The House on Tradd Street

by White, Karen

  It was the old photo of Mr. Vanderhorst and his mother on the piano bench—the same photo that I had most recently seen on the table by the sofa. Across the room. I moved to Jack’s side to take the frame from him, and it was then that I noticed the heavy scent of roses. “Do you smell that?” I asked.

  Jack’s eyebrows furrowed. “Smell what?”

  Chad and Sophie followed us into the drawing room as Chad sniffed one of his underarms. “It’s not me, whatever it is you’re smelling.”

  I watched as Sophie hid a smile. “Never mind,” I said. I looked down at the portrait of mother and son in my hands and felt a cold breath on my cheek. I glanced up quickly, meeting Jack’s eyes.

  “What is it?” Jack asked quietly, his eyes measuring.

  We looked at each other for a long moment before I turned away. “Nothing,” I said. I smiled at Sophie and Chad. “Mrs. Houlihan must have put it on top of the clock or something while she was dusting, and forgot about it. The vibrations from the chiming clock probably knocked it loose.”

  I felt three pairs of eyes staring at me, but not one of them said anything about how tall the clock was or even about how a fall onto hardwood floors didn’t break the glass on the frame. I rubbed the glass against my skirt to get the dust off of it and returned it to its place by the sofa.

  When I turned around, Sophie was standing on her tiptoes and peering at the face of the clock. “Did you know this is a William Johnstone, Melanie?”

  I shook my head. “Who’s he?” I didn’t know a lot about antique clocks, and I was happy to keep it that way.

  Sophie shook her head. “Only about the most prominent clock maker in the country around the time of the Civil War. Not a lot of examples of his work remain locally, which is odd since he was from Charleston. But his rate of production was pretty slow, which could also be the reason why there aren’t too many examples left.”

  Jack peered at the naval scene painted on the face. “I also seem to recall that he was a Confederate cavalry officer. And very good friends with your Mr. Vanderhorst, Mellie.”

  Sophie pulled on the brass handle of the glass door covering the face of the clock. “This is really weird,” she said, straining to see higher.

  “What?” I asked, peering over her shoulder.

  She pointed to the demilune painting that filled the top quarter of the face. “On all of the Johnstone clocks I’ve seen or studied, they always have pastoral scenes. It was sort of his trademark. His mother was Dutch, and before the war they always had dairy cows on their plantation on the Ashley. But this—” She shook her head. “The face shows what looks like a battle scene from Charleston Harbor, and the little rotating half-circle inset which shows daylight and nighttime looks like a bunch of signal flags in a row. I wonder if they say anything.” She put her heels down and faced us. “The picture makes a full rotation every twenty-four hours, so we could take a picture every three hours to get the whole thing.”

  I felt three pairs of eyes on me again. “I go to bed at nine thirty. Ten on weekends—tops. Besides, with the condition of the rest of the house, this should be on the very bottom of the priority list.”

  Jack cleared his throat. “Since I love mysteries, and I’m a night owl, I’ll volunteer to sleep on the couch with a camera.” He grinned innocently at me. “You won’t even know I’m here.”

  “That’s doubtful,” I said, frowning but feeling an unmistakable rush of excitement traipse up my spine. I hadn’t really been all that thrilled about spending a night alone in the big house by myself, and his presence—anybody’s presence, I tried to convince myself—would be welcome. “But go ahead if you want. Just know that I’ll be very cranky if my sleep is disrupted.”

  Jack winked. “And that would be different how . . . ?”

  Sophie snorted and Chad coughed into his hand. I sent them both a glaring look.

  Sophie began backing out of the room and Chad followed her. “I’d better get busy with this inventory. It could take a while.”

  Chad sent us a small wave. “Later, dudes,” he said before disappearing with Sophie.

  I was about to protest being called a “dude” when Jack drew my attention back to the clock. He had pulled aside the curtain next to it, revealing the penciled lines I had discovered on my first visit to the house with Mr. Vanderhorst.

  “MBG—this must be the growth chart you were telling me about.”

  I stood next to him, appreciating the smell of his cologne but trying very hard not to show it. “Yeah. It’s sweet, isn’t it?”

  “What did you say it stood for?”

  He stood very close to me in the crowded space, and I focused my gaze on the chart. “My best guy. Mr. Vanderhorst said that’s what his mother called him.”

  I sensed him nodding. “Not the sort of thing a mother would call a son she planned to abandon.”

  “I thought the same thing.” I brushed my hand over a section of the small lettering. “I was thinking about covering this whole part of the wall with clear Plexiglas to preserve it when we repaint the wall.”

  He didn’t say anything, so I turned my head, too late realizing that we were almost nose to nose.

  “Careful, Mellie,” he said quietly. “People might begin to think that you’re getting sentimental.”

  I felt flustered and breathless all at the same time. I took a quick step back. “I’m not getting sentimental—just practical. Preserving that part of the house’s history could make it more valuable.”

  His eyes continued to bore into mine but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

  I began to back away. “I’ve got to get back to the office and make a few phone calls. I’ll be back later to help you in the attic.”

  I was almost out of the room before he said, “Bye, Mellie.”

  I faced him, glad to have something to be angry about. “I think I’ve told you, Jack, that I don’t like being called ‘Mellie.’ ”

  With a self-righteous toss of my hair, I spun around and headed for the front door, pleased to have had the last word. I almost had it closed behind me when I heard Jack call out, “Bye, dude.”

  I slammed the door, then covered my mouth with my hand so nobody could hear me laugh.

  CHAPTER 10

  I arrived back at the house around six thirty, dismayed to find my fa-ther’s car parked at the curb. The only thought that saved me from sinking into a complete funk was the fact that Chad had called me earlier to ask if he could take General Lee home with him until I was ready to take care of the little dog. Feigning uncertainty, which I’m sure didn’t fool Chad at all, I’d agreed.

  As I fumbled for my keys on the front porch, I spoke to the closed door. “Don’t mess with me tonight. I am not in the mood.”

  The door was reassuringly locked as I pressed my key into the lock and turned it, the warm aromas of lasagna and garlic bread greeting me through the opened door. Still clutching my bags of supplies from the local home-improvement store, purchased with a list from Sophie, I resignedly followed the sound of male voices coming from the drawing room.

  I was relieved to find that Mrs. Houlihan had taken the dust covers off of the rest of the furniture, and I could smell polish and vinegar melding with that of the food. Despite the tired ruin of the once resplendent room, it did appear marginally brighter. My father sat on the sofa and was in the middle of a conversation with Jack, who sat perched on a Chippendale chair opposite. I tensed as they both turned to me.

  Jack stood and approached me with outstretched arms. “Let me take those.” He peeked inside. “Looks like you’re going to have a lot of stuff to put on your work sheet.”

  Ignoring him, I took a seat next to his chair, while he placed the packages on the floor next to the grandfather clock. Two tall glasses of what looked like ice water sat on coasters on the dark wood coffee table that crouched low to the floor on ball and claw feet.

  “Hello, Dad. I’m surprised to see you here.”

  He smiled, the old sm
ile I remembered from when I was a young girl and he was still the perfect father. “Mrs. Houlihan called and I couldn’t resist the offer of a home-cooked meal.”

  I wondered if that was meant to be a dig at me for not cooking for my father at all, much less on a regular basis. But I thought not. He and I had long since progressed from mere digs. “I meant that bars are usually open by now, aren’t they? I didn’t expect you here for dinner.”

  He flinched and I looked away, feeling sorry for both of us. But it was hard to find forgiveness for a man who’d taught his ten-year-old daughter how to force an aspirin down the throat of a drunk man so that he’d be able to face going to work the next morning. And I couldn’t forget how that same ten-year-old had learned to wake up early and get herself ready for school so that she could make sure her father actually made it to work.

  Jack picked up both glasses. “Looks like we could both use a refill. Can I get you anything, Mellie?”

  My dad’s eyes searched my face for some sort of reaction to the name but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Sweet tea, please. With lemon.”

  We listened to Jack’s footsteps disappearing down the hallway. My dad leaned on his elbows, his hands folded together. I noticed they were shaking but he seemed unable to make it stop. “Your mother called again. She was wondering if I’d given you her message.”

  My eyes met his. “What did you tell her?”

  He shrugged and I noticed his shoulders were softer than I remembered, rounded like an old man’s. It was with a little jolt that I realized he would be sixty-five in a couple of years, a senior citizen and not the handsome, young father in the sharp-looking uniform anymore. But he hadn’t been that man for a very long time. Sometimes, I even wondered if I’d made him up in my young girl dreams—a fantasy I had devised to soften the edges of my life.

  “I told her that you would call her when you were ready. And that I didn’t think it would be anytime soon. She said she had something important to tell you.”

  I looked down at my clasped hands, noticing the whiteness at the tips from clenching them too tightly. I felt the old anger, born of grief and abandonment, tumble through my veins like a storm surge. Meeting my father’s eyes, I said, “If she calls you again, please let her know that I got her message.”

  His eyes widened. “Are you going to call her back?”

  “No.”

  Jack walked back into the room and gave us our drinks. I took mine and gulped it until all that was left was clinking ice, trying to fill that part of me that had remained empty for so many years.

  Jack watched me as I placed my glass back on the coaster. I gave him a look I hoped he understood meant to remain silent, then dug in my purse for the receipt for the supplies. I slid it across the coffee table to my father. “Here’s the receipt from today’s shopping trip, and I’m sure there’s going to be a lot more. I had the alarm company send the bill directly to you, so you should be getting that anyday now.” I swallowed, trying to find a nonchalant tone to continue. “I am going to suggest opening up a separate checking account for me to write checks on and have access to cash for use on the house. I can supply you with the receipts on a monthly basis for you to verify where the funds are being spent. That way, you won’t have to come here at all.”

  My father coughed and gave Jack a quick glance. “Melanie, about that. I . . . uh . . . that’s one of the things I wanted to talk with you about tonight. I’d actually like to be more involved than just doling out the money.” He sent me a weak smile. “I’d like to swing a hammer, strip some wallpaper. That sort of thing. It would be good for me. For us.”

  I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry, and I wished that I hadn’t drunk all of my iced tea. “And what would be the purpose of that?”

  “I’ve been sober for six days now. That’s the longest I’ve ever been sober since I started drinking. I think it’s a good start. And maybe”—he looked down at his trembling hands—“and maybe it means we’ve got a chance to start over.”

  I put my hands on my temples and rubbed, trying to ward off the headache I knew was approaching. “Dad, I’m glad to know you’re trying. Really, I am. And six days is a good start. But I can’t . . .” I closed my eyes, pressing harder on my temples. “I just can’t pretend that it’s a chance for us to start over. I’ve done it so many times that I just don’t think I could take the disappointment one more time.”

  Jack cleared his throat. “Why don’t you give him a probationary period or something? Put him on your schedule. Make him responsible for showing up and getting his jobs done. I’ll even be in charge of that if it makes it easier. That way you’re sort of removed from the process.”

  “It won’t work. It never does.” I grabbed my empty glass and tilted it so that I got a few drops of melted water.

  “Give him a chance, Mellie. Everybody deserves another chance.”

  I eyed Jack’s water glass and suddenly it all made sense to me. The reason Jack and my dad had so much to say to each other. The way Jack knew my father had started in AA again. And then I thought of Mr. Vanderhorst, who’d never given up believing his mother loved him, despite all the facts that said otherwise, and whose dying wish was to prove that he was right.

  I looked at Jack and then my father. “Fine,” I said, standing. “Fine. But Jack’s in charge where you’re concerned. And the first time that you don’t show up when you’re supposed to will be the last time.”

  My dad nodded. “That’s fair. And I promise that I won’t disappoint you.”

  I slowly exhaled. “Forgive me if I don’t jump up and down with excitement, Dad, but I’ve heard that before.”

  I felt a blast of warm outside air as if someone had thrown open a window. The mosquitoes in Charleston in the summertime were legendary, and I was pretty sure that none of the people currently in the house would have been stupid enough to leave a window open. Except for Jack, maybe, because the reasoning and thought-processing center in his brain seemed to be damaged.

  I stepped into the foyer and was met by the wide-open front door. I rushed to close it, noticing how the dead bolt was out, but not connected to the doorjamb. Nor was there any damage to the woodwork surrounding the door that might indicate a forced entry.

  My dad stooped to examine the bolt. “Looks like you didn’t close the door all the way before you bolted it.”

  Our eyes met, and I saw in his the same denial he had been practicing with me since I was very small and had first seen the old woman in the long dress knitting in a rocking chair in the corner of my bedroom. Never mind that I’d described his grandmother perfectly, he’d insisted—and still would, I was sure—that it was my active imagination.

  “That must be it,” I said as I closed the door firmly and slid the latch so everyone could hear.

  My dad tugged on the doorknob, just to make sure. “Still, Melanie, I don’t like the fact that you’ll be here all by yourself at night.”

  Jack stepped forward. “Oh, no need to worry about that at least for tonight, Colonel. I’ll be sleeping over.”

  My father’s eyes widened as his eyebrows went up high enough to almost touch his receding hairline. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Dad, it’s not what you think,” I hastened, spearing Jack with what I hoped was a chastising look. “Jack’s sleeping on the couch down here tonight to take pictures of the grandfather clock. It has an unusual face that can’t be seen all at once without taking it apart. He’s going to take photos of it every three hours so that we can get a complete picture.”

  Jack grinned, and my father’s face returned to normal at the same time Mrs. Houlihan arrived to tell us that dinner was ready and waiting for us in the dining room. I followed her, the two men behind me allowing me to hear their conversation.

  “Sorry, sir, for the misunderstanding. I never meant to insinuate that your daughter was in any danger from me.”

  I heard a soft snort. “It wasn’t her I was worried about, son.”

  They
both laughed softly until I turned around to glare at them. With a bit of throat clearing and coughing, they continued to follow me into the dining room.

  I sat at the Victorian dressing table in Mr. Vanderhorst’s old room, feeling the cold marble tabletop with my fingertips. Mrs. Houlihan had boxed up all of Mr. Vanderhorst’s personal property to be donated to charity later, but it still didn’t feel like anybody else’s room except his. It was past ten o’clock but I didn’t feel sleepy. Part of that could have been because of the exertion required to turn on the taps and regulate the bathwater temperature in the clawfoot tub in the antiquated bathroom. After tonight, updating the plumbing had climbed to the number-two position on my list—right after the roof—and it couldn’t happen soon enough.

  My father had left around eight thirty, following a delicious dinner filled with wonderful food and stilted conversation. He and I were experts at dancing around the obvious, so neither one of us spoke unless spoken to, leaving Jack to carry the conversation. Fortunately, this was something he seemed adept at, or else he just enjoyed hearing himself talk. We had dessert in the drawing room, and Mrs. Houlihan used the rose plates, explaining that they had been Mr. Vanderhorst’s favorites because they had belonged to his mother.

  After my father left, Jack climbed the stairs to the attic—protected now by a tarp over the roof—and said he planned to work there all night, setting an alarm to remind him to take a picture of the clock every three hours. He insisted on sleeping on the couch if he needed to, but I still had Mrs. Houlihan put fresh sheets in a guest bedroom as far away down the hall as I could find.

  I pulled down the sheets and set my alarm for six o’clock in the morning, then turned out the light just as the grandfather clock downstairs chimed the half hour. I lay in the four-poster rice bed staring up at the ceiling, dimly lit by the streetlight outside, and listened to the creaks and sighs of the house, reminding me of an elderly person trying to settle down at night. Listening to old houses was usually an activity that I wholeheartedly avoided because it invariably ended with me hearing something I didn’t want to, but this house was different. I had no illusions as to what was going on with the front door. But other than the door, the fallen picture, and the occasional scent of roses, I had a feeling that the house—and its inhabitants—was remaining dutifully quiet. It was either that, or they were merely waiting. I closed my eyes and listened to a tree branch brush against a window shutter, and felt that I, too, was waiting. For what, I wasn’t sure.