The Man Who Would Be F. Scott Fitzgerald (31 page)

“My, my, I’m sorry, darlin’,” she said, squinting down at Lulu. “I’m blind as Mistuh Magoo without my glasses. Should be wearing ’em, but they’re such a bother.” They were on a chain around her neck. She put them on and peered down at Lulu, who peered back up at her. “I do declare,” Fern cried, astonished. “You’re a little puppy dog! I thought you just had to be a big ol’ puddy cat. Sure do smell like one.”

“She has rather strange eating habits.”

“But what’s that there blue pancake she’s got on her head?”

Lulu snuffled, insulted.

“A present from her mommy,” I explained.

“Now, Hoagy, I must have your word she’ll stay off the north lawn. She riles the peacocks and Mavis’ll shoot her and me both.”

“Not to worry.”

“Good.” Fern snatched up my suitcases as if they were empty and started up the steps with them. She was quite light on her feet for someone so round. “Too bad you didn’t get an earlier flight,” she said to me over her shoulder. “You just missed her.”

I stopped. “What do you mean I missed her? We have an appointment. That’s why I’m here.”

“I know, but she flew up to Chicago to appear on the Miss Oprah Winfrey television show. Special program on the death of politeness in the modern American family. Last-minute thing. Mave felt sure you’d understand.”

“Oh, I do,” I said stiffly. “And when will she be back?”

“Sometime after midnight. Give you time to get settled. Now don’t you go getting heated up about Mavis. She’s the duchess. Anybody wants to get along with her learns that right off, or gets chewed up and spit out. That’s the way it is.” She glanced at me uneasily from the doorway. “Now I can just
tell
what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, ‘That’s the way it
was
, ma’am.’ You’re thinking, ‘She hasn’t met
me
yet.’ ”

“My thoughts don’t tend to be that hard-boiled, generally. Runny is more like it.”

“Well, you just stick that business in your back pocket and sit on it. No offense, but you don’t look nearly tough enough to me. In fact, you don’t look tough at all.” She checked me over. “Got a nice tall frame on you, but they ain’t been feeding you enough up there in New York. How you stay so skinny?”

“Good breeding.”

“I’ll have to start putting some meat on your bones. I can do French tonight, Italian, you name it.”

“Southern will more than do.”

“Fine. I’ll fry us up a few chickens. It’s just you and me. Richard went with Mave, and Mercy has a late class. You allergic to anything I should know about?”

“Only assholes.”

She grinned up at me. “We
are
gonna get on fine.”

We went inside.

The broad entrance salon extended straight through the center of the old house to the glass doors at the back, which were thrown open to let in the late-afternoon breeze. The north lawn out back was being cut by a gardener on a tractor mower. The aroma of fresh-cut spring grass spiced with wild chives wafted in the doors, finer than any perfume. The salon was paneled in tulip poplar with crown molded-wood cornices. The floor was irregular, wide oak boards. A narrow staircase with a walnut railing led up to the second floor. The furnishings were spare — a tall clock, a Chippendale table, a deacon’s bench. Glaze-family oil portraits hung from the walls along with old maps and documents. One was the original royal land patent from the 1700s.

Two pedimented doorways on either side of the entrance salon opened into the four downstairs rooms. Fern led me through them. They were large, airy rooms with twelve-foot ceilings and tall windows overlooking the gardens. The walls were painted eggshell white throughout, with raised plaster molding and colonial-blue chair rails, except for in the library, which was paneled like the entrance salon. All four rooms had stone fireplaces. Again, the furnishing was spare, and Chippendale. The two front rooms were parlors, one formal, the other a sitting room. The sitting room was where John Raymond proposed to Vangie in the movie. The two rear rooms were the dining room and the famous library, where Alma Glaze wrote
Oh
,
Shenandoah
in longhand seated before the windows at a small writing table. There was a velvet rope in front of the table to keep visitors from touching it and the writing implements arrayed upon it. Her original manuscript lay there in a glass case in the middle of the room. Aside from this, and the obvious presence of electricity, the downstairs was just as it had been more than two hundred years before.

“The main house is only used for formal occasions nowadays,” Fern declared. “Mostly, it’s here for the tourists. They see the downstairs, the master bedroom upstairs, and Miss Alma’s own room from her girlhood, which they used for Vangie’s in the movie. The rest of the upstairs is still in need of historical restoration. The Glaze family was still living up there until the 1920s, when they remodeled the east wing and moved out there. That’s where they live now. Keep their privacy that way. We lead visitors from here over to the old kitchen wing, and then the historic service yard and then on out. C’mon,” she commanded, smacking me in the shoulder with the back of her hand. “I’ll give ya the quick tour.”

Lulu and I followed her through a narrow door off the dining room and down a short wooden stairway to a damp, cellar passageway.

“They’d bring the food from the kitchen along here to the table,” she explained, puffing as we made our way down the long, dark corridor, passing the wine cellar and then the root cellar. “Quite a trek, but they always had the kitchens a distance away from the main house in the old days, on account of the heat and danger of fire.”

The sunken corridor eventually came up outside the old kitchen. A low railing kept people from going inside. The kitchen ceiling was very low and soot-blackened. There was a vast open hearth with a baking oven and a cast-iron crane with heavy cast-iron pots hanging from it. A pine table sat in the middle of the room heaped with antique kitchen implements. Dried herbs hung from pegs. The floor was dirt.

“Whole lot of sweaty, hard work,” observed Fern. “But believe me, the food come outta here tasted a sight better than what you get outta one of those microwaves. The cooks slept upstairs. Kitchen fire heated the whole place.” She smacked my shoulder again. “C’mon.”

I followed her, rubbing my shoulder. I’d have a welt there by morning. Outside, eight or ten rough, old, wooden outbuildings were clustered around a big kitchen garden. A gaunt old man in baggy, dark-green work clothes and a John Deere cap was slowly turning over the garden soil with a spading fork.

Fern pointed to the buildings. “That was the toolhouse, cobbler’s shop, counting house, smokehouse, joinery, blacksmith … They didn’t have no shopping mall to run down to in those days. Had to do everything themselves on a plantation this size. Be resourceful. That’s what’s wrong with people today — don’t have to use our brains anymore. Nothing but a mess of jelly up there now.”

“That would explain prime-time television.”

She let out her big, hearty laugh. “Want y’all to come meet Roy. He’s caretaker, head gardener.”

“It must take a big staff to run this place,” I said as we started over to the old man with the fork.

“All of it’s day help from Staunton,” she replied. “Custodians, housekeepers, gardeners, tour guides — everybody except for me and Roy. He has an apartment over the garage. Does his own cooking. Is good for maybe three, four words a year. Roy? Say hello to Hoagy. He’ll be living here awhile. The short one’s Lulu.”

Roy was close to eighty, and mostly bone and gristle and leather. His face and neck were deeply tanned and creased, his big hands scarred and knuckly. He had a wad of tobacco in one cheek.

“Glad to meet you, Roy,” I said, sticking out my hand.

He gave me a brief glance. His eyes were deep set and pale blue and gave away about as much as the ones you see on a sea bass under a blanket of shaved ice at the fish market. He spat some tobacco juice in the general direction of my kid-leather ankle boots, the ones I’d had made for me in London at Maxwell’s. Then he went back to his forking. My hand he ignored.

Lulu growled at him from beside me.

We chose not to linger.

“Don’t mind Roy,” advised Fern as we started back to the main house. “At first, I thought he was rude. Then I decided he was slow. He ain’t neither. He just hasn’t got anything to say. Been working here forever, and I never have figured out why, since he’s not exactly what you’d call competent. Of course, one thing you’re gonna discover is things don’t always make sense around here.”

“Sounds not dissimilar to everywhere else.”

We took the covered brick arcade back to the old house. Six of the Shenandoah peacocks were out on the lawn now, strutting and preening. One of them honked at us, a flat, derisive Bronx cheer of a honk.

“That’s Floyd,” declared Fern. “He’s the biggest.”

Not that any of them were exactly small. They were big as torn turkeys. Their electric-blue necks were nearly three feet long, and their train of tail feathers was twice that. They were aware of us watching them. They watched us back. They didn’t look very friendly. One of them spread his fan of plumage for us to see. It was not unimpressive.

“That’s Wally. He’s all ham.”

I felt something at my feet. Lulu was crouched between my legs, trembling.

Fern looked down at her and laughed. “I guess we don’t have to worry about her at that.”

The great lawn sloped downward from the back of the house. A circular footpath ringed it, the border beds planted with tulips and daffodils. Beyond were orchards, a pond and gazebo, the family cemetery, where Alma Glaze was buried. For a backdrop there were the Alleghenies. The sun was setting over them.

“If you’re going to live in a museum,” I observed, “this isn’t a terrible one.”

“Mavis, she feels America has a right to see Shenandoah,” Fern said with more than a trace of pride. “After all, it’s a national treasure. Family doesn’t make a nickel off the proceeds, y’know. All goes to the Society for the Preservation of Virginia Antiquities, of which Mavis happens to be president.”

“Been here long, Fern?”

“Thirty-five years,” she replied. “Longer, if you figure in the movie. I was in it, y’know. What’s wrong, honey? Don’t I look like your idea of a movie star?” She laughed hugely. It had been a long time since I’d met anyone who laughed so easily and often. “Fact is, damned near everybody in town was in it, with all them crowd and battle scenes. But me, I was picked out of fifteen other girls in the tenth-grade class to play Vangie’s little sister, Lavinia. Had me one whole line of dialogue, too: ‘Why, thank you, Mistuh Randolph,’ ” she declared with a dainty curtsy. “Miss Laurel Barrett, she was a fine actress and lady, and very, very kind to me. I sure felt sorry she had so much misery in her life. … ” She looked up at me very seriously for a moment as if she wanted to tell me something. But then she changed her mind and went and got my suitcases.

There was less grandeur in the east wing. The ceilings were lower, the floors carpeted, the decor 1950s English country estate, complete with chintz-covered furniture and flowery wallpaper. Lots of peacock art, too. Framed peacock watercolors. Vases of peacock-feather arrangements. Peacock needlepoint pillows. You’d be surprised just how little it takes to make a really powerful peacock statement. A short hallway led to the kitchen, which was big and modern and cluttered. A round oak table piled with papers sat in the middle of it. Fern’s bedroom and a suite of offices were off the kitchen.

“This here’s kind of the nerve center of the estate,” Fern explained. “Though I reckon you’ll find wherever Mavis happens to be at the moment is the nerve center.” She laughed. “She and Charlotte do their business here. Charlotte is her assistant. Nice quiet girl. Handles her correspondence, her schedule, and so forth. She’s up in Chicago with Mave and Richard right now.”

We went out the kitchen door to an L-shaped brick courtyard that was the modern service yard. There was a three-car garage, a garden shed, a workshop. The tractor mower was parked here next to a pair of battered pickups. At the far end of the courtyard was a row of low, attached, wood-framed cottages that looked quite old.

“Guest rooms,” Fern informed me as we headed toward them.

“Converted carriage houses?” I asked.

“Slaves’ quarters,” she replied matter-of-factly.

“Perfect.”

Mine had a small sitting room that faced onto the courtyard. There was a pine student’s desk, matching easy chair and love seat, and a fireplace. Lulu promptly tested the easy chair for fit. It passed.

“I put in that little fridge you asked for,” Fern pointed out. It was over next to the desk. “Stocked it with milk, imported mineral water, and anchovies, like you wanted. What y’all do with cold anchovies anyway?”

“You don’t want to know.”

A spiral staircase led up to the bath and sleeping loft. The bed had a skylight and ceiling fan over it, and a fine old quilt on it.

“We’ll be more than comfortable here,” I assured her.

“Y’all need anything, just let me know,” she said. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Come on in and eat when you’re ready.”

The place was a bit stuffy. I left the screen door open while I got settled. Lulu busily cased the place, large black nose to the floor. She wasn’t crazy about the spiral staircase. The steps just weren’t made for someone with her body and her nonlegs. She had to descend sort of sideways, with a
hop-thump-thump
,
hop-thump-thump
. She sounded like a bowling ball going down. Before I did anything else I opened up a tin of chilled anchovies and wrapped one tightly around one of her allergy pills. She devoured this with a single chomp. She prefers them chilled — the oil clings to them better. Then I unpacked her bowl and spooned a can of her Nine Lives mackerel for cats and very weird dogs into it and set it by the front door. While she dove in, I opened the bottle of aged Macallan single malt I’d thoughtfully brought along, and I poured two fingers in a water glass. I sipped it as I unpacked my faithful late-fifties-vintage, solid-steel Olympia manual portable, my electric coffeemaker, my tape player, my tapes. I’d brought Erroll Garner with me. Something had told me it was going to be his kind of project. Then I went upstairs and hung up my clothes and changed into a polo sweater of black cashmere and a pair of old khakis that were soft as flannel.