by Cathy Holton
After that, Josephine couldn’t go anywhere without running into Charlie Woodburn. He was good friends with all the boys she’d attended the Webb School with, and as he was a polished gambler who knew how to cheat in order to let his opponents win, he was considered a “sport.” The girls were all wild for him, for his dark good looks and easy charm. He was also an accomplished jazz musician and knew all the jazz lingo from having grown up on the streets of New Orleans, and his vocabulary and manner of speech were much admired and copied. In this he was lucky; if he’d grown up in Woodburn, a boy from his background would have talked with the nasal speech so derided by members of her own class, what the editors of the school newspaper, The Hustler, called “that naso-nasal twang.” But with his carefully modulated, slightly Creole accent he sounded a little like Madame Arcenaux, Josephine’s long-vanquished nemesis.
Madame Arcenaux had been relatively easy to get rid of but Josephine had the feeling Charlie Woodburn would not be quite so manageable.
The summer after her freshman year she went to Italy with her cousins Minnie and Lamar. It was all she could do; she couldn’t stay home. Papa had secured a clerking job for Charlie Woodburn in his factory’s office, and he took his noonday meal with the family now, walking from downtown in the dusty heat and returning to his office after siesta. In those days the downtown shops and offices closed for dinner and for an hour afterward, when everyone went home to nap during the stifling heat of midday.
Josephine and the cousins rented a villa in Florence near the Palazzo Pitti and later spent two weeks in Venice, but despite the Ponte dei Sospiri and the Basilica di San Marco, Venice made Josephine feel agitated and restless. The gondoliers along the canals, with their dark good looks and bold, roving hands, reminded her too much of Charlie Woodburn.
Fanny and Celia’s letters from home were filled with Charlie. He called them “Little Cuz” and “Sprite,” and he made them all laugh, even Papa, with his jokes and tales of Uncle Remus and Bourbon Street. He built Celia a dollhouse out of oak, and when Fanny’s old cat disappeared he brought her a dear little gray kitten that she named Tom Penny VI. Papa took Charlie to meetings of his gentleman’s club, the Belle Meade Club.
All in all it seemed that the entire family was enamored of Charlie Woodburn; everyone, it would seem, but Josephine.
They sailed from Europe too late to attend the opening of Vanderbilt, and by the time Josephine arrived on campus, classes had been in session for nearly two weeks. She had determined during the long transatlantic trip that her relationship with Charlie Woodburn would, in the future, be cordial but cool. She would no longer allow herself to slip into a pattern of open hostility on her part and amused acceptance on his. It had occurred to her that Charlie was a gamesman, and that her open dislike of him, rather than cooling his vanity, simply stoked it. She wished now that she had not fled to Europe. Her sisters’ tales of the long summer spent in Charlie’s company left Josephine feeling oddly bereft, as if she’d missed something that could never be recaptured. Papa spoke of Charlie’s manly grace, of his natural ability as a marksman. Only the child Clara seemed to have escaped enchantment, becoming oddly agitated at the mention of Charlie’s name and wrapping her hands tightly in her mother’s apron.
Charlie had pledged Delta Tau Delta, one of the best fraternities on campus, which should have surprised Josephine, but did not. It was an old house whose members were mostly legacies, and she suspected Papa had had a hand in Charlie being rushed. The winter formal was being held in New Orleans, and in November Carlisle Ransom asked Josephine to accompany him as his date. They were to take the train to New Orleans Friday morning, spend Friday night at the Ponchartrain Hotel, and Saturday night dancing at the Creole Ballroom, before returning to Nashville on Sunday. They would take individual cars to the Nashville train station, caravanning, and because Carlisle was a good friend of Charlie Woodburn’s, it was determined that Carlisle and Josephine would ride up with Charlie and his date, Marian Cason. The arrangements were made, there was nothing Josephine could do to contest them, but halfway to the station, Charlie swung his head over his shoulder and looked at her and she knew suddenly, as clearly as if he’d spoken the words, that he had arranged for Carlisle to take her, that she was here at Charlie’s bidding. This knowledge left her irritated and yet vaguely, faintly thrilled.
By the time they reached New Orleans, however, she’d begun to think she had imagined it all, because not once on the rest of the ride to the station, not once on the long train trip to New Orleans, had Charlie shown her the least bit of attention. She was in a foul mood by the time she dressed for dinner, and was a miserable date for Carlisle, pleading a headache after dinner at Galatoire’s and making an early evening of it. On Saturday she determined to do better, dressing herself carefully before the ball in a blue silk gown that echoed the startling gray-blue of her eyes, and carefully painting her mouth a brilliant shade of scarlet.
She was surprised to find Charlie waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. “Your date is hailing a cab,” he said to her. His evening clothes were badly tailored, and that gave her a surge of confidence. “Oh?” she said, pulling on her gloves.
“Marian is helping him. I’m here to escort you.”
“Are you?” she said smoothly, still fiddling with her gloves, and without a glance in his direction she went out the doors ahead of him.
He did not ask her to dance. It didn’t matter—her card was full—but from time to time she sought him out in the crowded ballroom. He danced recklessly, carelessly, his dark hair combed smoothly off his brow, the color rising in his face. Whatever poor impression his badly fitting clothes made was offset by his graceful manner; yet there was something of the dance hall in his movements, too, a style that seemed at times coached and uninspired. His face, when he thought no one was watching, would relax into lines of disappointment and boredom, before changing, just as quickly, into an expression of good cheer and camaraderie when someone came up to clap him on the shoulder.
Josephine’s cousin, Minnie, was there from Sewanee. “Ooh la la,” she said, gazing at Charlie across the crowded ballroom, “is that The Cousin?” She was very drunk, and later, when they went to a little speakeasy on Frenchmen Street, sat on Charlie’s lap and ran her fingers through his hair so that his date, Marian, got up in disgust and wandered over to the piano player. They were drinking bathtub gin, and Josephine’s head banged like a bass drum. The air in the smoky, crowded room became too thick to breathe. She stood up and stumbled out into the cobblestone street. She had lost Carlisle, and apparently one of her shoes, too, several juke joints back. She stood for a moment staring at the garish lights blinking along Frenchmen Street, trying to get her bearings. She could see the spires of St. Louis Cathedral rising over the tree line. Behind her the door to the speakeasy banged open and a rush of stale, smoky air swept over her.
“I’ll see you home,” Charlie said, taking her arm. His hand on her arm made her light-headed, and she leaned against him, hobbling as they walked. The streets smelled of sewer and burnt sugar. A drunken sailor stumbled out of the shadows and said, “Hello, doll,” but Charlie pushed him and said, “Shove off.”
They caught a cab at the corner and when they got back to the hotel, he climbed out behind her. “I can see myself up,” she said, fumbling for her key, and dropping it on the street.
Charlie picked it up and took her firmly by the elbow. “Cousin James would never forgive me if I didn’t see you to the door,” he said. His face was pale under the flickering gaslights, strangely tense, as if he was listening to the sound of distant music and found it slightly jarring.
When they got to her room, he put the key in the lock and turned it, smoothly shoving the door open with one hand and with the other pushing her up against the wall. He put his hand on her breast and kissed her.
When he had gone, she locked the door behind him and went into the bathroom to be sick. That’s how she knew she was doomed.
That’s h
ow she knew she was in love with Charlie Woodburn.
Desire. The relentlessness of it, the exquisite agony of waiting for the loved one’s presence, his touch, the weight of his mouth. All her beaux up to now seemed like schoolgirl crushes compared to what she felt for Charlie Woodburn. And yet she did not see him for some time after the winter formal. It was as if he was avoiding her, denying what had happened between them. He spent Christmas in New Orleans, and when she returned to school in the spring she saw him at social events, always in the presence of throngs of people, and he was cordial but distant. She became awkward in his presence, tongue-tied and stammering. She couldn’t eat, she couldn’t sleep.
When her despair became too great for her to bear, he would give her a token of affection, a smile across a crowded room, a light touch at her waist, a murmured greeting in her ear. In February he sent her a Valentine signed—Always, C. At a picnic at the Hermitage he kissed her under a chestnut tree, and at a house party in May he whispered, “Don’t forget me this summer.”
As if she ever would.
He was spending the summer in Greenville, Mississippi, at a classmate’s house, clerking in his father’s bank. Josephine, who had spent the spring imagining the two of them together at Woodburn, was disappointed. She spent her days reading novels and writing her name as Mrs. Charles Woodburn. Did he know the depth of her feeling? Probably not. He was surrounded by girls at school and, no doubt, in Greenville, too. And yet she could have him, Josephine knew, she had seen it that night in his face when he first came to call on Papa, that hungry desire to rise above his station, to be, once and for all, a True Woodburn.
But would Papa have him for a son-in-law? That was harder to gauge. True, he was fond of Charlie, and he was always glad to receive his letters. (Charlie never wrote to Josephine but would include little notes for her in Papa’s letter—Remember me to my cousins; Tell Josephine the belles in Greenville think college for women is a waste.) But Papa was a proud man, a man who, once crossed, would never forgive. She would have to proceed slowly, patiently. Josephine spent the summer murmuring sweet remembrances of Charlie into Papa’s ear, reminding her sisters often of Dear Cousin Charlie, singing his praises loudly and sincerely to all who would listen.
In August he wrote that he would be coming through Woodburn on bank business. Josephine set about getting ready for his visit in a frenzy of excitement. She had the house aired and cleaned until the woodwork shone. She had Martha make chicken and dumplings, his favorite, according to Fanny, for dinner. She bought a new sheath dress and had her hair permed in the latest style.
The day he was to arrive dawned hot and airless, and Josephine rose early and went about her business on trembling legs. At noon she checked on dinner and, assuring herself it was all done according to his liking, she went out onto the verandah to await him and Papa. By twelve-thirty they still had not come, and Celia and Fanny came out to complain that they were hungry. The heat made them all irritable and they quarreled, and the younger girls went back into the house, slamming the door. At one o’clock, Josephine rose and, calling to her sisters, went in to dinner. She couldn’t eat, sitting expectantly at the table, waiting to hear the sound of their boots on the verandah. At one-thirty, Fanny and Celia climbed the stairs to their rooms to nap. Josephine sat at the table with her hands in her lap.
She was still there when Papa came in at four o’clock. He seemed surprised to see her, sitting at the table with the electric fan raising little whorls of hair around her face, and he was more surprised still when, explaining that the train had been late and so he and Charlie had lunched at the hotel before Charlie left for Nashville, she rose with a little cry and, covering her face, ran out of the room.
In September, Fanny went up to Vanderbilt with her. Josephine steeled herself for the inevitable period of adjustment that always followed Fanny’s leaving home. Fanny was sixteen but she was much more girlish than most girls her age; she still carried her favorite doll in her suitcase, still spoke baby talk to Tom Penny, still cried at night for Martha and home. She had done the same when she went off to the Webb School, even though they were only day students. She had cried and carried a doll in her Gladstone bag every day, and no pleading from Josephine could make her stop. At Vanderbilt it was even worse, as they boarded at Mrs. Stillwell’s, and every night Fanny would cry herself to sleep with homesickness, her face buried deep in her pillow and Josephine stroking her back. Josephine had fallen into the habit of protecting Fanny years ago, not long after she realized that Fanny was so loving and trusting that she had to be protected at all costs. Having Josephine as an older sister had not broken her of this habit, it had not made Fanny suspicious or cynical, and so the only thing to do was to protect her.
It was exhausting. But it kept Josephine from spending all her time thinking about Charlie, it saved her from that misery. He had returned to school even more full of himself than before, clapping Josephine fondly on the shoulder when he saw her and calling her “old girl.” With Fanny he adopted a slightly more paternal role, warning his fraternity brothers to “keep your grubby paws off my little cousin,” and making sure she was not included in any of their wilder house parties.
In October, Papa dropped dead of a heart attack on his way to the bank. It happened on a bright, glorious day when he had insisted on walking to town, stopping in the middle of greeting Mrs. Chesney to grab his left arm before collapsing with a pained, surprised expression on his face. John drove up in the car to get them, and Charlie rode back with Fanny and Josephine for the funeral; the only sound above the smooth hum of the motor was that of Fanny’s shuddering sobs.
The funeral was well attended. Afterward Josephine met privately with Papa’s attorney, Mr. Atwood, and a few days later the sisters and a large retinue of family retired to Mr. Atwood’s office for the reading of the will. The estate was divided between Josephine, Fanny, and Celia, with generous bequests going to Martha, John, and Clara. Surprisingly, there was also a bequest for Charlie, a small trust set up to pay for his remaining terms at Vanderbilt, and several sealed envelopes, letters of reference to help Charlie find a job following graduation.
Josephine told Charlie of the bequest herself. He seemed not so much surprised as disappointed. “How kind of him,” he said, and Josephine, hearing something in his voice, looked at him, but his face was smooth and expressionless. He left early the next morning to return to Vanderbilt.
Josephine was a wealthy woman now. Perhaps not as wealthy as she would have been before the Crash, but certainly well-off. She could have anything she wanted, including Charlie Woodburn. And yet now that she was so close to achieving her dreams, she seemed to hear Papa’s voice in her head, Careful, Sister. What do you really know of this man? Why saddle yourself with a stranger you barely know? Mr. Atwood seemed to echo these sentiments.
She sent Fanny back to school while she stayed to tie up the loose ends with Mr. Atwood. Two weeks later, she set out for Vanderbilt. She was hopeful for the first time since Papa’s death, feeling oddly elated, as if her life were about to change, as if she were at the beginning of a long journey. She was free for the first time in her life. Anything was possible.
When she got off the train it was snowing. The sky was gray and wintry. Mrs. Stillwell had sent a car, and Josephine had anticipated a warm welcome, but when they reached the boarding house she found the windows darkened and Mrs. Stillwell, surrounded by several of the other boarders, crying in the kitchen. She was clutching a creased note in one hand. Josephine recognized the handwriting.
That was how she came to know what Mrs. Stillwell and the other boarders knew, what the entire campus had known since early that morning. Last night, while Josephine was packing her suitcase and preparing for her new life to begin, Charlie Woodburn had slipped into Mrs. Stillwell’s boardinghouse and eloped with Fanny.
A Superstitious Kind of Delicacy
One of Clotilde’s favorite fairy tales was “The Tale of the Sleeping Princess.” She told it often
to Ava over the years, in many different forms, but always it was the same story.
Once there was a princess of royal blood named Sheelin. She was very wise and brave, and when a plague came upon the land, the old king, her father, sent her to the East to obtain the One True Pearl. With this Pearl she could cure the land of sickness and famine, and restore her father to health. But it was a perilous journey, for the Pearl was buried at the bottom of the sea, guarded by a fierce dragon. The Princess Sheelin set forth with three companions, all of whom were killed along the way. When she arrived at the Hall of the Sea God, Sheelin disguised herself in the sparkling garments of the Sea People. But they guessed her mission and gave her a potion to drink. When she drank it she fell into a deep sleep, and when she awoke she didn’t remember who she was or why she was here. Her father, fearing she would never return, sent a letter in the form of a white bird that perched on Sheelin’s shoulder and reminded her of her noble birth and her destiny.
Then she awoke and kissed the bird. Remembering who she was and desiring to return to her own kind, she charmed the sleeping dragon and stole the Pearl. As she hurried from the hall with the Pearl she shed her false clothes, finding that the Pearl directed her home with its shining light.
Remembering this tale in the days following her receipt of the letter from Frank Dabrowski, it was all Ava could do not to lift the vase and throw it against the wall, dispersing Clotilde’s dusty remains everywhere. Every time she thought of the letter, she glared at her mother and hissed, “How could you?”
Her true father could have been any one of a number of nameless men. Clotilde may not have known herself, masking this fact in her false and elaborate stories. Her vain attempts, Ava saw now, to throw her off the scent.
But later, after her anger had died down, she thought mournfully, Who is my father? Who am I?
