These Sheltering Walls: A Cane River Romance (9 page)

            “Nice,”
he said, admiration in his voice. She’d yanked the pin almost clear of the
hinge. “And I think you’d want to do the top on next, in case the door shifted
and made it harder to get out.”

            She
stood back, grinning. “You learn something new every day.”

            “Something
useful, no less. Making sure I can get in and out is the first thing that
crosses my mind when I enter a place.” He turned, as if regretting his words.
“More about getting out, than getting in. I’m no burglar.”

            She
smiled at him. “I know.”

            He
pounded the pins back into place and dropped his keys in his pocket. “So, probably
the worst set up you’ve ever seen, right?”

            “Not
even close.”

            “Well,
now I’m curious,” he said.

            “As
a graduate student, I was asked to organize a large collection of porcelain
dolls. After his death, his family wanted them catalogued and moved as quickly
as possible, which I don’t blame them for in the slightest. Anyway, my advisor
thought we should take photos and catalogue them before moving in case there
was any accidental damage.”     

            “Dolls.
Definitely not a favorite subject of mine,” he said.

            “Oh,
it gets better. The owner was many paper plates short of a picnic. He hadn’t
collected whole dolls, just the heads. The collection was in his attic,
arranged on shelves, with little labels holding the names he’d chosen for them.
Names like Sweet Dreams, Baby’s Breath, Genevieve’s Tears.”

            She
stepped closer to him and dropped her voice to a dramatic whisper. “Imagine, if
you will, the moment the sky starts to turn dark. You have long hours of work
yet ahead. The house creaks and pops as it settles in for the night. The
multitude of little glass doll eyes glimmer in the dim light. You refuse to
think about how the owner of this collection died at home, just a few feet
below the room you’re in. Working faster, you tell yourself it doesn’t matter
that the owner of this ghastly collection wanted it to go to his children, but
that none of them wanted it. They’d told you more than once that he would be so
angry if he knew, if he ever found out his beloved doll heads were being
touched by a stranger.” She held up a finger. “Shhh. That sounded like…. Footsteps
on the attic stairs?”

            He
clapped a hand to his chest. “I see why you read Poe stories. You seemed to
enjoy telling that tale a little too much.”

            She
grinned and pushed up her glasses. “Oh, come on. You wouldn’t have been
rattled. I bet you’re not afraid of anything.”

            His
smile faded away and he said, “I am. A very few things.”

           
Truth.

            If
there were an instrument that measured levity, it would have shown a massive
drop, a shift in the conversation that stripped away the silly stories and the
jokes. 

            “What
are they?”

            He
looked at her for a long second or two before he responded. “Acting on emotion,
rather than logic, is one.”

            She
considered that. “Funny. I think I have the exact opposite fear. I’m afraid
I’ll be one of those people who act on what I’m told to believe, rather than
what I know is true.”

            “Aren’t
they usually the same thing?”

            “Almost
never,” she said.

            “You’re
not talking about religion,” he said.

            “No.”
She pushed up her glasses, suddenly wishing she’d never asked him about his
fears. There was no way to explain, and it was too late to gracefully back out
of the conversation. More than that, she realized she
wanted
to tell
Gideon about her curse. There, in the middle of the dark basement, she would explain
how she could spot a lie like a neon sign, how it sounded like an alarm in her
head. She would tell him how she’d known since she was very small that her
mother wasn’t really her mother, and how much she’d hated the lie about the
father who’d run away with the waitress.  She wanted to empty herself of all
the ugliness she held inside, all the lies that weren’t hers but that she
tended and kept safe for other people. Then after she was hollow and clean
again, she’d admit how much she wanted to be normal. She hated Kimberly for her
endless string of boyfriends and yet, and yet, she wished for some small taste
of it. Just a dinner or two or ten, all dressed up, sitting across a fancy
dinner from a handsome man and not hearing a single lie he told.

            She
wanted to say these things but she didn’t. Henry was a good daughter, the
keeper of secrets and protector of lies.

            “We
should get started,” she said, looking toward the walls of boxes.

            She
felt him standing there, a few feet behind the shoulder she’d just turned, and
the silence was so deep she wondered for just a moment if he would ask her to
explain.

            “Of
course,” he said.

                                                            ***

            Gideon
carefully set out piles of sorted letters, explaining the complicated system
he’d constructed and illustrating the step-by-step process of his cataloguing
project.  Henry listened attentively and asked several questions, but seemed to
understand it all intuitively. Of course, she’d spent years doing this kind of
work.

            “I
think I’ve got the idea,” she said. “You’ve done a really thorough job. This
will change the way we access Cane River history.”

            “Thank
you,” he said. “If you have any questions, you can call my cell phone.”

            She
glanced at the table full of documents and uncertainty crossed her face. “Since
you’re here, we could always work together. Unless you have other plans.”

            He
thought of her anxiety over the stubborn door and nodded. “Sure. You take the
desk.”

            She
started to protest but he’d already dragged over a few boxes and sat down.

            They
started to work, and for the first few minutes he could only hear her small
movements, the breaths she took, and the sense of someone else so near. But after
a while, he fell into a rhythm of carefully unfurling the fragile papers and deciphering
the spidery, faded writing.

             He
picked up a small photo of two men, one had a bushy beard and held a flintlock
rifle, the other was considerably younger and held a revolver. The back
identified them as uncle and nephew. They didn’t look at all related. He
thought of the moment he’d walked around the corner and seen Kimberly Gray
standing next to Henry. Before that moment, he would have said the two were
nearly polar opposites and not just in appearance. He only had a vague
impression of the actress, mostly from pictures he’d seen of her on the red
carpet or on the front of the gossip magazines at the grocery store. Henry was
serious, thoughtful, quiet. Kimberly seemed to seek out as much ugly drama as
possible.

            Once
they were side by side, it was clear they had the same high cheekbones, full
mouth and perfect complexion. He watched her read over a letter, a tiny frown
line between her brows. His first impressions were almost never wrong, but now
everything shifted, like a picture coming into focus. Henry wasn’t concerned
with looking academic enough. The glasses and severe ponytail were simply an
effort at disguising her connection to Kimberly Gray.

            She
looked up “Is something wrong?”

            “No,
sorry, just thinking,” he said.

            Setting
another letter in the pile to the right, he tried to focus. He carefully sorted
and stacked most of a box before his mind swung back to Henry. She clearly disliked
her aunt enough to avoid any connection, but she must have wanted the Cane
River Creole Park position enough to deal with her feelings. Or at least try to
keep the two areas separate. Maybe that accounted for her reluctance to go out
in public.

            He
rubbed a hand over his beard. It might explain her expression of utter sadness
a few minutes ago when she mentioned her fears. He didn’t know what had possessed
him to answer her question, but she’d answered him just as honestly.

“Rather than love, than money, than
fame, give me truth.”

― Thoreau

            Henry
rummaged through her purse one last time. She couldn’t believe she’d managed to
lose her keys the day after Alice left for New York. They couldn’t be in her
office since she’d driven home yesterday. Most likely they were somewhere
between By the Book and the Finnamore place.  She heaved a sigh and pulled the
door of her apartment closed behind her. It was a good thing she had a spare
key to her car and that the rest of the staff would be at Oakland to open the
doors. She wasn’t usually so scattered but she clearly was still adjusting to
the move. Everything seemed out of place.

            A
few minutes later she reached the sidewalk and headed for the little lot where
she parked her car. The usually clear morning sky showed large clouds gathering
at the horizon. She wondered if she should turn back for an umbrella. Her
flowered skirt and bright red sleeveless shirt felt perfect for the moment, but
she didn’t look forward to dashing down the block through the rain on her way
back to the apartment.

            “Miss
Byrne? Hello?”

            Henry
turned at the sound of a man’s voice and even though it was clearly someone younger
and much more cheerful, she pictured Gideon. But it wasn’t.

            “My
aunt Bernice told me to keep my eye out for you,” he said, catching up to her.
His dark hair was closely trimmed and he had the look of someone who took care
with his wardrobe. He wasn’t a dandy, in any sense, but he was definitely more
stylish than the average Natchitoches man.

            He
held out a hand, and even though he wasn’t smiling, his brown eyes were warm.
“My name is Blue Chalfant. My office is just a few doors down from By the Book.”

            “She
mentioned you, yes. So glad to meet you at last.” Henry wasn’t sure where the
‘at last’ bit had come from. She certainly hadn’t been looking for him. In
fact, she’d forgotten all about him until that moment.

            “I
can see you’re headed to work, but we should have dinner together some time. I
promised Aunt Bernice I’d show you some Natchitoches hospitality.”

           
Lie.

           
She
would be much more offended if he was asking her out under duress. As it was,
Blue Chalfant seemed to actually want to get to know her better. She considered
politely declining but an image flashed through her mind of her last date,
almost four years ago. Unmitigated disaster was too kind a term for it. She was
older and wiser, and if she were truly honest, more than a bit lonely.

            “I’d
like that. I don’t know many people here.”

            “Besides
your family,” he corrected her. “But I know what you mean.” His tone was
teasing.

            She
couldn’t hold back a laugh. Maybe he was in the same boat. Quite a few
relatives, but not many friends. “Yes, of course.”

            He
ran a hand through his hair and looked down the street. “You’ve probably got
plans for tonight.”

            “Actually,
I’m free.”

            “You
like ribs? I could pick you up at seven.” He was grinning now, a straight white
smile that made Henry wonder what she’d done to deserve such a great start to
the day.

            “Perfect.
To both of those.” She stood there, smiling shyly. “Oh, I’ll meet you out front
since By the Book will be closed and the back door is usually locked.”

            “Sounds
great.” After a moment he turned, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “I better
get back. My secretary’s out sick and I’ve got to man the phones. They should
have made us take a class on that in law school.”

            “See
you later,” she said, raising a hand. She walked the rest of the way to the car
with a smile on her face. He looked a few years younger than she was but he
didn’t give off the cocky air of the usual privileged Southern kid. Maybe it
was the small gesture of nervousness before he asked her out, maybe it was how
he’d asked whether she liked ribs, but Henry couldn’t help feeling like this
might be a first date that didn’t end up a complete failure. Of course, with
her track record, only time would tell.

                                                            ***

            Gideon
wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror and stared into his own eyes. When he
was little, his father had told him that he had his mama’s eyes and Gideon
hadn’t understood how that could be. Sure, they were the same color, but hers
were large and beautiful, rimmed with dark lashes and sparkling with laughter.
Even then he’d been a serious kind of kid, nothing like his mama. Or his papa,
for that matter. Those two weren’t happy unless they were headed to a party or
inviting people over.

            He
filled the sink with water, opened the old medical cabinet and took out his
razor. Katie Rose had been more like their parents. She was happiest toddling
around the guests, pulling at pants or hems of skirts, trying to take part in
the conversations. Sometimes he’d catch her reaching for the ice cubes in
amber-colored drinks left on side tables and she’d howl when he dragged her
away. 

            He
sprayed shaving foam onto his fingers and slowly worked it into a lather. The
smell was so familiar.  Within seconds, the memory hit him and he saw the early
morning light streaming through the bathroom window in his childhood home, his
papa frowning into the mirror, intent on his razor, his mama’s lilting voice
coming from the kitchen, Katie Rose coming to stand beside him, her little
brown curls sticking to her sweaty cheeks. It had been a long time since he’d
been hit by a memory that strong.

            He
made the first sweep of the razor across his cheekbone. He could almost hear
his mama’s singing ‘L’anse aux pailles’ while his papa bowed the fiddle. He
swallowed hard and rinsed the razor in the water. Sometimes he wished he’d
known the dark truths that lurked behind the image of a happy family. It would
have made the transition to orphan and foster kid so much easier. But then, he
wouldn’t have had even those few years of happiness, blind to what was really
happening in his house.

            The
solitude of the little house had appealed to him when he’d first moved to
Natchitoches and he still loved the way it sat back under the trees, removed
from any of the traffic of the city. Usually the silence was soothing, but at
the moment he wished he owned a radio, or even a TV. The thoughts in his head
were louder than usual.

            Sliding
the razor down one cheek, his skin emerged pale and smooth, and along with it a
memory of his fifteenth birthday. He’d wanted cash but Vince had given him an
electric razor, a hug, and a promise that he’d need it soon. His foster father
had misunderstood the tension that had gripped Gideon that year, that kept him
coiled like a spring, seeking a way out of their little family. Gideon rinsed
the razor and tipped his head, gliding the blade along his jaw. Tom had arrived
in the foster home few years before and although he was as angry as Gideon, his
rage didn’t take the same shape, with his secret map under the mattress and
hours of plotting late into the night. Tom liked to say that he and Gideon were
just alike, except that one of them was given the grace of a glimpse into the
future and had the chance to change his path, but Gideon didn’t believe it. Tom
had always carried a tenderness inside that Gideon had not.

            The
silence in the bathroom seemed to grow with each pass of the razor. Gideon
could hear himself breathing. He hadn’t seen himself without a beard for a long
time, not since those first years in prison.

            He
rinsed the razor and turned back to the mirror, so unlike the square of
polished steel he’d used in his cell. He remembered the low thrum of footfalls
and conversation. In prison, every surface he touched carried the vibration of
the thousands of bodies that moved in the same building, like the hum of bees
in a hive. Even in the middle of the night, he could hear men crying softly in
their bunks, or whispering, which was worse. A crying man wasn’t plotting
against you, but two men whispering could mean you were going to get jumped
while in line for scrambled eggs the next morning.

            Gideon
stepped back. He looked like a split before and after photo of a hermit who’d
been given a makeover. There was no going back now. He leaned in and slowly
shaved under his chin, wincing at the tickling sensation. As he worked his way
down his left cheek, he saw the way his muscles rippled under the skin of his
shoulder and forearm. Maybe Tom was right and he needed to scale back on the
weight lifting.

            He
paused, the razor hovering just above his left cheekbone, remembering the
moment outside the Finnamore house when he’d misunderstood Henry’s Poe
reference. A slow smile touched his lips. He didn’t usually worry whether
anyone was afraid of him. In fact, he figured most people who knew about his
time in prison would be. But it made him strangely happy to know Henry was more
worried about a sticky door than being alone with him.

            A
few more minutes of work and he looked into the face of his youth. Gideon
turned his head, seeing the line of his jaw for the first time in years. He’d
imagined shaving off his beard would reveal an old man, but it was the
opposite. He looked much younger, almost vulnerable. Anxiety twisted in his
stomach and he shrugged it off. Like Tom had said, there was no need to carry
the prison persona anymore.

                                                            ***

            “Hey
there, Miss Byrne,” Clark called from where he was stretched out on the floor
of the Oakland Plantation foyer near the antique wood stove.

            “Still
trying to fix that flue?” Henry asked. “You know what my
mamere
says? If
at first you don’t succeed, go and dance.”

            He
sat up, a grin on his face. “She’s right, she is. I’m sure looking forward to
the Zydeco Festival. You got yourself a date yet?”

            “I
thought that was the point,” she said. “You get all dressed up and go find
yourself a date.”

            “Oh,
Miss Henry, a girl such as yourself should have a date on hand. Otherwise, the
men might fight over ya.”

            She
rolled her eyes. No one would be fighting over her and she certainly wouldn’t
want them to. “Actually, I thought I’d just watch from my apartment. They set
up the big dance floor right across from By the Book. It’s the same thing and I
don’t even have to get in the middle of the crowd.”

            Clark
stared at her as if she’d spoken in Latin. “The same thing? You right about
that?”

            “I
may not be right but I’m sure,” she said and picked up the mail from the entry
way desk. She flipped through them, then stopped at a note, re-reading it. “Did
Verna take this message?” she asked, holding up the little slip.

            He
squinted over at it. “I’m not real sure, but she said someone is coming to see
you. Soonish.”

            Henry
stared at the words again. Patsy was coming to visit… today? She felt a
combination of alarm and giddiness. Her oldest friend was coming to see her! Patsy
knew all her secrets. Or almost all.

            She
dug in her purse for her cell phone and remembering how she’d turned it off
last night, just in case Kimberly called, and completely forgotten to turn it
back on this morning. As she was pushing the button, she heard tires in the
long drive way of Oakland Plantation.

            Through
the screen door, she saw a newer station wagon pull up in front. She dropped
the mail, rushed out onto the front porch, and was down the steps in seconds,
already waving with both hands.

            The
passenger door opened and a short, red haired woman popped out. “Sherlock,” she
squealed and launched herself into Henry’s arms.

            “Watson,”
she said and hugged her friend with everything she had. “What are you doing
here?”

             “I
told Denny we needed to show Jack the Zydeco Festival in the amazing city of
Natchitoches.”

           
Lie.

            Looking
over Patsy’s head, she saw Denny unstrapping their baby from the back seat. He
straightened up and shook his head. “Don’t believe anything she says. Jack
never remembers a bit of this trip.”

            Patsy
let out a laugh. “Oh, you really don’t need to tell her that.”

            Patsy
was always telling Henry that she could use her curse for good, to make a
difference, but Henry couldn’t see how.

             “You
don’t need to tell her that because she knows you so well?” Denny came up and
gave Henry a kiss on the cheek. Jack reached out a chubby hand, patted Henry’s
head and burbled something unintelligible.

            “Let’s
just say my friend has a super power.”

            “Like
flying? Or are we talking about making babies go to sleep? That would be really
handy,” Denny said.