The House on Harbor Hill

by Shelly Stratton

  “Shit! Shit!” he yelled over the sound of the car radio. He closed his eyes, then opened them. He sighed. “I feel like a fool, Dee. I should’ve realized he was behind it. He gave me bad vibes the moment I met him, and I should’ve followed my instinct. I’ve known assholes like that. I know what they’re capable of. I’m . . . I’m so sorry I brought you here,” Aidan whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  He then lowered his forehead to the steering wheel and closed his eyes again. After some seconds, she placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Aidan,” she said, and he slowly raised his head. He turned to look at her. “Don’t apologize, honey. You’ve got nothing to apologize about. If I hadn’t come here today, I never would’ve found out the truth.”

  Aidan pursed his lips. He nodded. “You mean the truth about Teddy, that he was the one harassing you. That’s what you mean?”

  She inclined her head and stared. “No, honey. I mean, the truth about what happened all those years ago. I don’t think I was the one who killed my husband.”

  Part IV

  Chevy Chase, Maryland

  November 1968

  CHAPTER 29

  “So you got caught up, huh?” Agnes says, and I lower my hand.

  I am showing off my three-carat diamond wedding ring to her after not seeing her in a couple of weeks. I am hoping she will “ooh and ahh” over how the diamond catches the light and sparkles. But I should’ve known Agnes would see past the ring, the expensive coat, and my newly pressed and styled hair. Of course, she’d get straight to the point.

  “When you due?” she asks, peering over the diner’s tabletop, eyeing my waist through my wool coat.

  “In May,” I whisper sheepishly, pulling back my hand.

  Agnes exhales and shrugs. She grabs her fork and slices into her pie. “Well, if he asked you to marry him, he’s done more than most.” She chews and wipes her mouth with a paper napkin. “At least there’s that. Because a white man marrying a Negro gal ain’t no little thing. People used to get hung for something like that. Y’all don’t have the noose to worry about no more, but it ain’t gonna be easy, Dee!”

  “We know. We want to get married anyway.”

  Well, by we, I really mean Cee. But Cee never cares about anything but what he wants.

  I can’t tell Agnes that Cee didn’t ask me to marry him; he told me we were getting married. One day, I told him I was in the family way, which was no surprise considering how many times he had climbed on top of me in the back of his GTO—whether I wanted him to or not. A few days later, we were on our way to the city to exchange wedding vows at the courthouse. We left for our honeymoon in New York City that night.

  Cee insisted we do all that before we told anybody else.

  Of course, that wasn’t the plan I had. I didn’t want to get married. I was going to quit working for Miss Mindy as soon as I started showing. I’d already called Mama and given her the news. I was going to head down to Lynchburg to have my baby, but I wouldn’t give it away like Agnes did hers. The baby would stay with my Mama until the child was old enough for me to send for it to live with me up north. But Cee had dismissed the idea before I had the chance to explain.

  “There’s no goddamn way I’d have my kid growing up on some dingy colored tobacco farm in the middle of nowhere Virginia,” he told me. “No, you’ll stay here. We’ll get married. It’s legal now.”

  I knew not to argue with him. I would never win. I was caught up in more ways than one.

  When I obey Cee, he’s nice to me. He talks sweet; he calls me “gorgeous” and tells me how special I am, how I’m unlike any woman he’s ever met. He gives me things—gifts and more money I can send home to my family. But when I disobey or talk back, he yells at me. When I walk away, he grabs me, shoves me down, or slaps me.

  “Why do you keep testing my love for you, Dee?” he said as he wrapped his hand around my throat and squeezed when I tried yet again to end it with him. “I wanna make you happy, but don’t piss me off!”

  Every night I hope and pray that it will get better, that the man who wooed me with conversations about books and life will stay and the mean Cee will finally disappear forever.

  But then a voice whispers to me, “Honey, if you believe that, you’re as crazy as he is.”

  “So where are you two living now?” Agnes asks, snapping me out of my thoughts. “I know you can’t be still living with your auntie.”

  “No, we’re living at his beach house, Harbor Hill.” I smile for the first time. “It’s a beautiful place, Agnes. You should see it! It’s got all these rooms and windows. You can see the water. I love it.”

  It is one of the few things in my life with Cee that truly makes me happy. Sometimes, I walk up and down the halls and look at the rooms, and I am in disbelief. I never thought I would live in a home like Harbor Hill, that I could ever call such a place my own. It’s like something out of one of the novels I read.

  “Well, look at you, Mrs. Buford! The lady of a big ol’ house now!”

  She chuckles softly and takes another bite of her pie. I ordered some apple pie too but haven’t taken a bite yet. Now that I’m pregnant, smells overwhelm me so easily. The greasy onion smell of the hamburger the man nearby is eating is making me sick to my stomach.

  “It’s what you always wanted though, right?” Agnes continues, and I frown.

  “What have I always wanted?”

  “To be the lady of the house . . . to be in charge. You didn’t want to be just any dumb maid like the rest of us, having to bow down to the likes of Miss Mindy. Remember?”

  I lower my eyes to my pie and stare at the sugary filling because I can’t meet her eyes anymore. “I didn’t mean that, Agnes. I just said it when I was mad.”

  “You did mean it. You didn’t mean it in a mean way, but you still meant every word you said.” She reaches across the table and gently raises my chin so I have to look at her. “And I could see it in you. I could see it in the way you carried yourself, in the books you toted around with you and how you always seemed like you just wanted to run away, to not be there.” She drops her hand from my chin. “Well, you got out, Dee! I don’t know if I would’ve done it your way, but your way worked. You wanted better, and you got better! That’s all that counts.”

  But is it? I wonder if she would still think so if saw the bruise on my hip from when Cee knocked me down to the floor a week ago.

  “How is Miss Mindy, by the way?” I ask, and Agnes rolls her eyes to the ceiling.

  “Mad enough to spit nails. No, mad enough to spit fire! She’s not too happy about her baby brother marrying the help—let alone Negro help! She talks about it all the time with Mr. Williams and with her mama. The Buford women both just beside themselves, chile!”

  Agnes pauses to take another bite.

  “Nothing me or Roberta does makes her happy anymore. Just the other day, she tried to accuse me of stealing a pair of her earrings. Can you believe that?” Agnes sucks her teeth. “Like I’d want the ugly things she wears. She found them later behind her bureau but didn’t apologize. Just acted like it never happened and started fussing about something else. She threatens all the time that she’s gonna let me and Roberta go.” Agnes leans forward and drops her voice down to a whisper. “Personally, I think they’re running out of money. Roberta tells me that Miss Mindy’s been cutting back on the groceries and telling her to stretch out whatever she buys. They usually go away on vacation for Christmas, but they’re staying right here this year. Maybe it is just a matter of time before they let us go.”

  I open my mouth to tell Agnes the truth—that the Williams family is running out of money and Miss Mindy had been blackmailing me for months to convince Cee to give me money that I would then give to Miss Mindy. But I close my mouth. I can’t tell her. I’m still ashamed of what I did, of what I let Miss Mindy talk me into doing.

  Agnes’s shoulders slump as she finishes the last of her pie. “Lord, I wonder if I should start looking for a job aga
in! I’ve worked for that woman for almost six years now. Miss Mindy ain’t the best lady to work for but, like they say, ‘The devil you know is better than the devil you don’t.’ Who knows what kinda woman I’ll have to work for the next time around.” She chuckles again. “If you’re looking for a maid at that big ol’ house on Harbor Hill, let me know!”

  * * *

  An hour later, I pull up to Harbor Hill. The drive from the city doesn’t usually take that long, but when I’m in the car that Cee gave me as a wedding gift—a tan 1968 Plymouth Fury—I love to drive. Sometimes I fantasize about driving straight out of Maryland and going for miles and miles. I dream about not coming back. Before I know it, I’m on I-95, and I’m in the center lane headed to a place unknown. But then I remember that I’m eighteen years old and pregnant. I remember that I’m married to a man who owns the car I’m driving and he could track me down. If I ran and he found me, there will be hell to pay. So I look for the first exit and take it. Even though every part of me screams “keep driving,” I always head back home.

  When I pull up to the house today after my time with Agnes, I find Cee sitting on the front porch in one of the rocking chairs. His flask is in one hand and a burning cigarette dangles from the other. He’s slumped so low in the chair any regular person would think he was fast asleep, but I can see that his eyes are open. He’s glaring at me as I open the car door and step onto the gravel.

  “Where the hell were you?” he barks as I walk toward the stairs. “What took you so long?”

  “I was only a couple of hours, honey,” I say, trying to keep my voice gentle. “Agnes and me had a lot of catching up to do.”

  “Agnes and I,” he corrects with an air of exasperation, then pushes himself to his feet. “Well, I’m tired of waiting for you. If you came back any later, we were going to be late.”

  “Late for what?” I ask, climbing the porch stairs.

  “Late for the party! Jesus Christ, can’t you remember anything?” He flicks his cigarette toward the rosebushes.

  I don’t know what to say. If I say the wrong thing, like telling him that he never mentioned any damn party, it could earn me a slap to my cheek. So instead I stare at him.

  “They’re having the annual cocktail party at the country club. We’ve gotta make an appearance.” He tucks his flask into his coat pocket. “My family goes every year.”

  “You . . . you want me to go with you?”

  “That’s what I said, didn’t I? You’re my wife now. It wouldn’t look right if you weren’t there with me.”

  Yes, I am his wife, but I am also a Colored woman, and I don’t think they let folks like me in his family’s country club who aren’t carrying a tray or toting a broom. But I can tell from the firm set of Cee’s jaw that he doesn’t want to hear reason. He certainly doesn’t want to hear it from me. I don’t know what he’ll do if they turn us away at the door, but I guess I’ll deal with it when the time comes.

  “Okay,” I say, painting on a smile, “I’ll find something pretty to wear.”

  CHAPTER 30

  When we arrive at the country club, I can hear the band playing inside. The music floats through the opened glass doors, where men in tuxedos and women in cocktail dresses huddle at the entrance, laughing and talking. Seeing them, I feel light-headed and sick to my stomach again. I’m not sure if it’s because of the corset I’m wearing or the baby or my nerves. Maybe it’s all three.

  I don’t want to get out of the car, but Cee is already climbing out of his GTO and handing off the keys to a colored boy in a red jacket and black slacks who looks to be my age. The boy’s mouth falls open as he watches Cee walk around the car hood and hold out his hand to me. I take it and rise to my feet. When I do, I try not to fidget with my dress and my jewelry, but it’s hard not to. I feel weighed down by it—the mink shawl, the diamond and emerald necklace around my throat, and the diamond cuffs around my wrists. Even I know it’s too much for a party, and I didn’t want to wear them, but Cee made me do it anyway. I wonder if he thinks no one will notice my brown skin under all the fur and jewels.

  But they do notice. As soon as I link my arm through Cee’s and we climb the short flight of stairs, the conversations stop. The men and women standing near the doors turn to stare at us. One woman lowers a cigarette from her red lips. Another just blinks her false eyelashes, like she can’t believe what she’s seeing. One of the men raises his hand in a half-hearted wave.

  “H-hey, Cee,” he stutters, and Cee nods at him and grins, like he can’t see their slacked jaws.

  “Hey, Bill, how you doing?” Cee says, and we keep walking.

  I can feel their eyes on our backs as we make our way down the grand hall toward the ballroom. The light seems brighter under the crystal chandeliers. The music and voices are louder now too—and so are the whispers. The people lining the halls aren’t just staring at us. Some lean their heads toward one another and point. Others frown. I can tell Cee notices, but unlike me, he seems to take pleasure in all the attention. His smile goes wider. He holds his head up higher. He waves and says hello to a few people, but they either give him a vague “hey” back or just look at him, confused.

  I’m not having as good a time as he is. I want to get out of here, to run back to the car. I’m not wanted here, and I can feel it. I start to tug my arm out of Cee’s grasp, but he stops me. He holds on to my hand even tighter, and I know I’m trapped.

  “Smile, Dee,” he orders between clenched teeth, glancing down at me.

  I paint on a smile though my legs feel like taffy. I worry I might faint.

  We enter the ballroom, where couples are doing the twist on the dance floor. I feel a little less conspicuous in here with the crushing mass of people, but now the heat from all their bodies overwhelms me instead. I follow him through the sea of dancers and lingerers to one of the tables near the stage. I can see a few people are already sitting there. When we draw closer, I recognize the red bouffant, and I stop in my tracks.

  “Come on,” he says, tugging me forward, and I shake my head.

  “I can’t, Cee. Don’t make me do this,” I whisper desperately.

  He narrows his eyes at me and yanks again, and I almost fly out of my high heels. We walk to the table, and Miss Mindy turns away from a gray-haired woman with sallow skin and a willowy frame sitting to her right. Mr. Williams lowers his cigarette from his mouth and stares up at us.

  “Mama, Mindy, Jake . . . how are y’all doing tonight? Sorry, we’re a little late.” He laughs. “Delilah had to put her face on. You know how women can be.”

  He pulls out a chair at the table for me—next to his mother—and I glance at it, unsure whether I should sit down.

  “Go on.” He slaps the back of the chair. “Take a load off your feet, gorgeous. A woman in your condition shouldn’t be standing around all the time.”

  I slowly sit down. His mother scowls at me, eying me over the top of her eyeglasses. Her eyes then land on Cee.

  “If your father could see you now,” she whispers through wrinkled lips, then gravely shakes her head, “he would be so ashamed, Chauncey!”

  I clamp my mouth shut and close my eyes, feeling the bile rise in the back of my throat.

  “Ashamed that I knocked up a colored gal—or that I married one?” Cee asks, removing his flask from the inside of his tuxedo jacket and raising an eyebrow. “You’re going to have to be specific, Mama.”

  I open my eyes and stare at him in disgust.

  “Not here, please,” Jake says, tapping the ashes of his cigarette onto an empty bread plate. But Cee ignores him.

  “Come on! Why are we all pretending? We’ve all heard the rumors. Even my dear Daddy sowed his share of pickaninnies in his day. At least I’m owning up to it.”

  “Cee!” Miss Mindy snarls. “You stop this right now! You hear me?”

  Cee laughs even harder as he twists off the lid to his flask and raises it to his lips. I realize then that he hasn’t brought me here because I’m his wife
and he felt I should be at his side, like he said. He did it just for the spectacle. It’s like he enjoys torturing his family as much as he does bullying me. He likes watching them squirm and their faces go red. But I don’t. I can’t stand it anymore. I shoot to my feet and push back my chair.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he snarls.

  “To the ladies’ room,” I mumble before rushing from the table and heading across the ballroom, not giving him a chance to stop me.

  I ignore the eyes that follow me as I run to the ballroom doors. I look up and down the hall, searching for the women’s bathroom, clutching my gloved hand over my mouth. I finally spot the gold sign and run toward it, excusing myself as I push my way past a group of women. I fly into one of the stalls, drop to my knees on the marble tile, and throw up right there in the country club toilet. I throw up until my stomach feels empty, until I can’t do it anymore. When I’m done, I stagger to my feet and wipe my mouth with some toilet tissue. I open the door and find a woman standing at one of seashell-shaped sinks, applying lipstick.

  I slink to the sink next to her with my head bowed.

  “Not feeling too well, huh?” the woman asks. “I hope it wasn’t the shrimp.”

  I shake my head and fill my cupped hands with water. I lean down and lightly douse my face. “It wasn’t the shrimp,” I whisper. “I haven’t eaten anything.”

  “Did you tell Cee you didn’t feel well?” she asks, and my head shoots up. I blink water out of my eyes and see her smiling at me in the mirror’s reflection. “I bet he made you come to the party anyway. He can be stubborn about those sorts of things.”

  I didn’t recognize her when I ran into the bathroom. I was more concerned with finding a toilet. But I recognize her now.

  “Just look at me, jabbering like we’re old friends,” she says with a chuckle. “I saw you walk in with Chauncey. I’m Betsy, by the way.”

  “I know. We’ve met before. I’m Delilah.”