The Social Climber of Davenport Heights

by Pamela Morsi

  He laughed as if the image of himself, helpless and tied down in an ambulance-type vehicle, was funny. It wasn’t. But I laughed along with him. It just seemed like the thing to do.

  “So, have you heard from Brynn?” he asked me.

  I shook my head. “No, she still won’t take my calls. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  He nodded, understanding. “Then sit down and we’ll talk about something else,” he said.

  I settled in. By now Chester knew all about my life. We discussed the people that were near and dear to me. The charities with which I had contact. My faltering real estate career. And my ongoing efforts to do good.

  “Did you know the Special Olympics has a golf team?” I asked him.

  “No, I don’t suppose I did,” he said.

  “They are trying to teach the athletes leisure sports that they can participate in for a lifetime, rather than just team sports or track-and-field activities.”

  “That makes sense,” he said.

  “Locally they’ve got a men’s golf team that’s doing very well,” I said. “But they haven’t done anything about the women.”

  “Jane, I thought you hated golf,” Chester said.

  “Oh, I do,” I told him. “But I’ve figured out that I don’t have to actually do all the good that needs to be done. My friend, Teddy, is the new president of the Junior League. I talked her into including a Special Olympics women’s golf team in their list of civic service options.”

  Chester frowned. “I thought you told me that 80 percent of the Junior League membership’s main reason for participating was social chumming.”

  I shrugged. “That’s what the interest surveys indicate,” I said. “And that was me, exactly.”

  “But you are still hoping that they will voluntarily choose to take this on?”

  “Every member has to do a certain number of hours of community work,” I said. “I’m thinking that there are women who would look at this and think, ‘Hey, this is great. I can get in my charity hours and play golf at the same time.’”

  “But are those the kind of people who should be working with mentally handicapped golfers?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” I said. “What I’m thinking is that if I could change my priorities, perhaps other women will want to, as well. I am definitely not the kind of person that you would count on to be out there trying to do good. But that might be our problem, the world’s problem, all these millennia we’ve only expected doing good of the people we would expect it of. If we start expecting it of everyone, maybe we won’t get it from everyone, but we’ll get it from more people than we do now.”

  Chester considered my words slowly, thoughtfully.

  “You don’t think so?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” he said. “But what about the young golfers with all their hopes up? What happens if all the Junior Leaguers who thought it would be easy and find out that it’s not, just quit. Won’t those girls be disappointed?”

  My bright and sunny optimism turned to dismay.

  “I hadn’t thought about that,” I admitted. “That would be awful!”

  Chester nodded.

  “It could be a terrible thing,” he agreed. “Or it could be just like you planned. Someone, given the opportunity, rises to the occasion.”

  “Can I risk that?” I asked.

  “Can you?” he threw the question back.

  “Chester, you’ve been doing this a lot longer than me. Tell me what you think.”

  He smiled like the wise old sage I believed him to be. “You can’t do a bait and switch, luring people into opportunities where success or failure is totally dependant upon the charitability of their nature. You’ve got to lessen the chance that they drop the ball by giving them a better idea of what they are getting into.”

  “How would I do that?”

  “Get the players from the men’s team to talk to the group, perhaps,” he said. “Or let the Junior Leaguers go and watch the partners interacting.”

  “It will seem like too much trouble to a lot of them,” I said.

  Chester agreed. “It will be too much for a lot of them,” he said. “But maybe not for all of them.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’ve just got to do the best you can, Jane,” he told me. “And then you’ve got to trust that things will work out. They won’t always work out the way that you’d like. But they will always work out how they are supposed to.”

  I left Chester a little before eleven, remembering to give him his Snickers bar.

  “Thank you, Jane,” he said a bit more seriously than the gift warranted. “I’m going to put this away and save it for later.”

  “You had better, mister,” I teased threateningly. “I don’t want you ruining your lunch.”

  As I stopped at the traffic light across from the new car dealership, I glanced at the Volkswagens for sale. Chester had said he’d buy one if he could still drive. I shook my head. Only a guy like Chester would prefer a Volkswagen over the Z3. I looked over the array of shiny colors and styles. They were kind of cute.

  I double-checked my cell phone. It hadn’t rung, but I made certain there were no messages, either. Brynn still hadn’t called. I held the cell phone in my hand thoughtfully. Two buttons to push, that’s all that it required. My Brynn was always only two buttons away. I could call her again. I resisted the action and stuffed the phone back in my purse.

  I worried about her. I had spent most of my life swooping in to help her. When she tottered on toddler feet, I’d held my hands behind her to catch her when she’d fall. When she was a schoolgirl in navy blue wool, I had taken charge, smoothed the way and been a constant presence. In the social world I’d chosen her clothes, her activities, even her friends.

  I had done it because I loved her. Would still do it because I love her. But she’d told me the truth. Help, unrequested, is intrusion. It had taken me a long time to realize that. All she wanted from me was a chance to make her own choices. But what if her choices were bad? The question haunted me.

  Behind me someone honked. The light was green. I headed back in toward town. It was only eleven, but I was actually hungry already. Probably the result of having had only a cup of yogurt on shredded wheat for breakfast.

  I spotted a roadside fruit stand just off the expressway. A handpainted sign announced Peaches and my mouth watered appropriately. I made my way to the place, buying a hefty bushel before I remembered that I had no family to share them with, no dinner party to plan.

  The huge basket barely fit on the floorboard of the passenger’s side. I picked up a ripe, plump peach, wiped it on my slacks in lieu of washing and ate it. The fruit was so sweet and juicy, the taste so nostalgic, it was almost a melancholy enjoyment. My life was good, I decided. My life was very good.

  I stopped by Hattenbacher House. I was deliberately trying to stay away. But by now I loved the old place and could hardly resist a visit, even when a phone call would do.

  I turned into the driveway and pulled up to park all the way in the back. Julia Prentice, the woman Miss Heloise had hired to run the foundation, had set up an office in the three rooms of the servants’ apartment attached to the garage. It was furnished with metal filing cabinets and garage-sale rummage. I worried about the woman’s taste, but from what I’d seen, she did appear to be quite knowledgeable about the organization and management of a nonprofit group.

  Her greeting was bright enough as I stepped across the threshold, but I was too experienced in the world of female smiles to be fooled into thinking it was totally sincere.

  “What a surprise!” she said. “I wish you had called to let me know you were coming.”

  “I can only stay a minute,” I said, hoping to reassure her.

  I was aware that Julia didn’t like me too much. Or perhaps she just didn’t trust me completely. I don’t know if she was aware that Miss Heloise had first offered her position to me. But she was aware of my part in saving the house. And she knew that Miss Helo
ise liked me. But from what I could tell, Miss Heloise gave everyone the benefit of the doubt.

  Whatever the issue might have been, Julia was always perfectly polite and appropriately grateful for anything and everything I did to help.

  “I’ve been calling potential antique donors,” I told her. “I can’t say that I’ve been all that successful. Most of the people I know also know Barb Jarman. It’s much easier for them to refuse me than to offend her.”

  Julia nodded as if she understood. I was pretty sure that she didn’t. “I’ve picked out a couple of nice pieces of my own that I thought might work well here,” I told her.

  “Well, of course we’d love to have them,” she said, then added, “If they are truly suitable.”

  I refused to be insulted by the little dig. I wanted her to look critically at the gifts she was offered. The last thing Hattenbacher House needed was flea-market goods donated for museum write-offs.

  “I’ve got a William & Mary lowboy that I think would work in that iris bedroom,” I told her. “And a tilt top to replace the tea table in the front parlor.”

  “Oh, that sounds fine,” she said.

  “I’ll try to get them delivered over here next week,” I told her. “Just whenever it’s convenient for you.”

  “Let me check,” she said, opening up her Day-Timer to the following week.

  I stood waiting as she casually perused her schedule. It looked to me, from half a room away and upside down, that her week was practically blank. Still, she leisurely looked through it.

  “I have a luncheon scheduled on Tuesday to talk with the Master Gardeners Club about the grounds,” she said finally.

  “Oh, great,” I said. “It would be wonderful if they would take it up as a project.”

  “Yes, that’s what I told Miss Heloise,” she informed me.

  That comment was obviously meant to put me in my place, somehow. It didn’t. It couldn’t. It was an almost amazing discovery. When I have no ulterior motives, I am especially difficult to neutralize.

  “She is such a wonderful lady,” I said. “We are so lucky to have her. And we are so lucky to have you here looking out for her house and the best interests of all of us.”

  The woman was speechless. I could see she was looking for disingenuousness or trickery. She couldn’t find any because there was none. She returned to our former subject.

  “Other than Tuesday, then,” she said, “I will be here to take delivery of the furniture.”

  “Okay, I’ll call you.”

  “Good.”

  We stood together quietly, a little disconcerted, having run out of things to say. I suppose she was hoping I would leave. I was hoping she would offer to let me look around the house. I lingered. The uneasiness grew longer.

  Julia finally broke the silence.

  “I heard a very interesting and auspicious rumor this morning,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “I believe that some of the pieces Barb Jarman took from the house are going to be put up for auction.”

  “That’s great!”

  My very positive reaction was apparently appreciated. The woman was almost preening in self-congratulation.

  “I’ve already contacted the heritage council for funds,” she told me. “When they come up for bid we can snap them right up.”

  I refused to allow my excitement at hearing this news to be in any way diminished by the knowledge that, in every way that was just and fair, the museum already owned all those pieces. Maybe Barbara Jarman’s heart could only be soothed by cold hard cash. Maybe she would have the sense to make peace with Miss Heloise and knit the family back together.

  “Julia, this is tremendous news,” I agreed. “I’m sure you would have been able to find beautiful furnishings for the house. But the more original pieces we have the better.”

  Julia nodded. “I did get one donation this week that I’m personally very proud of.”

  “Who from?”

  “The guy wants to remain anonymous.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “He contacted me wanting to make a donation,” she said.

  “That’s wonderful.”

  She grabbed up her keys. “Come have a look,” she said.

  Together we left her office and traversed the width of the old-fashioned garden with its poppies, hydrangea bushes and gladiolus. Workmen at the back of the house were taking down shutters and scraping paint from the windowsills.

  Julia led me in through the back door. The house looked too clean to be lived in. Already it had lost some of the feel of Miss Heloise’s home and had developed that unmistakable aura of historical monument. In all honesty, I regretted the loss.

  “We’re going to have these floors redone,” Julia told me. “And we’re getting an estimate from an architectural conservator about restoring the kitchen to its 1888 appearance. It’s really the only room that’s had a lot of modern renovation.”

  We made our way into the dark-paneled library where the last Hattenbacher governor had retired to civilian life. His portrait now hung over this fireplace, it having been determined that the portrait of his wife had originally been displayed in the front parlor. The masculinity of the room lingered with ancient pipe smoke and snifters of rum.

  Sitting in that room, in the most prominent place, below the window, was a Craftsman mission-style sofa. My jaw dropped open. Without question I was absolutely certain that it was one that I had quite recently sat upon behind the counter of the Yesteryear Emporium.

  “Is this not absolutely perfect for this room?” Julia asked me, clearly delighted.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “It is perfect.”

  “This is the original upholstery, it’s just been cleaned,” she said. “And the donor has had it authenticated as a genuine Stickley.”

  “I thought it was Stickley,” I said. “I’m glad that it’s been proven so.”

  “I have to confess, I was taken aback at my own powers of persuasion,” Julia admitted. “Once I saw it, I was very willing to accept it on loan. When the man just gave it to us outright, I almost wanted to argue with him.”

  I found myself wanting to argue with him, as well. It was the most valuable antique that he owned. And he had given it away.

  Chapter 16

  I LEFT HATTENBACHER HOUSE a few moments later, still shaking my head over Scott’s generous gift to the place. As I climbed into the Z3, I glanced over at the bushel of fruit on my floorboard. I’d been so hungry just an hour ago, but I’d never be able to eat all those peaches.

  Loretta’s safe house would be the best place to leave them, I decided. I buckled my seat belt, started up the car and drove over there. My thoughts drifted to Brynn. I checked for messages from her. Still none. I didn’t have an inkling as to what I should do, but could I really do nothing?

  Help, unrequested, is intrusion, I reminded myself. I was trying to make that my mantra, but I was no longer sure if I really believed it.

  I left my car on the street in front of the safe house and carried the bushel basket to the front door. The smell of peaches reminded me of the hot summer days of my childhood. I remembered one afternoon eating peaches. In the little piece of shade at the side of our house where the TV antenna was set in the ground, I had munched on fruit and minded my own business.

  My mom in her strapless one-piece swimsuit was lying out in the backyard trying to get a tan. She’d laid a rain umbrella at the top of her bath towel to provide shade on her face and the book she was reading. She never wanted to be bothered when she was reading. I suppose, if the truth were told, she never wanted to be bothered.

  I was happily getting juice all over my cotton crop top when I saw the snake. It came slithering out of the grass, undoubtedly wanting to share the sunshine with my mother. I was afraid of critters; bugs, snakes, lizards, even frogs were not among the things that I considered as friends.

  “Mom,” I said nervously.

  She ignored me.

  “Mom,” I tried agai
n.

  Still she didn’t look up. The silent, black reptile was crawling right up beside her.

  “Mom!” My plea was more desperate.

  “Leave me alone!” she snapped.

  I pointed to the grass beside her. “There’s a snake.”

  She screamed and she jumped. I couldn’t say which she did first.

  Grabbing up the umbrella, she began trying to kill the snake with it. The creature was desperate to get away, but Mom wasn’t about to let him go. Somehow she managed to get the point of the umbrella pierced through the width of its long body.

  She held the snake up. It must have been three feet long. It was still wiggling.

  “It’s only a rat snake,” she informed me. “Wouldn’t do any harm.”

  It was as if my fear was a weakness she didn’t share. As if she’d forgotten how she’d jumped and screamed.

  She threw both snake and umbrella over the fence into the alley.

  Mom never thanked me for warning her. But she did gather up her towel and her book and go inside.

  I shook my head at the unexpected memory. It was strange how unexpectedly some things came to mind.

  I rang the doorbell of the safe house. I waited patiently for quite a while. Nobody came. Somehow, however, I sensed that the place was not deserted. I rang again. I could feel eyes on me from the peephole.

  “It’s me, Jane Lofton,” I said loudly through the door. “I’ve brought peaches.”

  It was a long moment before I heard the dead bolt turn. The door opened slightly, the chain still on. A familiar-looking face peered out at me suspiciously.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “Hi, I’m Jane,” I said. “I bought these peaches and I can’t possibly eat all of them, so I thought I would bring them to you.”

  The woman was hesitant.

  “You’re Shanekwa,” I said. “I remember you from decorating the Christmas tree.”

  For an instant she seemed frightened that I knew her name, but as recognition dawned on her, her mouth curved into a welcoming smile.