Chatham Square

She sank into the chair at her work table and took up the letter—the letter from Lenny—the last letter from Lenny. The letter Lenny had written her from his deployment in Iraq, where his National Guard unit had been sent when he was jerked up from his job as a graphics art assistant professor at VCU in Richmond and was marched off to war.

Faithfully for ten months Ginny had received a letter from him dated on Sunday. All on Sunday, except for the last one, dated on a Saturday.

Ginny began to read the letter, this one had been impersonally typed, whereas all of the rest had been written in his hand, and this one signed Leonard, rather than Lenny—the letter in form screaming to her what was to be found inside even before she'd read it. She didn't really have to look at the words now—they were burned in her memory—but she read them again anyway.

Ginny:

I had been told that distancing would clear one's thoughts, but I never believed that was true. Until now. We never really had a chance, you know. We were thrown together by others in Richmond and just went along with what everyone else wanted. At least I did. I've met someone else here in Iraq. She's a field doctor and is doing something important with her life. She is saving lives out here. And being with her now has made me realize that I never did really see you clearly. I hadn't realized how much of everything was for you and because you wanted it. I didn't realize that I was losing me and how little room there was in your life for me. Or anyone else. It's perhaps fortunate for us both that I came to Iraq, because . . .

Ginny couldn't read any more. She often didn't even get this far in the letter. There wasn't much more in the letter anyway—certainly nothing comforting.

She let the letter drop back on the worktable and buried her face in her folded arms and let the tears of frustration and loneliness out that had been begging for release all day.

Chapter Two

"Is that a doll you're working on?"

It was the most personal thing the waiter at William's Café had said to her in three visits.

Ginny looked up, smiled at him, and said "Yes. It's supposed to be Marie Antoinette. I'm working on the embroidering of the dress now."

"It's gorgeous. I love the fabric; it's fab," he said as he poured the coffee into her cup. The way he said it made her look up sharply. At first she thought maybe he was mocking her, but it now looked more likely that he wasn't. It was something in the way he held his body—a thin, wispy sort of body, or maybe the angle of his wrist when he poured the coffee and then flipped it up as he drew the pot away. Funny that she hadn't noticed this before. He was quite good looking in a sultry way—what they called a quadroon in the far south, Ginny thought—a portion of both Caucasian and black, taking all of the best-looking traits of each. But he was more beautiful than handsome. And now that Ginny was observing him closely, it was evident he had traces of makeup on his face—lipstick even.

But he still looked so sad.

It didn't matter to Ginny, of course, what his preferences were. She was just surprised that she had been so unobservant until now. Perhaps it hadn't been just him who had been disengaged when she was in here before. Maybe how he had related had something to do with her own observable persona. Obviously Lenny would say that it did—that it was her more than the waiter who was responsible for the distancing.

Ginny decided to work on that—not just with the waiter, but with others too.

"Yes, the material is authentic. She reputably actually wore a gown in this material. I got it from Paris. I'll have to repaint her face, though, I think. She's too sad."

"Well, Marie Antoinette had every right to be sad faced, don't you think?" he answered. He was giving her a little smile now. Just as she was noticing him for the first time, he was noticing her. And she got the impression that he discerned she needed a little smile from someone—which, of course, she did.

Ginny decided that he needed a smile back, so she gave him one, and she was pleased to see that it obviously pleased him.

"Yes, but this dress is for her 'let's pretend' court days, when she was putting on her best face. So, perhaps I should let her have her way."

"I'm sure she would appreciate that. Marie Antoinette was very particular about her public persona," he answered. And for some reason, Ginny got the impression that this discussion was so much more meaningful for the waiter than for her.

"You've now been here for breakfast three of the past five days," he went on to say. "I probably should be referring to you by name so everyone knows you're a preferred customer."

Ginny laughed. "I'm Ginny Standler. I live over there in the co-ops on the south side of the square. I teach at SCAD."

"Standler? But you look familiar. You wouldn't, by any chance, be related to Marie Purcell. She was a good customer and lived over there too."

"Yes, she was my aunt. I inherited her apartment."

"She was a nice lady. She preferred the French toast. It really is better here than the croissants are."

"I'll remember that. And you? You must be William, I suppose?"

He gave her a quizzical look at that.

"William, as in William's Café? You're the only one I've seen working here, so I assume you are the owner."

"No, alas," he said with a laugh. "I'm only the chief flunkey. The William stands for William Pitt. That's who this square is named for. He was the Earl of Chatham."

And then, as Ginny's chuckle subsided, he said, "I'm Tony."

And after he turned to go back inside, he turned again and gave Ginny a wink and said, "Tony. Short for Antoinette."

Ginny left the café in a better mood than she'd been in for days. She still wondered what in Tony's life made him sad, but she was happy that they both had lifted each other's spirits today. She supposed that there might be a lot in the life of such a young man that would be challenging—especially for someone of mixed parentage and even here in Savannah, which seemed so laid back and devil may care. But she didn't care what others might think. Tony's was the first given name she'd collected in Savannah. She considered that a great victory for a morning's effort.

She decided to treat herself and drop in at the bookstore across the square from the café. She wanted to know what art books they had—what they might have to add to her fund of knowledge in her doll making. She figured they would have a good collection, being in the center of the footprint left by the scattered buildings of the arts and design college.

To get there, she had to walk by the house of that gruff man who lived in the large, foreboding Greek Revival house on the west side of the square. And she could see as she approached the house that she wasn't going to avoid another probable snub, because he was coming off his porch as she was crossing the street.

"You've been talking with the old woman out in the park," he said, making it sound like an accusation.

"Excuse me?" He had caught her completely by surprise. She hadn't expected him to say anything to her—and she was shocked he was commenting on the previous day's fiasco in the park. That was the only time she'd come anywhere close to the bag lady on the bench. Was he spying?

"You know, she shouldn't be out there all day like that. It scares people off—and she hogs the best bench. I've complained to the authorities, but they say there's nothing they can do unless she assaults someone. She didn't assault you, did she?"

"No," Ginny answered, still in shock—but she reddened as the image of flashing scissors ran through her mind, and she had to agree that it was irritating that the woman seemed to have taken permanent claim to the best bench in the square. "No, we didn't say hardly anything at all to each other. I'm sure she's harmless."

"She's poison. I'd stay away from her, if I were you."

And then there was no more to be said, as he'd turned and stomped back up onto his porch and into his house.

Ginny was still shaking her head over that, when she descended the short flight of stairs at the corner to enter the Pitt Bookstore, which occupied an English basement at one of the square's corners. She was surprised as her eyes adjusted to the dim light to see the young book reader from the café the other morning sitting behind a desk near the entrance.

"Oh, hello there," she said. "I'm Ginny Standler. I live just there in the apartment block on the south side of the square." She paused, waiting—in vain—for a return introduction that didn't come. "I think I saw you at the café across the square the other day."

"Yes, may I help you with something?"

"Your art books. Especially anything you might have on art dolls."

"Oh?" Was it her imagination, or did his voice sound slightly warmer?

"Yes, please. I make art dolls, and I thought perhaps—"

"Oh," he said as he rose—and the "Oh" sounded warmer yet. "Yes, we have quite a good collection. Back here, please. It's not at the front of the shop—that's pretty much taken up with copies of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil and paraphernalia on that—our bread and butter, you understand. The Mercer house and the setting for that murder trial and movie are just one square over in Monterey Square, you'll understand. It pays the rent." He sounded downright apologetic about that.

"How interesting," Ginny said—as if it was the first time she'd heard about the premier local legend.

"I'd be interested in all of your art books on textiles, in fact. I'm teaching over at SCAD in the old Barnard School building on the other side of square."

"Oh, in that case, let me go find a stool. You'll probably want to spend some time back in that corner over there . . . Miss. Standler . . . and would you like a cup of tea? I have a kettle on perpetual boil back in the back."

"It's Ginny, and yes, thank you. I'd love a cup, Mr. . . ."

"Tom. Tom Thornton. I'm Tom."

Ginny was fairly skipping, having collected two first names among the locals, when she crossed the street some hours later to start down the southern side of the square—only to be stopped up cold, at the sight of a crumpled Mr. Richards at the foot of the stairs up to their shared entryway.

"Mr. Richards," she exclaimed as she bent down. "What's the matter?"

"Damned step. Should have been fixed a long time ago."

"Here, let me help you up and into your apartment. And then let's have a look at that."

"No need to fuss. I can—"

But clearly he couldn't, as he exhibited by wincing and collapsing again when he tried to stand.

Ginny helped him up to his apartment and into an overstuffed chair just inside the door from the foyer into his living room. She surveyed the damage and decided it was probably just a bad sprain.

"That will need to be washed off and bandaged, though—tightly, so that we can keep the swelling down."

She turned and headed toward the kitchen. She had her hand on the handle of the closed door, though, when Richards called out, almost in panic, "No not that door. The kitchen's over there. That room's closed."

It was only then that Ginny noticed that Mr. Richard's apartment wasn't a match in floor plan to her own. She had assumed it would be, but these were old existing buildings they had renovated, originally built for individual residences, and obviously they'd attempted to stay with original walls and spaces as much as possible.

"Oh, sorry," she said—while wondering why that was a room not to go into. The apartment wasn't any larger than hers in square footage, it seemed. The apartments were commodious, but not so much so that there was room to toss away.

But getting him cleaned up and settled took most of the next half hour and took her thoughts off the forbidden room as well. When she was finished and had his leg bandaged and propped up on a footstool, she had to face the inevitable. "Do you have anyone . . .? I see there are photographs of you around with a woman."

"No, that was my wife, Anne. She . . . died a few years ago. There's no one. But—"

"Then I'll be back with some supper for you in a couple of hours, of course. We'll see what the night does for that ankle of yours. And then we'll see what needs to be done tomorrow."

"I couldn't possibly—"

"It's much too late to do anything about it now. I don't have a car yet, and unless you do—"

"Uh, no I don't."

"And unless you want to spring for an ambulance over a twisted ankle."

He didn't have to answer that one.

"Well, don't go out of your way on food or anything or worry about hitting it right at six, Miss. . . ."

"It's Ginny. We're neighbors. That's what neighbors do for each other."

"Uh . . . thanks . . . , Ginny. I'm Arnold. Most folks call me Arnie. And, Ginny . . ."

"Yes?"

"Thanks. Thanks for your help. I'll call the services tomorrow—for the step . . . and the roof . . . and the plumbing."

"Thanks, but I've already called."

"And I'll be happy to split the cost with you—until we can track down the owners of the other two apartments."

"Thanks, Arnie. That would be very nice."

In all of that, Ginny realized she hadn't gotten any lunch yet—and she doubted she'd make it until supper. And there was a bit more embroidery she wanted to do on the Marie Antoinette doll. But there was something she wanted to do first. She took the doll to the workroom and found the paint thinner and wiped the face off the doll. She thought Marie deserved a happy face. This would be the queen in her earlier days.

One look out a front window told Ginny the park was gorgeous under dappled sunshine—and deserted, so she decided to fix a sandwich and work on the doll out in the square.

By the time she got everything together and was crossing the road into the park, Ginny saw that two young boys had come into the park and were throwing a Frisbee back and forth between them. The little girl from the previous day was sitting in the grass not far from them and watching their every movement.

When Ginny reached the benches at the center of the square, fully intending to take the one the bag lady usually occupied, she found that she just couldn't do it. So, she made do with the one she'd sat on the previous day.

And a good thing she had, too, as she'd barely gotten settled when the woman appeared and claimed "her" bench. They said nothing to each other—barely even looked at each other—as the bag lady distributed her bits and pieces of material in a pattern about her the order of which only she could fathom and Ginny unwrapped the sandwich she'd brought.

Several minutes of silence followed. But nothing lasts forever.

"Are you going to eat all of that?"

"No, I suppose not," Ginny answered reflexively, in shock that the woman had actually spoken to her. The woman's voice was low and rich—and surprisingly refined. "Would you like to have half?" Ginny ventured.

"Yes, if you can spare it, thank you. I didn't realize I was hungry until I sat down."

Ginny handed over half her sandwich, half expecting the birds to be getting a feast, but, though the birds showed up, this time the sandwich wasn't for the birds. Each of the women munched on her half, both obviously enjoying it.

"Her name's Samantha," the woman said as she finished her half and was licking her fingers and murmuring apologies to the disappointed flock of birds at her feet. "Tomorrow, my pets. I promise."

"Excuse me, what did you say?"

"The birds. I was apologizing to the birds. They expect me to feed them. I think of them now as the children I never had. And their song gives me company, so I feed them when I can."

"That's nice. But, no, I mean you said something about Samantha."

"The girl. The girl at your elbow. Her name's Samantha. And I think she likes you."

Ginny turned, startled, to find that the little girl with the crippled leg was, indeed, standing at her elbow, right where she stood the day before.

"I'm sorry, honey. I don't have any cookies today. If I'd known—"

"That's OK, thanks. I still have half of the one from yesterday. My mamma said I could eat it since it was still in its package. Did you bring a doll today?"

"Yes, indeed I did. Come, sit by me. I'll let you do a stitch or two, if you like. And then we can say you helped make this doll."

Samantha came around to the front of the bench and sat down primly, fanning the skirt of her cotton dress out like she was posing at a cotillion. "Did you bring a happy doll today?"

"We can make it a happy doll if you would like to come to my workshop some day," Ginny answered. She held the doll out for the little girl to see. "Look at her face. She isn't sad anymore. She isn't anything now. But we can make her however we want her."

"We can make her well?"

"Yes, of course—if she gets sick." Ginny looked into the face of Samantha then and saw that the little girl was watching the two boys playing Frisbee. Ginny was at a loss for words, and her heart ached for the little girl.

"My daddy's going to bring home money so they can make my leg well again," Samantha said in a steady, clear voice. "He took his trumpet and went to a place called Naw Leans, where he said he could make a pile of money. He's going to bring it all home and then I'm going to the hospital for a bit and then I'm going to get me a bicycle—all my own. And when I gits older, I'm goin' to go work in that hospital. I'se gonna become a doctor that straightens legs. I told my mamma that, and she told me I could do just whatever I wanted to do when I growed up."

"That's nice, honey. I'm glad to hear that."

Ginny had trouble getting that sentence out and she couldn't speak for the next couple of minutes, but she didn't need to. Samantha chattered on about her school work and her mother and father and how she liked one of the boys over there throwing a Frisbee, but not the other, because he made fun of the way she walked. And then she just sort of wound down and decided it was time for her to go see what her mother was doing. "She said she was gonna bake a cake today. For the church bazaar."

All the time, the lady on the other bench continued humming and rocking, and arranging and rearranging the bits of material gathered around her. At least she wasn't armed with any scissors today.

When Samantha was gone Ginny gathered up her materials, rose from the bench, and turned to walk back across the street to her apartment.

"I hear your name is Ginny. That you're Marie Purcell's niece."

"Yes, yes, I am," Ginny said in surprise, as she turned toward the woman on the other bench.

"I liked Marie. She was a fine woman. She helped me feed the birds. My name is Rose."

"Hello, Rose, I'm pleased to meet you."

"And I'm pleased to make your acquaintance as well. Would you like to help me feed the birds tomorrow?"

"Yes, I think I would. Thanks for asking, Rose."

"Remember to bring bread for them. They prefer whole wheat."

Ginny stifled a giggle as she turned and walked toward her building.

Chapter Three

"You haven't asked me about the closed room."

"No I haven't," Ginny answered. "There, the ankles all wrapped, and it looks quite a bit better this evening than it did earlier today. For some reason Aunt Marie had a pair of crutches back in her storage room—I didn't ever know of her needing them—and I think you can probably get around well enough on these tonight. And maybe you won't need to go to the doctor's after all. I went down to the bookstore, though, and Tom Thornton down there says he can drive you someplace tomorrow if you need to go."

"Thanks, Ginny," Arnie Richards said. "That was beyond the call of duty. That Tom Thornton's a presentable lad, isn't he?"

Ginny's blush revealed that she did, indeed, think that Tom Thornton was a presentable lad.