The Swan House (48 page)

“Like the way I acted about your going into the slums, to help the Negroes. Things are changing, Mary Swan, and it's not always easy to keep up. You hardly have time to decide whether what is happening is for the good or the bad. It's not how I was raised. Blacks were always our inferiors. Don't get me wrong. You always treated them with respect, fairly, did what you could to help their situation. But there was never any question of friendship. Never ever. It's hard to imagine.”

“Do you think, Daddy, that given the right education, a black child could do as well academically as a white?”

“I don't know. Be hard to believe.”

“Someday there will be black girls at Welly, I bet you a million bucks.”

“It's possible. But it won't come easily.”

“It's not Christian to discriminate because of race. It's not what Jesus said. He said there's no difference between slave and free, Jew and Greek.” I took another spoonful of the cold potato soup. “But no one seems to pay any attention around here.”

“People are afraid, Mary Swan. Many whites don't hate blacks, they're just afraid. Afraid of crime and poverty. And also afraid of change. What will happen to society if blacks start mixing with whites? A lot of things would be compromised.”

“Like what?”

“Like safety. You've seen the bad side of whites being mean to blacks. But, Mary Swan, there are so very many cases of blacks being violent against whites, robbing, beating, murdering. And, of course, most of the murders in Atlanta come from the inner city, often black against black.”

“But that's because of their desperate situation.”

“Maybe. But it's not something that is easily changed. The black and white mentalities are so very different.” It was during that discussion that I realized Daddy had thought through a lot of things, and he had good reasons for what he believed, even if I didn't agree with him.

When the filet mignon was served, we started talking about the High Museum as strands of classical music delicately blended with the quiet chatter in the Mirador Room. “Is there much progress being made for the Memorial Arts School, Daddy?”

“Some, slowly. Right now, a lot of families are suing Air France for neglect in the crash. I guess it's to be expected.”

“Are you going to sue, Daddy?”

“No, I hope to settle out of court. But it's the kind of thing that will drag on for months, maybe even years.”

“Do you think there was neglect, Daddy?”

“I think the plane was too heavy, too much baggage. That should have been more closely controlled.”

But I didn't want to talk about the crash, so I dared to broach a different subject. “How did you and Mama meet?”

“You've heard that story, Mary Swan.”

“I want to hear it again.”

Daddy frowned slightly and then shrugged. “It was in 1941. My sophomore year at Tech. She was about the most beautiful girl I'd ever laid eyes on. Just seventeen. Just about your age, Swan. Wellington had a large percentage of boarders at the time, and your mother was a weekday boarder, going home on the weekends.”

“Was it love at first sight, Daddy?”

“For me it was. Absolutely. But your mother needed a little convincing.” He stared off into space. “We dated off and on that first year and then the second. But I got drafted in 1943 and headed to England. We were apart for eighteen months, and she wrote me almost every day. Those letters were always filled with whimsical drawings.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin, then dabbed his eye. “She'd started college at Agnes Scott and was taking painting classes on the side. She wrote that she'd found her life's calling. She was so excited. Just like a child. I returned from the war in April of 1945, and we were married in July. You came along almost nine months to the day afterward.” He winked at me.

“And was Mama fine then?” I asked tentatively.

Daddy seemed ready to talk. “She was always a high-spirited type. I called her a thoroughbred. But we were happy. She loved decorating the house, and we had seats at the Fox Theatre for the opera season. We used to go across the street during the intermission and have our bourbon at the Georgian Terrace, and just watch the people go by. We supported the symphony. And, of course, anything that had to do with the High Museum, well, she was there. Volunteering her time.

“Ella Mae came to work for us right before you were born. Bless her heart, she knew just how to take care of your mother. I was gone at the office, worked late hours, thought I was doing the right things. I saw that Sheila had odd reactions, moods changing often. I thought it was just the French part of her. Mamie was the same way. And you know, your grandmother had a history of . . . problems. I don't think it was easy to be Evelyne McKenzie's daughter.

“Gradually I saw more and more of Sheila's inability to cope with life. She just, she was just like a child, lost in the world of reality. Fortunately, she had her studio and she could paint. We lined her up with some children's portraits to paint, and she created a fine little business. She wasn't easy to work with, mind you. We had complaints. But during those first years, she was able to get her commissioned work done on time. And she received quite a lot of praise.

“But then Jimmy came. Two little children were more than she could handle. She started going downhill fast. Thank God for Trixie on the weekends. She and Ella Mae half raised you and Jimmy. I think it was a strange, twisted blessing for Trixie when she was going through that awful divorce. She found refuge at our place, and your mother found refuge in Trixie. They'd sit out by the pool and smoke their cigarettes and sip their martinis and laugh. Trixie knew how to make Sheila laugh. To stop her from thinking about the dark side of things so much.

“I'm ashamed to say that I didn't have much patience with your mother. I couldn't understand how raising two children could be so difficult. My mother had raised six of us. I guess I just wanted her to dress up and be my beautiful wife and impress the rest of Buckhead. I'm not proud of it, Mary Swan, but I didn't know. I told her she didn't have to paint if it was too tiring. And she cried for days because painting was what she wanted to do. Don't get me wrong. She loved you and Jimmy more than life itself. But she didn't have the mental reserves to deal with two little ones day in and out.

“One time when Ella Mae was sick, she got real upset with you and Jimmy, and you ran to Trixie's house.” He stopped suddenly. “Do you remember that time, Swannee?”

I nodded.

“Trixie insisted I have Sheila tested. We found a doctor who diagnosed her as being depressed and put her on medication. He also highly recommended that she go to a mental hospital for treatment. I refused. I couldn't imagine that would be necessary.

“Then one night I heard smashing sounds coming from her studio. I found Mama cutting through her newest painting with a carving knife. Slashing the thing to pieces.” Daddy hung his head for a moment, reliving that nightmare.

“We didn't start with Resthaven, Mary Swan. We started with the dean at St. Philip's. He met with your mother often in the early years. But, bless his soul, he came to see your mother's problems as needing psychiatric care. And then there was a particularly bad incident. . . .” He stopped, took a bite of meat, chewed it carefully, then cleared his throat. “It was the dean who recommended Resthaven. He knew of the private institution. We had to choose between Resthaven and the state institution at Milledgeville.”

I had heard of Milledgeville. At school we sometimes whispered stories about kooky people who were locked in the state's mental institution, never to return. Our stories were innocently cruel. We had never really known anyone there. My mouth went dry.

“She was admitted to Resthaven for two months in 1951. And you cried for your mother every single day. More than Jimmy. You were just a little girl of about six, crying your heart out for your mama. So I took you up to see her. You remembered that, didn't you?”

“Yes, when I saw the sketches, I remembered that I'd been there.”

“But it was too hard on you and too hard on Sheila. And when it became obvious that Mama wasn't going to necessarily get better, well, I didn't know what to do. The doctor explained that Mama had a problem with cyclic depression. In some seasons it would improve, but the strangest things could trigger it.” I watched how a shadow passed over Daddy's clean-shaven face. Noticed again his gaunt cheeks.

“The doctor started her on tranquilizers. Your mother hated it. It took away her creativity, her freedom. Sometimes she was like a zombie. She could hardly paint.” From the look on his face, I knew this was hurting Daddy to remember. He brought his fork to his mouth, regarded the bite of filet, and set it back on his plate.

“The medication helped, but she lost the twinkle in her eyes. Thank God her doctor was willing to experiment with lighter doses. He even let her stop altogether when she was at Resthaven and doing well.”

He cleared his throat and finally took a bit of meat. I was riveted in my seat.

“What was I supposed to tell you, Swan? That Mama was at a mental institution? How could you understand that your mother was sick in her head? So I said it was art exhibitions. Maybe it was wrong. I didn't mean to hurt you by it. Your mother hated hiding the truth from you. But in the end, we thought it was best. And since the crash, well, I intended to tell you the truth. I would have soon. . . .”

“But everyone else knew she was in a mental hospital!” I accused.

“Oh no. Not many knew. My parents. Hers, of course. Some women suspected something because she broke down twice in a Junior League meeting. But Trixie hushed it up quickly. We all did.”

“I'll bet Herbert Thomas's mom knew.”

When Daddy looked at me quizzically, I explained the incident at the Back-to-School Ball. “It was so awful, Daddy. So awful to hear him say those things. And worse to somehow know they were true.”

“Yes, I'm sure it was.” He sighed sadly. “Mary Swan, I really thought what I was doing, keeping Mama's visits to Resthaven a secret, was for Jimmy's and your good. I swear I did. Leila Thomas was a friend of your mother. I'm sure she didn't tell her son about Mama unless she had a reason. Oh, Swan, I'm sorry for all you've been going through these past months. Do you believe me?”

“Yes, Daddy. Now that we can talk, I believe you.” I took a deep breath and asked, “Was Mama really considered a fine painter, Daddy, or was that made up too?”

“No, Swan, I swear it, sweetie. Mama was a fine painter. Her work really was loved. And the museum was enthusiastic about her work, excited to have one of her paintings. But she wasn't prolific. I'm afraid she destroyed a number of paintings in times of deep anger and frustration. But, Mary Swan, I didn't make up a thing about her talent. You can see it yourself. She knew how to capture expression. And I was proud of her, Swan. Confused, afraid, at times very angry. But always proud of her.”

“And the night of the premier exhibition?”

“She got drunk. Refused to go. Cried about the paintings being missing. She'd worked for weeks on her speech. She knew it by heart. I begged her to give the speech at least, for all the patrons, but she insisted it wouldn't make a bit of sense without the painting to look at. And she was so drunk. Long before it started. Drunk. We made an appearance, but I told the museum she was too ill to speak. They were gracious and, of course, embarrassed by the scandal of the paintings. We stumbled along through that, but I never knew if your mother knew anything more about the paintings. It was all the buzz for a few weeks, and then, thank God, they let it die down.”

“I'm sorry I've been so difficult, Daddy. I was just trying to understand.”

“No. You deserved to know the truth, Swan. I'm the one who's been difficult.” Then, as we ate the strawberry cheesecake, he said, “Swannee, you're so like your mother in many ways. Creative, wild, freethinking. Now you know the other side of her that isn't like you at all. Don't burden yourself with it. Just enjoy life, honey. Don't try to figure out things that are way too hard for any of us to understand.”

“I'll try not to, Daddy.”

Later, as Daddy walked me to the bus stop, I chirped happily, “It was the absolute most perfect date I've ever had, Daddy.” I leaned over and kissed him hard on the cheek and threw my arms around him. “Thank you.”

Daddy just stared down at me for a long time. “It's the best date I've had in a long time too, Swan. We need to do this more often.”

“I'd like that. I'd like that a lot.”

And from then on, it seemed like the wall that had been dividing Daddy and me started crumbling down, one stone at a time.

Chapter 23

S
ince Daddy and I were talking now, since so much of the past was at least being admitted, I considered asking him to take me to Resthaven. But Trixie had already offered and she had a more flexible schedule, and I didn't want to do anything to upset the fragile balance Daddy and Jimmy and I had found. So near the end of our Christmas break, Trixie and I headed to North Georgia in her blue Chevrolet.

“Daddy took me to the Capital City Club on New Year's Eve,” I mentioned casually.

“How wonderful.”

“He followed your advice.” I looked at her hard. “I heard what you told Daddy, Trixie, that night before Christmas.”

“I had no idea.” Her slim fingers with their bright pink nails almost imperceptibly gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. She batted her eyes.

I paid no attention. “Then Ella Mae talked to him too. Gave him a piece of her mind.”

“Ella Mae? Impossible!”

“No, it's perfectly true.” We both chuckled at that. “So between the two of you, Daddy seems to have gotten the message.”

“I'm glad. I'm really glad, Swannee.” She glanced over at me. “Did you talk about your mother?”