The Truth According to Us (32 page)

All of a sudden I stopped, appalled, and looked at the money lying on the floor around me. Father would know. If the money was mixed up, if the stacks weren't right, Father would know I'd been here. He could be here any minute. He'd gone out on business, hadn't he? He was probably going to come right over with the money he'd got. I felt sick. I had to put it back, quick, just like it was before. I was shaking as
I put the money in the envelopes, shaking so hard I couldn't get the bills straight and then shaking harder because I couldn't. It was real. It was real. My father was a bootlegger, a real one. I hadn't made it up. Somehow I got it all in, the bills in the right envelopes the way they had been before, or close enough, I hoped. I was panting as I set the envelopes in order on the bottom of the case and put the yellowed cloth bundle on top. Then I closed up the sides of the case and tucked the clasp back into the lock. It wasn't fast, but it stayed. I rubbed it a little with the old rag. If you didn't look close, you couldn't see the scuff mark I'd made. Father would never know. No one would ever know. I pushed the cases deep under the workbench and walked out of that basement fast.

Up on the screen, Charles Boyer arched his worldly brows and shrugged. “All women have eyes,” he purred, and Sol's hand closed over Jottie's.

It was their third movie in two weeks. Jottie was growing accustomed to the prickly velour seats of the balcony, to the tribute of jujubes and popcorn, and to Sol's hand holding hers. As Hedy Lamarr powdered her lovely nose, Jottie stole a sideways glance at the hand that rested on hers. Wide, masculinely hairy, with clean, blunt fingertips, it covered her own small hand completely. He wasn't nervous; his palm was dry. The hand of an honest man, she thought, and smiled. Stealthily, she watched him watch the movie, his face open and attentive, enjoying himself as much as he had expected to enjoy himself.

He looked at her suddenly. “You bored?” he whispered in her ear.

She shook her head, and his fingers tightened around hers.

He lifted his chin at Charles Boyer and murmured, “Reminds me of Felix.”

She looked. She could see what he meant. “Thank God Felix doesn't have a French accent,” she said pensively.

He chuckled, his eyes on the screen. “The streets would be paved with the fallen.”

She laughed. He made it seem so simple.

After the show, Sol suggested a walk along Prince Street. His serene supposition of normality was contagious, and Jottie found herself casually agreeing. Men lounging and strolling greeted Sol, touching their caps, ducking their heads.

“They like you,” Jottie whispered, between salutations.

He glanced around in puzzlement. “Who?”

“These men. They work at the mill, don't they?”

He nodded. “Yeah, sure. That was Tommy Boyes. You know him, don't you?”

She shook her head, smiling. “No. Never seen him before in my life.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “I should've introduced you.”

“No. Sol, that's not what I mean. I'm just—I noticed that the men who work for you like you, that's all.” It was the same respectful admiration her father had enjoyed—had lived on, really—and where she had once believed it to be a bounty as endless as sunshine, she knew better now. It was earned, so it could be lost.

“Oh.” He smiled, pleased. “I guess. They liked your father, too. They're good fellas, most of them.”

She nodded. A young couple, sleek and smug, approached on the sidewalk. “Mr. McKubin,” murmured the young man, touching his hat. His wife, clearly in pursuit of a good impression, smiled coyly at Sol. Jottie watched her, warm with nostalgia. How many times had she waited on her father's arm while the same plot unfolded?

Sol smiled. “Brady,” he said, and nodded to the simpering wife. “Good evening.”

Look, she told herself like a visitor pointing out a monument, look what Sol has. He has Macedonia in the palm of his hand.

They moved on, passing the New Grocery, Pie Dailey Barbershop, the Pickus Café, Columbia Hardware. The crowds dwindled as they progressed, and in the gloom outside Krohn's Department Store, Sol slipped his arm through hers. Nervously, Jottie broke away, pretending to inspect the windows, but they were too dark to offer much more than her reflection, with Sol's face shadowy behind hers. She turned and scrutinized his lapels. “Did you buy that suit here at Krohn's?”

He looked down at his suit. “This suit? No.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Do you buy any of your suits here?”

“Why do you want to know?” he asked, bewildered.

“I just do.”

“Well.” He gazed over her head, struggling to recall. “No. No. I don't think I've ever bought a suit at Krohn's. Do you think I should?”

“No. Do you buy them in Washington?” she demanded. “Your suits?” He squinted at her. “Yes.”

“What store do you go to?”

He shrugged. “Woodward & Lothrop. Garfinckel's. Why do you want to know where I buy my suits?” He put his hand on her shoulder.

“Just because,” she persisted. “Does Violet go with you?”

He nodded. Tentatively, he put his other hand on her waist and drew her farther into the darkness. “I got some suits in New York last year,” he said.

“New York!” she exclaimed. “You went to New York for a suit?”

He nodded yes and then shook his head no. “I was going, anyway,” he said, and then added, “Business. Jottie?” He leaned down and kissed her gently.

“What?” she said. It came out muffled because he was kissing her again. New York for a suit! she thought. And then: Felix is going to find out. It was at least ten seconds before she thought of the last time she'd been kissed.
I have to go, Josie. Give me a kiss for luck. Uh-huh, but why do you need luck? I don't, I guess. Just kiss me, all right?
Ten seconds isn't bad, she thought, ignoring the twist of longing. I really must be over him, just about. She took a step away. “What?”

Sol smiled. “I was going to ask you if I could kiss you. But then I figured you might say no.”

“I might have,” she admitted. Go away, Vause. And you, too, Felix. Neither of you is an honest man. Go away and let me live. She smiled up at Sol. “I'm glad you didn't ask,” she said.

Sol let out a relieved breath. “Me, too.” He reached for her again.

“Whoo,” Jottie said softly.

“What?” Layla asked.

“You ate lunch, I hope?”

“Yes. A sandwich. Why?”

“ 'Cause you're not going to get a bite here.” Jottie surveyed the yellowing grass and weary shrubs before her. “Twenty years ago, he had three gardeners working year-round on this yard. One just to clip the trees.”

Layla followed Jottie's gaze. “Not anymore.”

“No. Depression hit him hard. Used to be servants crawling all over this house. The Tare Estate, he called it.”

“Isn't Russell his last name?”

“It's his mother's line he's proud of. That's the Tare part. Russell was just money. Not enough of it, either.” Jottie clicked her tongue. “Poor old Tare.”

Together they climbed the steps and walked up a broad flagstone path through the depleted garden, passing a dry fountain and a plaster cornucopia on a pedestal. From within a deep, shadowy porch, a voice called, “As I live and breathe, if it isn't Jottie Romeyn!” Tare Russell,
small and freckled in a seersucker suit, waved to them from within the gloom. “And you must be Miss Layla Beck!” he sang as they stepped inside the screen door. “You'll excuse me if I don't get up, won't you? Asthma.”

“Of course, Mr. Russell. I'm delighted to meet you,” said Layla, leaning down to shake his hand.

“Tare, I must be going.” A thin woman in a green hat rose swiftly from a tattered wicker chair.

“Anna! So soon?” he said wistfully.

“Yes,” she said, putting on her gloves.

“Well, if you must, you must.”

Nodding curtly to Jottie and ignoring Layla completely, the woman threaded her way between the chairs and pushed open the screen to disappear in the white sunlight.

No one said anything for a moment, and then Jottie turned to Tare Russell and glared. “Did you do that on purpose?”

He giggled. “I was hoping it would be more exciting than that. She's a bore.”

“You're a devil, Tare.”

He giggled again.

“What happened?” asked Layla, looking from his face to Jottie's.

Jottie lifted her eyebrows. “Tare?”

“Well,” he said cheerily, “that was Anna May Bowers, who once hoped to be Anna May Romeyn.”

“She was engaged to Felix,” Jottie explained.

Layla flushed. “Oh.”

“He jilted her,” snickered Tare Russell.

“Tare! Stop that!”

“He did! He ran off with Sylvia, and she swore vengeance.”

“She did not. She had every right to be—upset,” said Jottie. “She behaved fine.”

“Did she or did she not spit on your shoes?”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Well. I was hoping for a fracas.”

“You would.”

Tare made a little sound in his mouth and sat back in his chair, smiling at Layla. “Aren't you a pretty thing, dear.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Russell.”

“Oh, call me Tare. Everyone does.” He waved his hand elegantly. “Now. I have some macaroons inside and I'll get them in a minute, but first let's us chat about your book. Your
History of Macedonia.”
He popped his eyes at her. “The War Between the States. It was a stiletto in the heart of Macedonia. A wound, you see, from which we have never recovered. Families torn apart like the Union itself, nobody left unscathed. Why, there are still places where the blood flows on certain days.” He paused.

“Pardon?”

“Some things can't be laid to rest,” he said ominously. “If you're ever standing on the Race Street Bridge on the seventh of March, you'll hear a gunshot. It'll nearly knock you out of your skin, it's that loud, and you'll think, Lord, someone's been killed. And that's God's own truth, because it's the echo of Ridell Fox shooting his brother Carson on March 7, 1863. Ridell was Union and Carson was Rebel, and they were both mixed up in the raids around here because they knew the land like their own selves. That day, Ridell comes down out of Pownall to steal fodder for the horses, and he's riding along the bridge when he hears a clattering. Uh-oh, he thinks, Rebs coming; I'd better get me underneath this bridge. Under he goes and in the nick of time, because along comes a pack of Rebel raiders, whooping and laughing about how they just got a good load of guns off a boxcar. They pull up on the bridge, and Ridell thinks he'll scare them away and get the guns back for the Union. Be a hero. He whips out his pistol, pokes his head over the bridge bed, and takes a shot—right into the brain of his own brother. Ridell sees that, and he don't wait, he starts running, with the Rebels on his heels, leaving poor old Carson to die alone there on the bridge, cursing his brother with his last breath. On that very day, the seventh of March, you can hear the shot that killed him. I've heard it myself.” He sat back, triumphant.

“How do you spell Ridell?” asked Layla, writing breathlessly.

“And then this very house here is haunted,” Tare Russell went on, ignoring her. “
I
should write a book.”

“How do you know that it's—haunted?” asked Layla.

He looked at her sternly. “What would you say if I told you that I have a picture that bleeds real blood?”

Jottie crossed her legs. “Does it do that still?”

“Well,” he said. “Not for a few years. But. It has. Bled real regular for a long time. It's a photograph of my great-uncle Major August Tare, and on anniversaries of big battles he was in, blood flowed right out of the glass.” He nodded. “And that's not all. The spirits of war are unsettled. Things
move
. Why, I'd set down a sword or some such thing in a nice place and then come back a day later to find it across the room. If that isn't a ghost, I don't know what is.” He glanced at Jottie for corroboration.

“Maybe more than one,” she murmured.

“Wait.” Jottie paused at the top of the wall. “This is Tare Russell's house.”

“Uh-huh,” Felix said, swinging his leg over
.

“What are we doing here?”

“You'll see.” He jumped down lightly and held his arms up for her. Inside the garden, rows and curlicues of hedges formed something that was almost but not quite a maze. The air was cold and fresh; every branch, every stalk, was vibrating with coming spring. Crouching low, Felix ran to the nearest hedge and gestured to her to follow. In relays, they raced from cover to cover—after the shrubs, they had to find protection behind tree trunks. Jottie lunged for shelter behind a beech tree and found Felix there before her. They scuffled, each pushing the other to gain more cover. “Shh, shh,” he warned as she began to laugh. He shook his head somberly. “If we get caught?” He drew his finger across his neck
.

“I thought you said it wasn't going to be dangerous!” she hissed in alarm
.

He smiled. “I said
I
didn't think it was dangerous.”

She slapped him on the arm, and he laughed. “Look,” he said, turning to the house. “We want that door there.” He pointed to a narrow black door at
the base of a brick wall. “It's open.” He turned to grin at her. “Last one there is a girl.” Away he flew
.

Inside the cavernous basement, they balanced like storks, removing their shoes. “We need to get to the parlor,” Felix whispered. “That's where he keeps most of it.”

“Felix, I'm not going to steal anything,” she whispered
.

He drew himself up. “Who said anything about stealing? I'm not stealing.”

“What are we doing, then?” She bounced up and down on her toes anxiously
.

“We're making Tare Russell's life more interesting,” Felix said, and ran up the cobwebby basement stairs two at a time. She glanced around the dim, silent basement. It was peaceful. She could stay down here and be at peace. But she'd be alone. Felix cared nothing for peace. He annihilated peace wherever he went, destroyed it as easily as he'd walk through a cobweb—or something less, even, something he wouldn't feel at all
.

Jottie ran up the stairs after him
.

—

“You get them sheets,” said a rolling Negro voice
.

“Lavender water!” called someone in a high-pitched cry. “I forgot it!”

The Negro sighed. “Bring Mr. Tare his lavender water there, Wesley.”

Felix's arm held her against the velvety wallpaper. She tried to breathe without sound. He turned his head toward her and nodded. Together, they scampered across the wide hall and entered Tare Russell's parlor. Felix pulled the well-oiled door shut behind him
.

It was a room of splendor, stretching long enough to accommodate four tall windows shielded with velvet curtains. At one end, a rosewood mantelpiece loomed over a vast hearth, and at the other, a large portrait of a man in a blue uniform glowered. In between were small clusters of silk chairs and sofas, leavened with shining tables and glass cases. Jottie stepped onto the lush expanse of a pale silk rug. “Look at that,” she whispered. On a satiny table, a silver vase held a profusion of starry white lilies. She took another step and sniffed with quiet rapture. “Heaven must smell just like this.” She reached out to pull him closer. “Smell.”

He smiled and bent over the flowers obediently. “Nice,” he said. “Now. Jottie. Listen. Tare Russell thinks he's got a haunted house, you know?”

She nodded. “Mama says it is haunted. She says he's got a picture that bleeds real blood, and swords that move all by themselves. He's seen 'em floating down the stairs.”

Felix laughed silently. “He hasn't seen them. He's making that part up.”

“How do you know?”

“ 'Cause it's me,” he whispered. “I've been moving things around for years. I sneak in here and change his pictures and swords.”

Jottie covered her mouth with her hand
.

He nodded happily. “Yup. It's me. But I want to do something special this time.” He glanced to a golden clock under glass. “First I got to take care of my old pal over here.” He moved swiftly to a small table that held a large daguerreotype in a leather case. The case was opened to show a rat-faced boy soldier, his gray cheeks enlivened by two spots of rosy pink
.

“He looks like he's about to kill someone,” said Jottie, peering over his shoulder
.

“Oh yeah, he's a big hero,” muttered Felix, fumbling in his pocket. He pulled out his knife and, before Jottie could protest, slashed himself lightly across the palm of his hand. A thin line of blood appeared; Felix tilted his hand, and the drops collected and splashed down on the gray soldier. “I always do that first,” whispered Felix. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his hand. “I don't know why. But here's what I need you for, honey. I want to take that big picture down, and I can't do it by myself. I tried, but it's too wide.”

Jottie turned to consider the enormous glowering portrait. “Let's not just take it down. Let's turn it around to face the wall.”

—

A set of pistols gleamed in a glass case. “Let's cross them in the other direction,” whispered Jottie
.

“We've got to go,” Felix said, looking worriedly at the golden clock. “I've never been here this long before.”

“You a man or a mouse?”

Scowling, he lifted the top of the case, and Jottie reached in and turned the pistols upside down
.

“You ain't gonna wax today?” a voice said loudly outside the door, freezing Felix and Jottie where they stood. “Ain't it Wednesday?”

From far away, another voice said something
.

“All right, you tell him, though,” the near voice said. “Ain't gonna be me.”