by JL Bryan
Jenny spread the dress and jewelry across her bed. She would need to spend time at the sewing machine, bringing the dress in to fit her, and she saw a couple of alterations that she thought would improve it. The dress dipped down in the front, and way down in the back, so she’d need something extra to protect people from her skin. And she would need shoes, since her feet were a two sizes larger than her mother’s. But she could make it work.
When her dad arrived home, Jenny asked him a lot of questions about his day, pretending she was just interested in how the inside of Barrett House looked, which was a frequent topic of gossip around town.
“Got the inside all squared away,” he said. “The problem’s outside. That damned fountain. Every December, I’m out there scraping away ivy and trying to get that pump going again. And every year this pipe or that pipe’s clogged or broke.”
“What about the security guard?” Jenny asked. “Does he have a booth?”
“What do you mean?”
“Isn’t there some guard or somebody checking invitations? Making sure nobody sneaks in?”
“Not that I know of. They don’t have no guard booth, Jenny. Where’d you get that idea?”
“I always imagine one inside that gate,” Jenny lied.
“They usually got valets to park the cars,” he said. “I guess they feel safe enough just having Chief Lintner at the party.”
“What kind of food do they have at their parties?” she asked, then listened indifferently while he speculated at length about the caterers and the open bar.
Later, Jenny went outside to start her regular jog with Rocky. She stopped and considered the old Dodge Ram for a minute. It was mammoth-sized, noisy, and stained with years of mud and rust. Jenny imagined herself driving up to the front door of Barrett House and handing her keys to the valet. The old truck wasn’t exactly going to make the impact she wanted. She thought this over while running through the woods with her very fast, very four-legged dog.
The next day, while her dad was at work, Jenny opened the drawer in the end table by the couch. She pulled out the spiral-bound notebook full of yellowed paper that her dad had long used as his personal phone and address book. She flipped through carefully, trying not to rip the stiff old paper. It was somewhat alphabetical. It took her a long few minutes to find the number she wanted: Merle Sanderson – Home.
Merle was around sixty-five years old, one of the men who’d come to the house on Thanksgiving to drink and watch football with her dad. He was a heavyset guy with a big gray walrus moustache, who lived alone way out on Hog Willow Road, except for his five adopted stray mutts, each of whom, he liked to claim, had moved in under false pretenses.
Merle had once owned the garage in town where Jenny’s dad had worked, in those old days when Jenny hadn’t been born yet and the town was much busier. The garage hadn’t survived the slow, constant drain as more people moved away over the years, taking their cars and their money with them.
Now Merle did the same work out of his house, and he was known for all the old cars parked every which way in his yard, most of them up on blocks. He didn’t have many neighbors, just the McNare farm, and their house was far away from his.
Jenny steeled herself and dialed his number.
“Y’ello?” he answered.
“Hey, Mr. Sanderson,” Jenny said. “It’s Jenny Morton. Darrell’s daughter.”
“Well, hey there, Jenny.” Merle’s voice was full of concern. “Is everything all right? Your daddy okay?”
“Oh, everything’s fine, Mr. Sanderson. I just was going to ask you a question, if you have time.”
“I surely do. And nobody’s hurt? Nobody in jail?”
“No, sir, nothing like that.”
“Oh, all right. Then what’s on your mind, Miss Jenny?”
“I was wondering, if I could ask…You see, I was needing a car for a little bit, and wondered if you had one I could rent. Just for a night or so.”
“I sure don’t,” he said.
“Oh.”
“I would not take a penny from your hand, little girl. Have your daddy bring you up and you can borrow it, free and clear.”
“Really?” Jenny was completely surprised by the offer. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Sanderson! That’s so generous!”
“Shoot, that ain’t nothing. I still owe your daddy his last paycheck from sixteen years ago. Come by any day but Thursday, that’s the Colombo marathon on the TV.”
“Oh, we will! Thank you so much!”
“Wait until you see the car, before all that,” he said. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“You’ve done a lot! Thanks!”
“All right. Call and let me know when you’re on the way. I’ll clean her up for you.”
“You don’t need to do that!”
“Bye, now.” He hung up on her.
***
“Why you borrowing a car from Merle, again?” Jenny’s dad asked as he drove along Hog Willow Road, which was just an unlined strip of blacktop surrounded by low farmland and pasture.
“Because there’s this fancy dress party Saturday night,” Jenny said. “It’s the whole senior class, so I guess they figured it was easier to invite me than leave me out.” She felt awful lying to her dad, but he would never knowingly allow her to crash the Barretts’ party, much less help her do it.
“You could borrow the truck Saturday night,” he said. “Just drop me at McCronkin’s. I’ll get a ride home.”
“That’s the thing, Daddy. I just thought it would be fun to show up in my own car. People kind of laugh at me when they see me driving this.”
“I didn’t know that,” he said. “Why would they do a thing like that?”
“I don’t mind it, really,” she said. “They’ll laugh at me for anything. I just thought—since it’s in front of everybody at once—”
“And you just called him up and asked to borrow a car?”
“No, I offered to rent and he said I could use it free.”
“See, that’s just the kind of thing put the garage out of business,” he said. “Merle’s too generous with folks, and the garage was always in debt. Did you know he still owes me my last paycheck from sixteen years ago?”
Merle Sanderson’s place looked a lot like theirs: way out from town, close to nobody, but with a front yard full of automobiles instead of appliances. The house had peeling paint and looked like it was leaning a little bit to one side.
Merle walked up the dirt driveway to greet them, rubbing his hands on a black-stained hand towel that had once been yellow.
“I’d shake your hands, but I don’t recommend it,” he said. A layer of dark grease coated his face and shirt. Jenny beamed at him, relieved she wouldn’t have to risk one of her awkward, ducking hugs where she spent all her time trying not to kill the other person.
“Good to see you, Merle,” Jenny’s dad said. “I appreciate you helping out my baby girl—who, by the way, did not say a thing to me before she called you.”
“Headstrong.” Merle smiled and winked at Jenny. “Just like her mother.”
“Thank you,” Jenny said, and both men laughed.
“Come on over here, Jenny. See what you think.” He led them to a long, boxy, two-door car, which was a dark red-brown color, except for the daisy yellow passenger door and the primer colored trunk lid. “She’s mostly a 1975 Lincoln Continental, with other things there and here. Actually a pretty nice car. Worked on it off and on the last ten years. Wouldn’t take her mudding, but she’ll putter along fine on the road.”
Jenny barely heard him. She stared at the car for a long minute, then leaned in the open driver’s window to check out the interior. The seats had been upholstered with a ridiculous cheetah-print pattern, the front and rear dash with fuzzy white shag carpet, now faded and moth-eaten.
“—needed a new transmission, all of it,” Merle was telling her dad. “Never did fix up the interior, still smells like that marijuhwana—”
“I love this car
,” Jenny announced as she stood up. “Can I really borrow it?”
“Why don’t you climb on inside and see if it fits?” Merle asked. He opened the door for her, then closed it behind her when she slid into the driver’s seat.
She admired the old-fashioned dashboard, all knobs and needles and vinyl paneling. The seat covers did smell like the ghost of water bongs past. She put her hands on the wheel, and Merle handed her the keys.
“Give her a crank,” he suggested.
Jenny carefully inserted the key into the steering column. She put her foot on the brake and turned the key. The car grumbled for a few seconds, then coughed its way to life. She revved the engine.
“Well, lookie that,” Merle said. “I finally made the interior look pretty.”
Jenny blushed.
“You think you can handle that car, Jenny?” her dad asked.
“Oh, yeah.” Jenny felt giddy, like she was buying the car, not borrowing it for a couple of nights. “This is great.”
“Tell you what,” Merle said. “I’m spending Christmas with my sister’s family in Pensacola. Why don’t you keep her on through the holidays? I’ll be gone before you bring her back, anyhow. Won’t be here to take the keys.”
“Do you mean it?” Jenny asked.
“All the same to me,” Merle said. “Just be careful. And don’t be driving it drunk. Back seat’s big enough for you lay right down and sleep it off.”
“I won’t,” Jenny promised.
“All right,” Merle said. “Now, let’s go see if we can find her a back tire, and take her down off that jack.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The gate at Barrett House was open, guarded only by the stone lions perched on their columns. Jenny eased the Lincoln through onto the long brick driveway. It was as wide as a boulevard and lined with huge ornamental dogwood trees, each tree filled with glowing webs of tiny white lights. As she drew close to the house, she passed the cars already parked along the driveway—new cars, some of them Mercedes and Cadillacs, nearly all of them black. The old Lincoln wouldn’t fit in, but she was glad not to be arriving in the rusty Ram.
She reached the big turnaround, and got an up-close view of Barrett House. Her first impression was of a mausoleum, all stonework and dark brick, like the bank in town. Tall but narrow windows on the first floor looked out on the world like suspicious eyes. The windows on the upper two floors were larger, but not by much. The third floor was completely dark, so the house faded away into the night above.
She pulled up at the front, where a young man in a tuxedo emerged from the columns of the semi-circular portico jutting out from the house. The portico was topped with curving wrought-iron balustrades on the second and third floors, accessible from the house through narrow arched doorways.
Jenny didn’t know what to do, so she waited. The valet grinned and opened the door for her. He was cute, only a couple of years older than her, with longish dirty blond hair.
“Hi,” Jenny said. “Do I just leave the keys in here for you?”
“That will be fine, ma’am.” He took her hand, which was sheathed in a long black glove, and helped her out of the car, not that she really needed it. “I think this is my favorite car tonight,” he whispered to her.
“Thank you.” Jenny looked toward the double front doors, which were propped wide open. Light and warmth rolled out from the inside, along with the sounds of murmuring voices, clinking glass, live musicians playing a slow instrumental of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” A sudden fear struck deep into her. She didn’t belong here, and she would no doubt be ejected on sight.
Jenny watched the valet climb into her car and give her a thumbs-up before driving away. She gathered her sheer black wrap closer around her shoulders as if it would give her protection. Keeping her eyes straight ahead, Jenny walked uninvited through the doors of Barrett House.
The first room was two stories high, an entrance hall with a wide, curving staircase that hugged its way around the wall, lit by a huge chandelier and scattered lamps and candles, but it still managed to feel dark and oppressive. The walls were heavy wood paneling, black or a very deep brown. There were thick rugs on the parquet floor, thick embroidered draperies around the windows. A few middle-aged people in suits and cocktail dresses held a low conversation near the steps.
Paintings looked down on her, generations of Barrett men, most of them wearing dour expressions and severe black bankers’ suits. The oldest was a man with a huge white beard, dressed in a Confederate officer uniform, seated by a table with a stack of leather-bound books. A grim-looking woman in a dark, big-skirted antebellum dress and much jewelry stood behind him with one hand on the back of his chair. Nobody in any of the portraits looked very happy, but Jenny supposed that was the style in those days. Now, you were always supposed to lean your heads together and pretend to be deliriously happy whenever anybody snapped a picture.
A massive granite chimney dominated the front room, reaching up two stories and presumably on through the third floor and roof. One thick log burned inside the fireplace. The fireplace and chimney gave the house an even heavier, almost medieval atmosphere, with the raw firelight and the smell of wood smoke.
A young woman in a black and white catering outfit offered to take Jenny’s wrap, and Jenny declined. A young man in a similar outfit passed through the room carrying a tray of glasses with red wine, and he swerved a little to offer Jenny one. She gladly accepted.
There were three tall, arched doorways leading out of the front room, their heavy oak doors propped open. Straight ahead, the receiving hall shrank into a dark central hallway that burrowed away under the stairs. To her left and right were huge lighted rooms where people gathered in little groups, drinking wine and eating hors d’oeuvres from the caterers. The live music sounded from the door on her left.
Each of the heavy oak doors was reinforced with iron bands and a big brass lock. The doors were all propped open for the party, but clearly the whole house could be locked down if desired, like a castle under siege. Or a prison.
The young woman noticed her confusion and said, “The ballroom’s to your left. Dining room to your right. Are you sure I can’t take that for you?”
Jenny shook her head and walked toward the ballroom. She felt unsteady in her new high heels--Jenny was more of a sneakers girl. The heels clacked and echoed on the dark wooden floor, sounding loud to her ears, despite the string and bell music tinkling through the house.
She entered the ballroom, another dark-paneled space with another chandelier, crowded with scores of people. There was a large, empty dance floor in front of the quartet. A thirteen-foot Douglas fir strung with gold and red beads and miniature white lights stood in the corner behind the band. Most of the people were on this end of the ballroom at little clusters of tables and chairs close to the bar. The crowd was much older than Jenny, and many silver heads turned to evaluate the young lady who’d entered the room alone, the men with curiosity, the women with suspicion.
Jenny felt terribly exposed. Her habit was to look down at her feet and let her hair shield her face. Now she forced herself to look back at everyone, even raising her chin an inch. She gripped her slender little black purse (one of her mother’s) tightly in her fingers, but she tried to keep her nervousness hidden.
Jenny had, after much effort, managed to tailor the dress to fit her without ruining it in the process. She’d driven to Apple Creek to buy the shoes, and the gauzy black material for the wrap, which she’d made herself. She’d also purchased make-up and perfume, which had been the hardest part. She must have spent an hour in the cosmetics section at Belk, looking at catalogs, studying herself in the mirrors, sniffing little scent testers. A friendly lady at the glass counter had offered to apply the makeup for her, and Jenny regretted having to say no. It would have made things much easier.
All of that had cost most of her savings. She’d cut her own hair, as always, but this time did it very carefully, following some magazine pictures, inst
ead of just hacking off anything below her shoulders. She made a pin for her hair, too, with live mistletoe braided, twisted and glued into a spiral shape. The small green and white plant didn’t match the rest of her outfit, but she liked it.
Jenny gave her best smile to the people looking at her. This seemed to break their interest, and they turned their attention back to their own little groups. Her worst, most paranoid fear, that someone would immediately point at her and yell that she didn’t belong, or that she would be thrown out on sight, faded away. Thank God, she thought, that people were so self-absorbed.
She moved deeper into the room, trying to look casual and very much not an intruder, hoping to get lost in the crowd. She recognized people here and there. There was Mayor Hank Winder and his wife, Cassie’s parents, who owned a timber processing center somewhere down the road. Police Chief Lintner was there, talking with Dick Baker, a lawyer and real estate agent known for his bathroom advertisements. Dick Baker was the father of poor Wendy, the girl who’d run offstage in tears during her failed bid for student council. There were plenty of people Jenny didn’t recognize at all. Maybe they were from outside Fallen Oak.
Jenny reached the open, unpopulated expanse of the dance floor, crossed along the edge of it, then walked back along the opposite wall, still looking for any sign of Seth. Instead, she found herself moving right toward a knot of four people, and she went into a panic. It was Mr. and Mrs. Jon S. Barrett III, both of them looking salted and ruddy by long exposure to the sun. Jenny remembered that they stayed in Florida for months at a time. Graying, balding Mr. Barrett had the broken-capillary red nose and cheeks of a serious drinker, like Jenny’s dad, and held a glass of whiskey, while most of the guests had wine. He and his wife dressed in dark, formal clothes that looked like they had grown organically out of the mansion around them.