A/N: Party time.
Big Swamp
Chapter Four: Noble Hall
I mentioned 'Opelika' means Big Swamp.
Or so I'm told.
I'm told it's a Creek word. I've never checked, not even on the internet. I do find it mysterious, since there's no swamp, big or little, anywhere in the area, the Auburn/Opelika area, as it's called. I live with the mystery and I sorta like it.
I like the name, 'Opelika'. The area has a lot of Creek names: 'Loachapoka', 'Notasulga'.
The Auburn/Opelika area: the two towns blend together imperceptibly along Opelika Road and are beginning to blend elsewhere, along other, less major roads, as the area grows, changes. I guess I've been talking about them as if they were pretty much one place, and they are. Auburn's the 'white collar' city; the University is there. Opelika is 'blue collar'. That's the way it used to be, traditionally. But, as I said, the cities are blending, the blue and white running together to create a lighter blue. Most differences in the towns are slowly vanishing.
The big difference is the twenty-some thousand twenty-ish students who live in Auburn and attend the University. Their presence gives Auburn a bustling, post-adolescent energy that Opelika lacks. Opelika seems middle-aged by comparison.
Opelika was nearly the capital of the South in the Civil War. It was a railroad hub and had a natural claim to the status, but lost out to Richmond. (Geographically, Opelika made better sense.) Downtown Opelika remains a railroad town in look: the center of town is divided by tracks and trains rumble through regularly. A large railroad station has been refurbished and stands off to the side of downtown, now beneath an overpass.
I said it's not swampy here and that's true, no swamps, not swampy, except in the general sense — it's green and damp and subtropical — in the summer just out-and-out, full-on, scalding-damp tropical. The sun blares through air so humid that the sun itself seems fashioned of fire and water, a ferocious ball of yellow steam.
Friday was especially steamy.
With the office closed, I'm distracted all day by the prospect of the party, the prospect of Sarah Walker. I know that I'm not her date, exactly, and that I will be technically starting a new case, working, not attending the party, not as the others are, but none of that lessens my distraction — it increases it.
In the mid-morning I go to Bolonia Grimes' shop, You Wear it Well, to pick up the tuxedo she'd fitted me for yesterday. Bolonia, Morgan's mother, rules every space she occupies. She's small and thick-bodied, although not overweight, and she moves with a pulsing, radiant energy that makes her seem like a nuclear power plant in a dress. She's been like a third mom to me — Mom, and Ellie, and Bolonia. Mom and Dad died when Ellie was eighteen. I was fourteen. Ellie took over, became the parent. But Bolonia was there too, helping Ellie, and raising me alongside Morgan. I open the door to the shop, and the bell above it rings. The sound puts Sarah Walker in my head, that black pants suit, and those cool, blue eyes.
Bolonia stands up — she's been bent over behind the counter, and she smiles.
"Chuck!"
"Bolonia!"
She comes around the counter and opens her arms and I step into them, hugging her. She's so much shorter than I that anytime I hug her, I worry I will miss, close my arms above her head, — but I had never missed. She squeezed me hard and I catch a whiff of her spicy perfume, always comforting to me.
"So, you're here for the tux, for the big party?" She tilts her head back to look me in the face.
"I am."
"Morgan tells me you are not going with Hannah." I haven't mentioned that to Bolonia. I've let her assume whatever she assumes. Morgan makes my life harder.
"That's true. Wylie Stroud's niece asked me before Hannah mentioned it, and so I couldn't go with Hannah."
Disapproval lurks in the back of Bolonia's eyes. "You did not anticipate Hannah would want to go with you?"
"No, I honestly didn't, but mainly because I knew nothing about the party. The first I heard of it was when Sarah told me about it."
"Sarah, eh?" Bolonia says, as if the name itself spoke a mouthful only Bolonia can hear. "She's a fancy girl, isn't she?"
The term escapes me. Bolonia speaks a dialect all her own. She often means something other than what her words say.
"If you mean rich, I guess so."
Bolonia wrinkles her nose. It's an expression that Morgan has too. "No, I don't mean rich, although Morgan says she drives one of those cars that cost more money than they would hold. No, I meant...You know, Chuck, the two blonde girls on Andy Griffith, what are they?"
I spent a lot of my teenage years watching Andy Griffith with Bolonia and Morgan. She treats the show as scripture and uses it to interpret her life. Living in Opelika, it mostly works.
"Oh, you mean the fun girls, Skippy and...let's see...Daphne."
Bolonia nods in recognition of the names. "Yes, Skippy and Daphne." She says the names again to herself in a whisper, as if trying to commit them to memory.
"No, she's not like the fun girls, except she's blonde. She's tall, well-educated, I think, sophisticated. I gather she lives in California, Burbank."
Bolonia listens and shakes her head. "She's not the right girl for you, Chuck. Don't fall for a woman who has no roots."
"Maybe she has Burbank roots?" I say without really thinking. I know nothing about Sarah, I realize. I got Burbank from the caller ID on my phone when she called — that, and her Porsche's California plates gave me California.
"No one in California has roots. The ground is too shifty out there." Bolonia has a settled hatred for both the West and the East coast. She has a vague notion that everyone in California has a job in the adult film industry, and that everyone in New England teaches radical left-wing politics at a university.
"I'm just going to a party with her. It's casual. Barely a date at all." — Because it isn't one, I know, Sarah's joking on the phone aside.
I haven't put much thought into the reason I am going to the party, my work for Sarah. I've let myself float along, half-deludedly believing that it is a real date. That's not going to work out for me, that half-delusion of romantic grandeur. It's going to render me more than half unhappy. But I can't give it up, not just yet, anyway.
Bolonia tosses her head skeptically. "Morgan told me about you, your reaction to her, how money you've been since you met her."
"How money?" I wonder if we are back to the rich thing, fancy girls.
"Yes, you know, daydreaming around, not seeing what's in front of you."
"Moony?"
"Yes, moony!"
I can't argue with that. I have been moony — lunatic. A sane person does not keep hearing little bells on trees.
"I consider myself warned, Bolonia. Now, about the tux?"
She shakes her head, still skeptical. "You will look very good in this, Chuck. That fun girl won't know what hit her."
I stand in the house and peek out the door. My nerves would have me waiting on the porch, except my tux would wilt if I did. So, I stand and peek out the door, then look at my watch. It's almost 7 pm.
Ellie's still upstairs. Devon Woodcomb called in the afternoon and said that work would make him late. So, Ellie's using the extra time to get extra ready. It's obvious that my sister is taken with Dr. Woodcomb.
I hear a car outside and look out. The navy Porsche sits on the street. I can see that Sarah is in it, see her in silhouette. The car door opens and she steps out and I hear my own breath catch.
She's in a long blue dress, and it's all ashimmer. Imagine Rita Hayworth in the Gilda dress, only imagine it blue and imagine Rita blonde. The dress reveals Sarah's shoulders and it embraces her body gently. As she moves, she moves me. She's carrying a small silver clutch and wearing long blue gloves. Silver flats flash beneath the long skirt.
Gloves and a long skirt — in Alabama and in the summer.
She does not look like the steam outside affects her. I've never known any woman who could manage this heat so unaffectedly. Alabama summers crush all attempts at elegance. Except Sarah's. Casey's comment about dry ice comes to my mind. As Sarah gets near the porch I decide to save her the steps, and so I open the door and go out.
She stops and looks at me and I feel much shorter all of a sudden. Her mouth opens a bit and her eyes shift. I guess the tuxedo is a fail, although Ellie raved over it.
Sarah steps to the edge of the porch stairs. I see a faint redness in her cheeks.
"Chuck, you look wonderful."
I regain my normal height. I hadn't realized I had been holding my breath since she got out of the Porsche. I breathe again. Her reaction was favorable, not unfavorable, as I thought.
"Thanks, Sarah. And you — I never knew anyone could lay possession to an entire color, but, as of that dress, as of tonight, you own blue."
She stares at me for a minute and the red in her cheeks darkens.
"Chuck, you say beautiful things. Thank you. Are you sure you're not a writer?"
I hate the dodge but I descend the stairs instead of answering.
"I've never ridden in a Porsche," I say to change the topic. That's true. My grandfather has exotic cars, and he's let me ride in them or drive them, but he doesn't have a Porsche. His tastes run to British cars.
Sarah laughs as she turns. She reaches out and takes my hand. I wasn't expecting that and my breath catches again as I gently squeeze her gloved fingers. She gives me an answering smile and we walk to the Porsche.
I don't even notice the heat — only her gloved hand in mine.
Noble Hall was built in 1854, to stand tall above a 2000-acre cotton plantation. Slave labor built it, and I admit that slavery haunts the place for me. In the South, if you're white, it's hard to go anywhere without returning to the scene of a crime.
I've never been inside Noble Hall, although I have passed it many times, walked around it once, and been told about it often. The house itself is a massive, Greek revival reminder of the Old South, with monumental Doric columns in the front, supporting two cantilevered, full-length balconies. Inside, I'm told, are twelve feet high ceilings, and the exterior walls are eighteen inches thick. It's a hell of a place.
During the Civil War, the house was used to shelter injured Confederate soldiers. Toward the end of the War, Union troops were prepared to ransack the house but were dissuaded when one of the residents of the house showed a Masonic ring. The Union soldiers left, taking only the horses and mules.
Near beside the house is the exterior kitchen, used to keep the heat of cooking away from the main house. Behind the house stands a much smaller house, the Overseer's House. The house is surrounded on both sides by wide green fields and in the rear by dense woods.
Sarah pulls into the half-circle driveway and drives to the back of the house. She parks the Porsche in front of the Overseer's House's white surrounding fence. We've chatted pleasantly if directionlessly on the drive. She asked about where I got the tux, so I entertained her with tales of Bolonia. I omitted the fun girls discussion.
Lots of nice cars are parked behind the house. A few party-goers walk the manicured lawn, taking in the house. A waiter in a white coat stands outside, a tray of iced drinks in his hands.
Sarah and I haven't talked about my reason for being here, her office visit. I expected her to want to discuss it but she did not seem to. And I'm still in my half-delusion of romantic grandeur; I have no desire to rid myself of that. But after we leave the car, I see her inhale deliberately — and I remember my sense of artifice in her, although I had forgotten it until now. She takes my hand again and glances at me. "So, let's go meet Uncle Wylie."
She leads me into the house. The back door we use leads into the small interior kitchen. More waiters move about in the small space, and the counters are heavy with trays of food, fruit, and drinks. We pass from there into the house, through a fancy dining room with a table large enough, and slick-looking enough to host a hockey game. And then we enter the large formal living room and are greeted by the sound of voices and an increase in temperature — many talking bodies crowded into the space.
We do not enter unnoticed. The room momentarily hushes — everyone turns to gaze at Sarah. She dropped my hand just before we entered the room. The eyes that seem the only ones on me are Wylie's eyes.
He stands in the center of the room, the center of the crowd, the centerpiece of the party — or he was until Sarah walked in. I see and feel him examine me; he seems surprised to see me with Sarah.
His tuxedo exudes expense. His blondish hair has been combed back, his teeth shine whiter than my memory of them. He's smiling at us now, his surprise gone or hidden. Sarah starts toward him, through the path made by the parting crowd. I follow her. The sound of the room returns.
As we walk to Stroud, I see Daniel Shaw and Hannah standing off to the side. He stares at Sarah; Hannah stares at me. Near them, I see Hannah's dad and mom. Big Jim Sutton has never liked me much. He seems happy to see me with someone other than his daughter. But his wife, Hannah's mother, Janey, looks from Hannah to me and back to Hannah with concerned sympathy.
As I reach Wylie Stroud, Sarah takes his hand and, holding it, half-turns to me, presenting me. "Uncle Wylie, this is my date, Chuck Bartowski."
"Chuck Bartowski," he says, but to himself, not to me. "Oh, yes, a private detective in Opelika. We've been introduced once, I believe."
"Yes, we have," I say, making myself smile. We shake hands.
I'm reminded of why I didn't like him when I met him. He's too charming. Think of a dessert that's too sweet — he's like that, but with charm. Or think about someone wearing too much of a nice-smelling cologne. He isn't — but he's like that. Too much of a good thing. Charm overload.
I do my best to hide my reaction, to appear charmed, as he obviously expects me to be. The great man remembers the mere plebe.
"Noble Hall is all I expected," I offer, not sure what to say but remembering that my job is to make sure he likes me. "It must be an amazing place to live."
I don't think so. It's beautiful and all but haunted. He seems pleased by that and he takes an expansive glance around. "Yes, history in rock masonry. It's a bit overwhelming to think it's mine."
"I can imagine." I can't, but it's the right response in conventional conversation. Sarah has been pulled aside by an older woman, and so, for the moment, it's just Uncle Wylie and me.
"How did you come to buy it?"
He looks at me for a moment before he answers. "I was tired of the West Coast, tired of LA. I wanted someplace slower, but warm. A retirement place. And I wanted a place where my niece could visit me, a place that would take her way from California. She's tired of that life, I believe. She's been hoping to slow down herself. Anyway, the man I hired to find me a place found Noble Hall, and as soon as he sent pictures, I knew it was what I wanted. Price was no object," he adds, with a sincerity that both impresses and annoys me.
"Do you ride?" I ask. I'd seen horses in the fields beside the place. I wonder if they're related to the ones the Union soldiers confiscated.
"Yes, I do, but the horses aren't mine. The previous owner rented the fields and I've continued the arrangement, with the proviso that Sarah or I or our guests may ride the horses now and then. — Do you ride?"
I smile and laugh. "It depends on what you mean by 'ride'. I've been...aboard...a horse several times, but each was less a case of riding and more a case of being carried."
He chuckles. "Well, if you are ever here and want to ride, feel free. Sarah loves to ride; she's a very skilled rider."
Of course, she is. Of course. Sarah rejoined us in time to hear the last few remarks. She smiles at me. I realize that I am doing what she wanted — getting to know her uncle, and he does seem to like me. I wish she were smiling at me for other reasons.
"No, Uncle Wylie. I'm passable, nothing more."
It's nice of her to pretend for my sake. The gap between us already feels like the Snake River Gorge. No way across. All I've got's a short rope and a grappling heart.
Music begins to play and I realize that a quartet has taken up a position on the front porch. The room has massive windows that reach from almost the floor to the ceiling, and one has been opened to allow the music to enter.
Wylie turns from me to address the crowd. "Feel free to dance."
Sarah takes my hand and puts herself in my arms before I can react at all.
I dance about the same as I ride. I've done it but never well enough to feel like I've done it. But Sarah whisks me into dancing. The music plays and she moves and I move with her. She looks into my eyes and hers no longer seem cool, velvety. Her gaze is warm and intricate, different things, things I can't name, move in them at different levels. I glance away, overcome, and see Uncle Wylie watching us dance. Sarah presses herself against me, not hard but insistently, and he frowns as he looks away.
I still don't know what to make of the two of them. I had begun to believe he was her uncle but doubt's slithered back into my head. Sarah reaches up and turns my face back to hers: I had been staring at Wylie, although he did notice. I gaze into her eyes and I realize I am dancing. I am dancing.
A homily I heard Father Casey practicing one day comes back to me. I'd shown up early for choir practice, just to enjoy the cool, woody quiet of the church sanctuary, and he was standing in his office, working on his delivery. The sermon was about Jesus walking on the water. Peter, the disciple, the overeager one, sees Jesus and he manages the feat too, but only for so long as he has faith, only for so long as looks at Jesus. When he, predictably, begins to worry about the water and wind, he sinks.
I now know a little of what Peter might have felt. As long as I look into Sarah's eyes, I dance; if I look away, I falter.
I keep my eyes on hers and we spin and spin and I lose track of everything — Uncle Wylie, the twelve-foot ceilings and eighteen-inch walls, and I am simply with her, dancing and dancing, looking into the endless blue of her eyes.
Until I feel a hard finger on my shoulder, a tap that is more like a poke. I turn to see Daniel Shaw. He's not looking at me, he's looking at Sarah, and he says to her, not to me. "Mind if I cut in."
And he dances her away. I stand there feeling like all the magic has vanished from life. And then I hear Hannah delicately clear her throat beside me. "So, she's the plan you made?" she asks, referring to our conversation at the diner. She's staring at Shaw and Sarah as they dance.
"Yes, she asked me the day before you did. I really didn't know about the party until she asked."
Hannah looks at me for a moment as if trying to decide if I am telling the truth. She glances down. "I suppose I should have mentioned it to you sooner, but I was almost sure you would get an invitation. Stroud talked to Dad and Mom about who to invite."
I give her a raised eyebrow. "Did he talk to your Dad and Mom, or just your Dad?"
Her face shows surprise. "Now that you ask, I guess it probably was only Dad. Mom was ill the night that Stroud visited them."
I shrug to say There's the explanation.
She nods. "I'm sorry, Chuck. And, Christ, am I sorry I came with Shaw. He's worse than I imagined."
"Think of him as penance for some sin of your childhood."
She gives me a flat look. "You spend too much time with that hulking priest. You need new friends, Chuck Bartowski." I see the thought in her mind and she looks out to the dance floor at Sarah. Sarah is pushing Shaw back, holding him at arm's length. "But I guess you're working on that, aren't you?" Her voice is quiet and I know she doesn't really want me to answer the question.
The music ends and Sarah walks back to me. Shaw follows close behind, but Sarah does not acknowledge that he is there. "Who's this, Chuck?" Sarah asks as she looks at Hannah.
"This is my...friend…" I pause and Hannah stares hard at me. "...My old friend…" I pause again, and Sarah shifts her gaze to me, a question in it. I start again. "This is Hannah. Hannah, Sarah Walker." Neither Sarah nor Hannah seems quite happy with me but I step back and let them talk.
They manage a few cordial but also awkward sentences, and then Hannah motions to Shaw and they leave. Sarah watches them go. "So," she says as she turns around, "how long has Hannah been in love with you?"
I had taken a drink from a passing tray and was sipping it when Sarah asked. I kept it to my lips for a time trying to decide how to answer the question.
"Her? In love with me? She's here with Shaw." When asked a hard question you don't know how to answer, here's a tactic. Respond in the interrogative, then remark on something obvious.
"I see that. But he's a tool. She's with him but not with him."
I give her an arch response, still hoping to avoid her question, hoping to be funny. "There's a bit of that going around, huh?"
It takes her a split second to understand. She hadn't foreseen her phrase applying to us. When she understands, a flash of hurt shows in her eyes and they are cool velvet again.
"I suppose so." Her manner shifts, now in concert with her eyes. "You did well with my uncle. He doesn't like folks who come on too strong, and he doesn't like braggarts. Coming on too strong and bragging are to be reserved for him." I see her eyes find her uncle and see the frustration on her face. "I would say our mission has been accomplished."
I'm about to comment when I see Ellie come into the room. She's on the arm of a tall, athletic man. He's Gentleman's Quarterly pretty. Devon Woodcomb, I presume. I see what Ellie sees in him.
But my gaze shifts to her and stays there.
She has a green ribbon in her hair, and her hair's been brushed lustrous. Her gown, simple and elegant with straps on the shoulders, is green too, as are her shoes. She has on a simple string of pearls and wears no other jewelry.
Ellie recreates the hush that greeted Sarah; everyone looks at Ellie admiringly. Sarah sees me staring and whispers to me. "Who's that, Chuck?"
"My sister. Ellie," I answer proudly and see Sarah smile at the answer. Ellie sees me and she takes Devon's arm and leads him toward me, toward me and Sarah.
Ellie studies Sarah as they cross the room. She gives me an approving glance, one I return. Just before they reach us, the music starts again, and, suddenly, Daniel Shaw has his hand on Ellie's arm. "Dance, Dr. Bartowski?" He pulls her onto the floor.
Ellie's face falls, she glances at me for help. I step forward, put my hand on Shaw's shoulder, stopping him, turning him toward me. I should have known that was what Shaw wanted. He'd humiliated Hannah to get to me, danced with Sarah to get to me, and now he'd manhandled Ellie to get to me. He'd gotten to me.
He turns with a punch already traveling. My feet were not quick enough for basketball, and I may not ordinarily be a dancer, but I am not immobile. It helps that he's broadcast the punch by dropping his shoulder as he turns. I duck and he misses, the force of the punch carrying him forward.
As I duck, I get a look at the floor, and I see a silver shoe snake out and trip Shaw. Shaw lands hard — and against the legs of a waiter, who loses control of a tray of empty glasses. They crash to the floor, not quite in unison. Before I stand, I see the silver shoe stomp on Shaw's hand. It all happens so fast I half-believe it was a hallucination. I'm already suffering from delusions.
Shaw sits on the floor, shaking his hand, and he is miserable. Laughter fills the room as the shock ends. Hannah appears, breaking through the crowd to the clear spot in the floor around Shaw and the broken glass. I see her face cycle through various reactions but settle on sympathy. She walks to Shaw carefully through the shards.
"C'mon, Daniel, it's time for us to be going." She reaches down to him and helps him up.
I've never admired her more. After the way he treated her at the restaurant, after his behavior here at the party, she helps him up, helps him save face.
Decent. Hannah Sutton is decent, and she deserves better from me.
Sarah's watching me watch Hannah. Hannah leads Daniel out of the room and waiters sweep up the glass. Music begins again.
Sarah leads me out the front door and onto the porch. The open window for the band made the living room hot; the central air was overworked. But the porch stifles in comparison.
As soon as we step out, my tie feels like it has come alive and has concluded it must choke me. I feel sweat beading and running down my back, soaking into my shirt, the top of my pants. I worry that soon my feet will start to slosh in my shoes.
Sarah looks cool, still. She still has on the gloves. I want to ask her about her footwork with Shaw — it was her silver shoes — but I don't quite know how to ask. I decide to let her mention it if she wants to discuss it. The more I think about it, her footwork seems impossibly fast and effective.
She leads me to the edge of the porch. A breeze, weak, blows. She turns to me. "So, you never answered my question about Hannah. How long?"
I tug at my tie, my collar. "A while, I guess."
"You guess but you don't know?"
"No, I guess I know."
"Chuck, I'm not going to chase you all over the English language. Guess or know?"
"Know. She's...had feelings for me for a while."
"And you for her?"
I could say no. A part of me wants to say no but after what I witnessed that seems a betrayal — of fact and of Hannah. "I don't know."
Her eyebrows sink to glower and I go on. "No, no, that's not an evasion. I honestly don't know. She's a friend. I admire her — you saw her a few minutes ago. But I've known how she felt for while and I've never done anything about it, not really."
I want to say that Hannah never makes little bells ring on trees. I want to say that I've thought of no one but Sarah since she was in my office. I want to say that I keep having to remind myself this isn't a real date. I want to say all of that but I say none of it.
She bites her lower lip and applies her attention to the porch floor. As she finally looks at me, Uncle Wylie finds us. They make eye contact and something I don't understand passes between them.
He smiles at us. "Is everyone alright? That Shaw fellow knows how to make a party, eh?"
We both nod. Wylie goes back inside after one more glance at Sarah. Sarah's face has changed. That look from her visit to my office is back, the look that suggests contempt, the look for which I do not have the right word.
"All this is none of my business, Chuck, I'm sorry to have insisted. Curiosity. But ours is a business arrangement and you don't owe me any personal revelations. Again, I'm sorry."
I'm sorry too. Much sorrier than she knows, much sorrier than I confess because I say nothing. I just nod. My half-delusion can't be maintained any longer.
I'm her employee, not her date. I chat a time or two with Wylie again and dance with Sarah, but the magic's not there. The endless blue of her eyes is inaccessible to me if it ever was accessible to me.
She's pleasant and fun, but it's not the same. She drives me home and drops me off but she doesn't get out of the car.
Ellie is still at the party. She and Devon seemed to be enjoying each other thoroughly.
Wylie invited me to lunch at the country club Sunday as his guest; that'll be my chance to get to work. I didn't mention the invitation to Sarah — things were business-like enough on the drive home.
Bolonia Grimes has an odd gift. In one evening, I've gone from moony to money.
A/N: Ah, party's over.