A Sound Among the Trees

by Susan Meissner

  “At Holly Oak,” her father had echoed. And as Marielle looked up from her coffee cup, she saw the surprised look people have when they ask a question they think they already know the answer to. They all wore that look. The three of them had assumed she and Carson would make their home somewhere other than Holly Oak. It wasn’t even Carson’s house, after all. It belonged to his dead first wife’s grandmother. And she still lived in it.

  “It’s a beautiful house,” Marielle had said. “A beautiful, big house that has everything. You guys can stop worrying. I’m okay with this. I’m not afraid to live there.”

  For a long moment no one said anything. Then Chad spoke into the strained seconds of silence. “So what are you going to do with all the toasters and Crock-Pots you’re going to get?”

  Gentle laughter filled the room.

  “I’m keeping the ones I like best, of course. And using them.”

  “But Carson has such a long drive,” her mother said, her brows furrowed with unease that seemed meant for a different concern altogether.

  “Everyone who works in DC has a long commute, Mom. It’s not a place to live; it’s a place to work. Everyone in Carson’s department lives outside the Beltway. Most of them live in Virginia, actually.”

  “He must be on the road for more than an hour each way,” her father said.

  Marielle shrugged. “That’s the East Coast, Dad.”

  Again, there was silence.

  “It’s a beautiful house,” Marielle said again. “Just wait till you see it.”

  “Looking forward to it.” Her father’s tone suggested he knew it was not his place to decide where his married daughter should live. Her mother smiled, stood to clear away the dessert plates, and asked Marielle which department store she’d like to register with …

  At her far right, the door to the dining room now swung open and Brette popped her head out.

  “Marielle, Hudson won’t let me play the Wii. It’s my turn. And he won’t let me.”

  An empty space where the rented tables had been placed stretched between her and Brette. Marielle wasn’t quite ready to go in. She wasn’t ready to step out of her wedding dress or referee her first squabble between her stepchildren.

  “I’ll be there in a little bit, Brette.”

  The girl frowned.

  Marielle turned toward the edge of the garden and the long sloping lawn. “I promise. I won’t be long.”

  Brette mumbled, “Okay,” and the french door closed.

  Marielle walked to the edge of the patio stones, slipped off her shoes, and set them by steps that led to the garden’s stretch of grass and trees in the ample backyard. The cool flagstones massaged her bare feet as she walked down the steps onto the sloping lawn. The back of her dress trailed on the tops of the blades of grass, and she liked the way it looked and felt. Behind her, Holly Oak was bathed in an amber glow of sunlight as the sun hovered low on the western horizon. Ahead of her were the old slaves’ quarters and Sara’s studio, their entrances shadowed now since the sun had fallen behind them. She stepped to the edge of the quarters and winced as the grass gave way to dirt and little stones. Marielle put out a hand on a stone wall to steady herself and flick a pebble from between her toes when a voice startled her.

  “Looking for me?”

  Marielle pushed herself away from the ancient wall and gasped. Adelaide sat on a wood-and-iron bench that overlooked a line of trees and the rooftops of houses on the next street.

  “Oh my goodness, Mimi!” Marielle exclaimed. “You scared me! I thought you were inside resting.”

  Adelaide turned her head toward the woods. “I tried to. But I can’t make myself tired just because people think I should be. Everyone thought I should lie down. So I did. And then when everyone left me alone, I came out here.”

  “Oh.”

  A tiny span of silence followed.

  The old woman looked up at her. “I would ask you to sit down, but you will ruin your dress. This bench is unkind to organza.”

  “That’s all right. I don’t need to sit down. I … can leave if you want.”

  Adelaide seemed not to have heard her. “Was it a nice party for you, Marielle?”

  “It was a lovely party. Wonderful. Thank you so much for hosting it.”

  Adelaide swiveled her head back to face the trees. For a second she said nothing. Then she spoke. “You know, slaves used to sit on this bench at the end of the day and smoke their pipes and tell stories and rock their children to sleep. Right here. On this bench.”

  Marielle stared at the woman. “Um. No, I didn’t know that.”

  “My great-great-great-grandfather Eldon Pembroke owned a woolen mill. And sheep. And a good many slaves. And my great-great-great-grandmother had a haberdashery a few blocks away from here on Caroline Street.”

  “A haberdashery. That’s like a fabric shop, right?”

  “No. Not a fabric shop. Hers was a men’s haberdashery. It was an accessory store for men back when men wore accessories. Gloves, hats, walking sticks, ascots. Things like that. They tailored men’s suits too.”

  Movement far above her on the patio caught her eye. Marielle saw Brette emerge from the dining room onto the patio, looking for her. “Sounds like those were nice times, when men wore accessories,” Marielle said absently, worried that she had already botched her first opportunity to mother the children on her own. Marielle waved. The girl went back into the house, apparently not having seen her.

  Marielle turned back to Adelaide and saw that the woman was staring at her.

  “My great-great-aunt Eliza worked at the haberdashery until it closed during the war,” Adelaide continued. “And so did my great-grandmother. Susannah Page.”

  “Susannah. She’s been quite popular today.”

  Adelaide nodded. “Pearl told you, I assume. Whenever there’s an event at Holly Oak, Pearl has to bring up Susannah. And now that you’ve heard Pearl’s theory, I just wanted you to know that I’ve lived in this house all my life and I’ve never seen a ghost here.”

  Marielle laughed lightly. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “And I think I should also let you know that the room you and Carson have chosen was Susannah’s room. I am only telling you because Pearl will make a fuss over it when she hears you’re in that bedroom. I’d rather she didn’t have the thrill of seeing your surprised face when she asks which bedroom you’re in and you tell her and she announces to you you’re sleeping in Susannah’s room.”

  “Susannah’s room?” Marielle sensed a flicker of uneasiness zip through her.

  “That is the very look that would fuel her stories for the next decade, assuming she lives that long. It’s better that you know now.”

  The subtle disquiet spread despite Adelaide’s downplaying.

  “But you don’t believe in ghosts. Do you?” Marielle asked.

  Adelaide seemed to regard her thoughtfully before she answered. “Ghosts are not what I believe in,” the old woman finally said. Then she stretched out her hand.

  Marielle blinked at it.

  “I am afraid I need a little help off this bench, Marielle. I’ve been sitting here too long. And it’s too low.”

  “Oh! Of course!” Marielle took a step toward her and placed her hand under the older woman’s elbow as she rose to her feet.

  “Do … do you want me to keep my hand here?”

  Adelaide smiled at her. “No, dear. I will be fine. You can let go, and I’ll race you to the top.”

  Marielle dropped her hand and took a stutter step.

  “I am kidding,” Adelaide said.

  They began to walk up the lawn, and Marielle cast a glance at the studio as they passed it.

  “I do hope you will be happy here, Marielle,” Adelaide said, looking up at Holly Oak.

  “Thank you. I’m sure I will be.” Marielle chanced a peek at the older woman and decided to ask the question that had been niggling at the back of her mind since Carson first introduced her to Adelaide. “Have y
ou been happy here?”

  Adelaide slowly nodded, as if to confirm the unspoken observation that accompanied Marielle’s question, that Adelaide had known much sadness at Holly Oak. Her husband had died young. Her only child, a drug-abuser, had run away from home at seventeen, and the granddaughter she had raised had died at the age of thirty-four.

  “I don’t know that my life would have been any different had I lived it in some other house. Maybe it would’ve been worse. Who can say?” Adelaide said. “Holly Oak isn’t to blame, not really.”

  “To blame?”

  “Some people have said this house is cursed.”

  Adelaide’s serenely spoken but odd words prickled Marielle. “Who says the house is cursed?”

  “Ignorant people. It’s not a curse.”

  “What … what’s not a curse?”

  Adelaide paused a moment before answering. “You are probably too young to remember record players. But sometimes when you’d play a record, way back when, there’d be a nasty scratch and the needle would just get stuck. And when that happened, the record just kept playing the same bit of music over and over. The needle couldn’t move past it. It didn’t know how, you see. It wasn’t designed to know how. But it wasn’t the needle’s fault.”

  Adelaide stopped and turned to look at Marielle. “Do you hear what I am saying? It wasn’t the needle’s fault. It was the scratch.”

  Marielle stared at her. It was the first time Adelaide had done or said something that suggested to Marielle that the woman’s age was perhaps messing with her mind. Carson had said from the beginning that mentally Adelaide was still as sharp as a tack. But Marielle had no idea what to make of what Adelaide was saying to her now. Movement above them on the patio eased her gaze away for a moment. Carson and the others had returned.

  “It wasn’t the needle’s fault,” Adelaide said again.

  “No, of course not.” Marielle forced her gaze back on Adelaide.

  “You gouge a record deep enough and the needle can’t get past it. It tries but it can’t, so it keeps playing the last thing it could play, over and over and over. And that, Marielle, is not a curse. That is the evidence of the needle’s limitations, despite its wish to do what it was created to do. Do you see the difference?”

  Carson didn’t see her on the lawn below the stairs. His back was to her.

  “Do you want to go back up to the house now?” Marielle faked a light tone. She had no idea what Adelaide was saying. None.

  Adelaide frowned. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

  “I … I heard you.”

  “Well?”

  Adelaide was staring at her, displeasure washing across her weathered face. It surprised Marielle how much Adelaide’s disappointment bothered her. But the woman was talking in riddles. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Mimi.”

  The older woman pinched her brows in apparent disgust. “Did you not understand any of it?”

  Carson, please, please, turn around.

  “You said it’s not the needle’s fault. It’s the scratch.”

  “Yes, but what is the needle?” Adelaide asked.

  Turn around, turn around.

  “I … I don’t … The needle plays the music?”

  Adelaide sighed and shook her head as if Marielle were a naive adolescent. “No, dear. The needle is this house. Do you see? The needle is Holly Oak.”

  At last Carson turned. He saw her. He waved.

  “Do you understand what I am telling you, Marielle?”

  Carson began to take the steps quickly down to the lawn. Marielle felt the tension inside begin to shift from not understanding a word Adelaide was saying to wanting Carson to hear it for himself. “Not really,” she said.

  Adelaide turned, noticed that Carson was approaching them. She sighed audibly.

  “Never mind,” Adelaide muttered. “You are a different kind of girl. You arrived here later. The rest of us were born here. Maybe you won’t have to understand it.”

  Carson was now at her side.

  “What are you ladies doing way down here? I figured you’d be inside with your feet up.” He smiled wide, looking from Adelaide to Marielle. Pleased, it seemed, that they had been walking in the garden together.

  “We were just talking,” Adelaide murmured, resuming her stroll up the sloping lawn.

  Carson’s smile widened. “What about?” Again, that pleased tone.

  Marielle shrugged her shoulders, a suitable reply impossible to conjure.

  “Girl talk,” Adelaide answered.

  Part Two

  THE PARLOR

  he yards of gray wool stretched across the cutting board like a sheet of dull tin. Adelaide ran her hand along the folded edge, pressing it down, her fingers whispering across the coarse fabric as if reading Braille. The parlor was bathed in silence except for murmurs of cloth falling across wood. The children had already left the house for their last day of school, and Carson was out of the house before dawn for a 7:00 a.m. conference call. Adelaide heard the kitchen door open and close. Marielle had gone out into the garden to sip her third cup of coffee.

  Adelaide reached for the muslin pattern pieces on the chair behind her and began to lay them on the wool, fastening them to the material with T-shaped quilting pins. On a second chair lay folded pieces of cotton twill for the pockets, cotton duck for the cuffs, green silk for the lining, fourteen brass buttons for the double-breasted coat, a looping twirl of gold braid for a colonel’s insignia, yellow wool piping that would turn wheat-colored in the play of cannon smoke and gunpowder.

  She reached for her shears, shiny Ginghers that could slice off a fingernail if you’re weren’t careful, and opened them to make the first cut. As she moved the blades, the wool gave way without protest and remnants began to slide away, some of the fragments dropping to the floor. Adelaide had four uniform sets to cut after finally receiving measurements via the e-mail account Carson monitored for her. The order for an upcoming August reenactment in Pennsylvania had come while Carson, Marielle, and the children were in Orlando. Adelaide normally didn’t accept more than one order at a time, but the timing for this one had been providential; she needed something substantial to occupy herself in the summer months with the children home and Marielle wandering about the house. Making four complete uniforms—frock coats, trousers, and undergarments—would fill the long summer days with details.

  The first few days after Marielle and Carson returned from their honeymoon, well-wishers came by the house every day and the distractions had been welcome ones. Adelaide invited Marielle to use the formal living room to receive her guests, and Marielle, a bit overwhelmed, it seemed, with ceaseless Southern hospitality, agreed with a smile and a shrug. Neighbors and church women came by for ten days straight to greet Carson’s new wife, bringing as tokens of their welcome plates of pralines and peanut clusters, densely sweet pound cake and little jars of gingham-topped strawberry-rhubarb preserves. The Blue-Haired Old Ladies also stopped by—one or two at a time—to pump the bride for additional insights on how a woman can fall in love with a man she’s never met because a robotic machine—the vast and unknowable Internet—had seemingly drawn their names out of a hat.

  The visits had dwindled though, and Adelaide was relieved to have a mountain of sewing to do to occupy her time. It surprised her how highly aware she was of Marielle’s presence in the house, and it equally surprised her how much she sometimes wanted to shoo her away. Not away from Carson or the kids, just away from her. Carson seemed quietly happy to be married again and the children eager to please their new stepmother. But Marielle wasn’t a replacement granddaughter. Adelaide hadn’t contemplated how that wouldn’t change one iota when she pictured Marielle living at Holly Oak. Carson had a new wife and the kids had a new mother, but she did not have a new granddaughter. She didn’t know what she had, but it was not a new granddaughter.

  A four-uniform order also gave her sufficient reason to hide away in the parlor if she wanted privacy to sort
all this out mentally. The parlor was the one room she told Carson she wished to keep just as it was, despite there being a new “woman of the house.” Marielle could do, within reason, whatever she wanted to with the other rooms, but the parlor—the one room where time seemed to be a hushed afterthought—was hers.

  Adelaide had always felt that way about the parlor, since that long-ago day her great-grandmother Susannah described how she had sewn Confederate uniforms at the long oak table and once had hidden two of the uniforms inside her feather bed. Her great-grandmother had told her of other events that had happened in the parlor, the echoes of which, Susannah had said, still rippled through Holly Oak. Susannah told her she’d read her marriage proposal from Nathaniel Page by letter in the parlor. She was accused of being a spy for the Union in the parlor. She served tea to the man she loved in that parlor and held a dying baby in the parlor. And—with an emancipated slave—planned the escape of two hidden Union scouts in that parlor. Susannah had taught her wounded husband how to walk again and gave permission for her daughter, Annabel, to marry in that parlor. And the most significant thing? The parlor had been a makeshift field hospital during the Battle of Fredericksburg. Yankees, shot to bits on the frozen flatland below Marye’s Heights had been dragged back to town to the houses they hadn’t obliterated by shelling the day before, to die or be bandaged or be sewn. In Holly Oak’s parlor, a dozen or more wounded Union soldiers had bled and died on the floor, slumped in corners, and even on top of the table where Susannah had sewn together Confederate uniforms—the strangest kind of irony. Two soldiers had been buried in the cellar, and later, so her great-grandmother said, were exhumed and laid to rest at the national cemetery, a hill of green that overlooked the very spot where they had fallen.

  Adelaide remembered asking her great-grandmother how she knew there were echoes rippling in the house—she had been eight—because she had listened for the echoes and had heard only silence inside and woodpeckers outside. Susannah had said a house is meant to be a place of safety and refuge, not a place for spilled blood and lies and broken promises. Adelaide could still recall, even eighty-some years later, the images that filled her head as she tried to hear those echoes of violence and lies and broken promises. She had bad dreams for several nights afterward, and she might have had worse nightmares had Susannah expounded, but her grandmother Annabel had stepped into the parlor at that moment and told Susannah not to tell Adelaide any more stories like that, that it was Susannah’s fault the notion that the house was cursed perpetuated year after year and for pity’s sake to stop it. Before she was hushed a second time, her great-grandmother had told Adelaide to listen carefully and she would hear them, the echoes, and that only the women of Holly Oak could hear them. And when Adelaide asked her in a whisper if it was true that she had been a spy—gossip at school and on the streets was that she had been—Susannah told Adelaide to let the house tell her if she had been a spy or not.