The Swan House (14 page)

So I left her there with the other adults and went into the room next door, what Mrs. Inman called the morning room. I never understood why. It seemed to me more like the living room in our house. I took a seat at the beautiful Steinway grand piano and plunked on several keys. Then my eye caught sight of the fireplace with its honey-colored marble from Siena, Italy. On either side of the fireplace was a swan, carved into the capitals of the fluted columns.

A few minutes later, I crept up that floating staircase and into Mrs. Inman's bedroom. It was in her bathroom that I found the most swans. They were painted on the ceiling by a famous Italian artist named Menaboni. Twelve of them! Twelve delicate swans! He had also painted lots of stars and the Olympic torch. And I found four bronze swans on the capital of the pilasters in between Mrs. Inman's mirrored closet doors.

Back downstairs in the dining room, behind a long table set for twelve, I discovered what Mama called two swan console tables. Mama thought they were perhaps the inspiration behind the swan motif in the house. I think they were very expensive. “Carved in the eighteenth century by a famous English woodcarver named Thomas Johnson,” Mama whispered while I gawked at the large gilded tables, each with two delicate white swans staring at me from underneath the tables. I loved the wallpaper in the dining room—it was hand painted in England but made to look Chinese, with different groups of birds painted on each panel. And some of those birds were mating!

I shook myself back to the present and looked up from my pad. The sun was high and the right side of my face was throbbing, and I knew I'd better be getting home before Daddy and Jimmy returned from church. I planned to spend the afternoon back in bed, my face hidden from view.

So I hurried through the woods to my house. It wasn't until I got back to my room that I took the time to examine my sketch. I liked the way it looked as if you touched the petals of the flowers on the gardenia bush, they'd be smooth and soft, and how the mimosa seemed ecstatic and carefree with its small blooms. I especially liked the way that the morning at the Swan House had given me another glimpse of hope. My love for drawing had not vanished with Mama's death, as I had superstitiously and melodramatically imagined. I always got this tingling feeling in my head and running down my spine when I liked something I'd sketched. And today, the tingles came again.

I was in the middle of my thoughts about my sketch when I heard the car pull into the driveway. From my dormer window I could see Daddy's jade green Jaguar heading up the driveway. I hopped in bed and covered my face with a damp washcloth.

A few minutes later Daddy tapped on the door. “Swannee. You awake?”

“Barely, Dad,” I mumbled.

“You want me to get you something to eat for lunch?”

“No, I really don't feel like eating.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No, Daddy. Don't worry. I'll be fine.”

And so I got away with it again. But when I went into the bathroom that adjoined my bedroom and looked in the mirror, I groaned. My face was still a terrible shade of purplish blue, and my left eye was definitely swollen. I wasn't sure I could keep up the hiding all day long.

About thirty minutes later I looked out my big window and saw Jimmy playing with Muffin in the backyard. Daddy wasn't in sight.

“Hey, Jimmy! Come up here quick!”

He must have caught sight of my face, because he came tearing into the house and up the stairs way too loudly. He flung open the door and stood gaping at me. Then his face went white. “Wow,” he whispered. “I sure am glad I'm not a girl. Is that what happens to you every month?”

At first it didn't register. But then I let out a cackle. “You idiot! Of course not. I just made up that story 'cause I didn't want Daddy to see me.”

Jimmy looked immensely relieved. I couldn't believe the naïvete é of a thirteen-year-old boy.

“So what happened to you?”

“I fell down and whacked my head on the door last night,” I lied.

“So? You could tell Dad that.”

“No, I can't. He can't see it. So will you please go make me a sandwich and bring it up to me? I'm starving.”

“I thought Daddy said you didn't feel like eating.”

“Just shut up and get me something.”

He glared at me, muttered something about his dumb big sister and why hadn't I gotten anything to eat while they were at church, and left the room. I ran after him and grabbed his arm. “Please don't say anything to Daddy. Promise.”

He rolled his eyes. “Maybe I will and maybe I won't. What's it worth to you?”

By now I was wishing I hadn't called him. “Forget it, then. Just go away and keep quiet.”

He shrugged, a smile playing on his lips, and started down the stairs.

“Oh, who cares. Say what you want!” I hissed after him.

I went back into my room and dialed Rachel's number, glancing all the while at my watch. Almost one. She'd be finished with lunch by now. She answered on the third ring.

“Come over quick!” I begged. “I'm in big trouble, and I need help!”

“You're always in trouble,” she said, unimpressed.

“I know, but this is serious.”

“Then I'll be right there.” This was said with an obvious lack of enthusiasm.

“Use the back door.”

I was waiting for her there. When Rachel saw me, she inspected my face and laughed. “Lovely, Swan. What'd ya do this time?”

“Shh.” I put my finger to my lips as we tiptoed up the stairs. “It's not funny! Daddy can't know.”

“Why not?”

“Because!” And I told her all about Carl and the cemetery and the three redneck boys.

“Mary Swan, you are really in a fix this time! That face will take days to heal! You have got to tell your dad something. Man, I'll bet they were Klanners, those guys.”

“Klanners?”

“Oh, don't be so naïve. The Ku Klux Klan. You know.”

“Carl said they were just rednecks.”

“Well, I bet they were sons of some KKK men. They hate blacks and Jews like me. And they really hate anyone who associates with blacks and Jews.”

“Great,” I mumbled.

“What are you going to do?”

“How should I know? That's why I called you. You've gotta help me think of something!”

She got off my bed and began to pace around the room. She was wearing a teal green blouse that set off her eyes. Her thick, wheat-colored hair fell on the blouse in such a way that you wanted to stroke it. Man, was Rachel pretty.

“You've got to confess,” she stated bluntly. “No way around it.”

“But I can't! He'd forbid me to ever go anywhere with Ella Mae again!”

Then Rachel turned to me, took my hands, and gave me her slyest cat look. “You have to confess, Swan, but you don't have to tell the truth!”

“Huh?”

“Oh, come on, ‘Miss Big Imagination.' Just make something up. Anything.”

“I tried that. I told Jimmy I bumped into the door.”

“Fine. You bumped into the door. Now write one of your poems and make your dad smile, and that will be that.” She crossed her arms across her chest.

I hugged Rachel fiercely. “You're brilliant. Of course!”

So I wrote a poem, and with Rachel following me, I descended the stairs and went into Daddy's study, where he sat bent over his desk.

“Swannee!” Daddy was already out of his chair and coming to me. He stopped in the middle of his long stride, his expression changed from pleasure to concern, and he started to speak.

Immediately I held up my hand and began to recite:

“To dearest Dad,
Please don't feel bad,
The news I bring
Just must be had.
Don't scream, don't cry.
I'll tell you why.
I'm fine in spite of this bruised eye.
I hit the door—
The choice was poor.
It wondered what my face was for.
It made a knot
Right in this spot,
And at the time it hurt a lot.
But all is well,
I'm here to tell,
So don't scream or cry and please don't yell.
Forgive my fault of concealing
This bump which I am now revealing.
But, Dad, could you please quick call Trixie.
You know how she just loves to fixie
All your scrapes and mine as well.
She'll come right over
If you just tell.
I've learned my lesson.
(That's what mistakes are for.)
The next time I won't fight a door!”

I had read it with so much expression and drama that by the end of the rhyme, Dad's face, which had shown displeasure, anger, and guarded mirth, was full of laughter. He hugged me and clapped Rachel on the back.

“Fighting a door! Of all things! You could have told me.”

“Sorry, Dad. I was too embarrassed. It was stupid of me, I know.”

“Swannee! For goodness' sake.” He examined the bruise. “You're right,” he concluded. “Trixie should have a look. She'll know what to do.”

When we got back from Trixie's thirty minutes later, Rachel and I hugged each other in triumph and decided a swim was just what we needed. Rachel always kept a spare swimsuit at the bathhouse, so we changed out there. I couldn't help but feel a bit jealous of the way she filled out her swimsuit so well. Especially when mine hung on me so pitifully.

“See, Swannee. Now, that wasn't hard, was it?”

“No, but it bugs me to lie to my dad.”

“I know, but sometimes there's nothing else to be done!”

I could tell she was thrilled with the way things had worked out. She grabbed my hand, spun me around, and declared, “You are too skinny. Skinny, girl. You've got to eat!”

“I haven't been very hungry.”

“Of course not.”

I looked down at my flat chest and the way my swimsuit puckered out there. “There's no hope for me,” I moaned.

We'd had this conversation a hundred times before, and Rachel assured me again, “Patience, dear Swannee! They'll grow!”

Then her face grew serious, and she changed the subject. “Swannee. Do you think you should be hanging around with Carl? I mean, I like action, but that's plain dangerous.”

“I know, Rach. But he saved me.” Then I got melodramatic again. “He could have run away! And anyway, I like him.”

Rachel did a dive off the side of the pool, plunging deep into the water. When she came up, long lashes glistening wet, she didn't say anything else about Carl. “Now, look, Swannee. We have to get going on the Raven Dare. It's the end of July, and we haven't done one thing.”

I liked the way she always said “we.”

Then she hunched her back and, moving toward me like a cat about to pounce, started quoting Poe's poem.

“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. ‘'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, ‘tapping at my chamber door—Only this and nothing more.'”

I smiled at her and she continued.

“Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember—”

“Oh, Rach!” I exclaimed suddenly, interrupting her recitation. “I completely forgot to show this to you! Hold on! I
have
done something about the Dare.” I ran into the house and up to my room and retrieved a spiral notebook from under my bed.

“Listen!” I ordered, out of breath, when I was back at the pool. I, too, fell under the Raven spell and began quoting,

“Once upon a midday dreary while I pondered weak and weary
Over many a trite and teary volume of such rotten bore
While I nodded nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping
Of Mrs. Alexander harshly rapping, rapping my fingers 'til they're sore.

‘'Tis a cruel trick,' I sputtered, ‘rapping on my fingers four!'
Only this and nothing more.
Ah, distinctly I remember it was not in bleak December
But in June that some sole member of the senior ladies' lore
Put a message in these fingers, words from writers or from singers.
How that memory still lingers of the feel in fingers' sore
Of the note unknown to nudge me into Wellington's wild war
Between two classes evermore.”

I was beaming as I finished, but Rachel stuck out her tongue and then began chasing me around the pool, calling out, “You silly girl! I should write a book called
Poems corrupted by Mary Swan
! Corrupted! Do you hear me?”

I squealed as she caught up to me. Then I tossed the spiral notebook onto a lounge chair and dived into the pool. When I came to the surface, there she stood hunched over the water, waiting. I pulled myself halfway out of the water, resting my elbows on the warm cement and watching. Now Rachel lifted her arms, high and folded like birds' wings on each side, sucked in her cheeks, wrinkled her brow, and began chanting quickly, madly, the whole long poem by Poe. She swooped and turned and almost flew around the pool, eyes glaring in frenzy and delight until she came to the last verse, and standing bent and mocking before me, whispered softly,

“And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor,
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!”

I burst into applause, calling “Bravo!” and “Encore!” while Rachel, making her eyes into condescending, dignified slits, bowed before me.

And with that, we were back to talk about the Dare and silly poems and boys. But I didn't show Rachel my sketch from that morning, and I didn't tell her that Carl knew about the Raven Dare, and I certainly didn't say that he had agreed to go with me to the High Museum sometime soon.

Chapter 7