Charleston

by Margaret Bradham Thornton

  “WE THOUGHT THE DELUGE HAD CARRIED YOU AWAY,” LUCAS said as he opened the door.

  “Sorry,” Henry said. “Actually, we did get caught and had to go back home to change.”

  “Do come in. Eliza, dear, how are you?”

  The Pinckney house was built in the third quarter of the eighteenth century with a wide hall and two large rooms on each side. Lucas turned and fluttered his hand toward the unmatched chairs lining the hall. “I’ve just inherited some chairs from my great-aunt Lavinia, and I’m afraid it rather looks like a funeral parlor. Oh, and what Charlotte and I think is a wonderful picture. Remind me to show it to you, Eliza.”

  Lucas led them into the double parlor painted a light blue gray and directed Eliza to sit on a Chippendale sofa covered in a persimmon silk damask with matching cushions. He apologized for serving them cheap grocery store wine and added, “Charlotte will be down in a minute. She’s gone up to the attic to check the roof—we’ve had a leak, we think it’s been fixed, but she just wanted to check.”

  Charlotte appeared as if on cue, hair twisted into a loose bun and wearing a long, unfitted floral print dress that could have belonged to her mother. She greeted everyone and then disappeared to retrieve a tray of shrimp paste sandwiches. The phone rang, and Lucas fluttered the air with his hand again. “Charlotte will get that.”

  Charlotte returned, and Lucas asked her who called.

  “Mary Elizabeth.”

  “Oh my,” Lucas said, “don’t tell me. She was calling about either your artichoke pickle relish or your fig preserves. What Bible verse was she quoting now? My sister, Penelope, told me Mary Elizabeth cornered her last week before the afternoon service at St. Michael’s and began a monologue about how ‘God loves a cheerful giver.’ The week before she was quoting the passage in II Corinthians about ‘whoever sows generously will also reap generously.’ Mary Elizabeth wants Penelope’s recipe for a seven-layer Viennese torte. Lord, this city is wrecking her mental health.”

  Charlotte interrupted Lucas to ask Eliza about people in England whom she had met on various trips of the Georgian Furniture Society.

  Lucas crossed his legs and leaned toward Henry. “Now, have you heard the latest about Charles Lowndes’s ashes? Charles Junior swears his father wanted to be cremated and have his ashes put in one of the cypress trees at Ashley Gardens for all the tourists to honor as they paddle by in those silly canoes his father designed. I told him at least he could put up a plaque. There’s a rumor going round that Charles Senior had no such wish, but that it’s Charles Junior’s attempt to punish his father for leaving him no cash and a second-rate plantation that has to be opened to the public and cannot be sold. Apparently to add insult to injury”—Lucas lowered his voice an octave—“so to speak, Charles Senior had a very valuable piece of South Carolina pottery that Charles Junior had lined up to sell to a collector for a big price until he learned that his father had donated it to the Gibbes weeks before his death.”

  Lucas stood up and promised to “return with more libation.” He raised his hand in the air as he disappeared. “But we all know about nutty fathers in this town. I dare say it’s a prerequisite for living here.”

  Lucas returned with another bottle of wine. “Poor Charlotte and I had just recovered from her father’s escapades of encouraging children to soak bread crumbs in bourbon to give to the seagulls. Henry was gracious enough to let us know gently about Charlotte’s father, but those dreadful people from Chicago, the Downings, the ones who moved into the Simmons house, and who correct people when they refer to their house as the Simmons house, are taking it upon themselves to report everybody who gets in their way. That Betsy Downing was downright hostile about Charlotte’s father. If Mother were still alive, she would have made it her business to inform them that Charleston houses retain the name of the Charleston family who owned the house. And no doubt—she would have suggested that they move back to Chicago.”

  Lucas waltzed around the room “replenishing” everyone’s glass. “Meanwhile, just yesterday, Penelope called to say that Father had sent off a letter to the new president of Duke with what could be construed as a racist comment. She is treating it as if it were a Family Tragedy. She is especially worried, as her eldest son, who shares Father’s first name, is waitlisted at Duke. I told Penelope, ‘Father’s ninety-two, for goodness sake, everyone will just chalk it up to dementia.’ More wine?” Lucas stepped around the room and insisted that everyone have their glass refilled. “Eliza, you went to Princeton, or was it Columbia?”

  “Princeton undergraduate, Columbia graduate school in English and then art history.”

  “Oh my, well then, Henry, do let me borrow Eliza to get her opinion of this picture of Aunt Lavinia’s. You can stay and keep Charlotte company. But when I return I want to talk to you about what we all can do to stop this idea of deepening the harbor.”

  Lucas held out his elbow to Eliza. He escorted her to a small library and pointed above the fireplace to an oil painting of a man and woman in eighteenth-century dress standing under a tree in a tropical setting. A spaniel, with its back to the viewer, sat next to them.

  Eliza thought the picture was amusing but almost certainly painted by an amateur rather than a serious artist. “Intriguing,” was the best she could do. “Do you know who the artist is?”

  “It’s not signed. But I think it is very important. Can you think of any painting you have ever seen, any portrait where an animal has its back to the viewer?”

  “WAS THAT ENOUGH TO FRIGHTEN YOU FROM LIVING IN Charleston forever?” Henry asked after Lucas had shut the front door. Henry jumped ahead and walked backward, facing Eliza. “I knew I should have said we were busy.”

  The night air was cool and fresh from the rain.

  “I don’t know why Charlotte puts up with Lucas,” Henry said. “I was running past their house a couple of weeks ago, after a bad storm, and she was pulling fallen branches and palm fronds from their back garden out onto the street. I stopped to help her. Lucas was nowhere to be seen. And while I was helping her, three toy arrows were shot over the wall. Charlotte picked them up and threw them back over and said loudly, ‘Oh, my word, Indians are attacking,’ and she smiled when the small band of boys on the other side of the wall squealed in excitement. And then she said very quietly to me, ‘You know, I don’t think I will ever get over not having children.’ I didn’t know what to say to that. Charlotte has always been such a private person and, as we all know, Lucas has been horrible to her. She told me she thought the boys next door were scaling the wall and picking all the fruit. She has lovely fig and pear and peach trees. She said she didn’t mind, but that Lucas was getting angry. I told her it was probably rats, though her mother and my mother would say mice, even though mice are in the country and rats are in towns, especially ports like Charleston. She was surprised by that, but she said she would tell Lucas and it might make him less irritated by the little boys. I don’t know why she stays with him, she would have been such a sweet mother.”

  “I guess she really must love him,” Eliza said.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Maybe it’s not any more complicated than that.”

  As they passed the Walker house, the twins were running around with blue LED lights strapped to their foreheads. “William, Chisolm,” Henry called to them.

  “Hi, Mr. Heyward.” They stood at attention.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to catch fireflies.” They held their Bell and Mason glass jars up as proof.

  “Are your parents here?”

  “No, they went out to dinner.”

  “Who’s looking after you?”

  “Hannah.”

  “Shouldn’t the two of you be in bed?”

  “Hannah said we could play a bit longer.”

  “Ask Hannah if you can turn the piazza lights off. Then wait ten minutes, and I bet you’ll see them.”

  They nodded and turned to run inside.

  “Wait,” Henry c
alled to them. “Do your jars have holes in the top?” They turned the jars sideways to show Henry the holes. “Okay, well, good luck. But be sure to let them go.” They scrambled up the steps of the piazza and raced to the front door.

  “They look just like Charlie.”

  “Yeah, they do, don’t they?”

  AS THEY WALKED HOME, ELIZA THOUGHT ABOUT JOURNEYS. She had traveled wide to come back to Henry. And even though this world around her now was so familiar that she could navigate it blind, being back with Henry gave her access to a whole new continent of feelings. It was a world that could never be seen, but it was there—underneath the surface of everything—joyful and pure. When they made love that night, Eliza felt the contours of Henry’s body as if she were mapping a secret area of the earth that would forever hold her and enthrall her. The way he kissed her made her feel as if she would always belong to him. She liked the thought of being the cartographer of Henry’s body, but he would forever be the cartographer of her heart. She wondered if he knew that.

  WHEN SHE WOKE UP IN THE EARLY MORNING, SHE REMEMBERED the line of a Wallace Stevens poem about the house being quiet and the world being calm, but she couldn’t remember anything else. She turned onto her stomach and shifted her hands underneath her pillow. She heard Henry walking up the stairs. “Where have you been?” she asked him when he was at the top. His hair was wet.

  “I went for a run.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Early, ten past six.”

  “What time did you get up?”

  “I don’t know, early. I couldn’t sleep.”

  Eliza pushed up on her forearms. “Henry, what’s going on? What’s the matter? Since I’ve been back, you’ve seemed preoccupied.”

  He sat on the bed and pushed her hair away from her forehead. “There’s nothing to worry about. I just couldn’t sleep, that’s all.”

  Eliza stretched her arms forward and lay back down. “You know, I was thinking about my flight back here. There were these two young men—about your age—and they kept standing up and talking to each other, and they both had on wedding bands. And they were very straight-looking—investment banker types. You know, serious and mature and responsible and perfectly turned out. They talked with energy, but they weren’t joking around, and I watched them. Their wedding bands somehow made them seem vulnerable, that somewhere in the world there was someone they loved. And I began to wonder what their wives were like. How differently did these men treat their wives? Were they soft and tender with them? Could they exist without them? And it made me think of you. Was I that person to you? If you were on a plane would you seem serious and would someone wonder about who you loved?” Eliza lifted her head up slightly to see Henry’s reaction and then collapsed back down on the pillow. “What is it about the rain? I say things I shouldn’t.”

  Henry moved his hand slowly down her back. “What are your plans today?”

  “Sleep and more sleep.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Henry leaned down and kissed her.

  “You shouldn’t.” Eliza turned over and pushed herself up on her elbows. “Actually, I thought I would go by the museum, just to double-check that they don’t have anything on Henrietta Johnston. I was also going to see if they have anything on the slave potter Dave.”

  “Want me to drop you off?”

  “No, thanks, they aren’t open until nine.”

  “Okay, I’ll meet you back here after work. Do you want to go down to Folly or have dinner in town?”

  “Can we decide later?”

  “Sure,” Henry said and kissed her a second time. “You should go back to sleep.”

  “I ALMOST CALLED YOU AT WORK TO COME DOWN TO THE museum,” Eliza said when Henry returned at the end of the day. “You’ve got to see this,” she said, waving images of clay pots. “The museum has a small but amazing collection of pots by Dave.”

  “Dave?”

  “The slave who was a potter.”

  “Oh yes, of course.” Henry ran his hand through his hair and looked around the room as if he were not sure where he was.

  “He was an amazing potter, I mean, really gifted—his glazes are beautiful and clear. Some of his pots are almost twenty-four inches high. Do you know how hard it is to throw a pot that large? Here, look.” Eliza sat down on the sofa and spread the images across the top of a trunk that served as a coffee table. “Matthew Cuthbert was away, but his assistant, Alida Reeves, helped me. I asked her if she knew of any bowls attributed to Dave, but she said she didn’t think there were any. So the mystery of Cleve’s bowl remains.”

  Henry sat down next to her and took off his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.

  “Alida gave me a copy of their files. The museum has several pots, but only one is on permanent display. I have a picture of it somewhere.” Eliza flipped through the photocopies. “Here it is. It’s massive, and just here”—she pointed to the areas just below the rim—“Dave wrote these charming couplets. In 1919, this is the one that Colonel Stoney donated. It is what started the museum’s collection. Can you see the writing?” She handed the image to Henry.

  Henry squinted. “Not really.”

  “It’s hard to make out from that copy. I wrote it on the back.” Henry turned the image over and read, “Made at Stoney Bluff, for making lard enuff—13 May 1859.”

  “Alida said that Dave wrote these couplets on about twenty pots.” Eliza shuffled through the papers. “Alida gave me a copy of the known ones. This is my favorite.” She read from a sheet of paper, “‘I wonder where is all my relations, friendship to all—and every nation.’ He wrote that in 1857. Alida said there wasn’t much published on him.”

  “That’s great,” Henry said.

  “Why is that great?” Eliza felt as if she had just run over a hard bump.

  “If not much is written, then you can write something, an article, maybe even a book.” Henry picked up the images and looked through them. “So how many did you say had lines of poetry written on them?”

  “Alida said twenty are known to have couplets, but there is always the hope that more will be discovered. These pots were used to store things—oil, grains, lard—so it could be that some have been passed down in families who don’t realize how valuable they are.”

  “You’ll have to take me to see them.” Henry picked up the newspaper. “So how do you feel about going to see a movie tonight?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING HENRY GENTLY SHOOK ELIZA’S arm to awaken her. “Eliza, listen, I need to talk to you. I need to tell you something.” He was already dressed for work.

  “What time is it?”

  “Quarter to seven.”

  Eliza sat up in bed and pushed her hair out of her eyes. Henry was standing with his hands on hips and looking down at the floor.

  “Henry, what, what is it?” She felt as if her skin were made of thin sheets of metal that were about to pull apart.

  Henry sat sidesaddle on the bed facing Eliza. “I received a letter from Issie’s lawyer saying she wanted to meet with me and see Lawton. She came back into town for a few days at the beginning of June and then left. I didn’t see her, but . . .”

  “Louisa did,” Eliza said. The image of Henry and Louisa talking by the fireplace at Anne’s returned to her. “That’s what she told you at Anne’s party that night.”

  Henry said, “Louisa said she had heard Issie was in town, but she hadn’t seen her. I should have told you, but Louisa doesn’t always get it right. And I wanted to find out the facts before I let a rumor—I don’t know—well, I was afraid it would unsettle you. Things were going so well for us that I didn’t want anything to jar us, and I thought if I brought up Issie’s name, it might send you running.”

  Eliza pushed her back farther against the headboard. “God, Henry—I’ve just broken up with Jamie, turned down a research fellowship at the Courtauld, come back to Charleston without anything to do—all just to be with you. What more proof coul
d you want from me?”

  “Nothing, nothing more. I should have had more faith in you. I should have. Listen, you’ve been wonderful.”

  “Is that everything?”

  Henry’s voice was subdued. “Yes. There’s nothing more.”

  “Does Lawton know any of this?”

  “No, not yet. I’ll have to tell him when he gets back.”

  “Does Issie have the right to do this?” Eliza pushed her hair from her face.

  “Technically, no. I mean, she gave up all rights to him, but in a way, I guess, it doesn’t matter. Lawton is going to find this really difficult.” Henry looked down at the floor before looking back at Eliza.

  “Is she moving back here?”

  “I don’t know. Her lawyer said she was here visiting. I haven’t seen Issie since Lawton was born. She hasn’t tried to contact me. She’s never written me or tried to call me. I just got a letter from her lawyer saying that she wants to meet next week.”

  “She can’t take Lawton away, can she?”

  “No, but she can make trouble and add confusion.”

  “Who is her lawyer?”

  “Someone from one of the big firms in Boston. I don’t know him.”

  “When is she coming back?”

  “I don’t know, I guess she could be here now. All I know is that she wants to meet with me next week and see Lawton.”

  Eliza looked down and traced the lines in the palm of her hand with her index finger. “Henry, I don’t know what to say. What are you going to tell Lawton?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ve got to talk to him as soon as he gets back.”

  “Have you spoken to Elliott?”

  “Eliza, the law doesn’t really matter. The only issue is—how will this affect Lawton.”