Their father, an older man, still remembered his childhood on the plantation. He never wanted his children to forget the family’s glory, so he insisted on yearly treks to what remained of the plantation. He preferred spring for their family’s annual pilgrimage to the Larrabee shrine—before the summer months, when the unbearable heat rose upward from the lowland plantation grounds.
It required nearly a full day’s travel with four wagons and teams of horses to transport the family and necessities, which included a dozen servants, the eldest among them able to remember their own childhoods as slaves on the plantation.
Agnes and Mary were judged old enough to be permitted time unescorted as ladies. They took a young servant with them to carry a blanket and a picnic basket heavy with food and the proper dishes and silverware. With the servant following, they lifted their skirts high with one hand to step through the grass that had grown along a path to the river; with the other hand each carried a parasol to shade her delicate skin from the sun.
They did enjoy their picnic in the mild spring weather beneath a perfectly blue sky, speaking lightly of debutante balls and prospective husbands and upcoming travel to Europe. They sat talking long after the final pieces of dessert had been served to them. Perhaps an hour later, they approached the edge of the river, determined to cool their feet. It was a daring move, removing their shoes and stockings and lifting their skirts to wade into the waters, but they felt safe because they knew there were no prying eyes of young men to behold such an indecency. That the servant was a young black man was held of no account.
They giggled and prattled until Mary ventured too far into the water. A snapping turtle startled her and she slipped and fell forward into deeper water. The material of her long dress wrapped around her legs as she thrashed to keep her balance, and this filled her with panic. Her efforts to surface drove her into deeper water. Much as Agnes tried to pull her back to shore, Mary fought with the blind panic that robbed her of all her senses.
As she began to drown, she ripped at her clothing, pulling most of it loose. But it was too late. Her lungs filled with the dark water leached from tannic juices of submerged trees, and all light faded from her life. When her body was recovered, she was found in her knee-to-shoulder undergarments, and her beautiful dress was never recovered.
Although Agnes went through the motions of the life required of a Charlestonian aristocrat, it was said she never truly recovered.
As for the servant who helplessly watched the horror from the edge of the bank, unable to swim or attempt a rescue, he was allowed to remain with the Larrabee family.
His name was Samson Elias. At the time, he was fourteen years old.
**
I recounted all of this to Glennifer and Elaine in the back room of their antique shop. I’d learned it earlier in the South Carolina Archives, reading the account of a journalist at the turn of the century who had interviewed various family members to give a breathless, if occasionally melodramatic, tone to the newspaper story.
“How very sad,” Glennifer said.
“Indeed,” Elaine echoed. “That explains it some, doesn’t it? I mean, first her sister, then her husband and daughter and son-in-law. Tragic, tragic, tragic.”
I sat across from them, looking over a stack of papers that likely had not been moved in weeks. “Explains? Some of it?”
“What Laney means is—and we will absolutely kill you for repeating it—that Agnes, so we heard back then, enjoyed the occasional tipple.”
Reading between the lines of Southern grace, I understood that occasional meant just the opposite. “In solitude?” I asked. Long and hard tippling at social functions was nothing worthy of hushed whispers. But those who sought solace in alcohol privately were seen as weak.
“In solitude,” Elaine answered.
To a list that grew longer as I got to know them, I added something else worthy of admiration about these two women. Earlier, when they told me about Agnes Larrabee, neither mentioned alcohol abuse. It wasn’t pertinent to their story, and such gossip would have been malicious. Gossip might have been
a staple of their business, but mostly it was a one-way street.
“Poor woman,” I said. The pressures she inflicted on Timothy had no doubt been inflicted on her in her own childhood. I thought of the private, lonely life she must have endured as the matriarch of the legacy passed on to her. What if Richard Freedman, as a teenage gardener’s assistant, had misread the strangeness of the friendship between Agnes Larrabee and Samson Elias? This was my main reason for the current visit to the antique shop.
“I have a delicate question,” I said then, “related to all of this.”
“Yes?” Glennifer’s delicate fingers hovered above a cup of tea.
I told them about my conversation with Richard Freedman and finished by asking about Samson Elias.
“After all,” I said, “he was there the day her sister died. Maybe it created some kind of bond. So maybe they had something to hide from proper society. Maybe Samson killed her because as Timothy grew old enough to understand what was happening, she tried to end it, whatever it was. I mean, this whole thing about the Jesus room seems so spooky.”
“Samson Elias,” Elaine said.
“Samson Elias,” Glennifer repeated.
Neither spoke for long moments.
I leaned back in my chair and waited as one or the other decided what to say. Above their heads, on the wall behind them, was an eight-by-ten photo that showed Glennifer, Elaine, Amelia, and I at White Point Garden the previous spring. Following my mother’s funeral, we had gone for a lunch that was celebratory of her spirit, and our time together had lifted our spirits to match the pleasant warm afternoon. In the park after, to my surprise, Glennifer had asked a passing tourist to snap a photo of us with a camera that Elaine carried in her purse. And, to my surprise upon my return to Charleston this summer, I saw it on the wall. I’d not once commented on its presence, but it served as a reminder that our friendship, unlikely as it seemed, continued to grow.
At this moment, too, it served as a reminder of the unsettled emotions I had regarding Amelia and her return to Charleston.
I pushed those thoughts out of my mind, especially with something else tugging for my attention. What was it about the photograph that was significant? I had no time to ponder further.
“Samson and Agnes,” Glennifer finally said. “I seriously doubt there was any hanky-panky. Aside from her weakness for alcohol, Agnes was a very stern, strict, conservative Christian.”
“Some of the sternest and strictest may be hiding the most outrageous sins,” I said.
“We would have heard,” Elaine said.
“True.” I grinned. “Silly of me to think otherwise.”
“However . . .” Glennifer said.
“However?”
“Samson was rumored to be wealthy. Much wealthier than one would expect for someone who had served in a household all his life. Isn’t that correct, Laney?”
Elaine nodded. “He was also the one who looked after Agnes in the years that she spent inside the mansion.”
“Inside the mansion? I don’t understand.”
“Nicholas,” Elaine said, “there was a spell of several months when Agnes Larrabee stayed in one room inside that mansion of hers. It was a nervous breakdown. That was long ago, just after her son and daughter-in-law died in a tragic fire. And that was only a year after her husband died of a stroke.”
“I didn’t know about that.”
“The nervous breakdown?” Glennifer asked. “The fire? Or that her son died with his wife?”
“All three.”
“Some things were very hush-hush,” Glennifer said. “And that most definitely isn’t common knowledge. I suppose we could have told you earlier, but we were simply interested in the painting.”
“I think the story is far more complicated than we ever guessed,” I said. “Now I’m trying to find out everything I can about Agnes.”
“When she had her nervous breakdown,” Elaine said, “she didn’t leave the mansion for months. The only person she allowed in her room was Samson Elias.”
“As for the rest,” Glennifer said, “I apologize. We simply assumed you knew why Agnes had taken in Timothy. He was the only survivor of the fire. Only four or five years old at the time.”
“Tough childhood,” I said. “First his parents dead, then his grandmother.”
“No one was surprised when he ended up in prison,” Elaine said. “Sympathetic certainly, but not surprised.”
“Let me tell you about my conversation with him earlier,”
I said.
“Please do,” Glennifer said.
I related as much as I could remember, including his surprising admission that he’d stolen the painting himself and was now interesting in purchasing it.
“Very, very interesting, Nicholas. I suppose that ends it for you.”
“Ends it?”
“We can legitimately make your young friend an offer for the Van Dyck. That will solve a lot of her family’s problems,
I would guess.”
Elaine nodded in agreement. “We know you have a soft spot for Angel. Perhaps you can help her and her Grammie invest the proceeds of the sale for her future education.”
“Perhaps,” I said. But I was thinking of Timothy Larrabee’s insistent questions. Of Bingo sending me out to the church. Of Bingo in a body bag. Of the Glory Church and how it forced a mother to give up her baby to keep him healthy.
“Nicholas, such a dark look.”
I forced a smile onto my face. “There remains, however, one little mystery. It has to do with chewing tobacco.”
Glennifer snorted. “Have you seen any pigs flying down King Street?”
I shook my head.
“That’s your answer then.”
**
When Retha reached the room, a young black girl was holding
a sleeping toddler. Retha leaned on the doorway and looked in, hardly daring to breathe to be this close to Billy Lee.
The girl waved her free hand at Retha, careful not to wake the child. “Hey,” she said, friendly.
“Hey yourself. That your sister?”
The girl nodded. “Maddie. My name’s Angel.”
“I’m Retha. Can I hold her?”
Angel was standing right beside the bed by then. All she had to do was lift Maddie into the woman’s outstretched arms.
Retha stroked Maddie’s hair. She wanted to go over to Billy Lee’s bed but was afraid if someone walked by, they’d know instantly she was Billy Lee’s mother.
“You look pretty hurt,” Angel said. “It makes me sad for you.”
“That’s a nice thing to say. In one way, I guess am pretty hurt. And in another, I’m doing just fine.” Retha nodded and smiled, confirming it for herself. “Yup. Just fine.” She lifted one of Maddie’s hands. Maddie curled her fingers around Retha’s forefinger.
“What happened?” Angel said. “My friend’s mama, she looked kind of like you once. Her boyfriend, he done it.”
“Get right to the point, don’t you, Angel?”
“That mean I’m right?”
“Right enough. I run off.”
Angel nodded at the self-evident wisdom of Retha’s statement. “I’m glad you got away from him.”
Retha began humming Billy Lee’s lullaby.
“You got any kids?” Angel asked.
Angel could not know this was a swing moment for Retha. Retha had blindly trusted everyone in her life, and all it had given her was grief and heartache. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she had decided never to trust anyone again. Finally free, here was her first chance to test that vow. Nor could Angel know that something about her own straightforward compassion reached out and touched Retha. Because of that compassion, Retha made her decision.
“I have a baby boy,” she said. “And I love him as dearly as you love your sister. If you make me a promise that you’ll keep it secret, I’ll tell you all about him.”
**
It took Angel nearly an hour to return to Retha, who was in her own room by then.
In Angel’s free hand was an orange popsicle. She pushed it toward Retha. “Have it,” Angel said. “I remembered you saying how you were so thirsty all the time.”
As Retha accepted the popsicle, her hand trembled. “And Billy Lee?”
“What I got is good news and bad news,” Angel told her.
“Billy Lee is still sick? He’s dying? He’s dead?” Retha’s words came out in a jumble of panic.
“No, no, no.” Angel shook her head to emphasize her denial. “He’s healthy. For a baby, he’s pretty big and strong-looking. The doctors are impressed that he’s getting better so quickly. At first, they figured it might be a week.” Angel let a smile touch her face. “Anyway, that’s my good news.”
“Can’t be any bad news after that,” Retha said. “My Billy Lee is fine and healthy. That’s what matters.”
“I don’t know,” Angel said. “See, tomorrow afternoon? That’s when the social services people are coming to take him away to a foster home.”
Chapter 20
With her hand in mine, Amelia and I stood at the iron railing that overlooked the convergence of the Ashley and Cooper Rivers. The shadows were long and the evening was as calm as the waters. A barge moved slowly upstream, temporarily blocking
our view of Fort Sumter.
East Battery Street was named for the cannons positioned there to prevent ships from entering the harbor during the Civil War. Behind us, marking this historic site, were the cannons of White Point Gardens. Behind the cannons was the park itself,
a buffer for the genteel columned mansions.
Countless times I’d stood here as a boy, hearing in my mind the whistling cannonballs as the city lay under siege. During the years my mother was with me, I was enchanted by the history of the city and deeply loved Charleston. In the years of solitude that followed, I felt abandoned by her and chose accordingly to reject all that she stood for, including the sense of belonging to the tapestry of Charleston. It seemed, however, that my heart was returning to that boyhood sense of wonder and the love I’d buried for this fine city with all its flaws and beauty. Suddenly the prospect of selling the family mansion and leaving Charleston was not a future I wanted.
As if in confirmation, a light breeze suddenly sprang off the waters and caressed my face. It was a romantic delusion, that Charleston was welcoming me back, but I lifted my face to the breeze and smiled.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Amelia said.
“Hmmm,” I answered. For a moment, I’d forgotten she was beside me. With her voice bringing me back to the present, I returned also to the slight sense of discomfort.
“Penny’s not enough, huh.” She laughed softly. She squeezed my hand.
And I forced myself to squeeze back. At that moment, I realized I was pretending to have something that wasn’t there. I turned to face her squarely. This was also the moment to tell her what was bothering me. We were grown-ups. She would appreciate my honesty far more than she would dislike hearing the truth.
“Well,” Amelia said, seeing that she had my full attention again, “shall we wander the streets and find a restaurant worthy of the evening? My treat.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed my cheek. Then stood back and smiled.
She wore a light blue dress that accentuated all of her curves yet suggested grace and hinted at allure. There was a beautiful light to her eyes and a genuine happiness in her hopeful smile. She could have stepped off the cover of Vogue into this moment. I hadn’t seen such lightness in her being since her father’s funeral.
With my heart fluttering—such an odd but accurate way to describe the feeling I had to see her face—could I truly say what I needed to say?
“Sounds great,” I said, returning her smile. I would find a different moment. I wanted to enjoy my time with her because too soon she would be back in Chicago.
&nbs
p; She turned, leading me back toward the spot where I had parked the Jeep. Halfway there, she stopped. “Remember?” she said. “Here?”
“Here?”
“Glennifer and Elaine sent me the photo I took. Right here. With the three of you overlooking the water. Remember? We’d gone for lunch after your mother’s funeral. Looking at you as I took the photo, I knew I wanted a chance to walk alone with you and hold hands.”
**
That had been the moment for me, too. The beginning of the roller coaster of my emotions. Love her? Risk rejection? Or grow a thick skin and prepare the defenses in case the journey took me nowhere with her?
The tentative steps along the path of a shared life are so difficult. A paradox. How can you discover whether you want
to be committed unless you first spend enough time with that person to be sure about the decision? And spending time with that person seems to bring an obligation to take further steps together. Unless the first few occasions together prove to be like mixing oil and water, there seems no sensible reason to go to the effort of breaking away from the path, especially if one or the other seems inclined to continue.
Inertia. Was that the reason she was with me? And how could I find out without plainly asking her? But did I want to risk the wrong answer?
For the unwilling one, without an obvious and compelling reason to stop the journey, it is easier to continue than it is to fight to break free. So the journey continues. And continues. Until the moment of truth, when going further means a vow of commitment. And suddenly the vague sense of unease must be acted upon.
Some, I guess, continue, and it is only when the unease faces the pressure of marriage that something snaps and the commitment is broken in a sudden struggle for the freedom that should have been claimed much, much earlier. Yet at the beginning, when there seems to be promise and hope, should one avoid taking that first step on the path for fear of a messy ending?
I did not know how far Amelia was in the journey we’d begun. I was grateful, however, that Amelia and I had avoided the one thing that can make all of the courtship so much more difficult, for the process of disentangling is far, far worse with the complicating factor of a physical relationship. It is common knowledge that women give of themselves in exchange for love, and that men will give love in exchange for the woman and what she will provide. The currency, however, is not love but the pretense of love, on one side or the other. And intimacy without commitment of love in its true sense creates scarring damage, leaving one with empty pleasures to leach the soul and taking from the other soul a sense of self.
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