Mary started high school with a class divided by who was going north after graduation and who was staying. Like almost everyone, Mary wanted to go. She dreamed about the West, moving to Los Angeles and becoming an actress. She’d write her own movies and live at the beach in a big white house with black shutters and a gravel driveway, like her favorite house on the White folks’ side of town. She didn’t share this fantasy with anyone, knowing it was an impractical goal for a White woman, let alone a Negro one. Even Lillian, as cultured as she was, would laugh. Besides, Mary couldn’t imagine leaving her mother. Los Angeles was too far, and she doubted she’d ever convince Hazel to come.
“I’ll get a job and take care of you,” Mary promised her mother when the subject came up one fried-fish Friday. They were on the porch with lemonade and coleslaw, dipping the croaker in Hazel’s perfect mix of tartar and hot sauce. Kids were jumping rope and chasing one another in the street. Puffs of red dirt swallowed their shoes and legs, dusting their skin with a thin, ashy film.
“I don’t need taking care of,” Hazel said with her mouth full. Pieces of cornbread shot out onto their porch railing, as if to illustrate how she couldn’t renounce help fast enough. Somehow Mary believed her. Their house only had two rooms—it wasn’t the best in Cottonwood, but it wasn’t the worst—and they didn’t have money for meat every week, but Hazel didn’t seem to mind the frugality that governed their lives.
Lillian didn’t care where she went. West or north, she just wanted to leave Asheville. She was debuting in a cotillion, and Catherine pressed Hazel to let Mary join. “She’s bound to meet a nice boy.”
Hazel refused, blaming money, as always, but Mary felt certain it was because Lillian was debuting in a White cotillion. Mary had for years suspected that Lillian, and maybe Catherine for that matter, passed beyond their Sundays in Charlotte. They had a level of comfort around White people Mary couldn’t seem to catch up to, even with the weekly practice. Mary assumed that was why Lillian didn’t say much about her life in Asheville.
Lillian and Catherine missed a few weeks of Sundays in Charlotte before the cotillion; Mary figured they were busy with preparations. Lillian had dance practice and had to memorize the collection of poems she’d written in French.
When the date of the cotillion came and went, and then another month passed, Mary inquired.
“They moved.” Hazel was puzzled. “Lillian didn’t tell you?”
“No. Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Aren’t they going to visit?”
“What makes you think we’re that important?” Hazel chuckled. “People have lives, Mary, and everyone moves on.”
CHAPTER 10
Elise
Early Sunday afternoon, October 29, 2017
The long, thick border of bushes and trees that separated the St. John property from Kitty’s was dense to the naked eye. Invisible to anyone who didn’t already know were three points of entry through the foliage. The one most often used was across the driveway from the St. Johns’ kitchen door; it opened onto the dirt walking path encircling Kitty’s enormous lot.
Already ahead of her sisters, Elise kicked up dust in her old black Converses, eyeing the Green Jungle—the wild thicket of trees, bushes, and flowers that surrounded Kitty’s house and hid it from view on all sides. Built to resemble the park near her childhood home in Boston, Kitty preferred her replica because it stayed green all year. Every year, the homeowners’ association pressured her to cut it down, citing it as a haven for wild animals, but they could never muster any proof.
“The site of some of our best plays,” Giovanni said.
“I barely remember anything besides the tea party.”
“I was only in it for the costumes,” Noele said. Kitty had always offered her gowns and jewels equally for dress-up and, later, for special occasions.
“We thought we were being so mysterious.” The girls preferred to playact among themselves rather than perform, so no one, not even Kitty, witnessed their productions. Elise pointed up. “Of course, Kitty could hear everything we said from the window in her writing room.”
“I’m surprised Kitty didn’t want her ashes spread out here.” Noele pushed ahead of Elise, entering first through one of the four iron archways that led to the house.
“Spread?” Elise rubbed her arms, in the shade. She frowned at Noele, who expected an answer. “Kitty wouldn’t risk her ashes being peed on by animals. Her final resting place is a solid-gold box.”
Elise heard Noele snap a picture of their initials carved into the willow by the front door as she unlocked it.
All of the doors were glass, so that Kitty could enjoy her garden from inside. The house got ample light during the day, but at night, the perpetual shade of the jungle made it darker than dark and eerie, its interior illuminated only by table lamps and candles. Kitty had uninstalled all the overhead lights because they reminded her of being onstage. The result was a tomblike environment Kitty found comforting.
Giovanni and Noele lingered behind Elise, respecting her dominion over the mausoleum-like space. It appeared both cluttered and empty, due to the twenty-foot-tall ceilings and long hallways jumbled with furniture, mannequins, and rugs stacked like Fruit Roll-Ups.
It had taken a crew two days to sort things before Elise could even begin to tag, photograph, and log everything for liquidation, auction, display, and storage. Kitty had always insisted on doing her own cleaning, which she never did well or often enough. The dust was always inches thick, and the air heavy with cigarette smoke. Elise pointed to the neon Post-its on various items. “Yellow stays, green goes for appraisal, pink is for storage, and orange is for repair, then it’s staying.” Elise touched the edge of the dining-room table. “If there’s no sticker, it’s up for auction tonight.”
“Mom said you needed our help, but it looks like you have everything covered.”
“Still need to sort all her photos.”
“I bet Kitty was the cutest baby.”
“I haven’t found a picture of her younger than nineteen,” Elise said.
Giovanni shrugged. “Doesn’t seem unusual for that time period.”
“It’s sad not to have at least one baby picture of yourself.” Noele walked ahead of Elise again. “I’ll take the elevator.”
“It’s off.” The staircase was fifty deep steps and winded even Elise. They took their time as they ascended, admiring Kitty’s wedding photos lining the wall. The romance between the studio’s newest, youngest star and the new, inexperienced studio head had once been a scandal. She was the gorgeous ingénue and Nathan Tate was the dashing heir to the studio.
He and Kitty were grinning in every picture, the epitome of the perfect couple. It reminded Elise of the photographs of her and Aaron: the strained, wide-eyed, frozen joy.
“He was so handsome,” Noele said of Nathan.
“Charlie Hunnam could play him for sure,” Elise said.
“Were they happy?” Giovanni wanted to know.
Elise shrugged. “Happy enough, I guess.” Kitty and Nathan’s relationship, like her own, had had public rules and private ones. Along with the rest of the world, Nathan had been obsessed with his wife and never embraced her professional life outside of acting. “She said in death he rewarded her patience with him by leaving her everything.”
* * *