Free The Swan House by Elizabeth Musser Page A

was the one who had initially borne the grief for all of Atlanta. People said it again and again, whispered it with shining eyes, “Can you imagine what John Jason Middleton must be going through? Having watched the whole thing . . . seeing it explode with his wife inside.”
    But Daddy went around in a daze, and I think he spent a lot of time with other men who had lost wives in the crash. He would come into a room and hold me tight, his unshaven face tickling my cheek.
    Daddy always shaved. Daddy was the most sophisticated businessman I knew. He was tall, on the thin side, with that kind of hair that turns gray around the temples and gives men a distinguished look. His hair was jet-black otherwise, and I thought his looks very intriguing.
    Not what some people would call knock-you-down handsome, but just so poised and honest. He was strong and sure of himself, but usually not overbearing. And he worked hard. Too hard, in my opinion, because I never felt I got to see enough of him. Even when he was at home, he seemed preoccupied with his job or with Mama. I longed for him to spend an afternoon alone with me. But that never happened. Mama had been impromptu and sporadic. She’d be in the middle of painting when we’d come home from school. Suddenly she’d drop her paintbrush and grab Jimmy and me in a huge hug and say, “Y’all ready for a treat?” We loved Mama’s treats because there was no way we could ever guess what they would be. One time she said she was going to take us out for a Coke, and it ended up we got a tour of the Coca-Cola Bottling Company in downtown Atlanta by Mr. Woodruff, the genius behind the soft-drink empire. Another time, we got ice cream as we sat on the back of a white Lipizzaner stallion that was in Atlanta for a very special circus. I don’t know how Mama worked those things out. I never asked. I just enjoyed the times when Mama was really happy.
    But now, with Mama dead and Daddy looking so awful and me feeling like there was no reason to keep on living, I started wondering if Daddy could take care of us alone. I decided that we needed Ella Mae more than four times a week.
    â€œYou can come live with us,” I stated naïvely to her one day. “You could move in here. There’s plenty of room.”
    â€œNo, chile, I couldn’t do that. I gotta take care o’ Roy, and sometimes my daughter needs he’p with the gran’baby.”
    Amazingly, I had never thought of Ella Mae as having any family other than us. I knew she was married, because her husband, Roy, did yard work for Daddy occasionally. But I had never once heard her talk about her children, never seen a picture, and never thought that it might be odd that I did not know.
    I guess Mama had known about Ella Mae’s family. She often told the story of being nine months’ pregnant with me and ready to deliver on the sidewalk. In that uncomfortable position she had decided that she must have a maid to help her after the baby came. And so she put an ad in the paper for help. When Ella Mae showed up at our house for an interview, Mama couldn’t understand a word she said, not even her first name, which she repeated five times until finally Mama got it.
    â€œBring your family to live here, Ella Mae,” I said stubbornly, determined that my world would not change.
    â€œChile, you think I could move my black family up heah and live with white folk—heah in the rich part of Atlanta? You don’t know whatcha askin’.”
    Ella Mae’s stubborn refusal to even consider my deepest request made me angry, and I left the room to sulk. I went up the two flights of stairs to the big open bedroom with the skylight that let in the afternoon sun. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I had never been patient. When I had an idea, I wanted to get moving with it. And now I had an idea for the first time in weeks: Ella Mae would come live with us.
    I stared out