by Cathy Holton
She found several boxes of documents: old receipts, newspaper clippings, bills, check drafts, and household ledgers. But no letters and no photos.
She heard a car door slam and, going to one of the windows, she saw the Merry Maids van pulled up in the yard and two employees unloading mops, buckets, and a vacuum cleaner. As if sensing her presence, one of the women looked up, and Ava stepped back into the shadows. She remembered her first day at Woodburn Hall, when she, too, had felt herself observed from one of the upstairs windows. Perhaps the very one that she was standing behind now.
A delicate shudder touched her spine, and she turned away from the window. She was beginning to feel depressed by the room, weighed down by something indefinable. There was a peculiar heaviness in the air, an unpleasant odor of formaldehyde, mold, and something unfamiliar, something Ava didn’t like to think too much about, an odor that seemed to linger in the dark, dank corners. She went quickly to the trunks and began to hurriedly repack the clothes.
It was while running her hands inside the bottom of the trunks, looking for forgotten letters, that Ava’s fingers closed over something of interest.
She pulled out a small red leather book. Opening it, she read,
JOSEPHINE, HER DIARY: MERRY CHRISTMAS 1927 FROM PAPA.
There were very few entries, and none of them were dated. Most of the pages were filled with elaborately drawn cartoons of flappers, jazz singers, and college boys in raccoon coats and saddle oxfords. One cartoon showed a tall, dark-haired boy in a badly fitting suit, his bony wrists and ankles comically exposed, blowing on a clarinet in front of an audience of wild-eyed girls. The caption read, The Sheik works his magic on a bunch of Dumb Doras. And how!
Ava slid the diary in her pocket, and, closing up the trunks, she quickly descended the stairs.
She paused on the threshold of Will’s room, hesitating even as she heard the shouts of the cleaning women below. And then, because she knew she would find what she was looking for, she hurried over to the bookcase. The photo she was searching for wasn’t in sight, but she found it pushed behind a stack of Mad magazines, a silver-framed photo of Will, Hadley, and Jake standing in the shade of a graceful colonnade, their arms around one another. Will was the same slender boy she remembered from Bard, but Jake looked different. He wore a grave, obscure expression, and his face was turned coyly away from the camera, as if he were embarrassed, or hiding something. Both boys had their arms—protectively? possessively?—around Hadley.
She was beautiful, tall and blonde and lovely as Ava had known she would be, as she had already imagined her, gazing at the camera with an expression that seemed both artless and arrogant, a golden girl who knows the world is hers for the taking.
Courtship
Despite her resolve to keep her distance from Jake, she awoke Thursday morning with a fluttering sense of excitement, knowing that she would soon see him again. She rose early, dressed carefully, and set out for downtown around ten o’clock.
The morning was sweltering. Cicadas hummed in the trees, and from time to time a lone car passed along the street. Two people slowed down and asked her if she wanted a ride, Boofie Crenshaw from the Ladies of the Evening Investment Club, and Sally Stewart, who went to church with Josephine and Fanny and sang in the choir with Maitland. Ava waved and told them no, she was out for a little exercise. Beneath her feet the brick sidewalk rose and fell like the deck of a ship. She liked walking—it helped clear her mind—but today she had underestimated the heat. She had only walked a block and already her sleeveless blouse clung to her back. Ahead she could see a long tunnel of oaks and she hurried on, her sandals slapping against the bricks. It was cooler in the shade by maybe ten degrees, and she stopped for a moment to admire Mrs. Barfield’s hydrangeas and catch her breath.
Rachel Rowe had given her the address of the Victorian house where Charlie Woodburn had boarded in 1928. According to Rachel, he had come to town that summer after spending his first year at Vanderbilt, and had clerked at one of the downtown businesses. Ava told Rachel about the ledger she had found, mentioning the Colonel’s intent to “draw up a deed” that gave Charlie what was rightfully his.
“Really?” Rachel said, her eyes wide behind her thick glasses. “What do you think that might be?”
“I was thinking maybe Longford.”
“Longford?”
“If Randal had married the Chickasaw woman instead of Delphine, then Longford would have passed to Charlie’s ancestor and not the Colonel’s.”
“Well, yes, I suppose so,” Rachel said. “But if the Colonel deeded Longford to Charlie, if there was a conveyance, you would have thought the Woodburns would have known about it.”
“You would think so,” Ava said.
“But then again, Charlie died pretty young. They may not have known. They may have just assumed the property was still in the family.” Her voice rose, filled with a breezy enthusiasm. “I’ll go over to the courthouse this afternoon and check the deed records. Although, you should understand, if you’re right, that the Colonel’s gesture may not have been as generous as you would think. Longford in the twenties was abandoned, and the house was falling into ruin, so the property probably wouldn’t have been worth much.” She looked at Ava, blinking. Her face was pink, and her hands, placed one atop the other on the desk, trembled slightly.
Ava gathered that this was the most excitement Rachel had felt in years.
Ava stood in the shade of one of the large oaks in front of Mrs. Barfield’s wrought-iron fence, imagining the street as it must have looked in Charlie’s day. It was not hard to picture him strolling along the dusty street on a summer day like this, dressed in a sacque suit with a bowler hat. Only in those days the street would have been brick like the sidewalk, and the houses on either side less crowded together. Everyone would have kept a vegetable garden and a shed out back where cows and chickens were stabled. The houses would have sat on large lots much like the one Woodburn Hall sat on now.
She half-closed her eyes, peering through the fringe of her lashes, and the landscape changed again; wide fields stretched now on either side of the street, and the trees were smaller, more compact. A line of gas lamps stretched along a flat sidewalk that was smooth and unbroken yet by floods and tree roots. Ava squinted her eyes and waited, and a moment later she could see a tall dark figure striding toward her, weaving in and out of the shade. He appeared to be whistling, one hand shoved deep in a pocket and the other swinging free. Watching him stride toward her, noting the wide set of his shoulders and the graceful way he moved, Ava felt suddenly chilled.
“Hello, are you all right?” Mrs. Barfield said. She had come out on her porch, and noting Ava standing motionless at the fence, had walked to the edge of the steps.
“Yes. Yes, sorry, I was just taking a breather.” Ava rubbed her arms where goose bumps had begun to appear.
“It’s a hot one, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But nice in the shade.” They stood for a few minutes exchanging pleasantries and then Ava moved off. She took a right one block before reaching the square. The houses here were smaller and less ornate than the ones lining River Street. She checked the address she had written on a piece of paper, then walked another couple of blocks.
She recognized the house from a photograph Rachel had shown her, although the facade had changed slightly. It was missing one of its porches, and someone had removed all the gingerbread trim from the eaves. A man was building a swing set in the side yard and Ava called to him.
“Can I help you?” he said, standing.
“I’m sorry to bother you. Do you live here?”
He stood, wiping his brow with the back of one arm. “Yes,” he said.
“This used to be a boardinghouse.”
“So they tell me.” He wore a pair of shorts and a sweat-stained T-shirt. A tool belt circled his waist, riding low on his hips.
“This is going to sound odd.” She wanted to ask him if she could come inside his house, walk around the ro
oms where Charlie had once walked, see the room where he slept. The man seemed like a nice enough suburban dad but something in his protective stance, in the way he looked at her, friendly and wary at the same time, made her realize the impossibility of her request.
For some reason, she thought of Frank Dabrowski and the day she had pulled up in front of his little house in Garden City and a woman (his wife?) had come out and eyed her suspiciously. She had written Frank another hasty letter but had not heard from him since. Would probably never hear from him again.
She said, “A man by the name of Charlie Woodburn used to board here. Back in the nineteen-twenties.”
“Sorry.” The man shook his head. In the sky behind him, the sun slid behind a scrum of swiftly moving clouds.
“Never heard of him,” he said.
It was only two blocks farther to Jake’s shop, and Ava plodded on like a sleepwalker. It was only ten-thirty, too early to drop in on him, but she had nowhere else to go. The sun was almost directly overhead, and the heat remained fierce and steady, rising in waves off the pavement. The sidewalk here was newer, concrete bleached by the sun, and most of the houses had wooden fences instead of wrought iron. She passed a pair of children playing in a yard with a spotted puppy. At the corner, an old man driving a riding mower waved at her.
Jake’s shop was in a row of small brick warehouses that stood a block from the square, and had been used, over the years, as storage for cotton, machine parts, and soybeans. The buildings sat across the street from a residential neighborhood, back in a grove of walnut and chinaberry trees. Ava waited at the corner to cross the street. A pickup truck cruised by slowly and the driver whistled and grinned. He slowed down but Ava stared at him defiantly until he shouted, “Be that way then!” and sped off.
She crossed the street and stopped, standing beneath the awning of Jake’s shop in front of a wooden door sporting a brass kick plate. Now that she was here, she was having second thoughts. Will had made his feelings about Jake quite clear, and she didn’t want any more trouble with him. And Darlene Haney, as well as Fraser Barron, had warned her about Jake’s “bad” reputation. Her own feelings were suspect, too; the fact that she had found Jake so instantly attractive was probably not a good sign, given her past track record.
She hesitated in front of the door, gazing up at the sun-bleached awning. It seemed a flimsy excuse to visit him, bringing him a blurry photo of his unknown grandfather. He had, no doubt, seen through her ruse. She remembered the photo of him, Will, and Hadley that she had found in Will’s room, the way he had tilted his face away from the camera, as though he was hiding something. She remembered what he’d said the last time they spoke, “I’ve been thinking about you,” and it seemed to her now that there had been an edge of slyness in his voice.
To the left of the awning hung a sign that read Thorny Shire Woodworks. Underneath it were two massive iron-hinged doors that slid open on rollers. The doors were closed. The street was empty and quiet but for the drowsy whirring of cicadas and, faintly, from one of the houses across the street, the tinny blaring of music.
In that instant Ava made up her mind to leave. She would tell him something had come up; she’d offer to send him the photo. She had turned around and taken two steps toward the street when a voice behind her said, “I bet you get that all the time.”
He was sitting in an Adirondack chair in the shade of one of the chinaberry trees in the alley, sipping on a bottled Coke. She hadn’t seen him as she walked up.
“You bet I get what?” She had no choice but to slowly retrace her steps.
He made a move as if to stand but she quickly motioned for him to stay seated.
“Catcalls from strange men in pickup trucks.”
“No. Not really. Not usually.” She felt her face flush with embarrassment. Seeing this, he grinned.
“You don’t know you’re a traffic stopper?”
“It’s just that everyone down here is so—friendly.”
“That we are.” He had drawn one leg up on the chair so that the arm holding the Coke rested on his knee. The chair was painted a bright blue, and had cutouts of crabs, starfish, and sea horses across the back. One leg of the chair was chained to the chinaberry tree. “So where were you going?”
“I don’t know. I realized I was early and I thought you might not be here.” She stared fixedly at the chair with its chain tether.
“My chairs have a tendency to run off if I don’t secure them,” he explained, noting her interest.
“Your chairs? Are these what you make in your shop?”
“They’re some of what I make.” He sat for a moment, regarding her steadily. He wore a pair of baggy shorts and a Lucinda Williams T-shirt, and his hair fell damply around his face.
She pointed at the shop sign. “I like the name,” she said.
“It’s from a Dylan Thomas poem.”
“Yes, I know.”
He nodded and grinned. “Do you want to see the rest of the shop?”
She glanced up and down the street. “Sure,” she said.
He stood up. His movements were slow but powerful, like a cat unfurling itself in the sun. “Next time you don’t think I’m here,” he said, “just ring the bell.”
The room was brightly lit by overhead skylights and smelled of pine and freshly planed wood. Sawdust and shavings littered the concrete floor. All along the back wall were neatly stacked shelves containing plastic bins and boxes. The interior of the shop was crowded with routers, planers, and various circular saws and, to her right, a pegboard wall was hung with miscellaneous hand tools. In the center of the room, where the light from the skylights was brightest, stood a wide, slightly raised platform, and on this platform rested a squat, thick-legged coffee table.
“It’s my newest piece,” he said. “Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” she said, reaching out a tentative hand and stroking the table like she would an exotic animal. It was surprisingly cool in the airy room. The air conditioner hummed quietly, prickling her skin.
“I’m building it for a couple in Tribeca.”
She walked slowly around the platform, admiring his work. “It’s very masculine,” she said. “Very geometric in its simplicity.”
“Well, no one wants a crooked coffee table.” He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, watching her intently. Ava had the feeling he was laughing at her.
“Sorry. I guess I don’t really know much about hand-built furniture.”
“Don’t apologize. Don’t ever apologize for saying what you think. It’s what I like best about you. Your honesty.” He grinned slowly. “Well, it’s one of the things.”
“Right,” she said.
“No need to blush,” he said, his smile widening.
“I’m not blushing.”
Ava waved her hand vaguely at the door. “I was at the boardinghouse,” she said, “where Charlie Woodburn used to live.”
“Down the street?”
“Yes.”
His manner with her was different, more flirtatious than it had been that day out at his mother’s house. It threw her off guard, made her wonder why he would have changed toward her in the weeks since then.
As if aware of her confusion he said, “I heard you and Will weren’t dating.”
“Who told you that?”
“A little bird.”
“I told you before that Will and I are just friends.”
“I had to make sure.” He grinned, a long, slow grin, and the nearness of him, the thickness of his forearms, was enough to set off a vibration in the pit of her stomach. She thought suddenly of the photo she had found of the three of them, beautiful Hadley standing between the tall cousins. The two men who loved her.
She took the photo of Charlie Woodburn out of her purse and gave it to him. “I thought you might like to have a copy of this. Rachel Rowe found it. She was combing through old newspapers and found one photo but it wasn’t very clear. You really can’t see his features.�
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“Rachel Rowe. The town historian?”
“That’s right.”
He must have loved Hadley. He wouldn’t have risked what he had if he hadn’t loved her. Ava wondered what had become of her, whether she had married and settled down or gone off into the wide world to seek her fortune. Did he ever hear from her? Did he ever drink too much and send her a lonely email? She knew he would tell her if she asked and yet, oddly, she didn’t want to know, she didn’t want to watch his eyes change at the mention of Hadley’s name as Will’s had, become bitter and sad.
“You’re right,” he said. “You can’t see him very well.” He looked up at her. “Thanks.” He slid the clipping into his back pocket. “Would you like something to drink? Iced tea, bottled water?” He pointed to a circular stairway at the far corner of the room. “I live upstairs.”
“No, oh, no,” she said quickly. “I don’t want anything.” She smiled, avoiding his eyes. His mouth was wide, generous, with a full lower lip.
He stepped around her. His arm grazed her shoulder, and she could feel the unexpected heat of his body against her skin. “Do you mind if I grab a couple of bottled waters?”
“Of course not.”
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
On the walk between Charlie’s boardinghouse and Jake’s studio, it had occurred to Ava that Will might have been right. Help me could have been the scribbling of a desperate man; not the act of a man afraid of violent murder, but a man overcome with remorse or alcohol or depression. A suicide.
Who knew what baggage Charlie might have brought with him from New Orleans? What demons he might have battled? It was so difficult to ascertain a man’s true character glimpsed only through the eyes of others. And the Charlie who presented himself in her novel—how close was he to the real man? She seemed to have reached an impasse with his character. He remained as obscure to her now as he had from the very first sentence she wrote. Surely the Colonel had thought well of him. The Colonel’s journal indicated an almost paternal obsession with his young cousin. A feeling of obligation, as evidenced by his willingness to pay Charlie’s tuition at Vanderbilt and his cryptic message in his journal that he was going to give Charlie what was rightfully his, and thereby right the wrongs of their fathers.
