Charleston

by Margaret Bradham Thornton

  “God, this is nicer,” Eliza said once they were outside. “It was so noisy in there.”

  “My sources”—Henry looked down at Eliza and raised his eyebrows—“tell me Mr. Morton put lead in all of the walls to keep out the noise of birds. Apparently Ralph is a light sleeper, and early morning bird calls wake him up. Or, at least, that’s what he told the contractor.”

  “Ross Barnwell?”

  “Ross Barnwell.” Henry nodded. “Other sources tell me lead is installed in walls to keep people from listening to phone calls. I had discounted these reports, but now that we are outside, you’d never know there’s a party going on, and yet when we were inside, the noise was brutal.”

  “Clearly all those sound waves were bouncing off the lead,” Eliza offered in her most scientific tone.

  They both laughed. “Oh God, Eliza, do you ever wonder what we’re doing living down here?”

  “Every day,” she said and rubbed her arms.

  “Cold? Here take my jacket.”

  They walked toward a series of elaborately planted garden rooms arranged along a north-south axis. An oyster shell path led through the parterre beds of the first room to statues of the four seasons.

  “Wait, I want to look at something,” Eliza said. Henry watched as she walked slowly around each statue. “These are really good,” she said as she touched the stone and leaned closer to the figure of Winter. “They’re marble. I think these are the ones that sold last April at auction in London. They were from an important house in Norfolk, and there was an uproar about their leaving England. The export license came this close,” she said, pinching her thumb and forefinger together, “to being denied. I remember reading that the buyer was rumored to be American. So here they are. That’s wild. I’m feeling a little bit better knowing Mrs. Vanderhorst’s portrait is in such good company.”

  Henry and Eliza continued on to the second garden room—a rose garden with a teahouse, and then the third—a lemon garden that opened onto a long pool surrounded by putting-green-perfect grass.

  Eliza reached down to touch the coping of the pool’s border. “It’s tabby,” she said, referring to the mixture of lime, shells, and sand that had been used as a type of stucco in the eighteenth and nineteenth century in Charleston. “I’ve never seen tabby used this way, it’s lovely.” She stood back up. “I wonder who designed this garden.”

  “I think I heard someone from Belgium.”

  “Belgium?”

  They sat down on a wrought-iron garden bench.

  “You know, when I was doing all that research for Mrs. Vanderhorst at the Historical Society, I came across these garden plats—many of them dated back to the early 1800s—and they were sophisticated and very French. I don’t know if many people are aware they exist. I mentioned them to my mother, who’s been in the Garden Club for over thirty years, and she didn’t know about them. The garden designs of Loutrel Briggs in the 1920s and 1930s are about as far back as anyone goes. A number of the Charleston gardens could be restored to their original eighteenth- or nineteenth-century design. I’m sure there was one for this garden.”

  “Too late,” Henry said as he looked around. “Much too late.” Henry turned back to Eliza. “Any more on Dave?”

  “Not really. I guess I’ve come to think that everything there is to know is in his work. Everything else is speculation. I’ve read a number of articles that mention him, and the dots that get connected have more to do with the writer than with Dave. Very few documents are cited, and there is little or no supporting evidence. For example, there is a gap of seventeen years from 1840 to 1857 when no pots with poems have been found. Dave had several owners during this period. From what’s been published, it’s pretty much believed that the different owners prevented him from writing verse. The idea has merit—there had been a slave uprising in Augusta in 1841, and South Carolina had a law that prohibited free slaves from teaching free or slave children to read or write. But there are some pots during this period signed Dave. So was it just verse he wasn’t allowed to write? Pots are still being discovered and identified. So what if a pot turns up with verse dated in that period, then that theory is discredited. Even if one doesn’t turn up, all we can accurately say is that one hasn’t turned up, not that one was never made. These scholars may be right, but at this point I think they are making educated guesses.”

  “Do the actual verses give any clues?” Henry asked.

  “You mean about the gap? Hard to say. Of the twenty-six known pots with couplets, seven were made in the period 1834 to 1840, and their verse tends to be light and somewhat oblique, like ‘Ladies and gentlemens shoes, sell all you can and nothing you’ll lose,’ or ‘Another trick is worst than this, Dearest Miss spare me a kiss.’ But after the seventeen-year silence—”

  “Alleged,” Henry interrupted.

  “Exactly, alleged silence.” Eliza smiled. “The remaining nineteen are, not surprisingly I guess, more serious. Six have bibilical references such as, ‘I saw a leopard and a lion’s face then I felt the need of grace.’ But if one or two early pots surface with biblical references, then that observation is wrong, too. I wish I knew how Dave learned to read and write. Then I might be able to make some comments on his verse. The Edgefield Hive was owned and run by one of his owners, and there is some speculation that Dave was taught to read and write so that he could set type, which is not a crazy theory, but it is, from what I can tell, only based on that article I read you on buttermilk. The exact words were that he was ‘once connected’ to the Edgefield Hive. ‘Once connected’ could mean a number of things.”

  “Does the Edgefield Library have any records?”

  “There wasn’t a library back then, so I have no way of knowing what people were reading. Children were taught with a primer, and I am in the middle of figuring out what primer they would have used. The Bible and the newspaper were the other two sources. I need to get up to Edgefield. The Historic Society has some photographs, but their collection has been in storage while they do renovations. After Thanksgiving, it should be available. I’m just waiting for that. Also, there’s a potter currently working who makes large pots with the same alkaline glazes used by Dave, so hopefully, he can help me with a description on the actual craftsmanship of these pots especially . . .” Eliza stopped speaking when the sound of the party interrupted her. She finished her sentence, “the large ones.”

  Henry raised his hand. “Open door—someone is leaving the party.”

  “You don’t really think the Mortons put lead in the walls, do you?” Eliza asked.

  Henry shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know.” He shook his head and smiled. “What do you say we get out of here?”

  As they stood up to leave, they saw Charlie and Ginny Walker walking toward them.

  “Where are all the pool attendants?” Charlie looked around him and held the palm of his left hand open to the sky, as if feeling for rain. “I suppose they must have run out of eighteenth-century costumes. Before we leave I’ll have to speak to Nina to—”

  “Stop.” Ginny interrupted her husband. She turned back to Henry and Eliza. “Good champagne always does this to him.” Charlie raised his empty champagne flute in mock surrender. “Okay, but I can guarantee if the pool attendants were here, they would have trays weighted with champagne flutes, and we all would be just a tad bit happier, and by the way, Eliza, that’s a great dress.”

  Henry leaned back and winked at Eliza.

  “This pool is really beautiful, isn’t it?” Eliza said to Ginny.

  “You know”—Charlie put his arm around Henry’s shoulders—“this pool is giving me inspiration. Laddy is coming back in December, and we could have a sixteenth-year reunion of our swimming pool adventure. They did away with the pool at The Fort Sumter when the hotel was converted to apartments, so we could use this one as our starting point.”

  “Maybe, but I doubt, as owner and editor of The Charleston Courier, I could resist the headline—even if I were in it—‘
Prominent Physician, Award-Winning Architect, and Local Editor Caught—’”

  “What are you talking about?” Eliza pulled Henry back toward her. She turned to Ginny, “What are they talking about?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Eliza tugged at Henry’s arm. “Charlie, I’m sensing you’re a bad influence, I’m taking him away from you.”

  Charlie laughed and raised his glass. “The girl has good taste and good judgment. Think about it.”

  Henry turned and waved good-bye.

  Charlie cupped his hands and called after Henry, “I’m going to take your silence as a positive response.”

  Henry put his arm around Eliza’s shoulders.

  “So do you want to tell me about the swimming pool adventure?” She leaned into him.

  “Not particularly.” He looked down at her. “And just for the record, let it be known that I deny you nothing.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “Did you ever know Laddy and Chisholm Baker?”

  “Not really, I knew who they were, but they were older . . .”

  “That’s right. Laddy’s a year older than I am, and Chisholm’s four. When we were growing up, we all worshipped Chisholm. He was the epitome of cool. Laddy and Chisholm’s parents were never around, I don’t know why— Anyway, Laddy and Chisholm lived with their grandmother on Water Street, but Chisholm pretty much raised Laddy. And Chisholm was tall, a great athlete, and a very good artist, and he always had beautiful girlfriends. And we all idolized him and did whatever he told us to do. The Thanksgiving of his first year at college, he came home and told us about this amazing short story he had read about a man, one night, swimming in all the pools in his town. It was his way of saying good-bye to his town and his life. And because Chisholm told us this was the coolest way in the world to say good-bye to everyone, we all completely agreed with him. And then he organized our own swimming pool adventure.”

  “But what or who were you saying good-bye to?”

  “Nothing, no one, but it didn’t matter, it was beside the point. We came over in the evening, mapped out our route, and all agreed to meet at White Point Gardens at midnight to set off. The pool at The Fort Sumter was the start. We climbed over the fence, swam the length of the pool, and then got out and ran down to the Bowmans on Murray Boulevard, followed by the Warings next door. There was one other on Murray Boulevard on the corner of Limehouse, I think. Back around to South Battery, the Izards on the corner of Rutledge Avenue, the William Gibbes house at 64 South Battery, and so on.”

  They turned onto South Battery and Henry pointed in the directions of the houses he had just mentioned. “It took us several hours, which was the point because Chisholm wanted Laddy out of the house because his girlfriend, the beautiful Mabel Geohagan, was visiting. Needless to say, he did not come with us.”

  “So where are the Baker boys now?”

  “Chisholm married Mabel and, believe it or not, is an Episcopalian minister in Richmond—we all were certain he was going to be a famous writer or film director—and Laddy is an architect in Charlottesville. He got married a couple years ago to a girl who also is an architect. If Charlie is telling the truth about Laddy coming back, we should get together with him. You would like him.”

  When they crossed Meeting Street, Henry pointed north. “We swam in the Bennetts’ pool at 7 Meeting and the McCradys’ at 35, but I don’t think there were any more pools on Meeting.”

  “It must have been cold.”

  “It was freezing.”

  “So did you make it back without getting caught.”

  “We didn’t get caught, but around two or three A.M., the swimming pool idea began to lose its appeal, and I think we slouched back to Water Street before we completed the adventure.”

  They turned up Church Street. “Enough of the past,” Henry said.

  “HENRY, CAN YOU UNDO THE CATCH ON MY DRESS?” ELIZA lifted her hair up.

  “It’s difficult,” Henry said and bent close and squinted to see if he were moving the catch in the right direction. “There.”

  “Thanks.”

  “God, I’m happy to be back here with you.” Henry fell back on the bed as if falling back into a swimming pool. “Meanwhile back at 32 Legare Street, Mrs. Middleton is making a mental inventory of all the Charleston pieces the Mortons have acquired so . . .”

  Eliza sat on the bed next to Henry and put two fingers on his lips. “I think I can take this away—so she can report back to her bridge club her memorized inventory of each room for those who did not receive an invitation to the party. There will be a lot of ‘tsk tsking’ as it becomes clear that the Mortons are on their way to assembling an important collection of Charleston decorative arts—furniture, paintings, silver. A few members of the bridge club will make themselves feel better by noting that nothing has been inherited. And when the eleven members of the Charleston Symphony Board assemble next week in the ballroom of the Nathaniel Russell House, the short, plump chairwoman of the board, never without her signature double strand of large South Sea pearls, will call the meeting to order and open for discussion the replacement of one of the board members who has passed away. A frail man in a seersucker suit and bow tie will suggest the new couple whose party he has just attended. The head of the Garden Club will object because they have put a large pool—‘beautiful but inappropriate’—in the middle of the garden. The frail man will adjust his bow tie—how am I doing?”

  “By all means, carry on.”

  “And”—Eliza laughed through her words—“the frail man who has just adjusted his bow tie will remind his fellow board members that the symphony runs on an annual deficit and their goal is to increase the endowment enough to balance the budget each year. He will say with great gravity, ‘It may mean inviting a certain type we would not otherwise consider.’ From years and years of practicing law, he has learned to compromise. ‘Yes, but it was a Loutrel Briggs garden,’ the head of the Garden Club will be compelled to add.” Eliza pushed off her bed to finish undressing. She removed her earrings and placed them in a box on her dressing table. “The chairwoman will finger her double strand of South Sea pearls and call for more ideas, but no one will be able to come up with anyone else with such financial promise. Feeling the polarization the topic is causing, the chairwoman will suggest postponing the topic until next month. She will shift directions and ask for suggestions on the theme of the Autumn Ball. And even though Mrs. Middleton only lives three blocks away, the chairwoman will be sure to give her a ride home in order to continue discussing the Mortons. She will say things she could not say at the meeting. Mrs. Middleton will agree, and then she will ask the chairwoman if she saw the Poinsett girl with that wild Henry Heyward at the Mortons’ party, and she will wonder out loud what Pamela’s daughter is doing with him. Again.”

  Henry stopped unbuttoning his shirt. “And the answer is?”

  Eliza leaned against the wall with her hands behind her back. “Because she loves him.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  HENRY RETURNED TO NEW ORLEANS SUNDAY NIGHT, AND Eliza returned to her work on Dave. Helen Halsey had been able to secure ten of the twenty-six pots for an exhibit in May, and Eliza was almost ready to start writing her essay. She had come to the conclusion that to find any more information would require a huge amount of time and an even greater amount of luck.

  Eliza dropped by 14 Legare to meet with Lawton several times after school to look over his homework and to check on how he was progressing with his memorization of “Casey at the Bat.” Each time she stayed behind to have tea with Mrs. Heyward. They mainly chatted about Lawton, but Eliza could tell that Mrs. Heyward was pulling for her and Henry.

  The day before the recital, Henry called from New Orleans. “I was hoping to make it back tonight so I could go to Lawton’s poetry recital tomorrow, but I can’t get away before tomorrow night. Any chance you could go? It’s not a big deal. Everyone recites their poem, and the top ten from the class go on to compete in front of the
entire school next week.”

  “I’d love to go, but what about your mother or Issie?” Eliza asked. Henry’s absence had made it easier for her to get closer to Lawton. She had enjoyed helping him pick out the poem and memorize it, and it appeared he had felt something of the same.

  “Lawton said they could only invite one person. Apparently his teacher wants an audience for them to practice in front of, but they have limited space. If he makes it into the next round, then he can invite everyone—if he wants to—but he’s still uncomfortable including Issie in anything that involves other children. He is okay with her walking him home from school, but he insists on meeting her a block from the school on the corner of Queen and Logan.”

  WHEN ELIZA ARRIVED AT THE LOWER SCHOOL LIBRARY A few minutes before the start, there were only a few seats left—one in the middle of the front row and two in the back. As she slipped to the back, she waved hello to India Logan, Sam’s mother. A few minutes later the fourth grade students, arranged alphabetically by name, arrived in single file. Lawton was in the middle, and Sam was right behind him. The thirty-seven students took their places in four rows of folding chairs. Eliza looked at her watch. She wondered if she would have to stay for everyone to finish. She had an appointment at the Gibbes in an hour. Helen had arranged for the pots from the collections of the Charleston Museum and the State Museum to be brought to the Gibbes and made available with the two from their own collection. Helen had also secured the loan of three important pots from private collections. Maybe after Lawton recited his poem she could slip out.

  When Lawton’s turn came, he stood up, and Eliza could tell he was nervous. She was at the end of the row, and she pulled her seat out a little into the aisle so he could see her. Lawton looked down at the floor and began, “‘It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day. The score stood two to four, with but an inning left to play.’” Lawton’s voice was shaky, and he was rushing too much. She wanted to tell him to breathe between lines, but by the second stanza he had settled into the rhythm of the poem and looked up and spoke more slowly. By the sixth stanza he seemed to be enjoying what he was reciting. “‘There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place.’” Lawton took a step forward and mimed being ready to bat, a gesture they had practiced together. His classmates and audience were listening with eager attention for his next lines. “‘There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile on Casey’s face; And when responding to the cheers he lightly doffed his hat.’” But as Lawton was miming doffing an imaginary cap, all eyes had turned to the disturbance in the open doorway.