This was no Boo Radley. This was more of an Atticus Finch.
Macon Ravenwood was dressed impeccably, as if it was, I don’t know, 1942. His crisp white dress shirt was fastened with old-fashioned silver studs, instead of buttons. His black dinner jacket was spotless, perfectly creased. His eyes were dark and gleaming; they looked almost black. They were clouded over, tinted, like the glass of the hearse windows Lena drove around town. There was no seeing into those eyes, no reflection. They stood out from his pale face, which was as white as snow, white as marble, white as, well, you’d expect from the town shut-in. His hair was salt and pepper, gray near his face, as black as Lena’s on the top.
He could have been some kind of American movie star, from before they invented Technicolor, or maybe royalty, from some small country nobody had ever heard of around here. But Macon Ravenwood, he was from these parts. That was the confusing thing. Old Man Ravenwood was the boogeyman of Gatlin, a story I’d heard since kindergarten. Only now he seemed like he belonged here less than I did.
He snapped shut the book he was holding, never taking his eyes off me. He was looking at me, but it was almost like he was looking through me, searching for something. Maybe the guy had x-ray vision.
Given the past week, anything was possible.
My heart was beating so loudly I was sure he could hear it. Macon Ravenwood had me rattled and he knew it. Neither one of us smiled. His dog stood tense and rigid at his side, as if waiting for the command to attack.
“Where are my manners? Do come in, Mr. Wate. We were just about to sit down to dinner. You simply must join us. Dinner is always quite the affair, here at Ravenwood.”
I looked at Lena, hoping for some direction.
Tell him you don’t want to stay.
Trust me, I don’t.
“No, that’s okay, sir. I don’t want to intrude. I just wanted to drop off Lena’s homework.” I held the shiny blue folder up for the second time.
“Nonsense, you must stay. We’ll enjoy a few Cubans in the conservatory after dinner, or are you more of a Cigarillo man? Unless, of course, you’re uncomfortable coming in, in which case, I completely understand.” I couldn’t tell if he was joking.
Lena slipped her arm around his waist, and I could see his face change instantly. Like the sun breaking through the clouds on a gray day. “Uncle M, don’t tease Ethan. He’s the only friend I have here, and if you scare him away I’ll have to go live with Aunt Del, and then you’ll have no one left to torture.”
“I’ll still have Boo.” The dog looked up at Macon, quizzically.
“I’ll take him with me. It’s me he follows around town, not you.”
I had to ask. “Boo? Is the dog’s name Boo Radley?”
Macon cracked the smallest of smiles. “Better him than me.” He threw back his head and laughed, which startled me, since there was no way I could have imagined his features composing themselves into even so much as a smile. He flung open the door behind him. “Really, Mr. Wate, please join us. I so love company, and it’s been ages since Ravenwood has had the pleasure of hosting a guest from our own delicious little Gatlin County.”
Lena smiled awkwardly, “Don’t be a snob, Uncle M. It’s not their fault you never speak to any of them.”
“And it’s not my fault that I have a penchant for good breeding, reasonable intelligence, and passable personal hygiene, not necessarily in that order.”
“Ignore him. He’s in a mood.” Lena looked apologetic.
“Let me guess. Does it have something to do with Principal Harper?”
Lena nodded. “The school called. While the incident is being investigated, I’m on probation.” She rolled her eyes. “One more ‘infraction’ and they’ll suspend me.”
Macon laughed dismissively, as if we were talking about something completely inconsequential.
“Probation? How amusing. Probation would imply a source of authority.” He pushed us both into the hall in front of him. “An overweight high school principal who barely finished college, and a pack of angry housewives with pedigrees that couldn’t rival Boo Radley’s, hardly qualify.”
I stepped over the threshold and stopped dead in my tracks. The entry hall was soaring and grand, not the suburban model home I had stepped into just days ago. A monstrously huge oil painting, a portrait of a terrifyingly beautiful woman with glowing gold eyes, hung over the stairs, which weren’t contemporary anymore, but a classic flying staircase seemingly supported only by the air itself. Scarlett O’Hara could have swept down them in a hoop skirt and she wouldn’t have looked a bit out of place.