Daughter of Deceit (29 page)

“Did the secret concern Bara?”

Rita Louise hesitated. “Yes.”

“Nettie is gone and Bara still here. I’m not asking you to tell us, but you could tell Bara if you know anything about her birth parents.”

Rita Louise grew cross. “I don’t know what good it does to rake that up now.”

“Maybe you have carried Nettie’s burden long enough.”

Rita Louise reached for her coffee and took a sip, and made a slight face. Katharine’s was still warm. Had Rita Louise’s chilled from contact with her lips?

Rita Louise set the cup back on its saucer and said, “When Nettie and Winnie moved back down here after Winnie finished at Columbia, they brought Bara with them. Nettie pretended the child had been born while they were up there. She even tried to make people think Bara was younger than she actually was, though the girl was tall and precocious. Nettie told me privately that she had adopted Bara when the child was three, but it was difficult for her.”

“Do you know why Winnie would have objected?” Katharine asked.

“Winnie objected?” That clearly puzzled Rita Louise. “It was Nettie who objected. She did not want another child. Art was a lovely boy, no trouble at all, but his birth was difficult. She could not have more children. They had both accepted that, but then Winnie foisted that child on poor Nettie, in spite of her strenuous objections. No woman would gladly do what she did. Take in another woman’s child and raise it as your own. Look at it every single day and watch the other mother’s face grow clearer and clearer before you. Nettie was a saint!”

The ice was rising again. Rita Louise clasped her hands before her.

“Do you feel you did wrong by concealing from Bara that Nettie was not her birth mother?” Ann Rose probed the old woman’s conscience as delicately as a surgeon.

“Why, no. Nettie did not want that known. I would not go against her wishes simply because Bara stormed in here drunk, demanding to know the truth. The truth? The truth would destroy her. She worshipped Winnie.”

“Winnie was her father,” Katharine reminded her. “He raised her and adored her. That’s what makes a father.”

Rita Louise’s laugh was harsh. “Oh, yes, Winnie was her father. But he was never worth her worship. He drove poor Nettie…” She took a deep breath. “I made a promise and I will keep it. You tell Bara that Winnie was her father and Nettie was her mother. That is all she needs to know. Now, I need for you to leave. I am weary.”

Back in the car, Ann Rose gave Katharine a rueful smile. “I don’t know which of them is crazier, Eloise or Rita Louise. Do we know a single thing we didn’t know before?”

Katharine considered the two stories. “They remember the adoption very differently. I wonder which of them we should believe.”

She replayed the conversations over in her mind while she drove home from Ann Rose’s and realized something she had not picked up at the time. When Rita Louise spoke of telling Bara that she was adopted, she had not spoken of keeping or breaking promises. She had spoken of honoring Nettie’s wishes. It was when she spoke of “what Winnie drove poor Nettie to do” that she had mentioned the promise again. What promise could Rita Louise have made that was eating up her very soul?

Viktor’s e-mail arrived late Monday afternoon:

Anton Molnar was a hero during the world war. He was active in the resistance movement and did some amazing things. You can find articles about him on the Internet, telling how he hid out in barns, moved invisibly through battles, and saved countless lives. A couple of the articles are in English. I will translate the others, if you like, but I don’t know how true they are. Some stories get exaggerated over the years. Speaking of exaggeration, according to my cousin, Anton defected to the US in the late fifties and was brutally gunned down on Atlanta’s dangerous streets. I can’t get my cousin to visit me. He thinks everybody in Georgia carries a gun. He doesn’t think Anton has any family left. His twin sister died in forty-seven of tuberculosis, and his parents had died before he left home.

Katharine mulled over the e-mail and checked Anton Molnar’s story through the English articles online, kicking herself for looking up Slovenia on Friday, but not Molnar. How young did you have to be to turn automatically to the Internet when you had a question?

A paragraph in one story held her attention: “Anton Molnar is credited with saving more American lives than any other member of the Yugoslavian resistance. Men forced to bail out of damaged planes were brought to him, and Molnar smuggled them to Allied troops, often taking them through actual skirmishes safely. He was known as the Gray Ghost for his ability to pass invisibly through the lines.”

She thought that over a few minutes, then found Kenny’s card and called his office.

“Why, hey, Miz Murray. I was fixing to call and ask if I could come up to your place tonight or later this week to drop off Hollis’s clothes. She left them at Mama’s after she changed into her riding things.”

“You could take them by her house,” Katharine suggested.

“I know the way to your place. Besides, she probably won’t ever want to see me again.”

He sounded forlorn and very young. Katharine wished she could reassure him, but she had no data to contradict him. “I’ll be here all evening. You might want to wait until the traffic lets up and come later.”

“I’ll work a little late, then, grab a bite of supper, and come around seven thirty. Will that be all right?”

“That will be fine.”

She was about to hang up when he asked, “Did you want something else? I mean, since you called and all.”

Katharine wondered if senility was setting in early. “Yes, I did. What was that Web site you used to find the citation for Bara Weidenauer’s father’s Medal of Honor?”

He rattled it off so quickly she missed half of it.

“Try it again slowly, please.”

“Sorry.”

He repeated it and she copied it carefully: www.army.mil. Then she read it back to him, to be sure she’d gotten it right.

“That’s it. Did you get Uncle Vik’s e-mail? He said he’d found out about somebody for you.”

“Yes, and I think it’s going to be real helpful. I’ll write and thank him.”

“Okay. I’ll see you tonight.”

She found Winnie’s citation and read it again. He had been rescued in Yugoslavia and smuggled to Allied forces. Had Anton Molnar done the smuggling? Was it Winnie he had come to see in Atlanta?

Was it Winnie who had shot him? Did Nettie know, and Winnie make her promise not to tell? Was that what Rita Louise knew?

Katharine was still sitting at the computer thinking that over when she heard Tom call from the kitchen. “Hello? Anybody home?”

She went with pleasure to meet him. “You’re home earlier than I expected. Did the plumbing go all right?”

“Not bad.” He set his duffle on the countertop and went to open a beer. She set the duffle on the floor and he frowned. “Sorry. I keep forgetting about germs.”

“Germs don’t forget about you. How much work did he have to do?”

“Enough to deal with the problem. Mostly outside. Sometime in the coming months we’ll have to replumb most of the house, but he and I agreed that could wait until you can go up there and stay awhile.”

“Thanks a lot.” But Katharine didn’t really mind. She’d take lots of books and escape to the lake house in the autumn, when the leaves were turning and geese were flying over. Maybe she’d ask Ann Rose and Posey to each come up for a couple of days to enjoy the solitude. The older she got, the more she appreciated close women friends.

When the doorbell rang, Tom and Katharine were sitting in his library enjoying a rare weekday evening at home. The sunlight was slanting through the French doors leading out to the sunroom and they were both reading, with the added pleasure of being able to look up occasionally and smile at each other.

He got reluctantly to his feet. “Who could that be?”

“It’s probably Kenny Todd, Jon’s friend. He said he’d stop by to drop off some clothes Hollis left at their place on Sunday. Come meet him. I think you’ll like him.” Katharine had already told Tom about their Sunday afternoon, including its abrupt ending.

They answered the door together, and she introduced the men. Kenny stood as tall as he could and stuck out his hand. “It’s a real honor to meet you, sir. Jon has told me about what you do and how good you are at it.”

Tom accepted the compliment with his usual modest grace, then asked, “Did he also tell you I was seldom home for any of the important events in his life?”

Kenny hesitated. Tom clapped him on the shoulder. “Didn’t mean to embarrass you. I wanted to point out that I know there are two sides to any story. Speaking of that, Katharine here says you and Hollis had a bit of a dustup on Sunday.”

Katharine was startled, but not really surprised. It was in line with Tom’s conviction that small issues become big issues only if they aren’t confronted and defused before they grow too large to be contained.

Kenny cleared his throat. “We had a disagreement, yes sir. She lives in a very different world than I do.”

“Nonsense.” Tom kept his arm around Kenny’s shoulder and led him into the hall, then looked around, bewildered. “Is there any place for three people to sit in this house?”

“Just the breakfast room,” Katharine told him. “Or out by the pool.”

“Let’s go out by the pool. It’s nice at this time of day. Do you have time for a little visit, Ken?”

“It’s Kenny, sir. I never took to ‘Ken.’ And yes, I’m free this evening.”

They stopped in the kitchen long enough for the men to grab cold beer and Katharine to fix herself a glass of tea, then wandered out into the soft light of the closing day.

When they were all seated, Tom leaned toward Kenny and said, “Now tell me about these two different worlds you and Hollis inhabit. I sort of thought we all lived in the same world.”

Kenny looked around him. “I have to differ, sir. Hollis grew up in a place like this—a big house in the city. She’s like a butterfly or something. I grew up in the mountains in a—ah—very simple home. My people work hard for their living. I don’t mean you don’t work hard, or anything, but—”

“I understand. You mean they come home tired, sweaty, and dirty at the end of the day.”

“Well, yessir.”

“Do you? Come home sweaty and dirty, I mean. I understood you work with computers.”

“Well, yessir, I do. And I don’t get dirty, but I do work hard. I expect you do, too.”

“Some days. But talking about houses, Katharine tells me your parents live in a house that looks like
Gone with the Wind
.”

“Well, yessir, they built it a couple of years ago, but they don’t know what to do with it. Mama has filled it up with so many antiques, the only comfortable place to sit is the kitchen. And she never cooks or cleans like a real mother. She’s all the time off singing somewhere.”

“I heard Mama and the Aunts sing in Washington. They are a wonderful group.”

“Well, yessir, I guess they are if you like that kind of thing.”

“I do. They bring joy to a lot of people. And I want to let you in on a secret. Hollis’s mama never cooks or cleans, either. And Hollis hates her parents’ big fancy house. She lives in four rooms over their garage—by choice, not because they kicked her out. And she works very hard for her living. She sews costumes for theaters until late at night, and she has helped Katharine redecorate this entire house after a break-in—”

“—and she’s about to work mornings for an Oriental rug dealer, learning the trade,” Katharine interrupted. She added with a smile, “I think she doesn’t want you knowing more about rugs than she does.”

A smile flitted across Kenny’s face before he grew solemn again.

“Now, I don’t need to know details about the disagreement you had,” Tom continued, “but I don’t want you thinking that you and Hollis are all that different.”

Kenny’s face had gone stone hard again. “Well, I don’t like to speak ill of your relative, sir, but she is a bit of a snob.”

Tom laughed. “We’re all snobs, Kenny. Every one of us has some things we think are a lot better than others. I’m a snob where music is concerned. I won’t let you run down your mother’s music when I know it is excellent. You are a snob where your mother’s house is concerned. You think she isn’t quite good enough for it.”

Kenny’s mouth dropped open. “I never said that.”

“Not in so many words, but yes, you did. I’m a snob, you’re a snob—even Katharine is a snob.” He leaned close and said softly, but loud enough for her to hear, “She thinks SUVs turn people into bullies and are bad for the environment. She won’t hear of me buying her another one. So tell me,” he went on in a natural voice, “how is Hollis a snob?”

“She doesn’t like the way I talk. She says I talk like trailer trash. Well, sir, I am trailer trash, and proud of it!” His face was flushed and he blazed with anger.

Tom thought that over. “You think people who live in trailers—modular homes, I believe they are called now—are trash, Kenny?”

“No sir. I know some fine people who live in mobile homes. But Hollis doesn’t.”

“I wonder.” Tom pulled out his cell phone and punched one number. “Hello, Hollis? This is Uncle Tom. I have a question for you. As a representative of the young adults of America, what do you think about people who live in modular homes, mobile homes, whatever you want to call them?” He held out his phone so the others could hear her answer.

“Is this for a Senate investigation or something?” she asked.

“It’s for an investigation, yes.”

“Well, I think they need to set standards to make modular homes safer. Just because some people don’t make as much as your fat-cat legislators doesn’t mean they don’t deserve decent housing. People should be safe in their homes, not likely to be blown away by tornadoes or hurricanes.”

“What about the people themselves? What do you think about them?”

“What’s to think? They’re just like the rest of us. Modular homes make a lot of sense for single moms, young couples, and elderly people who don’t have big incomes or don’t want to spend all their time keeping house.”

“I understand you recently used the term ‘trailer trash.’ Would you define that for me?”

“What’s this really about?” She sounded suspicious.

“I’m trying to get the full picture of people who live in mobile homes. You worked with some of them down in Savannah, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but there was nothing trashy about them. They were poor and couldn’t afford anything better, but they were as smart, as ambitious, as deserving…” She ran out of adjectives.

“So trailer trash would be…?”

“Folks who don’t care about themselves, don’t try to better themselves, and spread garbage around for other people to pick up.”

“Thank you. I have that duly noted as the opinion of the young adults of America. And listen, I’ll be home all this week. If you want to come over some evening to visit, I’d love to see you and thank you for the work you’ve done on the house.”

“You owe me a check, too—a fat one. I’ve worked my buns off on that house.”

“It shows. Thanks.” He closed the phone and put it in his pocket. “Hollis is never shy about giving me an opinion from the young adults of America. I check in with her from time to time to keep abreast of things.”

Kenny scratched the side of his face. “That’s different from what she said on Sunday.”

“She said you didn’t need to talk like trailer trash,” Katharine reminded him. “At least that’s what I heard.”

“Is that right?” Tom asked. When Kenny nodded, he said, “What do you suppose she meant by trailer trash?”

“Folks who don’t bother to learn how to talk educated?”

“But you
are
educated. Is it possible that Hollis doesn’t understand how educated people from the north Georgia mountains talk? Maybe you need to educate
her
.”

Kenny shook his head. “I don’t reckon she’d want to learn.”

“You won’t know unless you try. Now tell me how you think Tech football is shaping up for the season. Is that new quarterback any good?”

They drifted from football to computers, and sat chatting until nearly nine. As Kenny stood on the front veranda saying his goodbyes, Tom said casually, “You might give Hollis a call sometime. I know she’s missing Jon, and she could use a friend who doesn’t have purple hair.”

Again a smile flickered on Kenny’s face, but all he said was, “Thanks for a great evening.”

Not until he had driven down the drive did Katharine remember the original reason for his visit. “He forgot to give us Hollis’s clothes.”

“Good. Maybe he’ll deliver them in person. Hollis could do a lot worse than that young man, Kat. And think about it—we could have Mama and the Aunts in the family!”

“Don’t marry them off yet,” she suggested. “They still aren’t speaking.”