by Karen White
My response was interrupted by the shutting of the garden gate. Odella, wearing a man’s camouflage fishing cap to block the sun from her face, marched down the path carrying what appeared to be an envelope.
“Sorry to bother you two, but when I poked my nose out the kitchen window to shake out a dust rag, I saw that you were out here and wanted to save me a trip to the cottage.” She held out the envelope to me. “It’s a letter addressed to you. I would have given it to you last night but it was stuck between my Precious Moments and Williams-Sonoma catalogs, so I didn’t see it until this morning.”
I hesitated a moment before reaching out my hand. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” I glanced down at the return address: Morton, Morton & Baker, Savannah. I flipped it over in my lap so Lillian couldn’t see it.
Odella turned to Lillian. “And you, Miss Lillian, have been out in this sun far too long. I’m going to bring you inside and set you next to an air conditioner so you can cool off.”
I noticed with alarm Lillian’s flushed cheeks and felt a stab of guilt. “I’m sorry—I should have known better. Let me help you get her in the house.”
Lillian waved a hand. “I’m not an invalid yet. I can manage on my own, I assure you. And I’m only going inside because I’m thirsty and would like some lemonade with a little touch of something stronger to wake me up. Not because I’m too old and delicate to be in this heat. In my day, I used to ride horses and jump fences without a helmet. If that didn’t kill me, then I doubt the sun will.”
She faced me. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” Then, using her cane to stand, she allowed Odella to lead her from the garden.
I waited until the gate shut behind them before opening the letter. As I’d suspected, it was from George. Although initially disapproving of me being at Asphodel Meadows at all, he seemed to have embraced the covertness of my presence by putting the name Earlene Smith in block letters on the outside of the envelope as well as in the address inside the letter. When I’d told him about the torn scrapbook pages and the newspaper clipping, he’d seemed almost eager to help me with my research. I hadn’t really expected anything from him so it was with curiosity that I opened the letter and began to read.
Dear Earlene,
I hope you are doing well and have found at least some of the information you were seeking. I’m still not exactly clear why you need to be there as you can see from the rest of this letter that there is plenty to research right here in Savannah. As I’m sure you are already aware, there was a suicide a little over a year ago at Asphodel Meadows. I’m not implying that you’re in any kind of danger, but thought you should be aware that that sort of thing goes on there.
I lifted my gaze from the letter for a moment, picturing George in his seersucker suit dictating this letter to his secretary without even pausing to think about how ludicrous he sounded, as if suicide were a communicable disease. I thought about writing him back to mention the borderline alcoholic doyenne of the estate, the blind daughter with a penchant for colors, the two little girls who were wise beyond their years, or their father whose odd mixture of aloofness and caring I found more attractive than I wanted to admit. Instead, I bent my head back to the letter and continued to read.
Per your request, I’ve done a little research on your grandparents’ house on Monterey Square. As you probably already know, the house was built in 1858, two years after the square was established, by your great-great-great-grandfather on your mother’s side. He was a successful doctor, as were the oldest sons of the following generation up to and including your grandmother’s father, Leo O’Hare.
I was able to find the original builder’s blueprints in the historical archives and found that the attic was originally designed as one large room, as we had thought. But this is where it gets interesting. My mother’s second cousin on her father’s side is a bit of an amateur historian, so I figured I’d ask her if she knew anything about the attic room. She recalls reading various accounts in unrelated research about families keeping less-than-perfect children in attic rooms to save the family from the disgrace of admitting to having given birth to an imperfect offspring.
There had been a kitchen addition in the early 1870s and the blueprints still showed a single attic room, so I knew to focus on records past 1870. I went back to the archives to find the family records and discovered a Thaddeus and Mary O’Hare, married in 1878, and the birth certificates of three children born between 1881 and 1900—the oldest being your great-grandfather, Leo. I took the liberty of using the house key that you entrusted me with, and went into your grandfather’s study, where I knew the old family Bible is kept.Your grandfather showed it to me once when I was on a business visit with my grandfather and I expressed an interest in the old book. I must say that I deserve a little pat on the back for this insight on my part, and I have to admit that it gave me a thrill to discover that I have a little bit of a detective lurking in me.
I shook the letter in frustration and hastily skimmed the rest of the paragraph dealing with George’s brilliance and skipped to the next sentence.
I found Thaddeus and Mary, with their birth and death dates, along with their children—except in the Bible there were four children listed, the third one, a girl named Margaret Louise, having been born in 1898 but with no death date. There are no public records to indicate that a Margaret Louise O’Hare ever existed. I think my next visit will be to check burial records from 1898 on at Bonaventure and other local cemeteries. I’ll let you know what I discover.
I’ve enclosed the copy I made of the inside of your family Bible—which is why I’m sending this as a letter instead of an e-mail—so you can add it to your stack of research in case it means something later on.
I do worry about you being alone right now, but when I spoke with my grandfather earlier this week and told him that you were at Asphodel Meadows, he told me that it would be good for you, which made me feel better. Please don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything—personally or professionally.You know I am here for you.
I will get back to my sleuthing as soon as I’m done with a couple of legal briefs I’m working on. I will be in touch as soon as I discover anything new. In the meantime, remember to eat well and to do your exercises for your knee.
Very truly yours,
George Baker
I folded the letter and shoved it back into the envelope. Regardless of how interesting George’s discoveries were, I couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Margaret Louise was born in 1898, eighteen years before my grandmother had been born. And she’d been a girl. I realized that the blue blanket I’d found in the secret room could have swaddled a baby of either sex, but my discovery of the blue sweater in my grandmother’s trunk had me convinced that I should be looking for a baby boy. And, even though I hadn’t found any evidence to show that they could be related, there was still the newspaper article about the discovery of a male infant found in the Savannah River.
I stuck the letter in the pocket of my skirt, then left the garden, eager to return to the cottage and the binder Helen had given me. I’d begun to sort through it the night before, finding it mostly to be business papers and shopping lists with a few surprisingly sterile letters between a newly married Charlie and Lillian. Disappointed, I had fallen asleep on the sofa, the papers scattered around me. I hoped that with a clearer head this morning I’d be able to at least document the contents of the binder and even organize them in some meaningful way before returning it to Helen.
I walked to the circular drive in front of the house, and stood between the front garden and the sundial I’d passed several times but hadn’t yet approached. It sat on a stone pedestal at the “v” that pointed toward the oak alley, its bronze face darkened by time and weather. I shaded my eyes and peered at the inscription that had been carved along the edge of the dial. Tempus fugit, non autem memoria. I knew the first part meant time flies, but I wasn’t sure about the rest of it, although I had once known it. I committed it to memory so I could che
ck online once I got back to the cottage.
I began to walk down the alley, apprehension scuttling up and down my spine as I remembered the previous night and the eerie whistling. By light of day the trees didn’t appear quite as ominous, but I still couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched as I passed under the arch created by the first two oaks.
The sound of a man’s voice and the unmistakable beat of horse’s hooves against hardened dirt made me stop. I looked around and realized the sound came from the far side of the house, where the oval window in Helen’s bedroom must look out. I heard the man’s voice again and recognized it as Tucker’s. I wanted to continue walking, but something held me back. I remembered how he’d looked the previous night when he asked me to teach his daughters to ride, and how much it must have cost him to ask. He didn’t strike me as the sort of person who asked for help very often, and I realized how much he must love his daughters to even try.
Slowly, I turned around and headed toward the sound of hooves until I emerged from the shadow of the house and found myself facing an equestrian’s dream. The land sloped downward away from the house where green pastures bled out into the horizon as far as I could see, separated by the elegant lines of white picket fences. Horses dotted the fields, their necks bowed down to the grass, their tails batting peacefully. The stables, appearing almost as large as the house, sat in the near distance below a rise, which is why I hadn’t seen it when I passed through the garden gate.
Nearer the house was the lunge ring, where Tucker now stood with his whip, coaxing the scarred horse around the circle, speaking quietly to the animal in a language I had once understood. I stopped outside the ring not touching the fence, and watched the horse and the man, each focused on the other, each seeing what the other was willing to give and to take. The whip never touched the horse, yet the horse responded, knowing what was expected as if he’d done this before. But he wasn’t doing it willingly, fighting Tucker with each gait, making me wonder what had been done to him before he’d come to Asphodel Meadows.
They came to a stop as soon as Tucker saw me. “Good morning,” he said, removing the lunge line from the horse’s halter and attaching a lead rope. I took a step back as Tucker led the horse to the fence, both of them regarding me intently.
“Good morning.” I forced the words past my constricted throat. The horse stood directly in front of me, calmly appraising me as his tail twitched behind him. He was thin, but his conformation was good, his legs long. I bet you can really fly, I thought before I could stop myself.
The horse nickered softly, startling me so that I took another step back. Tucker’s smile wasn’t mocking but meant for comfort. “He thinks you’re the treat lady. Do you want to give him an apple?”
Before I could refuse, he’d stuck his hand between the fence slats and pulled out an apple from a duffel bag near my feet. He handed it to me without bringing it back to his side of the fence, then stayed in the awkward position and I knew he would remain there if I didn’t take the stupid apple.
“Just keep your fingers flat and he’ll do the rest.”
I looked at Tucker with annoyance. “I know that. It’s not like I’ve never fed an apple to a horse before.”
His smile broadened and I knew he was goading me on, making me feel like a horse in the lunge ring, and I had to resist the urge to throw the apple at him and stalk away with righteous indignation. But I held the apple with the fence between us, and I reminded myself that I had once hurdled five-foot jumps on a horse. Surely I could feed a single apple to one.
The horse stretched his neck over the fence, but the apple was still out of reach.
“If you’re too afraid, let me have the apple and I’ll do it.”
It was like Tucker knew just the right words to say. Without looking in his direction, I took a deep breath and stepped forward with the apple in my palm, my fingers flat. The horse took half of the apple in one bite, his soft velvety lips brushing my skin and bringing back all the memories of doing this exact thing so many times. Apple juice ran down my fingers as I watched the powerful jaws chomp until there was nothing left. He pawed the ground with his front hoof, giving me a look that suggested he wanted more.
“Where did you find him?” I asked. The horse had turned and I found myself staring at his scars.
“At an auction in Columbia. I always look for the one horse nobody else wants. If I hadn’t taken him, he would have been sent to the slaughterhouse.”
I shuddered, not wanting to think about what happened to all the other horses nobody wanted. “But do you know where he came from before that? What his name was?”
Tucker shook his head and gave the horse’s neck a solid pat. “He was found abandoned in a dirt paddock with barely any grass and no signs of hay or feed. A filthy bucket with rainwater was all he had to drink.”
I stared at the large animal, feeling again that the two of us had more in common than just our physical scars. “He’s a great horse. Anybody can see that, regardless of his scars. I can’t believe that nobody wanted him.” The horse stretched out his head again, wanting me to scratch his head but I held back. I didn’t want to touch the soft coat under my fingertips, was afraid to feel a nudge of affection from the large head. “So, you do that a lot? Rescue horses, I mean.”
He shrugged and looked away for a moment. “I haven’t always. It’s just something that I sort of fell into. About two years ago I went on hiatus from my medical practice in Savannah to come here. My wife . . . Susan . . . she was ill and I figured we could all use a change of scenery. I thought being around horses would be good for her.” He shook his head. “She was afraid, though. Wouldn’t go near them.
“Anyway, our stable manager, Andi, mentioned to me that while she’d been at auction, she’d looked at a horse she thought we should consider. He was undernourished, but showed no signs of lameness, and his temperament, considering what he’d been through, was something we could handle. I went to see the horse, knew what the alternative would be if I didn’t take him, and that’s how it started. I rehabilitate them and then either sell them or find a good home for them, depending on the situation.”
The horse shook his head again and shifted his feet with impatience at having to stand still for so long. I looked into his large almond-shaped eyes and I had the oddest feeling that we were both thinking the same thing. You want to fly. The words were so amplified in my head that for a moment I thought I’d spoken them aloud.
Instead, I asked, “Have you named him yet?”
Tucker didn’t say anything, and when I looked at him, I saw that he was watching me closely, a small smile on his lips. “No. I usually don’t since I don’t intend on keeping them. But for this one, well, I’m willing to make an exception.”
He was still smiling at me as if waiting for me to get the punch line of a joke.
“Why are you looking me like that?”
His smile fell and he was serious again, wearing the wounded look I’d begun to be familiar with. “Because I can’t imagine what it would be like to never ride a horse again. And because I think you want to name this horse.”
I wanted to deny it, and tell him that it wasn’t so hard to walk away from a sport that had crushed more than just bones. But I’d always been a horrible liar, and I couldn’t forget the way the horse had shown his impatience, had made me aware that he wanted to fly. “I’d call him Captain Wentworth,” I said, jutting out my chin and crossing my arms over my chest.
Tucker’s smile was back. “Ah, a Jane Austen fan. You and Helen have a lot in common.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.” Turning back to the horse, he said, “So, Captain Wentworth it is. Captain, for short. Although I think Andi would have preferred something like Bruiser or Killer. He broke her nose when she was loading him into the trailer to get him here.” He rubbed the horse’s neck. “But I think Captain Wentworth is better. I’ll let everyone know. Maybe even get a nameplate f
or his stall.”
I pushed back the wave of excitement I felt, knowing it really had nothing to do with me. “Good,” I said. “He deserves it.”
He was watching me closely and I felt myself blush under his gaze. “I think you need to ride again.”
His words, spoken so softly, felt like splintering bones and I was lying on the ground again, waiting for the blackness. I stared at Tucker, speechless, then looked back at Captain Wentworth, his tail moving in a languid rhythm, teasing me with old memories that weren’t all bad. I looked into the horse’s eye again. Let’s fly; let’s fly high together. My breath quickened as I imagined the rush of wind on my face and the exhilaration of landing a jump, could almost hear the roar of a crowd. Oh, God.
I stared at him for a long moment, a horrible realization settling on me like ash. I felt sick, the ugliness of my thoughts making my stomach churn. I turned on my heel, walking blindly in the direction I’d come, knowing I couldn’t stay without blurting out what I’d only just come to understand.
In the face of disappointment I’d done the one thing I’d always despised about lesser riders; I’d given into my fears, surrendered in the face of my own mortality. And it was anger at myself that propelled me away from Tucker and from confessing what I’d just seen with startling clarity as I’d faced the newly named Captain Wentworth over the fence and felt his desire to fly: I wasn’t afraid of horses at all. What I feared the most was getting back into a saddle and discovering I wasn’t a champion any longer, that I had instead become nothing more than ordinary.
