Charleston

by Margaret Bradham Thornton

  Henry tilted his chin down. “I’ve just got to get a few things, and then we can go. Come on in.”

  Henry stacked some papers on his desk and pressed the palm of his hand against his forehead for a second before looking in a file for another document. He searched through his in-tray and pulled some papers out. He handed her a letter from Edward McGee. “Might amuse you,” he said.

  She read the letter that referenced a second essay Edward would be sending to the paper as soon as his first was published. Edward described the article, titled “The Effects of Northern Aggression on Free Will and the Southern Educational System,” as an excerpt from his forthcoming book. Edward ended with a call for Henry to uphold the tradition of his ancestors, to act honorably, and to publish his article written by one of the few true Charlestonians left. Eliza shook her head and handed the letter back. “Forthcoming book?”

  “I know. Every time I see him—like at Sara’s party—he asks me about the publication date. I haven’t had the heart to tell him there’ll be no publication date. I was hoping he’d forget about it. The last time I ran into him he told me he was working on another article. I couldn’t bring myself to ask him what the subject was. I guess I know now.” Henry waved the letter before tossing it back onto his desk. He pulled his suit jacket from the back of his chair, patted the pocket to check for his keys.

  “Okay, ready to go.” As Henry turned to lock the door of his office he said, “Listen, I have to go to New Orleans tomorrow. Just for two days. Want to come? I am looking for that magic phrase to get the answer I want.” He snapped his fingers. “Why not.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Oh, Eliza, wrong answer. You could work on the plane. Or, while I’m out at my meeting, you could stay at the hotel and work.”

  “I have an appointment to look through the archives at the Library Society. That portrait that Mrs. Vanderhorst wants me to help her with—she thinks it’s by Henrietta Johnston, and she wants me to see if I can document it. It’s important to her. I think she may need to sell it. A week and a half is no time to do this kind of research, but I want to get as much done as I can before I leave.”

  “What is the painting?”

  “It’s a pastel portrait of a young woman that has been passed down through Mr. Vanderhorst’s family.”

  “You sure you couldn’t postpone your appointment for a few days?”

  “I want to try and get this done. Mrs. Vanderhorst seems quite anxious about it. I suspect she’s worrying about money. She’s all alone now. She doesn’t have anyone who can help her or look after her—well, it would help her out financially quite a bit if I could make the attribution.”

  “I understand.” The elevator door opened, and Henry leaned in front of her and held the door open. “Did you know that the library was founded in 1748 by gentlemen who sought to ‘save their descendants from sinking into savagery’?” Henry pressed the button for the ground floor.

  “Did not, but I guess that’s useful to know. Do you think, Henry, that it worked?”

  “Well”—he laughed—“given how quickly you were rifling through those magazines unable, I presume, to find anything that interested you, not well enough.”

  As they left the building, they said good night to the night watchman. “I’m just parked in the back. Let’s go in my Jeep, and I’ll bring you back here.”

  Before he turned the key in the ignition, he looked at Eliza. “So what if we shift to Plan B?”

  “Plan B?”

  “Plan B is that you postpone your trip back to London. No, wait, hear me out. You have plans to leave in a little over a week, I have to go to New Orleans, so why don’t you stay a bit longer. I’ve been—if I must say it myself—exceedingly good about leaving you alone to work—and we can see each other at night. I know you’re thinking of many reasons why this is a bad idea, but before you say no—just think about it. Okay?”

  “But, Henry . . .”

  “Just think about it.”

  “Okay. So where is this restaurant?” Eliza asked.

  “Corner of Spring and Rutledge. Just up from Ashley Hall. Because it’s not such a good location, it’s always easy to get a table, and there are rarely any tourists. And the food’s not bad either.”

  They parked in a lot next to Jasmine’s. On what had once been a common wall between Jasmine’s and another building long since demolished was a freshly painted billboard-size picture of a woman with a 1950s hairdo and waitress uniform, smiling down over a steaming bowl of okra soup. The word JASMINE was ribboned overhead. “That’s new”—Henry said, lifting his chin toward the painting—“they must be doing all right.”

  The people sitting at the tables looked up as they entered. Henry nodded to two of the tables as they walked past. When they were seated, Eliza leaned forward to Henry and said, “I don’t recognize anyone here.”

  Henry leaned closer and whispered, “I’m not surprised—neither do I. Except,” he said, stretching out the word, “the couple sitting across from the rather large man at the table at the very front. He’s moved down from New York and opened an art gallery on Broad Street that mainly deals in southern art. And at the other table just behind is Joseph Allison, he’s a cardiovascular surgeon at the Medical University. Two out of”—Henry looked around the restaurant—“twelve tables. I can safely say I just failed you as the social impresario of Charleston.”

  The waitress came with the menu. Eliza ordered shrimp-and-grits and fried green tomatoes—things she couldn’t get in England. Henry ordered the grilled fish.

  They had begun to talk about her work on Magritte, and Eliza was describing a phrase Magritte used to describe his paintings, “thoughts rendered visible,” when a tall man, a blond woman overdressed in a pink linen suit, and behind them, a man in a navy blazer and bow tie passed by their table. Henry nodded to them. Eliza asked Henry, “Who was that?”

  “Jonathan Pierce, the new head of Historic Charleston, and Ralph and Nina Morton. I pointed them out to you at Sara’s party. They are the ones who just bought the Sword Gate House.”

  “You know, you’re in danger of reclaiming your title.”

  “Sorry I didn’t introduce you, but I didn’t want to talk to Ralph. He came to my office a few days ago and asked me if we would be interested in selling the paper—rather extraordinary really. Hasn’t been in Charleston long enough to know it has always been in my family, or maybe he knows that and doesn’t think it matters. Apparently his wife has always wanted a house in Charleston. She’s originally from a small town in Arkansas.”

  “Why did the Childses sell the Sword Gate House?”

  “Professor Childs died last year, right before Christmas. He was almost ninety. Mrs. Childs died eight years ago, the same year as my father.”

  “Is Joe still there?”

  “Yes, but he has to move out. As you know, he’s lived there all his life. No one thought when Mr. Childs died last year that he would not leave any provisions in his will for Joe. It seems the brilliant historian was unable to come to grips with his mentally impaired son. He left the house to Historic Charleston, and they didn’t waste any time selling it.”

  Henry paused as the waitress placed a plate piled high with shrimp-and-grits and fried green tomatoes in front of Eliza, grilled fish and spinach in front of Henry.

  Eliza took a bite of a fried green tomato. “These are really good. Want one?”

  “No, thanks, happy with what I have.”

  “So what is Joe going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I spoke to a few board members and told them they should find a small apartment for Joe even if it’s only something at the Sergeant Jasper. I think Ross Barnwell is going to try to find a simple job for Joe on one of his work crews. So hopefully he’ll be okay.”

  Henry shifted to telling Eliza about the paper in New Orleans that he was interested in. He had been down there several times in the last few months, and he entertained Eliza with stories about the eccentric family he
was dealing with, the music and squalor of the French Quarter, and the ancestor worship of the Garden District, “almost as bad as Charleston.”

  The waitress came and cleared their plates and asked if they wanted dessert or coffee.

  “I’ll have coffee,” Eliza said.

  “Just water for me.”

  The waitress returned with Eliza’s coffee and refilled Henry’s water glass.

  As Eliza stirred milk in her coffee, she shivered.

  “What is it?” Henry asked.

  “I don’t know—nothing.”

  “Eliza, come on, I know you. Is it what I just told you?”

  “No, it’s not, but I don’t want to say.”

  “Say.”

  She hesitated. “For a moment I felt as if I were sitting at PJ’s with you ten years ago when you told me about you and Issie. I was stirring cream into my coffee.”

  “Oh, Eliza.”

  She looked up. “Do you ever think where we would be if that summer hadn’t happened?”

  “No, no, I don’t. I can’t. Lawton makes those questions impossible to ask.” Henry watched her pour a packet of sugar in her coffee. “How about you? Do you ever think about it?”

  Eliza looked past Henry and answered, “At some point I did, but it helped being so far away from Charleston. There was nothing to remind me of you. And I got good at avoiding situations that acted like mnemonics.”

  The waitress passed by, and Henry asked for the check.

  “What did you tell Lawton?”

  “I told him the truth as best I could,” he said. “I didn’t know what else to do. I told him that his mother was very young when she had him and was very depressed and felt that to be okay she had to move away and that she went to a faraway place that wasn’t safe for babies or small children. She knew I would take great care of him, and she believed little boys should always be with their fathers.”

  “Has he ever asked about seeing her?”

  “No, he doesn’t want to talk about it. But I know that sometimes what bothers him the most is what he doesn’t want to talk about. We’ll be in the car, and he’ll be unusually quiet, and then he will ask me a question that I know he has been thinking about for a while, and I will answer it, and then he’ll not want to speak further. It’s as if it is all he can take in at that moment. I just let him set the pace he’s comfortable with, but I’m always willing to answer any question he has. I hope it’s the right way to deal with it.”

  “Do you think that partly explains why he feels threatened by me?”

  “No, I don’t, at least not directly. He knows how I feel about you. He was upset with me yesterday when I left him with our boat at the Yacht Club to find you. He’s fearful, I guess, of losing a part of me. It’ll all work out, but it will take time.”

  The waitress returned with the check, and Henry stopped speaking until she moved away.

  Henry paid the bill, and they stood up to leave. “Want to get a drink somewhere?”

  “Where were you thinking?”

  “How about Big John’s?” Henry referred to the red windowless bar one block north of the Slave Market. It was always filled with a mixture of South of Broad teenagers with fake IDs, a few eccentric old Charlestonians, and a few down-and-outs who lived in wrecked buildings not far away.

  “I probably should get home.”

  Henry closed his eyes and nodded. He opened his eyes and shook his head, as if he were trying to untangle something. “I don’t know what I was going to say. But, listen, at least promise me you’ll cheer for Lawton and me on Sunday. We’re in the finals of the Charleston Tennis Club Parent-Child Tournament. We’ve been trying to get a finals played for over a month.”

  “You still play a lot?”

  “No, not really, I play with Lawton, but that’s about it.”

  THEY DROVE BACK TO THE CHARLESTON COURIER, AND HENRY walked Eliza to her car. He turned and leaned against her car door. “Eliza, it’s just . . .”

  “Henry, if I stay, it’s because of you. That’s got to be enough right now?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  He opened her car door, kissed her good night, and said he wasn’t getting back from New Orleans until late Saturday night. He would call her Sunday morning.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ELIZA FISHED OUT HER OLD BICYCLE FROM UNDERNEATH the house. It still had its wicker basket attached with leather straps that were now in danger of cracking apart. A fine coat of dust had transformed the green paint into pale gray. The tires were flat and crusty. Judging by its condition, she figured her bike had not been moved since she had left it there over ten years ago. A sad sight, but she felt a sense of disloyalty abandoning it, so she disappeared back underneath the house and pulled out a red bicycle pump. Her old combination lock was wrapped around the seat, and as she pumped the air into the tires she tried to remember the order of the four numbers. She was surprised when the tires held the air.

  She went back inside to collect her papers and notes. The phone rang, but when she answered it, there was no one on the other end. She thought it might be Jamie, and she waited for him to call back, but the phone didn’t ring again. She tried her best to avoid thinking about how Jamie’s voice had made her feel when he had called two days ago.

  It wasn’t until she had crossed Broad Street and was pedaling up King Street to the Library Society that the numbers 2739 popped into her head—not that anyone would think about stealing her old bicycle. She walked her bike behind 164 King Street, the turn-of-the-century Beaux Arts building that now housed the Library Society. As she spun the bike lock open, she heard the church bells of St. Michael’s marking the hour of nine. She grabbed her papers from the basket and hurried up the steps.

  An elderly woman sitting at the front desk looked at Eliza and asked her if she were a member. “I think so,” Eliza said. “At least I was about ten years ago. Eliza Poinsett.”

  The woman’s face softened. “Are you Pamela’s daughter?”

  “Yes, I am,” Eliza said.

  “I thought you looked a little like her when you came in. I’m Julia Hutson. Come right on in. We have to be so careful. So many tourists come in and try to pretend they’re members. They just want to use the restrooms,” she said and twisted her mouth in disapproval. “Now, is there anything I can get you?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Eliza said. “I’m here to look at the Henrietta Johnston papers.”

  “Oh dear.” She cupped her palm against her cheek. “There was someone here two weeks ago looking at them. I’m concerned they may have been returned to the archives.”

  “Mrs. Vanderhorst called and spoke to the director. He said the boxes would be left on the reserve shelf for me. I believe they’re part of the Margaret Simons Middleton collection.”

  “Thank goodness, I’m afraid I wouldn’t know where to look for those papers. I just volunteer twice a week. Now, let’s see.”

  Mrs. Hutson turned to the cabinets behind the desk. She opened the wooden doors and raised her chin to look through the bottom of her glasses. “Ah, here we are,” she said, “Henrietta Johnston—on reserve for Miss Poinsett.” She readjusted her glasses and read from a pale blue file card taped onto the first box, “It says there are nine boxes here and another nine downstairs.”

  Eliza lifted the heavy cardboard box off the front desk and looked behind her at two long library tables. “May I sit at one of those?”

  “Of course, dear. But there is a very nice table at the back that may be a little quieter for you.” Mrs. Hutson led Eliza back through the stacks to a large table at the rear of the building. “Now, let me know if you need anything.”

  Eliza organized her papers across the large wooden table. She lifted the top off the box and set it aside. Mrs. Hutson reappeared and handed Eliza a pair of white gloves. “I forgot to give you these. It is library policy for the archive material.”

  For the next three hours, Eliza went through each manila folder, page by page, but discovered no
surprises or miscataloged items. Most of what she found had already been included in Margaret Middleton’s book on Johnston. She’d finished seven of the nine boxes when she heard a voice she thought she recognized. She peered through the stacks but couldn’t see anything, so she moved closer around the side. Edward McGee, dressed in a rumpled seersucker suit and polka-dotted bow tie, was informing Mrs. Hutson about the imminent publication of his book. Eliza heard him ask if she could check to see if any other books on the same subject matter—specifically the difference between northerners and Yankees—had been recently published. When Mrs. Hutson assured him his would be the first, he asked to see the records of book-lending in the periods directly preceding and following the war. Mrs. Hutson asked him politely which war. He spoke with impatience, “The War of Northern Aggression, of course.”

  Eliza tiptoed back to her table to avoid being spotted by Edward. When she heard Edward leave, she emerged. “I’m just going out for lunch. May I leave all my papers here?”

  “Of course, dear, but you know we close from one to two.”

  Eliza walked up King Street. She thought she might have a sandwich at the lunch counter at Woolworth’s. She crossed Beaufain past the old Art Deco Riviera Movie Theatre, which had become a Ralph Lauren store, past Mr. Kassis’s Shoe Shop, now the Audubon shop. The shiny storefronts of Laura Ashley and Talbots and Banana Republic had replaced the dingy windows of antiques shops that Eliza remembered as always being crammed with displays of silver, colored bottles, china plates, and Confederate army pistols and belt buckles. Eliza arrived at the long storefront where Woolworth’s had been. There was no trace that it had ever been there. A Gap store stood in its place with large posters of tanned models in white tee shirts and faded jeans. She stepped inside and asked the young man who wore a headphone with an attached mike and who swayed to the loud rock-and-roll music as if he was in a music video, “When did Woolworth’s close down?” He didn’t know the answer or even that Woolworth’s had been there, but he did say that the Gap had been open for about six months. Eliza wandered farther up the street. She crossed Wentworth and stopped in the Old Colony Bakery, where a large loaf of bread in the shape of a four-foot alligator stretched the length of the window. She ordered a sandwich and then wandered into the garden of the Congregational Church and found a bench. The heat had quieted the city.