Chatham Square

"Would you like some more of the casserole?"

"No thanks. It was delicious. But I don't usually eat that fancy."

There was a moment of silence as Ginny cleared away the plate and silverware.

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

"No . . . no, I haven't."

"If you'd like to hear about it, I think I'd like to tell you. I'd like to tell someone. It's been so lonely here since your Aunt Marie died. We used to talk. She knew my Anne. It was comforting to talk with someone who had known her. It was like she was still here. But now there's no one."

"I'm sorry, Arnie. Certainly, if you'd like to tell me anything, I'd be happy to hear it. I haven't had anyone to talk with for some time myself."

"Well, it starts in Kenya forty years ago. Can you hold with me that far back?"

"Maybe I should sit down, then," Ginny said. And the two laughed a comfortable laugh as she did so.

"Anne was British. And I was an adventurer. We met in Cairo and married in Jerusalem, and then we settled in Kenya, where we raised coffee."

"My, that sounds romantic."

"Yes, yes, it was. But then I strayed. I'm sorry, maybe you don't want to hear this part. After I'd stopped and tried to make it up to her, Marie said she was OK with it, but maybe you—"

"No, no, that's fine, Arnie. I'm a big girl. I've probably heard it all."

"And maybe done some of it too," Arnie said, then he looked embarrassed.

"No, unfortunately not nearly as much of it as I would have liked," Ginny responded. They both laughed at that, albeit not quite as comfortably as they had before—but Ginny knew this was new ground, that they were going deeper into whatever relationship there was to be between them and had actually taken a step up in trust. "But, please, go on," she said.

"Well, Anne said she forgave me. But I don't think she ever did. It wasn't the same after that—at least except for that time while she was ill."

"She was ill?"

"Yes, that was when we'd been married for a good twenty-five years, though. We worked hard, and we built that coffee business up until we had three plantations and were living high on the hog. We were in London on a 'just because' trip when she found out—when Anne found she had cancer."

"Oh. I'm sorry, so she died from—?"

"No she didn't. She fought it, tooth and nail—we both fought it. And she came out on the other side cancer free. But it broke us. All of the medical bills just took nearly everything, all three plantations. I managed to get a job with an American importer, though, and we settled here. Had enough money to buy this place when they were doing the renovations. Bought it with cash on the barrelhead. Which is a good thing, because I have no idea how we would have lived after I retired if we had to pay rent or a mortgage. But we were happy. Or so I thought."

Arnie went silent at that point, and Ginny didn't prompt him. She figured he'd start up again or think better of it and say no more. But either way, it was OK with her. Still, she didn't have the foggiest notion what this had to do with the closed room.

"It was three years ago. Three years ago last April 14th. At two in the afternoon."

His voice was sounding tense now, and Ginny's mind was beginning to fantasize. Had he killed her? Was she still there, in that room? Surely not, if he said he'd talked with Aunt Marie about it. Aunt Marie wouldn't have stayed silent for something like that. Would she? Ginny had to admit that she didn't really know her Aunt Marie at all. And she felt a pang of guilt in realizing that Aunt Marie had tried—it was Ginny herself who hadn't committed to more than the exchange of letters.

"There, in that room."

Ginny was trembling, preparing herself to spring from the sofa and run for the door. Surely in Arnie's present state he couldn't get there before she could.

"She did it to herself. I thought we were happy. That all had been forgiven. That it was clear sailing from here."

A few moments of silence.

"Are you saying that your wife . . . that Anne . . . took her own life?"

"There, in that room. Pills. She must have collected sleeping pills for some time to have enough to do the job. On the chaise lounge in there. She liked to nap in that room. She called it her sanctuary. I never thought of that. Her sanctuary . . . from me, I guess. And I never had a clue."

"And the room has been closed?"

"From the moment they took her out of there. I could see how it was from the door. I didn't go in there. After then, after they took her out, I just closed the door and never opened it again."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. But maybe—"

"We were a handsome couple. In Kenya. Everyone said so. There's an album. Would you like to see—?"

"Yes, that would be nice."

"Damn."

"Excuse me? What?"

"The album. It's in that room."

"Well, then that's OK."

"No, no. I'd really like you to see the photos. I think I'd like to see them again myself. Now. You could go in there and get them. I've been a rather foolish old man, I guess. It's just a room."

"I don't really want to bother."

"No, please. I know right where the albums are. They're stacked on the mantle. There's a fireplace in there. That's why Anne wanted us to buy this place. There are fireplaces. She was pleased that her room, her sanctuary, would have a fireplace."

"If it's OK, then."

"Yes, please. It's time to give all that up. When my ankle's better, maybe I'll go in there too. Maybe. But, please, go on in and bring back the albums on the mantle."

Hesitatingly, Ginny rose from the sofa and went to the door of the room. She released her breath as she stood at the door, her hand on the handle, realizing that she had been holding her breath in as Arnie had zeroed in on the significance of that closed door. "It's just a room," she told herself as she turned the handle.

And indeed it was just a room. But obviously a woman's personal room, overflowing with memories of a full, rich life. Ginny tried not to even look at the chaise lounge as she passed it. She had expected cobwebs and layers of dust, but it wasn't really that bad. These old houses had good insulation. She saw that there was a short stack of photo albums on the mantle, just as Arnie said there would be.

But there also was a folded sheet of stationery that fluttered to the carpet as she moved the albums. She stooped and picked it up and instinctively looked at it. And then all of the armies of the world could not have stopped her from reading the letter.

My Dearest Arnie:

When you read this, I will be gone. I have tried to be gone for weeks now; the pain is here. It's back, and I find that enduring it is unbearable. And so I knew I had to be strong if only for a brief moment. Strong for both of us. I know we can't go through this again. Just as I know you would do it all over again. But we just can't. We no longer have the means. And I no longer have the strength. That has all drained away from the first time. And I'm so sorry for that. So sorry for this cancer in my body. So sorry that I couldn't have been the perfect wife you deserve. Please don't be mad that I have not told you and did not give you a proper good-bye. I am not as strong as I would like to be. If I don't do it this way, I'm afraid I won't do it at all. Please know that I love and have always loved . . .

At that point all of the armies of the world could not have forced Ginny to continue.

She didn't know how long she stood there, holding that letter, trying to compose herself. But she was brought back to reality by the questioning call from the other room.

"Ginny. Can't you find them? I'm sure they're—"

But he stopped, seeing the expression on Ginny's face, as she stood in the doorway to the forbidden room, letter in hand.

"You must read this, Arnie. I think you have suffered from a misconception for far too long."

Chapter Four

"And you didn't find that scary and awkward?"

"Maybe just a little bit. But after the shock was over, I felt really good about it. You should have seen Arnie after it had sunk in, Tom. And I think he lost a good ten years of care. He still claimed to be mad at her—he still said he'd have wanted them to fight it and that he'd have managed it some way. But it obviously was such a relief to him that it wasn't his guilt that had pushed her over the edge."

"His guilt? Uh, thanks, Tony, I would like a coffee refill, please."

Ginny and Tom were sitting—together—at an outside table at William's Café. Ginny had arrived first and then Tom, who had asked her if she cared if he joined her. He was still looking a little down in the mouth, but Ginny didn't care. Someone had asked to join her at her table. And not just anybody. Tom Thornton had asked if he could join her.

"Oh, he just always felt that it was something he'd done or not done that had made her do it. It's really not usually something someone resorts to unless they want to punish someone they're leaving behind. But in Anne's case, I think I can understand it all. And I think Arnie would have come to understand it a lot sooner. It was really unfortunate that he never went in the room. The letter was right there on the mantle, addressed to him. He would have known right away that, in Anne's mind, she was doing it for him and not to him. And who's to say she was wrong? She'd already been through all that pain and suffering the first time around. Who's to say she wasn't right in believing that living wasn't worth going through it all again, money to cover it or otherwise?"

"You were good to be there with him in the first place—and then to stick around and to help him deal with it once the shock of how it really was hit him."

"Oh, I don't know. I've been told otherwise." Ginny couldn't help but think about that damning letter from Lenny. He had always been so common sensible. How could he be wrong about her? Lenny's letter was never far out of Ginny's mind.

They sat and enjoyed their coffee and breakfasts in comfortable silence for a couple of minutes. Tony passed by again, and Ginny called out to him, "You were right, Tony. As good as the croissants are, the French toast is better." Tony smiled at her, but she felt it was a rather wan smile. He looked tired today. He often looked tired. But this morning he looked particularly tired.

She then turned back to Tom. The mention of the French toast had reminded her of something she wanted to ask. But she wanted to work up to it. "Did you know Anne Richards, Tom?"

"No, she was before my time here."

A moment of silence and then, "Did you know my Aunt Marie?"

Tom laughed. "Yes, of course. We all knew your Aunt Marie. She was a very nice woman."

"That's what everyone has said about her. That she was a nice woman. What does that actually mean here, for the residents of Savannah's Chatham Square?"

"I guess you could say Marie was the glue that held us together. She was Mother Confessor and Miss Sunshine all rolled into one. There was nothing any one of us couldn't take to her and then feel better about when we parted from her. We pretty much fell apart as a little community here on the square when she died. Haven't fully recovered yet, I'm afraid. But I guess we're getting there."

"Did she ever mention that she had a niece? Did she ever say anything about me? We weren't really ever that close. I think my mother—her sister—thought Marie was just a bit too risqué. She didn't want too much of that rubbing off on me. But there are times when I think not enough of that has rubbed off on me."

"Yes, she mentioned you a few times—there in the last couple of months."

"Anything you can tell me?"

"I think she was worried a bit about you. I knew that she originally was considering leaving her apartment to SCAD. To be used as visitor's accommodations. But then she said she had a niece to leave it to. Someone she said she thought needed to be here."

"She thought I needed to be here." It came out as a mere whisper and more a statement than a question. Then louder. "Even at the end she was thinking of what I needed. I'm sorry I didn't have an opportunity to know her better."

"You can take what she said two ways, you know, Ginny."

"Oh?"

"I'm not sure but what she was saying that we needed you here. And from what you did for Arnie yesterday, I'm not so sure that isn't the right interpretation."

Ginny reddened right up. This certainly wasn't what Lenny had told her in his letter.

And speaking of letters, Tom was reaching into the pocket of his jacket for his wallet and a letter fell out as well. He looked pained and then concerned and then swept it back up and stuffed it back into his pocket.

"You look like you are in pain, Tom. Is anything the matter?"

"No, not really. Well, yes, but nothing I can't handle—eventually. I got this letter and I don't know how to respond. It's not a bad something, just a conundrum. But I'll figure it out. So where were we in the conversation?"

"Nowhere really. But if we're switching gears, I have something else on my mind I'd like to talk about. Have you met the little girl living next door to me—in the basement—Samantha Johnson?"

"Certainly have. Smart little thing. Too bad about the leg."

"I worry about her. She thinks her father is down in New Orleans earning the money for an operation for her."

"Stranger things have happened. But you aren't the only one worried about her. Rose said essentially the same thing to me the other day."

"Rose? You talk with Rose."

"Yeah, sure. Don't discount Rose. Why, I could tell you things about Rose that—" But then he stopped and, embarrassed at himself, took a big swig of coffee to try to cover it up.

"Things about Rose? Like what?"

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. Rose is very particular about her privacy, and I should be respecting that. When Rose wants to warm up to you, she'll do so. On her own terms. That's always been Rose."

"She introduced herself to me the other day. Asked me if I'd help her feed the birds."

"Well, there you go. You can't get a better offer from Rose than that. She loves those birds like they were family. That's more progress than most have made."

"You mean like that grumpy man in the big house on the west side of the square."

"My lips are sealed. Say, Tony," he called out as the waiter passed their table again. "My tab, please, my fine man. My coffee break is well over at the bookstore. There will be people standing in line for their copies of Midnight."

Ginny thought that was a bit of a rushed retreat. She hoped she hadn't put Tom off by being too nosy. But he probably had raised more questions in her mind than the questions he'd cleared up. She just seemed to be trading one set of mysteries for another. But she was solving one or two—and not just for herself. She somehow felt very, very good about that.

"Oh good, he's gone," Tony bent down and whispered at her after Tom had paid his bill and left. "I thought he'd never leave. Run away with me, my love. And bring our Marie Antoinette doll with you. I think you are very naughty not to have brought her back to me today."

"Oh, Tony. You're being unusually chipper today."

"Chipper? I wished I felt that way."

"Yes, you do look a little down. Getting enough sleep?"

"There's never enough sleep when you're working two jobs."

"Two jobs? Where else are you working?"

"You really don't want to know."

"Try me."

"If I did, you'd probably never show up here for breakfast again."

"As I said, try me. You've looked down in the dumps off and on since I first started coming here. I know that's not the bubbly you—now that I've seen the other side of you."

"Oh, love, you haven't seen the other side of me—not by a long shot."

"As I said, try me."

"You're sounding like your Aunt Marie now."

"I certainly hope so. So come on. Tell me."

"Well, OK. You asked for it. Ever hear of Club One?"

"No, what's Club One?"

"See, I knew I couldn't tell you. You simply have no idea."

"Hey, I just got to Savannah. I've got a lot to learn, I know. So, tell me what Club One is."

Tony laughed now.

"What's so funny?"

"Remembering back to that day you brought Marie Antoinette in, and I told you I was Tony, short for Antoinette. You didn't get it, did you?"

"Yes, I think I did. And I'm telling you I don't care. This is Savannah and I like its 'who cares?' approach to life."

"Well, OK, love. The joke is that I really am Marie Antoinette."

"You're really Marie Antoinette."

"Yes, on stage. Club One is an impersonation club downtown. Most of the clientele are men, but there are some woman and couples who like to slum there for the thrill too. I'm one of the main acts there three nights a week. I play Marie Antoinette."

Ginny laughed for a full half minute—which told Tony that everything was all right.

"I've got to see that," she said. "You've got to get me in to see your act. I'll bet you're a slamming Marie Antoinette."

"All except for the losing her head part, darling. I don't lose my head over anything. Well, not for something as small as a revolution." And then Tony made a more serious face. "You are all right about that? Really?"

"Sure. It's your life, and I'll bet it's great entertainment."

"I wish everyone took that attitude."

"So that's it, is it? There's someone you care about who isn't OK with it?"

"About the only one I care about. My mother. My big mistake was that I moved into the club, made it my mailing address. And as soon as I did that, my momma caught on to what I was doing, I guess. Because she hasn't mailed me anything since then. I keep sending her letters, pretending nothing's wrong. And she just doesn't answer back."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Tony. That's too bad. There's always hope though, I'm sure, that she'll come around. There's nothing like mother love." There didn't seem to be anything else for Ginny to tell Tony. This was too much of a family affair for her to get into.

"But you'll let me see your act, won't you? When do you perform next?"

"Night after tomorrow. I'll get you a ticket."

Ginny went and loved it and went back at least once a week for the next three weeks. She quickly became a fixture, thanks to Tony introducing her around. She quite liked their Ethel Merman impersonator, who was a big, towering teddy bear named Harold and who more or less held down the secretarial duties at the club too. But she didn't much care for the manager of the troupe playing the club. His name was Big George, and it was whispered about that he was a mean drunk and bullied his players and that he had his hand in the till.

In the third week after Ginny had started appearing at the club regularly, the "hand in the till" part apparently panned out, because Big George had absconded and the week's earnings for the troupe was missing.

During that evening while Tony was backstage getting ready for his act, Harold came over to Ginny's table.

"Is it OK if I sit and get a load off, honey?" Harold asked.

"By all means, sit, Ethel. And give it a rest. Big news about Big George, I take it. I hope you all can manage with the week's earnings being short."

"Most of our take is in tips anyway, and Big George didn't get to those," Harold said. "But there is something I'd like your advice on."

"What? How can I help?"

"You could help tell me what to do with these," Harold said. And he plopped a stack of envelopes bound in a rubber band down on the top of the table.

"Who are those to?" Ginny asked.

"Tony. They're all to Tony. Big George has been intercepting Tony's mail. He was afraid Tony's relatives were trying to get him to come home, and Tony was the big draw for the troupe. Big George didn't want to lose him. And I'm sorry to say I've known all along that Big George was holding these back. But I was told I'd be beaten and fired if I said anything. And I need this job. It's the best gig I've ever had. I feel bad about it, though. You're Tony's friend. What do you think I should do?"