Swan Place

by Augusta Trobaugh

  “You all wait until I back it out,” Buzzard said. “Don’t want you walking through all that gravel and tracking it into the car.” So we waited, standing out of the way. Buzzard got into the car—not without groaning about a bad knee—and then she turned the key. A big belch of blue smoke came out of the tailpipe as the engine started. And then the car came slowly, slowly backing out. I guess it was the biggest, strangest-looking car I had ever seen. Huge, actually, and with kind of a strange, square-looking hood.

  “Well, come on and get in,” Buzzard called to us, and I opened the back door and started getting Molly and Little Ellis inside.

  “Don’t put your feet on the seats back there,” she said, and Molly and Little Ellis both looked at me with wide eyes.

  “You do as she says,” I reminded them sternly. They looked at each other and then, as they always did, they obeyed. I got into the passenger seat beside Buzzard, and was surprised to find that the car was so big, my feet almost didn’t touch the floor.

  “You ever see a car like this?” Buzzard asked.

  “Never in my life,” I answered.

  “You know why?”

  “No.”

  “‘Cause this is what they call an honest-to-goodness Rolls-Royce auto-mobile!” she chanted. “It’s just about the most expensive car in the whole world. This is Miz Swan’s car.” I thought of the lovely Miz Swan, elderly now, but of how she must have been so young and beautiful, riding around in this very car with Mr. Swan and him so dapper and handsome at the wheel, and of how lucky I was to get to sit right there in Miz Swan’s very own seat. Buzzard backed up a little more and then shifted the gears and went flying around the side of the house and out in front—all the way down that long driveway we sped, and by the time we reached the mailbox with the big swan painted on it, I’d quit flinching at how close we’d come to some of the trees. She did stop before we entered the main road, and I was ever so glad of that.

  “Remind me now,” she commanded. “On the way back, we need to get the mail. Will you remember that?”

  “I’ll remember.” So we drove back down that dirt road we’d come in on only the night before—but it felt as if that had been in another lifetime. Pretty soon, we were coming to the little town of Autry—into the main street right at the Dairy Queen.

  “You little ones be good enough,” Buzzard tilted her head toward Molly and Little Ellis. “And we’ll stop and get us some ice cream when we’re on our way back.”

  “You don’t have to promise them things, Buzzard,” I said carefully. “They know to mind, without being rewarded for it.”

  “Well, a little ice cream never hurt a youngun,” she said. And I guessed she was right, so I didn’t say anything else. In the town, we turned a corner and pulled into a parking space at a Red and White grocery store. It looked a lot like the little grocery store back home, and its perfume was exactly the same, but I really don’t know how to say what it was like. Maybe the smells of paper bags and coffee and bread and oranges, all mingled together. Or something like that. We got our grocery cart, and Buzzard picked Little Ellis up and put him in the seat. Molly moved forward, took my hand, and that’s how we started our shopping. But I’ll say one thing: Buzzard sure didn’t shop like Mama and Aunt Bett had taught me to do. Why, most of the time, she didn’t even look at the price—just went down our list and tossed lots of stuff into the buggy. That was no way to get the best use out of the money Crystal had given us.

  “It’s going to be expensive,” I said, not even knowing that I was getting ready to say anything at all.

  “M-m-m-m?” Buzzard answered in a truly distracted way, because she was putting a big jar of apple jelly and a smaller one of orange marmalade into the cart. “What’d you say?”

  “It’s going to be expensive,” I said again.

  “What’s going to be expensive?”

  “All these fancy things.”

  “It’ll be okay,” she assured me. “Don’t worry about it.”

  But I was thinking: Don’t worry about how much everything is going to cost? Why, whoever heard of such a thing! But I didn’t say anything else because I figured I’d ask Crystal how to say something to Buzzard that would make her understand. When we got to the fresh fruit section, Buzzard started piling shiny, red apples into a sack, but right next to the ones she was buying were some that weren’t so red, but that were a lot less expensive. I started to say something, but then, once again, decided I’d just wait and talk to Crystal about it.

  “Why, Booz-ar!” came a shrill voice. “I haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays! And who are these adorable young people with you?” A thin white woman came toward us, looking at Molly and Little Ellis and me with open curiosity.

  “Morning, Miz White,” Buzzard said in a make-believe-cheerful voice. “You’re shore nuff looking pretty this morning, if I do say so myself!”

  “Why, thank you Booz-ar!” she chirped, and then she asked again, “Who are these lovely young people you have with you?”

  “Well, Miz White, these here little ones are Molly and Little Ellis.” Molly retreated behind my skirt.

  “And this young lady here is Miss Dove.” Buzzard stopped, but Miz White leaned forward and looked at me with her eyebrows high up on her forehead.

  “These are the late Mr. Swan’s great-nieces and great-nephew,” Buzzard said easily, shaking her head and looking so sad. What? I was thinking—but I knew not to say anything. But why would Buzzard tell such a lie about us? But just in that moment, I got it figured out: She had to have something to say when folks asked, and this was the best story she could think of. I met Miz White’s eyes and smiled.

  “How do you do?” I said, extending my hand and taking her cold, thin one into it.

  “Nice to meet you,” Miz White murmured. “I didn’t know Mr. Swan had any kinfolk at all,” she said. Then, “Well, this is certainly nice. Is Miz Swan planning on returning home soon?”

  “Oh, you know Miz Swan,” Buzzard offered. “She’ll come home when she’s good and ready. But in the meantime, these children’s parents are traveling as well, and so the children are staying with me. And there’s another sister—she’s older and has a fine job.”

  “I see,” Miz White said, and I knew exactly that look in her face: She couldn’t wait to get somewhere and see somebody else and tell them the newest news. Why, we wouldn’t even get back home before our news would be all over town. I knew about that because it’s that way in all little towns, no matter where they are. That’s what my mama told me, and I believed her, mostly because I’d seen it happen myself.

  “Will their stay be an extended one?” Miz White asked, with her pointy little nose just twitching.

  “I expect so,” Buzzard said.

  “Long enough for Dove here to come to school?”

  “Maybe,” Buzzard offered. “Why Miz White, I’d forgotten all about you being on the school board,” she added. Miz White lifted her head almost regally.

  “Why yes, we’ll need to know if we’re to be honored by having the late Mr. Swan’s very own great-niece in our school!”

  “Yes’m,” Buzzard smiled again. “We’ll let you know just as soon as these children’s parents make up their minds about it.”

  Miz White cast one long, last look at us, and I could see approval in her eyes. The thin hand came out and we shook hands once again. “Bye-bye, you sweet little ones,” she chattered to Little Ellis and to Molly. Then she looked into our buggy, seeing what we’d bought, I guess, and moved along to the big display of oranges.

  Buzzard went back to putting those shiny, red apples into the sack, and as soon as Miz White had moved right on out of the fresh fruit section, she said to me: “You did just fine.” And I don’t know why, but having Miz White think I was related, even remotely, to the fabulous Swans was one of the nicest feelings I’ve ever had.

  When we’d gotten everything on the list—and some things that weren’t on it at all, like that orange marmalade—we went
into the checkout line. I took the money Crystal had given to me and handed it to Buzzard.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Buzzard said, frowning.

  “Crystal told me to do it, so I have to,” I explained. And Buzzard took the money. Then she noticed Molly and Little Ellis looking at the candy bars.

  “Is it okay for me to buy some for them?” Buzzard asked me.

  “I think so,” I answered, trying to hide the big glow I felt inside of me.

  Miz White thought I was kin to the fabulous Swans, and Buzzard had asked me if it was okay for Molly and Little Ellis to have some candy. That was the very first time I knew I truly liked Buzzard. But in some strange way I couldn’t understand, I knew that it wouldn’t be the last time I felt that way about her.

  We loaded our groceries into Miz Swan’s big car and got Molly and Little Ellis settled in the backseat.

  “Remember not to put your feet on the seat,” Buzzard reminded them, and it certainly made me think of Aunt Bett’s always telling us to be sure to change our good clothes.

  “I think I know why you told Miz White we were Mr. Swan’s relatives,” I said, as Buzzard backed the car out of the parking space. She cut her eyes at me and didn’t say a thing, so I went on: “It’s so folks in town won’t go around asking questions about us,” I suggested.

  “That’s about right,” Buzzard said. “You’re from a little town, and you know what it’s like.”

  “Sure do. Everybody knows everybody else’s business, all the time.”

  “Well, it’s a little easier, what with us living so far out of town. But school’s going to start soon, and if you all are still here, you’ll have to be awful careful to remember what I’ve told everybody.”

  “I’m sure I can do that,” I said. “Why, you sounded so convincing back there, I almost started believing it myself!”

  My compliment made her smile a little. “Good,” she said. “I better be convincing!”

  We were getting close to the Dairy Queen. “You all want ice cream?” she asked. “It’s mighty close to lunch time, but I said we’d stop, and I’m ready to do it.”

  “I think the candy will be enough,” I told her, glancing into the backseat where Molly and Little Ellis were sitting quietly and in perfect obedience to Buzzard’s command about keeping their feet off the seat. They were both looking at me, but I couldn’t see any disappointment in their faces at all. “Yes,” I concluded. “The candy will be enough.”

  When we got back to the big mailbox with the white swan painted on it, I reminded Buzzard about us getting the mail, so she stopped the car, got out, and opened the box. She came back to the car with a big pile and put it in my lap.

  “Hold onto this, will you, Dove?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Can I look at it?”

  “I guess so,” Buzzard said kind of suspicious-like, as she shot us up the long drive to the house. Almost every single thing was addressed to Mrs. John Jerome Swan—except for some envelopes from a law firm, which were addressed to Buzzard herself. I wondered what kind of business she had with a lawyer, but it wouldn’t be polite to pry. So I didn’t.

  We had a good lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches—Buzzard made hers with that expensive orange marmalade—and big bowls of cream of tomato soup. After we washed up the dishes, I told Buzzard it was time for Molly and Little Ellis to have their naps.

  “Good!” she said enthusiastically. “‘Cause it’s time for my soap opera.” Then she added, “What do you do while they’re asleep?”

  “I usually write in my . . .” I stumbled to a halt.

  “You usually write what?” she urged, but my throat had gone tight on me and I had trouble saying anything.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, all concerned and wearing a frown—but with a soft something in her eyes. I swallowed hard.

  “I was going to say that I usually write in my notebooks,” I charged forward. “But I forgot them when we had to leave home so fast.”

  “That all?” Buzzard was relieved.

  “All?” I yelped! “All? Those were my stories. About my mama and Roy-Ellis and Crystal and Aunt Mee and Savannah!”

  “Savannah?” Buzzard said. “Who’s Savannah?”

  “She’s Aunt Mee’s granddaughter—and my best friend,” I said, feeling my throat trying to tighten up.

  “Well, honey,” she crooned. “I wish you’d said something to me about wanting new notebooks while we were in town.”

  “I don’t want new ones,” I argued. “I want my old ones, but they’re . . . gone.”

  “Maybe so,” she agreed. “But you can get new notebooks and write all your stories again. Probably be better for having written them twice.” Why, I’d never thought of such a thing. I started searching back through my mind, and yes, Buzzard was right. I could write them again. I could remember almost every single word!

  “Do you really think I could write them again?” Somehow, I wanted her to reassure me—tell me that she guaranteed it was possible.

  “Sure you can. Wrote ‘em the first time, didn’t you?”

  “I did that.”

  “Then next time we go to town, we’ll get you new notebooks,” she said.

  “Until then . . . do you maybe have some paper I can borrow?” I asked, suddenly filled with a burning resolve to write all of my stories again. Only better.

  “Let’s go see what we can find,” Buzzard said. So we went together into the parlor, to a big cherry desk. Buzzard opened the top right-hand drawer, and there were great stacks of creamy-white paper, with a kind of texture to the pages like I’d never seen on paper before. She lifted out a handful of the papers.

  “Think this will be enough?” she asked.

  The paper in my hands felt heavy and rich—and at the top of each page were scrolled initials M.E.S.

  “What’s that mean?” I asked.

  Buzzard looked at the pages and smiled. “Mary Elizabeth Swan,” she said, almost dreamily. “Miz Swan’s very own personal, pure linen stationery.”

  “Won’t she mind me using it?” I hated the thought that one of these days, the elegant, elderly Miz Swan would come home from France and wonder who used so much of her beautiful paper!

  “She won’t mind,” Buzzard assured me. “She doesn’t write many letters anymore. Now here’s you a pen, as well. Are you all set now?”

  “Yes. Oh yes.”

  I got Molly and Little Ellis into their bed for a good nap and then tiptoed downstairs. The television was on in the little room off the back hallway, and the soap opera had a young man and young woman who were having a fuss with each other. “You don’t love him,” the young man said. “You love me.” “No, Dan,” said the woman. “That’s always been your imagination. Only your imagination!” When I peeked further into the room, I could see that Buzzard was in the recliner chair—but she was sound asleep. I went into the kitchen, where that stack of beautiful, cream-colored paper was waiting, and I started right in to writing a story called “Mr. and Mrs. Swan and the House They Lived in Together.” There would be plenty of time later to remember all my other stories and get them onto paper again, but first of all, I wanted to write this one.

  Why, I could have spent the entire rest of that day writing the story of Mr. and Mrs. Swan—that big house so quiet and peaceful and the kitchen filled with the sweet smell of all that fruit Buzzard had bought and put into a big bowl in the middle of the table. And the way the pen felt on that fine paper was something I hadn’t expected. Made me feel that every single word I was putting down was fine, indeed!

  But after a long time, Buzzard came into the kitchen, with her face all soft from her good nap and her eyes a little cloudy.

  “You doing okay?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes!” I breathed. “Thanks for letting me use this beautiful paper.”

  “Might as well,” was all she said. A little later, Molly and Little Ellis woke up from their naps, and their cheeks were pink and they were well rested. We all
had some milk and ginger snap cookies—another expensive thing Buzzard had bought at the store. But oh, they were so good! Then Buzzard started all of us in to doing the housework. She got a whole drawer full of real sterling silver tableware out of the buffet in the dining room, sat Molly and Little Ellis down at the table, gave them some soft rags, and set a jar of silver polish between them.

  “Here’s how you do this,” she said, and they were both watching her intently.

  “You put just a little bit of this stuff on the rag—just a little, mind you—and you rub the silver until it shines.” She demonstrated for them, and on a spoon that I couldn’t see how it could be any shinier than it already was. But when she finished and showed the spoon to Molly and Little Ellis, their eyes went wide and Molly smiled.

  “Do it just that way,” Buzzard said. Then, “Now, Dove, you come with me.”

  I followed her to the pantry and she gave me another soft rag and a bottle of red-colored furniture polish. “I’m going to trust you to do all the furniture in the parlor,” she announced, and she made it sound like she’d given me something very, very special to do. We went into the parlor together and she showed me just how much of the polish to put onto the rag and how to polish all that beautiful mahogany furniture until it gleamed.

  The furniture polish had such a lovely aroma to it—like something magnificent and old and very precious, and the furniture was beautiful indeed. Down the hallway, I heard the vacuum cleaner start up, so I guess Buzzard was cleaning up somewhere else. That’s the way we spent most of the afternoon, and when we were done, Buzzard inspected the silver and showed Molly and Little Ellis a few places where they hadn’t wiped off all the silver cream. Then she came into the parlor and looked at the furniture.