The Keepers of the House (36 page)

“Your fences are broken.”

“Oh my,” I said, “you have big eyes. … I have a few drunken friends, who did a bit of damage.”

“And cars burning in a field?”

“Really? I’ve been inside. I haven’t left the house for several days. Probably I’ve even forgot to look out the windows.”

One thing after the other. The servants came back, the braver ones within two days, the more timid I had to send for. I told them all, except the cook, to begin looking for other jobs. I would no longer run such an elaborate house. In the meantime I did not let them repair anything. They only swept up the broken glass. The fences stayed down, the panes stayed missing. Howlands kept such things to remember by.

One thing after the other. Quickly. Abby and Mary Lee went off to school in New Orleans, to the one their father had found. They were glad to leave; they were bored to death with the restricted life of the place. Not even their ponies amused them now. They wanted to go, and I wanted them away. They were old enough to notice and remember, and I did not want that. Now there was Johnny and Marge only; they were too young to notice anything.

One thing after the other. I reached John’s father’s house and left a message for him. It said only that my lawyer would get in touch with him about a property settlement, and that I wanted him afterwards to go to Alabama for a quick divorce. If he were too busy to go, I would myself. It only took twenty-four hours.

I was sure he would go. His pride would make him.

Then I hired a lawyer. His name was Edward Delatte, and he was the younger brother of the girl whose elopement had almost ended my college career. I remembered him suddenly. And the more I thought about him, the more perfect for me he seemed. He was a Catholic living in the south part of the state, he knew no one in this county and could ignore their dislike. So I called him.

When I gave my name to his secretary, she recognized it with a little surprised gasp. “Yes, Mrs. Tolliver,” she said quickly. “Yes ma’am. Right away.”

Everybody in the state knew that name, of course. And William Howland’s. … Although my grandfather had never liked politics and had only wanted to live on his acres undisturbed. …

Then Edward Delatte was on the phone, his light precise voice jarring me back to business. “Yes, Mrs. Tolliver,” he said. “May I first tell you how sorry I am.”

“Mr. Delatte.” I no longer bothered about politeness; I only wanted to explain to him as quickly and as plainly as I could. “I need a lawyer. For two reasons. I need a divorce. Then I need help managing my grandfather’s estate.”

“I see,” he said, “I see.”

“I would like you to come talk to me.”

“Why, yes,” he said. “I will indeed.”

And two days later he sat in my living room, a slight small man, balding across the crown, pink skin through black hair.

“There’s only one thing,” I told him. “I want back everything I brought to the marriage. Every bit of it.”

“Why yes,” he nodded gently. “I’m sure Mr. Tolliver can have no objections.”

“John kept our business records at his office in town. But that’s about all I know, I’m afraid. I don’t think I can help you very much.”

Mr. Delatte said quietly: “I’m sure we can manage.”

We drove together to Madison City, the first of endless trips. It was a cold day, the first really cold one we’d had, and the streets were empty—people were huddled inside by their stoves. The wind blew hard, and bits of trash and balls of grass raced along between the buildings. The red bricks of the courthouse were blotched with damp; its slate roof looked stained and moldy in the light. The flag in front of the post office had gotten tangled in its halyards; it slapped and fluttered below half-mast.

John’s office was warm and comfortable, the heat had come on automatically. “How nice,” Mr. Delatte said.

“John did all of the estate business down here,” I told him. “Most of his practice, and all of his political work, came from the office at home.”

Mr. Delatte said: “That should make it so much easier for us.”

“I do know the combination of the safe.”

“Splendid. I’ll get right to work.”

He did. The rest of that day and evening and all the following day, which was a Sunday. That last afternoon I left him there and took the children for a ride. When I came back in the early winter dusk, I found him waiting for me.

“Mrs. Tolliver,” he said (and his voice had an edge of real respect in it), “I’m sure you were aware of this, but your grandfather was a very wealthy man.”

“I think I saw the inventory of his estate, though I don’t remember too much about it.”

“If I were a newspaperman with a license for loose talk, I would say that your grandfather owned the whole county—all the best timber lands, half the grazing land, most of the stock. Why he even owned a lot of these buildings in town. The hotel for instance—an uncle left him that some twenty years ago.”

“Howlands always did gather things the way squirrels go after nuts.”

“I can see that.” He smiled gently. “I’m city-born,” he added in explanation. “I always forget how a small town can be owned by one man. It always surprises me. … Is there something wrong?”

“I’m sorry.” I had been staring at him and I hadn’t been seeing him at all. “I was thinking.”

“Have I said something?”

“Oh no.” I smiled back at him. “I think your observations are extremely useful. You’ve given me a wonderful idea. You really have.”

Mr. Delatte worked weekends and one day a week, driving furiously back and forth, managing both his practice and my business. He stayed in our guest room—I suggested that, it was more comfortable than the hotel, and I was glad of the company. It also amused me to think of the town’s talk.

It was a long tedious process, the separating of my belongings from John’s. Week after week I plodded along after Mr. Delatte, my head aching and spinning with unaccustomed ideas, strange words. But I kept on, because there was something I wanted. Something that neither my grandfather nor John had ever taught me. I wanted to learn precisely what I owned, what the generations of William Howlands had acquired.

Mr. Delatte finished at last. He packed his briefcase with papers and went off to see John. A few more days and there was the statement of divorce. That part was over.

And I waited, not forgetting. I had a plan; it rose to meet me out of the welter of figures I had studied over the last month. I knew now what I would do, and though I could have begun, I didn’t. I wanted everyone to know for sure what was happening, and who was responsible. I waited and let the time pass slowly.

Mr. Delatte continued patient and hard-working. He was so gentle, so light, he was like a crisp brown leaf. If he noticed that people in Madison City were sharp or strange or stared at him, he gave no sign.

“The records are in excellent order,” he said to me.

“I’m sure John was very careful.”

“Mrs. Tolliver,” he said, and his dark mild eyes fluttered uncertainly, “if I may, just for a moment, be personal—this will blow over, you know. This whole affair. People will forget.”

I just looked at him. “You couldn’t be more wrong.”

The emphasis in my voice startled him. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“I can’t forget.”

“Ah,” he said, “well …”

“I’ll have a chance,” I said. “Just wait.”

At first, when I went into town with Edward Delatte, people turned their backs. In a month they no longer turned away; they only dropped their eyes. A bit more time, and they looked straight at me; “Good morning,” I said quietly. They didn’t answer. And then they did. They were curious. They were so very very curious. They were attracted by the very thing that repelled them. They pranced and danced around it like fighting cocks. And like the cocks, you knew that sooner or later they could not stand it any more. They would jump.

The town did just that. It took about three months. Mrs. Otto Holloway asked me to tea to meet her granddaughter who was on spring vacation holiday from the university.

The Holloways had lived, ever since I could remember, in the big grey Victorian house around the corner from the town square. (He was the only doctor in town and had been ever since Harry Armstrong retired.) On that morning, a Saturday, I drove in early with Edward Delatte. We parked in back of the office that had been John’s and was now mine. Funny, I couldn’t seem to remember that it belonged to me alone now. I was free, but I didn’t feel so. …

The morning was crisp and cool. We went in the back door that John always used and went directly to his inner office, talking about trivial things, bits of business. A good morning for business, for doing things that needed to be done. …

“Mr. Delatte,” I said abruptly. “I want to close up the Washington Hotel.”

“If I remember correctly, it’s been quite profitable.”

I hesitated, and in the interval I could hear the steady rattle of my new secretary’s typewriter in the outer office. “I’ve got enough money. I want to close it.”

“It’s your decision of course.”

“I want it closed right now. This morning.”

He was horrified, but said nothing. He never did.

“As for the people in there, they can stay as long as they planned this time, until they’re finished in town.”

He had removed any traces of surprise from his face. “Shall I see about that now?”

“Yes, please. And I want them to board up the front. Big boards. Right across the head of the steps.”

I stood at the window and watched Mr. Delatte go down the street toward the hotel. I stood and waited a very long time, until I saw the porter drag a very large plank to the front of the building. It was too heavy for him to manage alone, so Mr. Delatte helped him lift it into place and steady it for the nails. I sat down then and listened to the banging of the hammer until they were finished.

It was still a bit early for the Holloway party, so I picked up a new
Reader’s Digest
and read it straight through while I waited. Then I put on my coat and walked slowly around the corner to the Holloways’.

There was a great crowd. You could see cars parked all up and down both sides of the street. So much the better, I thought. I need lots of people. I put my feet down firmly one before the other, I tensed and untensed my leg muscles and I kept walking.

I knew what the tea would be like before I got there. A young woman with flowers on her shoulder, whom I did not know, and all the rest of the women, whom I did. The house would smell like fruitcake and pink gladioli, and there would be trays of sandwiches and iced cakes. The strict Baptists would sip their tea; the not-so-religious would turn giggly and confiding over discreet glasses of sherry or hot toddy because the day was cool.

I’ve been to so many of these, I thought, as I climbed the front steps. John always wanted me to go, and I always did what he wanted. …

“Abigail, my dear,” Mrs. Holloway called gaily from the front door.

With her, just emerging from her elaborately fur-trimmed coat, was Jean Bannister, my cousin Reggie’s wife. I smiled at them both.

“How nice of you to come,” Mrs. Holloway said.

“I’ve been looking forward to coming.” I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. “How are you, Jean?”

“But, Abigail,” Mrs. Holloway said, “you’ve lost weight.”

“Have I? I really haven’t weighed in months, I’m afraid. John had a scale, but I don’t know where it is now. Perhaps he took it with him.”

“Oh yes, of course, John …”

“John, my ex-husband, yes.” The sound of that was harsh in the tinkle of laughter and voices.

“You must meet my granddaughter,” Mrs. Holloway said. “Oh dear, she seems to have gotten herself way across the room. …”

“That’s all right,” I said. “I’ll manage to cross over in a bit.”

“The room is just too crowded to move, isn’t it?” Mrs. Holloway said. “I really should have kept things smaller.”

“But you have a lot of friends. …” Together we looked across the room. It was jammed with silk print dresses—straight through the double parlors into the dining room and even out on the sun porch. “I wonder how many are related to me.”

Mrs. Holloway laughed. “Most of them are, I imagine.”

“Let’s see now, just for fun. You aren’t, of course, but you moved here after your husband finished medical school, I believe.”

“Long before your time, my dear.”

“And Jean, now you’re from Montgomery, but your husband is my cousin. So let’s see how many cousins I can find if I don’t count degrees. … There’s Emily Frazer, and Louise Allen and Clarissa Harding, and Flora Creech …”

“Mercy,” Mrs. Holloway interrupted me. She seemed to find the list vaguely disquieting. “Mercy!”

“And I’ll tell you another strange thing. I haven’t seen any of them in months. Strange, isn’t it? Even when you’re related. …”

“Isn’t it?” Mrs. Holloway said. “Isn’t it strange? Would you like a glass of sherry?”

And with a firm hand on my arm she launched me into the crowded room.

For a while it was like any other tea. With talk about illnesses and weddings and whose child was entering which school and what grade. For a while.

I said nothing. I could wait. I just didn’t think they could. And I was right.

It was Mrs. Holloway herself who finally got around to it.

“Dear,” she said, “the fire at your barn was terrible news.”

“Yes,” I said, “it was.”

“I mean, it was the very latest thing in barns, wasn’t it?”

“It had a lot of expensive equipment inside. I don’t think I know exactly how much.”

“How terrible.” Abruptly the room got very still. Only the granddaughter chattered away in a corner. I recognized her delicate tone, her sorority-trained lilt. In the hushed silence, the young light voice faltered: she looked uncertainly over her shoulder, and stopped, in the middle of her sentence.

“Dreadful,” Mrs. Holloway repeated. “Do you have any idea how it started?”

I looked at the smooth pink face perched atop the round shoulders and the heavy breasts, tightly wrapped in flowered silk. “Did I recognize them?” I asked. “They weren’t wearing masks. I suppose they were in too much of a hurry to bother with them.”