The House on Tradd Street (31 page)

Occasionally I would even have the mutinous thought that the homeowners here really did believe they were merely caretakers of these properties, protecting our collective history and preserving them for future generations. I wasn’t completely convinced, nor did I want to be. Because I knew better than most that no matter how much you invested in your house and called it yours, you could never own its ghosts.

It wasn’t until General Lee turned the corner onto Legare Street that I realized where we were heading. I tried to pull him back, to explore another block, but he dug in his furry paws and couldn’t be dissuaded. Reluctantly I followed him, then watched with amazement as he stopped in front of the gate at number thirty-three. I didn’t bother tugging on his leash this time. Instead, I stood at the gate next to him and recalled the nighttime phone call from my grandmother about coming to visit her in her garden, and my gaze traveled through the Confederate jasmine vines twisting through wrought iron rails to the small boxwood garden with the stone benches.
Come sit in my garden and have a sweet tea like you used to. It’s going to be yours one day, you know. So you might as well come by and sit for a spell to see how well it fits.

I turned to the General Lee, who was looking at me expectantly. “Did Grandma call you, too?”

He tilted his head, his ears hitching up a notch in a look I’m pretty sure was supposed to mean that he was pretending he didn’t understand what I was saying.

I faced the square Georgian brick house with the two-tiered portico on the face, feeling the same way I’d felt when I’d first seen pictures of the
Titanic
on the bottom of the ocean floor—all the beauty and grandeur that had once held so much promise now lost. Except I’d never been told that my grandmother’s house was unsinkable; I was just told that one day it would be mine.

I had lived there for a time after my parents separated. I had visited it often, sometimes staying there for months while my parents traveled to faraway places where my father was stationed or where my mother would give concerts. I missed my parents, but my grandmother was the sort of woman who made sure that I’d miss her more when it was time to leave.

She didn’t mind if I was loud, or if I slid down the polished mahogany banister, or put on my socks to pretend I was ice-skating in the ballroom. She let me set up my easel in the first-floor drawing room to paint the stained-glass window a Victorian ancestor had added to the house long before the BAR was there to tell him that he couldn’t. The window depicted some epic story that neither my grandmother nor I could ever determine, but the way the sun made the vibrant colors bleed into the room during the late afternoon created a stage for my own imagination.

My grandmother told me stories about ancestors who had walked the hallways before me, and the famous visitors—including the Marquis de Lafayette—who had slept in one of its eight bedrooms. My favorite story was of an elderly ancestor during the Revolution who, when the British captured the house and fortified it, gave the order to set it on fire, even providing the arrows with which the act was accomplished, when the Americans arrived to attack the Redcoats. Luckily for future Prioleaus, the British surrendered before the house could be burned to the ground. The first time I’d heard the story, I’d sighed with relief and tears that my beautiful house on Legare had been saved for me.

The garden was my playhouse, and my grandmother a willing participant as we playacted scenes from old family history as well as scenes of what I would be doing when the house became mine. But that was before my mother left my father and came to live in the house. Before I started seeing in the house people who no longer lived there, people who would tug on my sheets at night to try to tell me something only I could hear. Before the nightmares began and I had trouble knowing when the bad dreams ended and reality returned.

The last thing I remember clearly from my time in that house was my mother coming to tell me that my grandmother had died. I was sitting on the garden bench having lemonade with my grandmother so it was a bit of a surprise to me to know that she was dead.

The nightmares came back worse after that, and then, within a month, my mother had left, and I was on a plane with my father flying to Japan. It wasn’t for a few more years that my father told me my grandmother’s house had been sold to an oil millionaire from Texas looking for a second home. I didn’t cry then about losing my house, and I still haven’t. And I did such a good job of pretending that I didn’t care that eventually even I began to believe it.

I finished the last of my Coke as a quick honk of a car horn sounded from behind us. A new white Cadillac sedan pulled up to the curb, and I recognized Amelia Trenholm behind the wheel.

“What a coincidence,” she said as her window slid down. “I was just on my way to see you.” Two slender feet encased in Ferragamo pumps appeared on the curb first, and then Amelia pulled herself out of the car. “I just love your sweet dog.”

General Lee allowed himself to be scratched behind the ears, helpfully tilting his head to make sure Amelia could easily reach both.

“He’s not really mine, you know. Do you want him?”

Amelia straightened, gazing at me softly as General Lee looked up at me with an expression I could only describe as emotionally wounded. “I would love to have him. But I think you might need him more than I do.”

I jiggled the remaining ice in my glass, and tilted my head before remembering that General Lee did the same thing when pretending not to understand. “You think so?”

“You’ve never owned a dog before, have you?

I shook my head.

She smiled. “Well, then, you’ll understand soon enough.” With a pat on my arm, she walked up to the wrought iron fence, wrinkling her nose. “I can’t say that I approve of all the changes those newcomers made to your grandmother’s garden.”

Confused, I peered into the garden again, finding that none of what I’d just seen was still there. The brick pathways were gone, as were the stone benches and jasmine. In its place were giant cement and glass cubes, stone pillars that I assumed were supposed to resemble the human form, and cacti of every size and shape. I closed my eyes, then opened them again, hoping to make the scene go away.

“It’s hideous,” I said.

“Not as strong as the word I was thinking of, but it’ll do.” Smiling, she faced me. “What brings you here?”

“Taking General Lee for a walk. He insisted we come here.”

Amelia nodded as if she didn’t find it strange at all. “I thought it might have something to do with the house going on the market again.”

“What?”

“Oh. I guess you hadn’t heard, then. It’s not officially on the market yet, of course, but I heard through the grapevine that the owners were considering moving back to Texas full-time. I thought you might have heard.”

“No. I haven’t.”

Amelia’s delicate eyebrows furrowed. “You should call your mother. Let her know. Your father said she’d been trying to reach you, anyway. This would be a good excuse to call her back.”

I studied the spot where my grandmother’s prized camellias had once been and where a mirrored glass blob now stood. “I don’t want to speak to her. Besides, if she really wanted to talk to me, she would call me directly.”

Amelia was silent for a moment. “I would expect that she wants you to call her so that she knows you’re speaking with her because you want to instead of only because you picked up the phone to answer it.” She paused. “I wish you would talk to her. It’s been a long time, Melanie. I think it’s time.”

I shook my head, trying to release the old bruises of loss and abandonment that were never far from the surface of my skin. One little tap and I felt them both again as if it were only yesterday when I was calling my mother’s name out into an empty house.

“She loves you, you know. She never stopped.”

I sent her a sidelong glance, wondering where I’d heard those words before. And then I remembered.
I never stopped loving him. I never stopped. Tell him I love him still.

“Do you happen to have a photograph of Jack’s fiancée?”

Amelia raised an eyebrow in response to my sudden change of topic. “I actually do. I have a photograph of Emily and Jack at their engagement party that I carry in my purse.” She shrugged delicately. “I keep it with me because it’s the last time I remember seeing Jack completely happy.”

“Can I see it?”

“Of course,” she said before going back to her car and retrieving her purse from the front seat. She flipped open the top flap and then unzipped an inside compartment. She pulled out a wallet-sized photograph and handed it to me.

I felt the air leave my lips in a small puff as I stared at the photo. I wasn’t really surprised, of course. Emily was just as I’d seen her leaning over Jack as he slept, weeping tears that only I could see. But Jack, well, that was the surprise. His eyes were warm and candid, not marred by sarcasm or cynicism. He had his arm around Emily, and he was looking at her as if she held all the answers for him, and I began to understand all that he had lost. All that he had stopped looking for the moment she left him.

“She’s beautiful,” I said, handing back the photo.

“Yes, she was. Jack always said that her beauty didn’t matter to him, that Emily was the other half of his soul. When she left him, it broke something inside of him. I’m not sure if he’ll ever be able to open his heart again.”

“She really loved him, you know. She still does,” I blurted before I could stop myself.

Amelia went rigid. “How do you know this?”

I bit my lip, wishing that I hadn’t said anything. Instead of answering her, I asked, “Where did you say that she went?”

“Up north—to upstate New York.”

“Rochester?” I asked, a thought forming in the back of my head.

She nodded. “I believe that’s where her boss told me Emily moved. Why? What do you know?”

“Nothing, really. Just a thought. Let me make a few phone calls and see what I can find out. If I find out anything, I’ll let you know.”

Her clear blue eyes studied me. “Emily’s dead, isn’t she? You’ve seen her, haven’t you? Just like your mother used to see people who have passed on.”

I looked back up at the house that I had once thought would be mine, and had a sudden flash of memory of a crowd of people hovering over my bed and then my mother reaching out for me, pulling me away from them. I thought I could still hear my screams.

I looked back at Amelia Trenholm, at her understanding and calm eyes, and quietly said, “Yes. Yes, I have.”

She nodded, then put her hand on my arm. “Don’t worry, Melanie. I won’t tell Jack. But please, please find out what happened to Emily. I don’t think Jack will really ever recover unless he knows that it had nothing to do with him.”

I nodded, then looked back up at the house, where I thought I saw movement from an upstairs attic window. Out of habit, I looked away, pretending I hadn’t seen anything.

“Before I forget,” said Amelia. “The reason I flagged you down today was because I was on my way to your house to give you the name of that master carpenter I was telling you about. He’s wonderful, and for all the wood-trim and furniture refurbishing you’re going to need, he’s the right man for the work. Truly a craftsman.” She handed me a business card. “Here’s his card. He’s in much demand, but tell him that you’re a friend of mine.”

“Thanks,” I said.

She squeezed my hand, then surprised me by leaning forward and kissing me on the cheek. “No, Melanie. Thank
you.
”

General Lee and I walked over to her car and watched as she got in. She stuck her head out the window. “One more thing. The grandfather clock in your drawing room? The Johnstone? I’m very familiar with his work, and I’m quite convinced that the clock face is a lot more recent than the rest of the clock. I wouldn’t know with any certainty unless I took it apart, but I’m pretty positive that the face is relatively new.”

“Thanks, Amelia. Sophie thought the same thing. When I have a chance, I’ll have somebody look at it.”

“No rush—the clock runs fine. Just in terms of assigning it a value for your records, we’d need to know for sure.”

She waved to us, then pulled her car away. Thoughtfully fingering the business card in my pocket, I turned around and headed back to the house on Tradd Street.

 
 
Mrs. Houlihan met us at the front door, her chin wobbling with agitation.

“What’s wrong?” I asked as I climbed the steps to the piazza.

“I thought everyone was out of the house, but I heard a thump and then some footsteps coming from your room. I thought I’d come out here and wait for you. Maybe you’d know if one of the workmen was still here.”

I handed her the dog. “Either that or there’s still a lot of settling going on after all the construction work being done on the bathroom. I’ll go check it out.”

I headed for the stairs with a straight back, trying to exude as much confidence as I wished I felt. When I reached the top of the stairs, I stopped and listened. Hearing nothing, I slowly approached my door and turned the knob.

The room was empty, as I had suspected, but not undisturbed. The telephone, still unplugged from the wall, sat upside down in the middle of the floor, and Louisa’s albums lay scattered over the bed and floor like the discarded wardrobe choices of a fickle teenager. I’d been avoiding looking at the albums, since they seemed to drain all of the energy from me and hadn’t offered anything more about Louisa other than the fact that she had loved her husband and son. But it seemed that Louisa had done a good job of making sure I couldn’t avoid them anymore.

I called down the stairs. “It’s all right to come inside, Mrs. Houlihan. A stack of books fell over in my room—that’s all.”

Annoyed, I reached for the album that lay facedown in the middle of the bed to move it out of the way, realizing my mistake as soon as the shock bolted through my body. Pausing as if to listen to the first hesitant drops of rain, I could hear the soft mewling of a baby, and my own breasts felt heavy as if they were filled with mother’s milk. I sank onto the bed, where the album had been, and looked down at the open pages.