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.
Tiered crystal chandeliers were dripping from the ceiling. The hall was thick with clusters of antique Victorian furniture,
small groupings of intricately embroidered chairs, marble tabletops, and graceful ferns. A candle glowed from every surface.
Tall, shuttered doors were thrown open; the breeze carried the scent of gardenias, which were arranged in tall silver vases,
artfully placed on the tabletops.
For a second, I almost thought I was back in one of the visions, except the locket was safely wrapped in the handkerchief
in my pocket. I knew, because I checked. And that creepy dog was watching me from the stairs.
But it didn’t make sense. Ravenwood had transformed into something entirely different since the last time I was there. It
looked impossible, like I had stepped back in history. Even if it wasn’t real, I wished my mom could have seen it. She would
have loved this place. Only now it felt real, and I knew this was the way the great house looked, most of the time. It felt
like Lena, like the walled garden, like Greenbrier.
Why didn’t it look like this before?
What are you talking about?
I think you know.
Macon walked in front of us. We turned a corner, into what was the cozy sitting room, last week. Now it was a grand ballroom,
with a long claw-footed table set for three, as if he was expecting me.
The piano continued to play itself in the corner. I guessed it was one of those mechanical ones. The scene was eerie, as if
the room should have been full of the tinkling of glasses, and laughter. Ravenwood was throwing the party of the year, but
I was the only guest.
Macon was still talking. Everything he said echoed off of the giant frescoed walls and vaulted, carved ceilings. “I suppose
I am a snob. I loathe towns. I loathe townspeople. They have small minds and giant backsides. Which is to say, what they lack
in interiors they make up in posteriors. They’re junk food. Fatty, but ultimately, terribly unsatisfying.” He smiled, but
it wasn’t a friendly smile.
“So why don’t you just move?” I felt a surge of annoyance that brought me back to reality, whatever reality I was currently
in. It was one thing for me to make fun of Gatlin. It was different coming from Macon Ravenwood. It came from a different
place.
“Don’t be absurd. Ravenwood is my home, not Gatlin.” He spat out the word like it was toxic. “When I pass on from the binds
of this life, I will have to find someone to care for Ravenwood in my place, since I have no children. It’s always been my
great and terrible purpose, to keep Ravenwood alive. I like to think of myself as the curator of a living museum.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Uncle M.”
“Don’t be so diplomatic, Lena. Why you want to interact with those unenlightened townsfolk, I’ll never understand.”
The guy has a point.
Are you saying you don’t want me to come to school?
No—I just meant
—
Macon looked at me. “Present company excluded, of course.”
The more he spoke, the more curious I was. Who knew that Old Man Ravenwood would be the third-smartest person in town, after
my mom and Marian Ashcroft? Or maybe the fourth, depending on if my father ever showed his face again.
I tried to see the name of the book Macon was holding. “What is that, Shakespeare?”
“Betty Crocker, a fascinating woman. I was trying to recall what it was that the local town constituents considered an evening
meal. I was in the mood for a regional recipe this evening. I decided on pulled pork.” More pulled pork. I felt sick just
thinking about it.
Macon pulled out Lena’s chair with a flourish. “Speaking of hospitality, Lena, your cousins are coming out for the Gathering
Days. Let’s remember to tell House and Kitchen we will be five more.”
Lena looked irritated. “I will tell the kitchen
staff
and the house
keepers
, if that’s what you mean, Uncle M.”
“What are the Gathering Days?”
“My family is so weird. The Gathering is just an old harvest festival, like an early Thanksgiving. Just forget about it.”
I never knew anyone visited Ravenwood, family or otherwise. I’d never seen a single car take that turn at the fork in the
road.
Macon seemed amused. “As you wish. Speaking of Kitchen, I am absolutely ravenous. I’ll go see what she has whipped up for
us.” Even as he spoke, I could hear the pots and pans banging in some faraway room off the ballroom.
“Don’t go overboard, Uncle M. Please.”
I watched Macon Ravenwood disappear through a salon, and then he was gone. I could still hear the clip of his dress shoes
on the polished floors. This house was ridiculous. It made the White House look like a backwoods shack.
“Lena, what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“How did he know to set a place for me?”
“He must have done it when he saw us on the porch.”
“What about this place? I was in your house, the day we found the locket. It didn’t look anything like this.”
Tell me. You can trust me.
She played with the hem of her dress. Stubborn. “My uncle is into antiques. The house changes all the time. Does it really
matter?”
Whatever was going on, she wasn’t going to tell me about it right now. “Okay, then. Do you mind if I look around?” She frowned,
but didn’t say anything. I got up from the table, and walked over to the next salon. It was set up like a small study, with
settees, a fireplace, and a few small writing tables. Boo Radley was lying in front of the fire. He started to growl the moment
I set foot in the room.
“Nice doggy.” He growled louder. I backed up out of the room. He stopped growling and put his head down on the hearth.
Lying on the nearest writing table was a package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string. I picked it up. Boo Radley
began to growl again. It was stamped
Gatlin County Library
. I knew the stamp. My mom had gotten hundreds of packages like this one. Only Marian Ashcroft would bother to wrap a book
like that.
“You have an interest in libraries, Mr. Wate? Do you know Marian Ashcroft?” Macon appeared next to me, taking the parcel out
of my hand and eyeing it with delight.
“Yes, sir. Marian, Dr. Ashcroft, she was my mom’s best friend. They worked together.”
Macon’s eyes flickered, a momentary brightness, then nothing. It passed. “Of course. How incredibly dull-witted of me. Ethan
Wate. I knew your mother.”
I froze. How could Macon Ravenwood have known my mother?
A strange expression passed over his face, like he was recalling something he’d forgotten. “Only through her work, of course.
I’ve read everything she’s ever written. In fact, if you look closely at the footnotes for
Plantations & Plantings: A Garden Divided
, you will see that several of the primary sources for their study came from my personal collection. Your mother was brilliant,
a great loss.”
I managed a smile. “Thanks.”
“I’d be honored to show you my library, naturally. It would be a great pleasure to share my collection with the only son of
Lila Evers.”
I looked at him, struck by the sound of my mother’s name coming out of Macon Ravenwood’s mouth. “Wate. Lila Evers Wate.”
He smiled more broadly. “Of course. But first things first. I believe, from Kitchen’s general lack of din, that dinner has
been served.” He patted my shoulder, and we walked back into the grand ballroom.
Lena was waiting for us at the table, lighting a candle that had blown out in the evening breeze. The table was covered with
an elaborate feast, though I couldn’t imagine how it had gotten there. I hadn’t seen a single person in the house, aside from
the three of us. Now there was a new house, a wolf-dog, and all this. And I had expected Macon Ravenwood to be the weirdest
part of the evening.
There was enough food to feed the DAR, every church in town, and the basketball team, combined. Only it wasn’t the kind of
food that had ever been served in Gatlin. There was something that looked like a whole roast pig, with an apple stuck in its
mouth. A standing rib roast, with little paper puffs on the top of each rib, sat next to a mangled-looking goose covered with
chestnuts. There were bowls of gravies and sauces and creams, rolls and breads, collards and beets and spreads that I couldn’t
name. And of course, pulled pork sandwiches, which looked particularly out of place among the other dishes. I looked at Lena,
feeling sick at the thought of how much I’d have to eat to be polite.
“Uncle M. This is too much.” Boo, curled around the legs of Lena’s chair, thumped his tail in anticipation.
“Nonsense. This is a celebration. You’ve made a friend. Kitchen will be offended.”
Lena looked at me anxiously, like she was afraid I was going to get up to use the bathroom and bolt. I shrugged, and began
to load my plate. Maybe Amma would let me skip breakfast tomorrow.
By the time Macon was pouring his third glass of scotch, it seemed like a good time to bring up the locket. Come to think
of it, I had seen him load up his plate with food, but I hadn’t seen him eat a thing. It seemed to disappear off his plate,
with only the smallest bite or two. Maybe Boo Radley was the luckiest dog in town.
I folded up my napkin. “Do you mind, sir, if I ask you something? Since you seem to know so much about history, and, well,
I can’t really ask my mom.”
What are you doing?