by Tamar Myers
Colonel Latham was a particularly vicious man who raped scores of his female slaves, and the female servant, Mary Elizabeth Williams. When the latter became pregnant, Colonel Latham married her in the local Episcopal church, on New Year’s Day. It was a short marriage, however, because on their way home from the church the couple was ambushed by a small band of slaves and the colonel was pierced through the heart by a wooden spear. The new Mrs. Latham was left unharmed, and much to the ire of her neighboring planters, did little to punish her slaves. To the contrary, it is said she ordered extra rations to be given all the slaves that day, and on the anniversary of that day for the rest of her life. At any rate, six months after her husband’s death, Mary Elizabeth Latham gave birth to a son, Jonathan Elias Latham.
Two years after inheriting the colonel’s estate, Mary Elizabeth Latham married one of the estate’s white male indentured servants, Albert Burton. Rumor had it that she was pregnant again. Eight months after her second wedding Mary Elizabeth was delivered of twins, Elizabeth Louise, and George Albert Burton.
The two brothers were reasonably close, and Jonathan Elias Latham is said to have had an unnaturally close relationship with his half sister. Elizabeth Louise never married, but the foundling child her twin George and his wife took in, is said to have been hers. At any rate, in succeeding generations the Latham and Burton branches of the family tree have become more tangled than Rapunzel’s hair.
This, then, is the American origin of the proud Latham-Burton clan, at least according to Mama. Apparently the Low-Country mavens are fond of reciting this family’s history whenever scandal threatens their own. But despite—maybe even because of—the Latham-Burton’s checkered past, folks look up to them. It is almost as if the colonel’s clan has set a standard of eccentricity that society is still trying to live up to. The fact that the family has money is quite incidental, I’m sure.
The white plantation house sits on the left bank of the Black River. This body of water gets its name from its colalike water. The peculiar color is a result of tannin produced by the cypress trees that grow along the river’s banks, and in some cases, well into the river itself.
“Ooooh!” C.J. squealed, “I always wanted to live in a house like that. How many rooms does it have?”
Tradd frowned. “Not enough. It looks larger than it is. You two are going to have to share a room, I’m afraid.”
I prayed that my sigh of relief wasn’t audible. I had assumed Tradd knew better than to presume upon my good character. Just because I am a divorcée, does not make me a tramp.
“That’s okay,” C.J. said, “even though Abby snores.”
“I do not!”
“But you do—you sound just like a cement mixer.”
I glared at her. “Who are you to talk?”
“But, of course, you can’t help it, Abby. Lots of people who drool in their sleep snore as well.”
“C.J.!”
Tradd pretended to ignore our tiff and gallantly opened our doors. “Well, ladies, shall we disembark? Grandmother is undoubtedly waiting for us in the drawing room.”
C.J. and I tumbled eagerly out of the car. It felt good to stand again—although frankly, I was the only one who didn’t need to stretch his or her legs. C.J. did a curious one-legged hop, followed by a series of jumping jacks, and ended by swinging her arms in circles like propeller blades. Tradd, on the other hand, stretched and yawned just like a cat.
“Oh, my gosh! Dmitri!”
I dove under the front seat and was rewarded for my heroism by a hiss. I recoiled in shock. My beloved fur ball has never scratched, bit, or hissed at me. His vet, however, is missing a pinky nail.
A few seconds later I tried again. This time he not only hissed, but the claws on his right paw grazed the tip of my nose.
Although not in physical pain, I was nonetheless deeply hurt. “Don’t you take a swipe at Mama! Do you hear me?”
Dmitri growled.
I stood up, baffled and defeated.
“Anything wrong?” Tradd asked gently.
“I think you traumatized him by driving too fast,” C.J. said before I could stop her. But she was absolutely right.
Tradd grinned. “Sorry. You think he’ll be all right?”
I shrugged. “Does your grandmother have dogs?”
“Not a one.”
“Any in the neighborhood?”
Tradd waved his arms at the surrounding woods. “I wouldn’t think so.”
“Then I’ll just let him be for a while. Give him a chance to calm down.”
“You sure?”
I was pretty sure. Cats might act like they’re not paying attention most of the time, and they’re certainly less responsive than dogs, but they have a sixth sense that is positively uncanny. I wouldn’t be surprised if Dmitri was able to find his way back to Charlotte, even though he hadn’t laid eyes on even an inch of road. Certainly he was capable of following my trail to the house. Or was he? Any animal that chases his own tail has got to be spatially challenged.
“We can check on him frequently,” C.J. said and patted my arm.
I left a handful of cat treats beside the seat and poured some Evian in his bowl. “See you later, guy.” I turned to the others. “Well, I’m ready.”
“Then, let’s go,” Tradd said and offered us each an arm.
I am ashamed to say that for the next few minutes I forgot all about Dmitri. If only I hadn’t agreed to bring C.J.
“Ooooh, look at all these cars,” she squealed. Believe me, the woman drools just as much as I do.
I looked. Parked beneath spreading, moss-draped oaks, were a Ferrari, another Jaguar, a Cadillac, a Mercedes, and a Rolls-Royce.
“I guess we’re the last ones here,” Tradd said, rubbing his golden chin. He sounded disappointed.
“Who drives the Ferrari?” C.J. asked shamelessly.
“That would be my brother Harold. His wife Sally drives the blue Jag. She claims Hal drives too fast.”
“Perhaps it’s genetic,” I mumbled.
“Excuse me?”
“The Caddie, dear. I was talking about the Caddie. My ex-husband Buford gets a new one every year. Trades it in at Arnold Palmer Cadillac in Charlotte.”
“Yeah? Well, that old clunker belongs to my cousin Alexandra Latham. It’s got to be at least five years old.”
“You don’t say! Well, personally I’d go for that pearl-gray Mercedes over there—I mean if I had the money. It’s almost the same color as that clump of Spanish moss hanging above it.”
“That belongs to Albert Jansen, my brother-in-law. My sister, Edith, had her own, but she wrapped it around a palm tree on a miniature golf course at Myrtle Beach.”
“Was she all right?”
“Fine as frog hair. Not a scratch on her—but the car was totaled. The owner of the course bought it and left it right where it was. Now when you want to play the ninth hole you have to putt around the damn thing.”
“Which leaves the Rolls,” C.J. said. “Your grandmother’s?”
Tradd laughed. “Actually that belongs to Flora, Grandmother’s maid.”
“Get out of town,” I said, borrowing Susan’s phrase.
“Yeah, well, Grandmother doesn’t drive anymore, and Flora does all her errands. I guess it makes sense. Anyway, it’s Grandmother’s money.”
“For sure. Believe me, when I come into money again, and if I live to a ripe old age, I’ll dispense my goodies as I so please. My children are both sound of body and mind, and as such, need to make their own way in this world. I certainly don’t expect to inherit Mama’s money.”
The truth is, I had no idea what the total of Mama’s assets might be. Daddy was a traveling salesman for a Rock Hill clothing mill, and couldn’t have made a whole lot of money. Mama, I know, has never worked outside her home a day in her life, yet she seems relatively comfortable. When I got home I was going to have to ask her about her finances. For her sake, mind you, not mine.
“Well, ladies, shall we?”
Tradd asked, and gestured toward the house.
We followed him up the leaf-strewn walk to what looked like Tara on stilts. The Latham mansion, like many in the area, sits well off the ground, an accommodation to floods and the periodic hurricane. In the old days the space under the porch would have offered shelter to chickens and dogs, maybe even slaves, in a thunderstorm. Now it was home to a rusted old Chevy, which had once been the color of asparagus soup. Call me a snob, but that car sure didn’t fit the picture.
“That’s cook’s car,” Tradd said, reading my mind. “Grandmother insists she park it out of sight.” He rang the bell with a golden thumb. “I hope y’all like planter’s punch,” he said with a wink.
The door swung open immediately to reveal a young woman in full maid’s uniform. I took an immediate dislike to her. For one thing, she was a lazy, bottle blonde—inch-long licorice roots betrayed her. For another thing, she was far too made-up for that hour of the day. Even a geisha wears less foundation, for crying out loud. And those cheeks! The bright pink circles dusted on them looked like they’d been put there by a clown—either that, or she was burning up with fever. Furthermore, she was one of those types whose legs don’t quit until they hit the armpits. The woman’s inseams were longer than me!
“Hey, Flora,” Tradd said.
“Hey, yourself,” she replied.
Tradd ushered us past Flora without introductions. The entrance hall ran almost the full length of the house, and was as wide as my living room at home. Pairs of narrow, straight-backed mahogany benches flanking the walls faced each other. Above them hung portraits of ancestors who seemed more angry than inbred. A trio of threadbare carpets, lying end to end, were the only ornamentation. I guessed from the uncommon use of bottle green that they were Kazak rugs from Turkey. Still, it was an austere decor, more befitting a Mennonite innkeeper than a Low-Country aristocrat.
At the end of the hall Tradd pushed open a heavy wooden door and I gasped. There, in front of my wind-dried eyes, was the finest collection of eighteenth-century English furniture I had ever seen in one room. No doubt the colonel had it all shipped over from the old country when he built the house.
“Pinch me,” I whispered to C.J.
She obliged.
“Stop it!”
“Abby—”
“What!” I snapped.
C.J. was rolling her eyes like bingo numbers in a tumble wheel.
Then I noticed that several of the pieces of furniture were occupied by people. I gasped again. Funny that I should have noticed the antiques first, even though one of the room’s occupants was almost as old as the chair upon which she sat.
“Grandmother,” Tradd said, inclining his golden head slightly, “I would like you to meet Abigail Timberlake and Jane Cox. Abigail is going to be my date for the weekend, and Jane will be Rupert’s. I spoke to you about them on the phone, remember?”
The men present rose to their feet.
Meanwhile, the grande dame and I gave each other the once-over. She had undoubtedly known God when he was a boy. Her skin was paper thin, and where it wasn’t pulled tight and translucent against bones, it hung in neat folds, like Mama’s parlor drapes. What remained of her white hair was brushed in wisps toward the center of her head and tied with a black velvet ribbon that matched her black velvet dress. No doubt she had once been a very tall woman, because she was tall even now in her dotage, her posture ramrod straight. Her eyes, however, were timeless. They reminded me of the parrot my Aunt Marilyn used to have—glittering buttons that hinted at intelligence, but when the head turned became flat and inscrutable.
“Hello,” I said, and took the old lady’s hand. It was as light and dry as a biscuit.
“Hey,” C.J. said, and did a silly little curtsy.
Mrs. Elias Burton Latham III had a voice like gravel in a tin cup. “Welcome to Latham Hall Plantation. I trust my grandson didn’t scare the wits out of you entirely by the way he drives.”
“Grandmother!”
The old lady pointed a bony finger at Tradd. “That boy’s a menace on the roads. I’ve told our sheriff not to look the other way, just because he’s a Burton. A little time in jail might do him some good—well, never mind all that now. I suppose Tradd has already told me, but where are y’all from?”
“Rock Hill, ma’am.” I felt like I was in fourth grade again.
“I’m from Shelby, North Carolina,” C.J. said proudly.
Mrs. Latham frowned. “Some things can’t be helped, child. Anyway, I want y’all to meet the rest of the family. This—” she patted the arm of a ravishing redhead beside her, “is my granddaughter, Alexandra Latham. They call her Andie, but don’t y’all dare.”
“No, ma’am,” we promised.
“Hello,” Alexandra said softly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I, for one, wanted to gag. Alexandra was the perfect late-twentieth-century southern belle. Physically she was flawless, from her straight teeth to the tips of her pedicured toes. Each auburn hair was in place, and her periwinkle eyes neither needed nor received any makeup to enhance them. The last skin I saw that smooth and white was on a baby’s bottom.
From those few words she had spoken I could tell she had perfect diction, perfect manners, and no doubt carried within her ovaries the perfect eggs to produce the perfect children. Still, she wasn’t married, was she, so how perfect could she be?
I smiled warmly. “Howdy, ma’am.”
C.J. curtsied again.
The old woman beamed with approval. “Now that”—she pointed to a woman across the room—“is my granddaughter, Edith Burton Jansen.”
While Edith and I exchanged mumbled greetings, I gave her the once-over. She looked nothing like her brother Tradd. A coarse, broad-faced woman, she exuded none of his sunshine, although she had obviously spent her life in the sun. She had one of those baked-in tans that had turned her skin into creased leather. And she was brown, not golden. Everything about her was brown, her eyes, her hair, even her lipstick was one of those awful earth tones briefly popular in the seventies. Tall, like her grandmother, but chunky, she was squeezed into a beige dress two sizes too small. I’ll say this, for her, however, she did have good taste in jewelry. Her diamond ear studs were set in white gold, and just large enough to grab my attention without turning me green with envy. It was the pear-shaped pendant that turned me into a four-foot-nine-inch avocado.
“Edith is the oldest of the lot—”
“Grandmother!”
Mrs. Latham cocked her head, a smile playing at her thin lips. “There is no shame in being old, dear. There is only shame in acting old before one’s time. You know,” she said, turning to me, “I’ve outlived both of my children. That is the real downside of attaining my age. How old do you think I am, dear?”
I shrugged. I have always been bad at guessing ages, and since most southern women would rather reveal their waist size than their true age, I was not about to take a chance and perhaps mortally offend our hostess for the weekend.
“How about you, child?” the old woman said, fixing her parrot eyes on C.J. “Would you like to guess?”
“One hundred and two,” C.J. said without hesitation.
The National Weather Service could have named a hurricane after the collective gasps in that room. Mrs. Latham, however, chuckled.
“I like your candor, child. So I look that old, do I?”
C.J. nodded. “No disrespect, of course. It’s just that my great-aunt Melva turned one hundred last week and she looks two years younger than you.”
The avian eyes twinkled. “I’m eighty-nine, child. I’ll be ninety on Christmas day.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I muttered.
The bony hand waved away my apology. “That stuffy-looking gentleman sitting next to Edith is her husband, Albert. He’s an engineer at Georgetown Paper. This may surprise you, but he’s the only one in this room with a college degree—unless, of course, one of you two can make that claim.”
“I h
ave a bachelor’s degree,” I said reluctantly.
“Good for you, dear, but I’m afraid our Albert has you beat. He has a doctorate of something or another. What is it you have your degree in, Albert?”
Albert said something unintelligible.
“Speak up, man.”
“Chemical engineering,” Albert said. He looked as happy as a cat in a drizzle. I felt sorry for the man. He was plump and balding, much shorter than his wife—although of course taller than me—and wore round wireless spectacles. He lacked the polished edge that only old money can buy. I think he would have preferred to be sitting in a Quonset hut somewhere having his fingernails pulled out.
“That’s right, our Albert works with chemicals. Now Harold, over there”—the claw pointed to the right corner of the room—“almost got his degree in literature. Yale University, if you can imagine that. But wouldn’t you know our Harold preferred good times over study. Isn’t that right, Harold?”
Harold nodded. He was an older version of Tradd, not so golden—a few extra years of sun and wind had done their job—but not as brown as their sister.
“Harold doesn’t have a job, but he does have a title. He likes to call himself an investment planner.”
“Grandmother Latham, please—”
“Ah, and this lovely woman is his wife, Sally. She’s an Armstrong, but she does have a drop or two of Latham blood. Don’t you, dear?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Ah, yes, that’s right, her dollop comes from the wrong side of the blanket, but then again, so do most of great-great-granddaddy’s descendants. I, in fact, brought more Latham blood to my marriage than did my husband, Elias. But then, our Sally here, brought something besides.”
“Grandmother!” Harold said with surprising sharpness. “Sally’s business affairs are a private matter.”
“Then keep them that way and quit asking Grandmother for money,” Edith said, her lips barely moving.
The crone smiled, her mission accomplished.
I felt sorry for Sally Armstrong Burton. She was a pretty woman about my age, with large blue-gray eyes, and natural blond hair—believe me, I can always tell these things. At any rate, she seemed to be the type of woman who, under better circumstances, would have been mildly perky and fun to be around. I decided to come to her rescue.