The barrowfields, p.25
The Barrowfields, page 25
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I learned a great deal that summer working with Charlie. I learned that good lawyers like Charlie quietly do more good for people and communities than probably anyone would ever realize. They try like hell to achieve justice. They take clients who cannot hope to pay the full value of the legal services they’ll receive, and spend their own time and their own money helping clients who at the end of the day will not be the least bit grateful for the help. And they tell their clients the truth, even when the truth is not what the clients want to hear. Lawyers catch a lot of hell in the public’s perception, and admittedly there have been a few lawyers here and there who have earned that reputation fair and square. But most of them, in my estimation, are more like Charlie. And that’s a good thing.
In early July, Story reported from Lot’s Folly that things were not going well with her parents. Following Lelia’s passing, and hopelessly encouraged by details of the mysterious Benjamin, she had become even more desperate to find and identify her true father. This unfortunately was not met with equal enthusiasm by the Glauchnors, who were bitter and derisive in the face of what they deemed a quixotic and pointless endeavor. The whole thing simmered just below the boiling point, and Story was alone and disheartened. She asked if I would come visit and give her a distraction from her warring family, so I gladly loaded up and drove down the mountain for the low country.
I arrived in Lot’s Folly at seven o’clock on a clear Friday night. It was eighty-six degrees and humid as hell and was wonderful in comparison with what I’d been experiencing in Old Buckram, where the weather patterns were like those found in northern Ireland and on certain comets with long periodic orbits. When I left Ben Hennom six hours before, the temperature was hovering twelve degrees above freezing, certain creatures in the Ursidae family had returned prematurely to hibernation, and I was wearing Scottish corduroy pants, a coat, and knee-length woolen socks (mild, but not gross, exaggeration).
The entrance to Story’s driveway was nearly invisible from the road due to an overgrowth of vegetation, and I passed it twice before finally making the turn. About a third of the way down the sand and pea-gravel drive stood a small, nearly plumb wooden structure surrounded by a quartet of magnolias and a sprawling live oak wearing rags of Spanish moss that hung all the way to the ground. In college, Story moved out of her parents’ home and into this quaint architectural remnant, an old carriage house, and this is where she stayed during her infrequent trips home from law school. I’d soon find out why. Farther down the driveway, through an open wood of longleaf pine and beyond two or three more majestic oaks from the time of Moses, I could see the shingled facade of a wandering Nantucket-style abode with two levels of porches and creeping-fig ivy climbing up the brick foundation.
I stopped at the carriage house and pulled into a parking space carved out of a wall of wild azaleas. Story was sitting on the back steps reading a book with a painted daisy in her hair. In the weeks since I’d seen her last, her hair had become more blond and her limbs had become more lean. She wore a blue sundress the color of a Carolina sky and there were tan lines on her bare feet. With an extraordinary sense of cool, she closed the book and stepped into the driveway to meet me, moving to a slow, silent waltz, radiant in her honest beauty, her dress flowing around her like a carousel. I leaped out of the car almost before it stopped and pulled her close to me as we laughed and I breathed in the smell of her skin and her wondrous hair, fragrant of a green, new summer in the South and the salt air come so far inland from the waters of the inscrutable Atlantic. She took my hand and said, “Let me show you around the place so you don’t get lost.”
The carriage house was so much of the old South: distressed antique wooden furniture; beadboard wainscoting in every room; a painting of a magnolia in full bloom hanging on a whitewashed wall in the living room; fresh flowers in a simple glass vase on the kitchen table; and polished and uneven wooden floors throughout the house.
The first bedroom we came to was Story’s. On a shelf was a sparse row of bright and happy photographs. There was one beach picture of Story as a child playing by herself in the surf, and next to it were a few vibrant shots of her in the flat blue water behind a ski boat. In one, the first of three in a parallel frame, she was on a kneeboard, swallowed up by an orange life jacket. Her face was barely visible. Her two braided pigtails stuck up into the air like antennae. The next in the series showed her on two skis as a slightly older girl, this time noticeably taller and more confident. In the final picture, a high-school-age Story was expertly cutting through the shining water on one ski amid a tower of spray made brilliant by the sun.
“Your childhood was a lot different than mine,” I said.
The second bedroom had been made into an office. In this room was a desk and a filing cabinet on top of which sat four ordered and indexed stacks of newspaper clippings and copies of pages from several college yearbooks. Seeing me looking at the papers with curiosity, Story said simply, “My dad.” This was her archive of materials collected on her years-long search for her father. A journal lay open on the desk. I was able to get close enough to see Story’s precise handwriting on the page. More than once I’d seen her sitting on a stone wall after class, writing in the journal with a head full of thoughts. I gathered from its proximity to the other materials that it contained her most recent compilation of evidence and hypotheses on that difficult subject. She offered no further explanation, and I didn’t ask for one.
We ventured out onto the porch and into the soft yard of pine needles under the warm shadows of the magnolias. Fireflies hiding in the shade blinked on and off and hovered lazily in the air. We followed a path under the trees to a shallow gully occupied by ferns and wildflowers. On the far bank of the gully, tracing vines concealed a rusted metal fence that marked the property line. Able to go no farther, we turned west down toward the water and saw the pine forest gradually give way to the front lawn, at the bountiful end of which sat what Story called “the main house.” In the retreating light of the sun, the glowing edifice might have been a modest castle.
“They’ve called a truce,” said Story. “I told them you were coming down, and they’re insisting on having us over for dinner. I hope that’s okay.”
“Yeah, that’s great,” I said. “I’d be really happy to meet them. Although I feel like I might be a bit underdressed.”
“You’re fine. What you’ve got on is fine. I feel bad, though. I should’ve told you. Did you bring a long-sleeve shirt with a collar? No? Not a big deal. What you’ve got on is great.”
“I’m brimming with confidence.”
“I’m glad you’re going to meet them, but I feel like I should be apologizing for them already. I’m afraid of what you’re going to think.” Story picked up a fallen strand of Spanish moss and returned it carefully to a live oak’s branch that reached almost to the ground.
“It’s fine,” I said. “People are who they are.”
It grew dark quickly and we walked back to the carriage house to get ready for dinner. Story raised all the windows to let in the night sounds and the warm, murmuring air. I felt alive. I noticed everything. I heard every sound. I was drinking it all in. Buller noticed we were preparing to leave and went to stand by the door. I asked if we could take him to dinner with us, but Story made a wrinkly face and said, “They’re all dressed up. Let’s introduce him tomorrow under more casual circumstances.” So I got him his teddy bear out of the back of the Scout and poured him rations of food and water into the same size bowls that elephants eat out of at the zoo.
“Buller, you have to stay here, buddy,” I said. “I’ll be right back.” He looked wounded and a little anxious.
“Your daddy’s not going to be gone long,” said Story, squatting in front of him and scratching him ferociously behind the ears. “I promise I’ll bring him back in a little bit.” She let him lick her neck a couple of good times and that seemed to make him feel better. I put on a slightly crisper shirt and we departed for our late dinner.
“What are their names again?”
“Morgan and Piper.”
“That’s right! Which one’s your dad?”
Story laughed and pretended to take an arrow in the sternum. “Aww. You’re probably better off calling him Mr. Glauchnor. Nobody really calls him Morgan except their preacher.”
I rehearsed my greeting. “Hello, Morgan,” I said, shaking hands with no one. “It’s nice to meet you, sir. Piper, you look quite dashing for a woman of your age.”
“This is going to go well.”
Drinks in hand, the Glauchnors had the appearance of lounging comfortably on their square acre of back porch when we arrived. Mr. Glauchnor rose to greet us with practiced indolence and Mrs. Glauchnor put out a cigarette on an unseen ashtray behind her so we could pretend we hadn’t seen her smoking. Coming over to meet us, Mr. Glauchnor said, “Good evening, son.” Seeing him in person almost took my breath away. Thinking the light was playing tricks on me, my first impression was that Story could not have resembled him more if she had been his sister. Was I the first person to have noticed this? Surely not. Was I imagining it? The trouble it stirred within me clouded my thoughts for the rest of the evening.
Mr. Glauchnor withdrew his hand from mine and gave Story a sideways hug and two quick informal pats on the back. We all turned our attention to Mrs. Glauchnor, who was sitting primly sidesaddle on the outdoor sofa. When all eyes were on her, she elevated from her wicker throne like a queen and floated there a moment to allow time for our admiration to adhere. I overcame a strong impulse to bow and avert my eyes. She was a lovely peacock of a woman who, upon closer inspection, may have had the benefit of an occasional elective surgical procedure. She had a sharp nose and a sharp chin, and her breasts sat just below her shoulders on either side and about a foot apart, partially obscured by a cord of long brown hair brought stylishly forward to the front.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, and she said, “Thank you.”
“It’s time to eat,” said Mr. Glauchnor, getting right to it. “I suggest we go on in and sit down. They’re keeping it warm for us, but it won’t hold all night. Piper, make me a drink while you’re at it.”
Mrs. Glauchnor ruffled up like an ostrich, obviously horrified that he’d brought such an unceremonious end to her carefully cultivated illusion of southern royalty so soon.
We shuffled one after the other into the house where two men were standing in a tight line waiting for instructions. Both of them wore starched double-breasted chef’s coats and Byzantine-era papal hats that must have cost a fortune. The house smelled of baking bread, grilled meat, and furniture polish. I lingered there a moment taking in the splendor and the array of unimpeachable decorations before Mrs. Glauchnor shooed me out of the kitchen. I wandered into the darkened dining room, where curtains had been hung in all the corners and a sweeping cyclorama depicting the Battle of Chancellorsville covered an entire wall. Story and Mr. Glauchnor were waiting in silence, each appearing to examine something on the floor. My eyes moved back and forth between them, comparing features. You’re an idiot, I told myself. Drop it.
The table had been set around a faux live-oak epergne that rose a full ten feet off the table. Tea lights sat among the branches. Matching plates of pristine white butter sat at either end and bottles of red wine had been opened and were sitting on linen doilies. Next to where Mrs. Glauchnor would eventually settle, a bottle of Viognier was chilling in a damascened champagne bucket.
Every surface appeared to have been newly painted. Silk runners in parallel extended the full length of the table and dropped well off the ends. Under the table a large brown dog lay panting. Mr. Glauchnor barked at the dog and rattled at a chair. “Jim! Move, boy!” The dog did not move, so Mr. Glauchnor kicked at it. The dog sprang to his feet and skulked quickly out of the room with his tail tucked between his legs. I bent down to pet him, but he ran right past me.
“You know why we call him Jim?” Mr. Glauchnor asked me. I didn’t know and wish I hadn’t learned. The explanation had its distasteful roots in an old southern prejudice, and Mr. Glauchnor supplied a racial epithet to go with it. His joke delivered, he bellowed an unsophisticated laugh that echoed uncomfortably amid the high-society decor. Mrs. Glauchnor offered a halfhearted apology with a cultured smile and a dismissive wave of her hand. Boys will be boys. She’d heard that one before but apparently did not find it sufficiently inappropriate to warrant a reprimand. I saw Story’s ears turn red. Sotto voce, she said, “I told you.”
Mr. Glauchnor was more than six feet tall and had short blondish hair that was shot through with gray. He looked like a recently retired Joe Namath, if Joe Namath had employed a reputable barber. I reckoned his weight at or near two hundred and fifty pounds. He had the build of a record-setting high-school athlete who had done nothing requiring a modicum of physical exertion since then. Without much effort, I deduced that he was a spoiled brat of a man whose human worth lay in inherited money alone. That Mrs. Glauchnor tolerated him all those years signaled to me that money ranked higher in her world order than love.
We sat down to eat and the kitchen help started around with the plates of food. There was enough to have fed twenty people with leftovers. I noticed that Story and Mr. Glauchnor handled their forks the same way and chewed the same way, and even had a way of manipulating one eyebrow independent of the other that was the same. But of course these things could be explained as learned behaviors rather than genetic ones.
“Do y’all want to take the boat out tomorrow?” Mr. Glauchnor did not bother to swallow his food before injecting his thoughts into conversation. He was also not restrained by a fear of interrupting a conversation thread already in progress. He just erupted into speech whenever a thought wandered into his mind. “Y’all can water-ski if you want.”
“That’d be fun,” I said. “I think we may be headed to the beach in the morning, but maybe tomorrow afternoon would work.” Story nodded in approval and I asked Mr. Glauchnor if he water-skied.
“Hell, no, I don’t water-ski.” He finished his drink in a gulp—two fingers of gin—and tapped his wine glass with a long fingernail. Dutifully, elegantly, Mrs. Glauchnor rose to her feet and filled his glass with a tall pour. I asked Story if she was going to drive the boat while I skied. This was met with a chortling, choking response from Mr. Glauchnor.
“No, she can’t drive the boat. If y’all go out, either I’ll drive or Bucko’ll drive.” Bucko was the nickname given to Story’s younger brother, whose real name mirrored Mr. Glauchnor’s, of course. I wondered why he was allowed to drive the boat when she wasn’t. Bucko, I was told, couldn’t make dinner because he was out riding his four-wheeler somewhere.
“I can drive the boat,” said Story.
“Not my boat. Did you see the new car in the driveway?” he asked.
“I saw it,” I said. “BMW. Very nice.”
“Yep. Damn nice. I needed a toy to replace my Harley. I sold that because it just took up room in the garage and I hardly ever had it out the entire time I owned it.”
The conversation took a lull and Mrs. Glauchnor passed around the tray of biscuits and a canoe of butter. She wanted to make sure nobody left hungry. There was no likelihood of that.
The wine was expensive but terrible. I tried the red wine first, then the white wine. After my second glass of the white, I asked for a beer and was given a white-napkin-clothed Bud Light in a can by one of the master chefs. Fancy.
Out of nowhere, Mr. Glauchnor shouted, “Did Story tell you she used to date a black boy?”
Story’s silverware hit her plate.
“She did tell me,” I said. “In fact, I’ve met him. He’s a great guy. I have a lot of admiration for him.” I had not, in fact, met him, although it was true that I had a lot of admiration for him. I felt like anyone who Story cared about was undoubtedly a good person and someone worth admiring. This produced a confused, snarled expression from Mr. Glauchnor, as if I’d committed an incomprehensible breach of etiquette.
“Well, all right.” He said this to Mrs. Glauchnor as if to say, We now know where the boy stands on this issue. Better leave that subject alone in his company. I knew I had lost standing, in his estimation.
Mrs. Glauchnor dabbed at the corners of her mouth and readied herself for conversation. “Have you been down to our part of the state before?” She had wonderful manners.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve spent a lot of time in Charleston over the years, but I hadn’t knowingly been to this part of the state until Story and I came down a few weeks ago just for the day.” I noticed a short, quick turn of Story’s head in my direction and deduced that our trip had not been disclosed to her parents.
Mr. Glauchnor intervened. “When was that, exactly?” He appeared positively affronted. “When were y’all down here last month? What were y’all doin’? Oh, let me guess. Why didn’t you come by here? Don’t answer that. I know why you didn’t come by here.”
Story’s hands placated the air in front of her. “We came down because I wanted to check on something at the courthouse—we didn’t have a lot of time—”
“Of course that’s what it was. Well, God damn it.” A thicket of veins came out of Mr. Glauchnor’s neck and forehead. He held his utensils—a fork in one hand, a knife in the other—like weaponry at the ready. “I guess you’re never goin’ to let that go, are you? I was hopin’ that after your”—here he withstood the temptation to add a pejorative—“mother died, you’d a put all that nonsense to rest.”
Story said no words to her father, but her eyes said You are an unmitigated son of a bitch. She stood and excused herself from the table. Mrs. Glauchnor apologized, half curtsied, and glided noiselessly out of the room, pursuing the daughter she didn’t have.
Mr. Glauchnor and I sat in silence for some time as he knotted his fat hands and drank more wine and I identified all possible points of exit.
