What To Keep

“Sorry about that,” Ron says as he walks back. “Major problem with a client. I should get back to the office.”

“Thanks for bringing me out here.” I glance around. “You said there was a car?”

“Carport is at the back of the house. I never gave you the house keys.” He digs into his other pocket, finds a set of keys. “Buick Riviera, 1977. Eighty thousand miles. A cream puff. I came over after you called and started it. Even has air. Drove it to charge the battery. If you want to sell it, I’m sure you’ll find a buyer.”

“I want to sell it.” I take the keys. They swing, glint, hit my palm.

“House key’s the one with the red yarn tied in a bow. I think your uncle’s housekeeper did that.”

I pick it out while Ron walks down the steps. He turns around. “I had my secretary arrange for a county inspection late this afternoon. Every house over a hundred years old in Guilford County has to be inspected before it’s put on the market.”

“Do you think it’ll pass?”

“I don’t know. They’re pretty stringent these days.”

“I hashed out a plan on the airplane—sell the house or at least sign with a Realtor that I trust and get back to Vegas.”

“Sounds like a workable plan. The county wants to save the historical homes, so the owner is responsible for repairs. That way when it’s sold, the buyer knows what they’re getting into. You have my card. Call if you have any questions, problems. I’ll need you to sign the probate papers when they’re finished, which should be in the next couple of days.”

“What about your fee?” I just finished paying six hundred dollars for my latest divorce. God only knows what a probate attorney costs.

“My billing clerk will get in touch with you when everything is assessed.”

“Great.” I watch as he walks to his car, climbs in. He’s tall, well built and moves with confidence. I go to the front door, try again to remember standing on this porch but can’t. I slide the key in the lock, turn it the wrong way then back again. The dead bolt clunks open, and I seize the knob and open the door.

“This wall has to be fixed.”

“Fixed! Why? It looks fine to me,” I say.

Clay, the Guilford County inspector, is running his finger down the bedroom wall. I’ve been following him for the past thirty minutes, hoping—no, wishing—the house passes inspection. And now, it looks like I’m not going to get what I want.

“See this green line? Mildew. Happens all the time. Rain seeps in and mildew takes over just like that.” Clay snaps his fingers.

I squint, barely able to see the mossy green line. “Are you sure? Maybe it’s just a stain.”

He looks at me and grunts. “Lady, I’ve been doing this kind of work for a very long time. This is mildew.”

Half-moon sweat stains are rising on his blue work shirt. The house is hot, stuffy. I didn’t have time to open windows, if they’ll open. And Clay has informed me of many other things. Greensville is experiencing a heat wave, the likes of which the folks here haven’t seen in fifty years. Some have dropped over from the heat. I expect Clay to be one of them any minute. He’s also told me outsiders, mostly Northerners, are coming down in droves—with this information, he gave me a sidelong look—building in the area has exploded, and more important, Magnolia Hall is a dump.

Clay thumbs through papers on his clipboard then searches in his back pocket, finds a white handkerchief and mops his forehead.

“If you plan on selling your house anytime soon you can forget it.”

“Look, can’t you just sign off? The green line is barely there.” I move closer to the wall. “I swear it’s so small you—”

“Underneath there’s trouble. Doesn’t seem like much from the outside. Can’t give you the okay until the wall’s cleaned up. You’re darned fortunate that’s all that’s wrong, the way this place has been let go.”

Resolved, I step back. “How do you fix something like that?”

“The way the town’s growing, it’ll take you a month of Sundays to get someone out here. Does that air conditioner work?” Clay nods to the old unit clinging to the windowsill.

“I don’t know.” I walk over, find the On switch and push it in. Nothing. I look at Clay. His lips press together.

“Preventative maintenance, that’s the key to these old houses.”

“I inherited this place. That wall,” I say, “sounds like a major expense. I have less than zero money.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this, for God’s sake. What does he care?

Clay taps the checklist. “Depends on what you consider major. Some of those new construction companies charge a lot. First thing with mildew is you gotta get to the problem. From what I can tell, it’s coming from the window.” He walks over to the window, three feet from the mildew, runs his hand over the sill. “I’m surprised the one with the air-conditioning unit isn’t leaking. Best thing to do is seal all the way around, that’ll stop more damage, then when the wall’s replaced make sure they seal it up real tight.”

“Wall replaced?”

“Gotta take down part of the plasterboard.” Clay taps one of the dull white-and-green magnolias that make up the wallpaper.

“Christ! I don’t have the time or money for this.”

“You aren’t a Southern gal, are you?”

“No.”

Clay looks at me like he’s about to take pity on me. “You can buy caulk at Home Depot. Probably only take half a tube.” He shakes his head. “After the drywall’s taken down, they’ll wash the wood to get rid of the mildew then put up new drywall, tape, paint or wallpaper.”

“Right,” I say, but feel overwhelmed. “How much do you think this is gonna cost?”

“’Bout eight hundred dollars.”

“Oh, God!”

A bead of sweat trickles down my forehead into my right eye, and I blink, wipe at it, know I’m smearing my mascara.

“Plaster dust gets into everything and there’s nothing you can do about that. Make sure whoever does the job puts Visqueen up.”

“Are you sure I can’t buy some Lysol and wipe down the wall? I’ll seal the window.”

“No. When it’s gone this far, you can’t. It’s like the silent killer of walls.”

“Shit. The silent killer, ha-ha.”

“Just sign on the line.”

I take the blue pen and clipboard that says Guilford County and look at the small-print form. It’s smudged with Clay’s sweat, now mine. “There’s no other way?”

Clay looks at me like I might be trying to bribe him. I laugh.

“Something funny?”

I study the paper. “Am I signing my life away?”

He straightens a little. His face is red, more sweaty than mine. I changed into shorts and T-shirt after Ron left, thank God, but now they’re sticking to my skin. As soon as Clay is gone I’m going to open windows, drink some water.

“Your signature acknowledges you’re aware of this infraction and that you’ll be in compliance before you sell.”

“Right. And what if I’m not?”

His eyebrow rises. “County can sue you.”

“Guess I won’t go there.” I write my name, wish I would have asked the judge who granted me my quickie divorce to change my name back to one I can stand.

“Okay, that’s about all. When you get the repairs done, give me a call.” He hands me a copy of the paper I’ve just signed, takes back his pen and points to a phone number in the right-hand corner. “If I’m not there just leave a message.”

I nod, walk to the edge of the doorway and look back. Clay is still writing. The room is empty except for a four-poster bed with white sheets and a yellow blanket. I look at the wall and realize I could easily begin to hate this house. He finishes, clips his pen in his shirt pocket, holds the clipboard like a football and walks toward the door.

“Don’t feel bad about the mildew. Lots of folks have problems and don’t even know about them.”

“Lucky them.”

Hemsley House

Greensville, NC

March 1861

I am to marry James Alexander in three days!

Father insists we not wait. He stated clearly he believes Mr. Alexander to be the right choice. Thankfully, Father didn’t mention I have not had any other proposals and that is why I am expected to marry James Alexander.

When my father announced what he wanted for me, I stamped my foot and fussed. Mama ushered me to my room, and informed me I will behave like a lady and a dutiful daughter. I did not tell her I don’t want a “lord and master” to honor and obey, for I knew then as I know now, my words would not change her or Father’s mind.

More than anything my parents want their only daughter to be a wife. As my father clearly stated, he and my brother do not need an old maid in this house and on their hands.

Months back, when I arrived at the age of eighteen, I heard my parents discussing with much trepidation that their eldest would not find a husband if she remained so quiet.

I am not quiet! I am just not very social. I don’t understand myself sometimes. I do not like to go to parties like other girls. I have always liked to read, write letters, write in my diary. My parents do not believe this behavior is good for their aging daughter.

“Who will marry her?” they whispered to each other in not so gentle whispers.

Then, three days ago after Mr. Alexander asked for my hand, they decided I should accept his proposal. The next day, when neither would listen to me, I started sobbing. I ran up to my room, stood by the window and thought about leaping to the ground. Maybe my bones would break, then they would listen.

I imagined my body drifting out the window, lifting up into the air then plunging through the warm Carolina sunshine, like a bird in flight. I felt the air on my face, the breeze fanning my ankles as I leaned out farther.

Suddenly I knew I could not smash myself on the ground. However, I remained by the window until the sky was silvery and sugar-strewn with moonlight.

After Father had gone to bed, Mama came to see me. Her face was drawn, her mouth tight. Her fingers touched my hairline, smoothed it back from my temples. She spoke softly, claiming that it would be much easier on all of us if I accepted my fate. Father was doing what was best for me, and I needed to trust in him and the Lord.

I seized her hand and asked if she could do what I had to do, marry someone she wasn’t sure she loved, someone she hardly knew. She tried to laugh, then breathed in deeply, brought her hand to her throat.

“Charlotte, don’t make yourself weak trying to be happy. If you do not hate Mr. Alexander, you might love him one day, like I do your father.”

I do admire Mr. Alexander. We became acquainted a year ago, a month after he moved to Greensville. He always has a kind look about him. He told me he likes to read history books, then he smiled a nice smile. And his laughter brought to mind the large church bell ringing across Greensville on a Sunday morning.

Yet my heart never pounds hard in my chest like I heard other girls say their hearts do when they are around someone they are fond of. I know I do not love him.

Will I ever love him? I do not know. Mama told me not to worry about married love, it will surely find me. And as long as I’m a good wife to Mr. Alexander, that is all that matters.

In the past few weeks, Mama has schooled me on how to handle the servants, how to plan meals and tell the cook what to prepare. All the general ways to keep a home. She also whispered in my ear there are certain other obligations I will have as a wife. Then suddenly she pulled back, her round face pale as a magnolia blossom, her lips flat against each other. She fanned herself with her hand.

“You’ll find out soon enough, oh, Heavenly Father!”

Soon she left my side, marched down the stairs and called in a high-pitched voice for her servant, Isabell. I know the obligations she whispered are what the other, more sophisticated girls giggle about—the duty of a wife. Some say these duties are very uncomfortable.

Night after night, I sit by my window and wonder how I will feel when my life as a—

Mama came in and I hid this book in the folds of my skirt. She would be very upset to know I’ve been writing before my wedding. Many, along with Father, believe writing leads to worry for young ladies.

I would think she would be desolate that Mr. Alexander is building a home miles from town and I will live so far away. When I hint at these fears, Mama shakes her head and claims I am a true Southern girl, one who is too attached to her family and someday I will be happy and not want to come home.

This morning Mama found me sitting by the window, tears dried upon my cheeks. She said very sternly that I must grow up and start a family of my own because it will soon be time to have babies. I feel like cloth being torn and readied for a wedding dress. I pray James Alexander is a patient man, for he will have to be with his new bride. He will need years of tolerance, because it is difficult for me to imagine myself old and stooped over and still his wife with adult children, if the Lord sees fit to give us their souls.

I do not understand fate, my life, and said so to Mama. She told me I think too much for a young woman. I should trust in Father’s decision. The Lord’s purpose is to make me a wife—what I was born for. Try as hard as I might, I do not believe this. Yet, I am now resolved that in three days, Mr. Alexander will be my lord and master for eternity. Tonight as I contemplate giving up everything that is familiar, I do not believe eighteen is so very old.

CHAPTER 3

Magnolia Hall

Greensville, NC

June 2000

Clay climbs in his white utility truck, starts the almost soundless engine and rolls up the window. Then he leans over and fiddles with the air-conditioning. He looks back, doesn’t smile. Why couldn’t he have just signed off on the inspection? My life would be a lot easier.

I walk back into the house. Late-afternoon sunlight races down the hallway before I close the door, turning the scratched oak floor, for a moment, into a gleaming lake.

Two summers ago, four weeks after we met, Bill and I spent a July week on Lake Mead, right outside Las Vegas. We rented a houseboat at the marina, packed the boat’s kitchen with sliced ham, soft wheat bread, Swiss cheese, medium-priced merlot, three six-packs of Coors, bottled water and my new CD player.

I have to admit we were in a sexual frenzy, and this trip only increased it. Lake Mead, a man-made lake, is a breathtaking lie, and in the summer the air is hot, dry—like another planet that’s closer to the sun.

That week Bill drank all the beer and most of the wine. The idea I’d found the perfect person made me drunk with happiness—who needed booze? What I didn’t know then was I should have drunk myself into a stupor, jumped overboard and swum to shore. But of course I fooled myself into believing the relationship was just right. I was blind to the truth. Bill shoved signs in my face that he was a shit-heel right from the beginning. In the houseboat-rental office, he claimed he’d forgotten his credit card and I let myself overlook that tired old excuse! I paid for the entire trip, as if I were some rich broad with a gigolo. I knew he was a con artist. I really did, but I lied to myself.

I walk into Magnolia Hall’s living room and drag my toe across one of the carpet dents where a piece of furniture used to rest. I pull the white sheer curtain back, yank on the roll-up window shade and expect a cloud of dust.

There isn’t any. The fading sunlight showers the room in pink hues, accenting the emptiness. I turn the old window locks out, lift the window. Moist, cooler air floats in, bellows the curtains around my legs.

Two brocade chairs sit in the middle of the room and look like old ladies who have forgotten to leave. I must have been in this room when I was little, but I don’t remember.

After Ron left, before the inspection from hell took place, I walked around the house, and I’m still astounded that there is hardly any furniture in the house. Magnolia Hall is shaped like a two-story box with a hallway running down the middle. Downstairs there are two front rooms, this one and the one across the hall. That room only contains a sagging green couch.

Behind it is a library or office with floor-to-ceiling bookcases where five tired books stand on one shelf. There’s a rocking chair in the corner by one of the windows. Across the hall a dining-room table and three chairs stand polished, ready, lonely except for a small hutch.

Upstairs there are three bedrooms, two of them completely bare. The huge bathroom has a claw-foot bathtub, no shower. A blue towel and three bars of Ivory soap, still in their wrappers, are stacked neatly on the back of the toilet.

And there’s no trace of Grey Alexander.

I looked in the medicine chest and the old white chest by the door. Nothing. What happened to the man’s razor, comb, shampoo? And his clothes? It’s as if he never lived here. I expected piles of things, or at least some pictures, something to prove he was alive.

The living room curtain fans against my legs again. I walk back to the kitchen, touch the dead rotary phone that sits on a tiny table. There’s something very ironic in the fact that I’m still going to have to haul my ass down to the local convenience store because I don’t have a working phone.

I walk to the room with the bookcases and notice the fireplace is immaculate. At one of the bookcases, I draw my finger on a shelf. There’s no dust. I trace the spines of all five books. I pull out the Mark Twain Anthology, look at the bookmark. It’s a picture of a man with light hair, straight nose and thin lips. He’s wearing a tuxedo, a white pleated shirt and bow tie. On the back is written in pencil “Grey Alexander.” In this picture, he looks like I remember my father looked the last time I saw him thirty-four years ago. My heart hurts a little.

Grey’s hair is cut just so, his tie so straight. I wonder how he could ignore the upstairs mildewed wall, and why isn’t there more of him in this house? His silent black-and-white eyes stare back at me.

Magnolia Hall

March 1861

It has been two weeks since I was married and my husband brought me to his new home. I try not to think about how far I have come in these few short weeks. I miss so much—my mother and father, my room, the house I lived in since the day I was born. I also miss the mornings in Greensville, the soft footsteps of servants around Hemsley. I am so sick with feelings of loss I do not know what to do.

I did my best to hide my feelings the day Mr. Alexander and I left Greensville after the wedding, but Mama detected my sadness as I was dressing. She petted my hair and told me my life would be fine someday. I looked up at her, asked how she knew, how she could be so very sure.

With my question she straightened as if something had come over her and announced I was acting foolish, I was a married woman, with a good husband and I should be happy, and if I were not, I was to find some way to make myself happy—I was to endure. Then she sat down beside me as if she could not make up her mind, either, took my hand in hers, and said she would always love me, but for her sake I had to endure until I found a way to be happy.

I asked why Father wanted me to go away, why was it so important that I wed.

Mama shook her head, studied my fingers for a moment too long.

“That is just the way our lives are. Father wants you married, and you do not seem capable of choosing a husband or even finding and keeping a suitor. You are too shy, Charlotte. Reservedness is becoming—however, you are very queer in your actions.”

I have always lived away from people. I do not know why. I feel a distance at times. I am not one for change or exciting events. I have always liked to stay home, be in the same place. I love a room when I have been in it a thousand times. I adored the everyday view from my window.

My husband and I are different in that way. Mr. Alexander seems joyful with the house he built. He talks about the newness of the entry hall and the sitting room, the fine dining room and library. How, over time, he will bring new and beautiful things to our new home.

The house is beautiful. Late in the afternoon, when the front door is open, sunlight turns the floor to glistening silk. I saw happiness burst forth on my husband’s face yesterday afternoon when he walked through the front door and the house was ablaze with sunset.

Two nights ago after dinner, my husband asked me into the parlor. I went in thinking he wanted to discuss the management of the house or the night’s menu—that the greens were bitter or the bread was too tough.

He sat next to me on the divan, took my hand in his. In the firelight his eyes looked bluer than I have ever seen them. I asked him if he were displeased about my management of the house, the kitchen?

“No, I am not.” Then he said very quickly, “I worry you are not happy.”

I blinked, looked down at my lap, embarrassed that my feelings are so transparent.

“Charlotte, you must always be truthful. I am your husband and you must be honest with me.”

I could only nod.

“I do not want you to be sad and I sense that you are, Charlotte.” And then he squeezed my hand. I dipped my chin more. I did not wish to dampen his spirits.

“Tell me, Charlotte.”

And suddenly words began to pour out of me.

“My sorrow for what I used to know is great, silly as that is. I am afraid this makes me a very selfish person.”

His arm went around my shoulders and we sat silently.

A moment later he stood, announced that he would retire to the library, he had much work to do. He kissed my forehead and I was alone and could think more clearly.

I watched the flames of the fire, forced myself to remember how long ago I attended the Greensville sewing circles with Mama. There I heard women professing their adoration for their husbands, and I began hoping to experience the same kind of union. I am still praying some wifely devotion will find me—make me tremble on the veranda when my husband appears from the foggy mist.

Last night Mr. Alexander and I were sitting out on the veranda, and he told me in a delicate way how much he has loved me from the moment his eyes fell upon me at the evening party my parents hosted. With the night breeze fanning my warm face, I smiled.

“Thank you, for the very dear compliment, Mr. Alexander.”

“Why don’t you refer to me as James, it being a more familiar, loving term?”

When I did not answer, he stood and stared down at me.

Why didn’t I tell him the truth—that I am blind to what a wife should feel or do for her husband. The sadness in his eyes told me he knew, yet he did not press me. Late that night when he held me close and whispered promises to me, I felt dizzy and wondered what it will be like to spend the rest of my life in his arms.

But I did not say a word.

Magnolia Hall

Greensville, NC

June 2000

“Good holy God!”

A black woman is standing on the back porch with her face pressed against the kitchen screen door and my heart is thumping into my throat.

“You shouldn’t use the Lord’s name in vain,” she says, and straightens a little.

“What? What do you want?” I ask, then step back and wonder if there’s a knife close by. I came into the kitchen this morning hoping to find coffee, maybe tea. But there was nothing. And now this!

The woman laughs and puts her hands on her hips. “Why, child, don’t you remember me? I’m Tildy Butler.”

Tight black curls lie in swirls close to her head. She smiles again and her teeth, very white and perfect, take up a lot of her unfamiliar face.

“Hope I didn’t scare you.” She opens the screen, comes into the kitchen. “I was going to call and then I remembered the phone had been shut down, so I thought, well, Tildy Butler, you are acting inhospitable. Then I decided I needed to come right over and see Miss Juliette.”

I take a step back and wish my heart would quit beating so hard. “Who did you say you are?”

She gives me an up-down look. “My, you look the same. A little bigger, but you’re still that pretty little blond child. How are you, Miss Juliette?”