slipped her arm through mine.

The house had four large rooms on the first floor and four on the upper floor. A later addition had added a fifth, smaller bedroom upstairs, making for interesting architecture at the back of the house. The rooms had lofty twelve-foot ceilings and were all interconnected within the house. The one exception was a small preacher's room, with a single entrance from the rear porch. The huge receiving hall ran the entire depth of the house, with large doors in the front and back that could be left open to create a breezeway. A staircase rose from the floor at each end of the hallway, the one in the back less elaborate than the other, and presumably for the use of servants.

“Legend has it that some of General Sherman's troops garrisoned here in Roswell rode their horses right through this front hall, slashing at everything with their sabers.” Mrs. Cudahy's arm waved back and forth, slicing the air. “Most of the other houses in the area were heavily looted, but not this one. No one knows for sure how, but somehow the family living here was forewarned and had hidden just about everything of value. Bulloch Hall, down the road, was saved from being torched because both the owner and the Union commander were Masons. However, local historians aren't sure why this house was left intact.” Mrs. Cudahy paused to run her hands gently over the fine, peeling wallpaper. “They did destroy most of the outbuildings and crops, and confiscated the remaining livestock and slaves. There's a reason why Sherman's name isn't brought up in polite company even today,” she said with a smile.

“I hear Sherman was one for the pretty ladies,” she continued, giggling like a schoolgirl. “It wouldn't surprise me at all if many of the great houses in Georgia survived Sherman because of the Southern women who personally convinced him to spare their property.” Mrs. Cudahy gave me such a cheeky glance that I giggled, too. I wondered at her story. I had read biographies of Sherman for a paper in my AP history class, and I didn't
recall any wartime dalliances. But that was merely the written record. Word-of-mouth stories doubtlessly would have been more subjective.

Michael and I held hands as she led us through the back door onto the porch. It was deceptively cool out there in the shade with a soft, warm wind caressing our faces. “The house was built around 1840. As you can see, it is situated on a high point to take advantage of the Chattahoochee River breezes.” She caressed the smooth wood of the balustrade, her hands barely marred by time.

“Before the War of Northern Aggression, the property had almost three hundred acres, all planted with cotton, and thirty slaves to work the fields and tend to the house. But that's all gone now, except for the springhouse and chicken house out back.” Mrs. Cudahy looked at me with a wide grin. “Don't suppose you'll be raising chickens, though!” Then, as perfect strangers are wont to do, she patted my swollen belly.

“Looks like y'all have been busy! This house sure misses the sound of babies. It's been a long time since the pitter-patter of little feet went up and down these floors.” Her voice trailed away as she led us to the master bedroom. I imagined the sound of children's voices echoing through the rooms.
Yes. This is home.

She preceded us through the doorway, and I stood, paralyzed, at the threshold. I knew this room, as if I had awakened in it many times. A magnificent mahogany half tester bed with an elaborately carved pediment hung with heavy draperies dominated one side of the room. A marble-topped dressing table with graceful cabriole legs stood between the two floor-to-ceiling windows. Fancy fretwork topped the mirror above the dressing table. A splendid armoire towered toward the ceiling at one end of the room. I must have seen this room before in a magazine. I felt completely at ease and could imagine myself at the dresser, brushing my hair.

“This furniture has been in my family for more than one hundred and fifty years. All of it was made by Mr. Mallard himself in his shop in New Orleans for this very room. It's never been moved. Probably too big and heavy to go anywhere else,” Mrs. Cudahy explained as she walked over to the bed and smoothed down the faded yellow bedspread. She looked up at Michael and gave him a wide smile. “Most of my ancestors were conceived on this very bed.”

Michael, who, until that moment, was not known to be a prude, turned bright pink. He quickly looked at me, and I buried my face in his shoulder, struggling not to laugh.

Mrs. Cudahy smiled gently at Michael. “I'm sorry if I've shocked you. I used to be a ballet dancer and I've traveled and lived in all sorts of strange places. I suppose it's rubbed off on me a little.” She winked at Michael. “Plus, I'm an old lady. I'm supposed to be a bit batty.”