“Everyone’s gone—it’s so hot.” Henry looked at Eliza as he turned the key in the ignition. “So where to?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
Eliza leaned against the door to face Henry. “Are we playing for keeps?”
“Completely.” Henry’s voice and laughter were intertwined. He put his hand on his chest. “I’ve been all in since the beginning.”
“Okay,” Eliza said, “then I’m all in, too.”
HENRY PULLED UP TO THE FRONT OF 14 LEGARE. THE STREET was empty and dark. He led Eliza through the large brick piers down the pathway to the carriage house. The only sound Eliza could hear was the crunch of their feet on the oyster shells. Henry fished the key from the back pocket of his jeans. He opened the door and flicked the light switch, but no lights turned on. “I keep forgetting to fix that light,” he said. “Here, hold my hand. Here’s the first step.” He paused for her to find it. She followed him up the narrow steep stairs to his bedroom in what had once been the hayloft.
He patted the wall at the top of the stairs. “Light,” he said as he flicked the switch on. The loft was small—barely enough space for a double bed, chest of drawers, and an armchair. A black-and-white photograph of a little boy playing with Matchbox cars around a round wicker garden table was propped against the mirror over Henry’s chest of drawers. Eliza walked over and looked at the photograph. She bent toward it to look carefully. “Is that you?”
“No, no, it’s Lawton.” Henry paused and looked at the photograph. “Lawton was mad about cars when he was little. It’s all he ever played with. He would spend hours moving those two cars around that table. Here, I’ll show you something.” Henry took the frame and turned it over and opened the back. He handed her a photograph that had been hidden behind the back plate. “You have a good memory.” A small boy played with a toy car on top of what looked like the same wicker table. “That one is me. Turn it over.”
Eliza read, “Henry, age two, April 1961.” She held the two photographs side by side. “God, Henry, he is the spitting image of you.”
“I know.”
“You even hold the car the same way. The only difference is that Lawton has two cars and you have only one.”
Henry leaned over and looked at the second car on top of the table. “I never really noticed that.” He sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off his loafers and reached toward Eliza and took her hand and pulled her toward him. “So when are you going to tell me how much you missed me?” He turned her wrist over and unbuckled the strap of her watch and set it on the bedside table. “Before you answer—bear in mind—we wouldn’t want this perfect nose”—he ran his finger lightly down the bridge of her nose—“to, in any way, come to resemble Pinocchio’s.” She laughed and shook her head.
FOR A LONG TIME, ELIZA LISTENED FOR THE SPACES IN BETWEEN the sounds of the night. When she was in his arms, everything became easy to think about. “Was he meant to be the lighthouse keeper—the little man?” she asked.
Henry didn’t answer, he had fallen asleep.
WHEN ELIZA WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING, THE SUN WAS HIDDEN by a sky that looked like an ocean turned upside down. Henry was gone. Her duffel bags had been set side by side in the corner. On the mirror was a handwritten note. “Good morning, Sunshine. Call me at work.”
Eliza unzipped her duffel bag and pulled out a tee shirt and summer skirt and wandered down the steep stairs to the kitchen and made coffee. She opened the kitchen door. The back garden—a simple lawn with pear and orange trees—was still. She could hear a faint drone of a lawn mower somewhere down the street. The heat had not yet stilled the birds that flitted back and forth in the fruit trees. Eliza drank coffee and returned upstairs. She looked again at the note on the mirror. Henry’s style of starting letters from the bottom gave the words a lean and elegant form. She walked into Lawton’s room. His drawings of airplanes were pinned to a corkboard. Their papier-mâché screech owl was stationed on the top shelf of his bookcase. It made her smile because she knew Lawton would have thought seriously about the best and most appropriate place in his room for his screech owl to rest.
In the corner on the floor were two opposing armies of plastic knights and horses. Lawton had left them in an orderly formation. For each cavalry, he had arranged six rows of ten warriors on their horses. Eliza bent down and examined the horses, which were draped in colorful coverings ornately decorated with images and symbols that indicated the identity and status of their rider. The horses reared and charged, and the riders, in armor that matched their horses, blocked with shields and attacked with lances and swords. Lawton protected his heart with the fierceness of his soldiers. But the passion of a nine-year-old boy, like that of his toy soldiers, had no power in an adult world. His stubbornness was his last defense against this understanding. Henry was right. It would take time, but it would be Lawton who decided how close she could come. A Viking longship, with a bow in the shape of a red dragon head and a square red-and-white-striped sail, was stationed a few feet away. She knew Henry had left Lawton’s battlefield untouched because he missed Lawton so much.
When she called Henry, his secretary said he was in a meeting.
“He can call me back, nothing urgent, at his convenience.” Eliza fiddled with the telephone cord as she put the receiver down. She picked up the photograph of Lawton playing with cars on Henry’s dresser and looked at it carefully. She remembered a short story about a family sledding together and the author ending the story with the line that when you have children it opened up whole new rooms in your heart. She remembered telling Henry when he had driven her to the airport a month ago about imagining running into him surrounded by her beautiful children. It was odd that she could imagine children but that she had never thought about to whom she would be married. Was it because deep in her heart she could never imagine being with anyone but Henry? And yet in those reveries, Henry had always been alone, never with a son. Had her imagination tried to protect her from the painful parts of the past? But now as she thought about it, it had the reverse effect. Instead of denying Lawton’s existence, it made her want to put her arms around him and hold him close. He had been trying to protect what was his in the only way that he knew how. When the phone rang, she put the picture frame back in its place, as if she had been caught looking at something forbidden.
“You were so asleep when I left, I couldn’t bring myself to wake you up. Charlotte and Lucas Pinckney called and invited us over for a drink. Actually they invited us for dinner, but I was looking out for you—I said we had plans. We can walk over there around six thirty.”
“But, Henry, I thought . . .”
“I know, apparently they’re back together. No one quite knows the story. Louisa has her theories—she’s not writing—no, of course not—well, I say that—she would if she could. She wouldn’t dare. Charlotte is our second cousin.”
Eliza wanted to tell Henry that she had discovered the small battlefield in Lawton’s room, but he seemed preoccupied and in a rush.
“I’ll try to leave work a little early, see you around six?”
When Henry returned home, Eliza was sitting at the small kitchen counter with the newspaper spread open in front of her. Henry kissed her and put his arms around her and looked over her shoulder. “Classifieds? Looking for a job so soon? You just got here.”
“No”—she laughed—“at least not yet. Actually I was reading the Antique and Collectible ads—have you ever looked at these? Some are really pretty intriguing. Here’s one—‘seaman’s chest with sundry articles of clothing and papers.’ And another—‘collection of photographs pertaining to the forestry operations of McLeod Lumber Company on Fripp Island and Caw Caw Swamp.’ I love the word sundry—who uses that word anymore? And ‘pertaining to’—it sounds so official. And the name Caw Caw. What a perfect name for a swamp.”
Henry leaned closer and read, “‘Alkaline-glazed storage pot in the manner of the Edgefield slave potter Dave.’ Why did you circle
that one?”
“Do you know anything about a slave potter named Dave? Didn’t you say the bowl Cleve had given you was made by a slave?”
“He said it was. I don’t know anything more than what he told me. He never mentioned the name Dave. But you know who would know is Matthew Cuthbert at the Charleston Museum.” Henry checked his watch. “Let’s take the long route to the Pinckneys. We have time.”
“What’s the long route?”
“Mmm, how about South Battery to East Battery to Queen to Logan to Montagu.”
“Do you know who’ll be at Charlotte and Lucas’s?”
“Don’t know—I think it might just be us.” They walked past the Edwards house at the bottom of Legare.
“How is Cal getting along on his painting?” Eliza stopped to look at the side of the house. “He was just beginning when I left.”
Henry turned and looked, too. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him out here. It doesn’t look as if anything has changed.”
As they turned onto South Battery, Henry looked up at the sky. Dark clouds were gathering from the west. “Doesn’t look great,” he said. “How lucky are you feeling?”
“Incredibly lucky,” Eliza said, looking up at the sky.
“Good, so am I.”
“I’ve got my sunglasses just to prove it.”
HENRY TOLD ELIZA THE THEORY ABOUT THE MORSE CODE still being up in the sky. “They are still bouncing around up there. Many of the messages—it’s true, really.” He looked up at the sky. “Think about it—it just has to do with starting sound waves in motion that never stop.”
“But I thought they came over transatlantic cables—the dots and dashes.”
Henry looked back up at the sky. “Maybe they did. Maybe you’re right. It’s still a lovely idea. I guess I’ll have to put them up there with all of Cleve’s souls.”
Henry waved to a tall thin man with pale skin and wild strawberry hair who was walking toward them on the opposite side of the street. He was dressed in a shirt and tie and held his suit jacket folded neatly over his arm. He walked with perfect posture and showed no signs of feeling the heat.
“Who was that?”
“Chick Stobo. You probably never knew him. He’s a good bit older than you. His parents were Charles and Sara Stobo. They lived year-round at Rice Hope Plantation up on the Cooper River. His father and my father were at Yale together, and once a year they’d have dinner at the Yacht Club. I think it was the only time he ever came to town. Chick was an only child. He is or was brilliant. He studied classics at Harvard and apparently had one of the most remarkable records of any student there. After Harvard, he tried to write, and I think had some success—I mean, he published a story or two, but it wasn’t as if he were succeeding the way he had at everything before.”
Eliza stumbled on the uneven flagstone sidewalk. Henry caught her arm. He lifted his chin toward the crushed oyster shell and sand perimeter of White Point Gardens that stretched the length of South Battery from King to East Battery. “Want to switch sides?”
“It’s okay. So what happened?”
“After a few years, Chick went to Yale Law School to please his father, who had graduated first in his class. While he was there, Chick was found wandering the streets, not knowing who he was or where he was from—I heard it was pretty bad—he stayed in an institution until his father’s death about four years ago. I ran into him several weeks ago and asked him what he was doing. He told me he was writing a book on Magnolia Cemetery. I asked him how he was doing it, and he said he was reading the cemetery’s ledgers. He said he was trying to solve the puzzle of an entry he had just come across. In the 1880s, I think, a one-year-old child died and was buried in an unmarked grave. His name was ‘King of the Clouds.’ The brief entry noted that he was born in the Dakotas and had died of fever.”
“I didn’t know that anyone not from Charleston was buried at Magnolia.” On the corner of King Street they passed a woman who had stopped to open her umbrella before walking on. Eliza looked up at the sky and wondered if they had made the right decision.
“Don’t know.” Henry shook his head. “I asked Chick if he thought the infant could have been an Indian. He said it was unlikely, given that only white people could be buried at Magnolia. He thinks the child may have come to Charleston with parents who were part of one of the Wild West Shows that used to travel around the South. He said he was looking through all of the archives at the Historical Society. I am surprised you haven’t come across him when you’ve been there.”
They crossed the bottom of Meeting Street.
“That’s sad.”
“What?”
“The child, that he didn’t have an ordinary name.”
“Or maybe his parents gave him such a name to cope with their grief.”
“I guess,” Eliza said, “but the image of such a small child as the King of the Clouds, something so vast and far away—seems almost more painful.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Sorry?” he asked.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“You seem to be somewhere else.”
Henry put his arm around Eliza’s shoulders. “I’m right here.”
They passed Villa Margherita. Eliza noticed the yellow DO NOT CROSS police tape in front of the decaying white Greek Revival mansion. “When I was little, I never had the courage to come trick-or-treating here. Does Mrs. Mackay still live here?”
“She does, but she’s become even more of a recluse. I think her daughter lives with her now. They never come out in the day. It’s pretty sad. They live on bourbon and Campbell’s soup.” They turned for a moment and looked at the crumbling facade. They crossed East Battery and climbed the stairs to High Battery.
“So do you recognize where you are?”
“Yes.”
Henry dipped his head forward and held his palm out to her to indicate he wanted her to say more.
“We’re on High Battery.”
“Wrong answer. This is where I took that last photograph, the one I sent you on my birthday.”
“Oh, Henry. Sorry, I loved it. The last one you sent me. I forgot to thank you.”
Within minutes, heavy clouds darkened the sky, and the air cooled ten degrees.
“It’s going to pour in a minute.” Henry held his hand out and caught a few raindrops. “In less than a minute.” He looked toward White Point Gardens. “We can take cover under the bandstand. Come on, let’s go.” He grabbed her hand, and they ran down the steps and across the street.
The rain was coming down hard now, and the sound of it crashing down took over everything. Eliza and Henry ran under the canopy of the live oaks and made it to the bandstand. Eliza, out of breath, leaned against one of the columns and pulled her wet shirt away from her body. “I don’t think I’ve sprinted that fast since my last track meet at East Bay Playground when I was thirteen.” Eliza turned and looked out at the thick rain that pelted hard against the earth. “Think there’ll be lightning?”
“Don’t know,” Henry said and walked to the edge of the bandstand and looked out. “Hard to say.” The fury of the rain had softened into a steady beat.
Eliza pushed her hair back and then felt the top of her head. “My sunglasses. They must have fallen off when we ran down the steps.”
“I’ll go look for them.”
“You’ll get soaked.”
“It’s okay. Death by rainstorm could be considered a noble end. I’ll be right back.” He smiled and sprinted in the direction they had come.
HENRY, WHO LOOKED AS IF HE HAD JUST PULLED HIMSELF out of a swimming pool, took the stairs four at a time. He leaned over and kissed her and produced the glasses from his pocket. “The equivalent of Prince Charming returning Cinderella’s glass slipper. Now let’s see if they fit.”
“Hooray.” Eliza slipped the sunglasses back on top of her head. “My favorite sunglasses. I’ve had them for
ever. Where were they?”
“Come with me, I’ll show you.”
Henry ran down the steps. He turned. Eliza stayed where she was and looked out at the rain. “But, Henry, it’s raining.”
“Believe me, I know.”
“You can just tell me. Promise, I’ll believe you.”
“No, really, I want to show you something. You won’t regret it. Come on.” He motioned with his head. “Quick. You might miss it. And I’ll show you where your glasses were.”
They ran under the live oak trees to the edge of the park. Henry checked for cars. Now unsheltered, they braced themselves for the rain and ran across the street and up the steps to High Battery. The rain, like a sharp curtain, ended. The slate promenade was dry, but a few inches from its border, the rain came down hard.
“We’re at the edge.” Eliza held her hand out to feel the rain.
“Exactly,” Henry laughed. “We are on the edge, on the edge of a rain cloud—where the rain begins and where it ends. I’ve never seen this before. So sharp, so definite. It just stops, no tapering off. It’s as if there is a whole other world over there—over that wall of rain.”
Henry pushed his hair back from his forehead. “I found your sunglasses up here just as dry as they could be.”
Eliza turned to look where he pointed.
“And what is even more extraordinary is that the curve of the rain follows the curve of the Battery. Come. I’ll show you.”
They followed the promenade as it curved and headed west, and just as Henry had described, the promenade remained dry.
Henry stood at the corner and said to Eliza, “I just hope the significance of this event is not lost on you. I just hope you realize that you are with a man who can find—not only the edge of a raincloud—but its corner.”
When the rain finally stopped, they walked back to Henry’s to change. The rain had relieved the air of its heaviness. The streets had been emptied of tourists and smelled faintly of salt and overripe vegetation. A few crickets joined the soft sounds of the humming and pulsing air-conditioning units. It was as if they had been transported back to the Charleston Eliza had known as a child. The sound of a car tearing softly through a puddle of water on the street made her take notice. She wondered if the tide were high or if it had rained so much that the water had no place to go.
Charleston Page 17
