The House on Tradd Street (18 page)

My father coughed and gave Jack a quick glance. “Melanie, about that. I . . . uh . . . that’s one of the things I wanted to talk with you about tonight. I’d actually like to be more involved than just doling out the money.” He sent me a weak smile. “I’d like to swing a hammer, strip some wallpaper. That sort of thing. It would be good for me. For us.”

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry, and I wished that I hadn’t drunk all of my iced tea. “And what would be the purpose of that?”

“I’ve been sober for six days now. That’s the longest I’ve ever been sober since I started drinking. I think it’s a good start. And maybe”—he looked down at his trembling hands—“and maybe it means we’ve got a chance to start over.”

I put my hands on my temples and rubbed, trying to ward off the headache I knew was approaching. “Dad, I’m glad to know you’re trying. Really, I am. And six days is a good start. But I can’t . . .” I closed my eyes, pressing harder on my temples. “I just can’t pretend that it’s a chance for us to start over. I’ve done it so many times that I just don’t think I could take the disappointment one more time.”

Jack cleared his throat. “Why don’t you give him a probationary period or something? Put him on your schedule. Make him responsible for showing up and getting his jobs done. I’ll even be in charge of that if it makes it easier. That way you’re sort of removed from the process.”

“It won’t work. It never does.” I grabbed my empty glass and tilted it so that I got a few drops of melted water.

“Give him a chance, Mellie. Everybody deserves another chance.”

I eyed Jack’s water glass and suddenly it all made sense to me. The reason Jack and my dad had so much to say to each other. The way Jack knew my father had started in AA again. And then I thought of Mr. Vanderhorst, who’d never given up believing his mother loved him, despite all the facts that said otherwise, and whose dying wish was to prove that he was right.

I looked at Jack and then my father. “Fine,” I said, standing. “Fine. But Jack’s in charge where you’re concerned. And the first time that you don’t show up when you’re supposed to will be the last time.”

My dad nodded. “That’s fair. And I promise that I won’t disappoint you.”

I slowly exhaled. “Forgive me if I don’t jump up and down with excitement, Dad, but I’ve heard that before.”

I felt a blast of warm outside air as if someone had thrown open a window. The mosquitoes in Charleston in the summertime were legendary, and I was pretty sure that none of the people currently in the house would have been stupid enough to leave a window open. Except for Jack, maybe, because the reasoning and thought-processing center in his brain seemed to be damaged.

I stepped into the foyer and was met by the wide-open front door. I rushed to close it, noticing how the dead bolt was out, but not connected to the doorjamb. Nor was there any damage to the woodwork surrounding the door that might indicate a forced entry.

My dad stooped to examine the bolt. “Looks like you didn’t close the door all the way before you bolted it.”

Our eyes met, and I saw in his the same denial he had been practicing with me since I was very small and had first seen the old woman in the long dress knitting in a rocking chair in the corner of my bedroom. Never mind that I’d described his grandmother perfectly, he’d insisted—and still would, I was sure—that it was my active imagination.

“That must be it,” I said as I closed the door firmly and slid the latch so everyone could hear.

My dad tugged on the doorknob, just to make sure. “Still, Melanie, I don’t like the fact that you’ll be here all by yourself at night.”

Jack stepped forward. “Oh, no need to worry about that at least for tonight, Colonel. I’ll be sleeping over.”

My father’s eyes widened as his eyebrows went up high enough to almost touch his receding hairline. “I beg your pardon?”

“Dad, it’s not what you think,” I hastened, spearing Jack with what I hoped was a chastising look. “Jack’s sleeping on the couch down here tonight to take pictures of the grandfather clock. It has an unusual face that can’t be seen all at once without taking it apart. He’s going to take photos of it every three hours so that we can get a complete picture.”

Jack grinned, and my father’s face returned to normal at the same time Mrs. Houlihan arrived to tell us that dinner was ready and waiting for us in the dining room. I followed her, the two men behind me allowing me to hear their conversation.

“Sorry, sir, for the misunderstanding. I never meant to insinuate that your daughter was in any danger from me.”

I heard a soft snort. “It wasn’t her I was worried about, son.”

They both laughed softly until I turned around to glare at them. With a bit of throat clearing and coughing, they continued to follow me into the dining room.

 
I sat at the Victorian dressing table in Mr. Vanderhorst’s old room, feeling the cold marble tabletop with my fingertips. Mrs. Houlihan had boxed up all of Mr. Vanderhorst’s personal property to be donated to charity later, but it still didn’t feel like anybody else’s room except his. It was past ten o’clock but I didn’t feel sleepy. Part of that could have been because of the exertion required to turn on the taps and regulate the bathwater temperature in the clawfoot tub in the antiquated bathroom. After tonight, updating the plumbing had climbed to the number-two position on my list—right after the roof—and it couldn’t happen soon enough.

My father had left around eight thirty, following a delicious dinner filled with wonderful food and stilted conversation. He and I were experts at dancing around the obvious, so neither one of us spoke unless spoken to, leaving Jack to carry the conversation. Fortunately, this was something he seemed adept at, or else he just enjoyed hearing himself talk. We had dessert in the drawing room, and Mrs. Houlihan used the rose plates, explaining that they had been Mr. Vanderhorst’s favorites because they had belonged to his mother.

After my father left, Jack climbed the stairs to the attic—protected now by a tarp over the roof—and said he planned to work there all night, setting an alarm to remind him to take a picture of the clock every three hours. He insisted on sleeping on the couch if he needed to, but I still had Mrs. Houlihan put fresh sheets in a guest bedroom as far away down the hall as I could find.

I pulled down the sheets and set my alarm for six o’clock in the morning, then turned out the light just as the grandfather clock downstairs chimed the half hour. I lay in the four-poster rice bed staring up at the ceiling, dimly lit by the streetlight outside, and listened to the creaks and sighs of the house, reminding me of an elderly person trying to settle down at night. Listening to old houses was usually an activity that I wholeheartedly avoided because it invariably ended with me hearing something I didn’t want to, but this house was different. I had no illusions as to what was going on with the front door. But other than the door, the fallen picture, and the occasional scent of roses, I had a feeling that the house—and its inhabitants—was remaining dutifully quiet. It was either that, or they were merely waiting. I closed my eyes and listened to a tree branch brush against a window shutter, and felt that I, too, was waiting. For what, I wasn’t sure.

I heard a door shut and then the sound of Jack’s footsteps coming from the attic and making their way down the hall to the bathroom. I had begun to drift off to sleep when a loud curse jerked me upright and out of the bed. After tossing on my robe and putting on my fuzzy slippers, I threw open my door and ran to the bathroom, a golden line of light showing from underneath the door.

I knocked loudly. “Jack? Are you all right?”

“Mmhmphmm.”

“What?”

“Mmhmphmm.”

“If you’re not going to speak English, I’m going to open this door and come in.”

I heard the door handle turn and then the door opened, allowing me to spot a shirtless Jack with a towel pressed against his face.

I stepped inside, noticing too late how very nice he looked without his shirt. Even if I couldn’t see his face. “What’s wrong? Did you catch sight of your reflection?”

My words at least got a reluctant folding down of the towel from the top portion of his face. “I was trying to wash the dust off my face and hands without getting my shirt wet. And now it’s my turn for a question. Would you please tell me why scalding-hot water comes out of your cold-water tap?”

I eyed the offending sink. “I have no idea and please don’t call it mine. I’ll call a plumber first thing.” I took my time staring at his bare torso since he’d put the towel back over his face. “And I’ll get an estimate on what it would take to add a few bathrooms upstairs so that people don’t have to share. That would really help the market value.” But then I’d miss seeing things like a nice male chest.

“I’m a seventeen, thirty-six.”

“Excuse me?” I said, coloring. He’d taken the towel off of his face while I’d been busy staring. I had hoped he hadn’t seen me. I didn’t think his ego needed the stroking.

“That’s my shirt size. It looked like you were measuring me for a new one.”

“I wasn’t . . . ,” I said, backing out of the bathroom and stubbing my heel on the doorframe.

He grinned. “But I’m glad you’re awake. There’s something I want to show you.”

“That’s the oldest line in the book,” I said, seeing that he was leading me to the guest bedroom.

“Fine,” he said, not slowing or looking back. “But I thought you might be interested in seeing Louisa’s photo album.”

That had my attention. Pulling the belt on my robe tighter, I eagerly followed him into the far bedroom at the end of the hall.

The large leather-bound album sat in the middle of the bed, the cover cracked and peeling as if it had been handled many times. I noticed Jack had placed a sheet beneath it to protect the bedspread from dust, and my estimation of him went up a notch.

“How do you know it’s hers?” I asked as I approached the book, being careful not to touch it.

Without saying anything, he reached across me and carefully turned the front cover back. The words were too small for me to read, and I hadn’t brought my reading glasses. I squinted, trying to hide this fact from Jack, but, of course, he caught on right away.

“I keep on forgetting that you’re older than me, Mellie. Here, let me read them out loud.”

I stewed in silence as he began to read: To Louisa with all my love, given to you on the occasion of the birth of our first child, Nevin Pinckney Vanderhorst. May these pages, once filled, illustrate the love we have for each other and for our son. A love that will never diminish with the passage of time.

I love you forever,

Robert.

On the first page, facing the dedication, was a sepia-toned wedding photograph of Louisa and Robert, one identical to the framed photo in my bedroom. But this time I looked closer and noticed the roses in her veil and in her bouquet: Louisa roses.

“Wow,” I said, my voice cracking and my annoyance with Jack forgotten. “It’s dated nineteen twenty-one—nine years before her disappearance. Either this whole thing is a complete lie, or a lot changed in nine years.”

He stood next to me, as if waiting to see if I would turn the page, but I didn’t. I didn’t move. The temperature in the room had dropped, and I wondered if Jack was aware that I could see his breath now when he spoke.

“There’re about nine more of these albums—one for each year would be my guess. I left them up in the attic for now. But look what else I found,” he said, turning to an oak captain’s chest at the foot of the bed.

I turned slowly, feeling the hair on the back of my neck and arms stand on end, alarmed because I didn’t smell the roses.

He lifted a small, boxy antique camera, its lightness apparent by the way Jack held it in the palm of his hand. “This is a Brownie—the very first handheld camera. It was invented for the everyday person because it was easy to use and only cost a dollar. You told me that Nevin’s mother liked to take photographs of him, so I’m assuming this might have been hers.”

I reached my hand up to touch the camera but pulled back.

“Are you all right?” He put the camera back down and shivered. “And something’s wrong with your central air-conditioning. It’s freezing in here.” He reached for the shirt he’d thrown on the bed and began putting it on.

My voice was stiff. “There isn’t any.”

He stopped buttoning midway up the shirt. “There isn’t any what?”

“Central air,” I whispered, barely able to speak. I’d felt the other presence, the non-roses presence. And I’d begun to smell rotting earth and decaying flesh, but I couldn’t seem to find the energy to raise my hand to my nose.
I am stronger than you. I am stronger than you.

Jack was looking at me oddly. “There’s something wrong here, isn’t there? Do you see something?”

I swallowed, forcing bile down my throat as I saw the distinct shadow of a man begin to solidify behind Jack. “I don’t feel so good,” I bit out through frozen jaws. “Can we go downstairs?”

His expression turned to one of concern as he moved to take my arm. At that moment something punched me in my back, making the air leave my lungs in a loud whoosh and sending me sprawling facedown on the rug in the hallway. I tasted wool and dust and decay, making me gag.

“Are you all right?” Jack knelt by my side, peering into my face. “What happened?”

I tried to sit up and catch my breath at the same time, thankful doing so gave me a little time to think of an answer. Jack pulled me into a sitting position, keeping his arm around my shoulders, which I’m sure I might have appreciated at another time.

“I tripped.”

“But you were standing still.”

“I’m really clumsy,” I said, trying to stand so that I could put more distance between me and the dark shadow that now filled the doorway.

“Hold on,” Jack said, pressing down on my shoulders. “We need to see if you’re hurt.”