Farthest House

2

2

Three days after Jeannie’s death, with her body put to rest only that morning in the village cemetery, the whole of Farthest House lay under a pall. By evening, Julian’s sister, my dear Tory, already middle aged but still living there, had poured herself a glass of sherry to still her nerves and gone up to her room for the night. In the kitchen, Mable stood at the sink in a navy caftan and washed the last of the day’s dishes. She turned to glance with concern at the black gardener sitting at the table. She’d made him fresh coffee and set out a plate of homemade cookies, but he stared straight ahead, ignoring both. His name was Jonah, and the outside corners of his eyes, which fell when he was still a young man, now gave him the appearance of a small and forlorn basset hound. The radio was on low, and a commentator talked about the signing that day of the Civil Rights Act and how n*****s celebrated in the streets. At sixty-one, with all he’d seen in his life, Jonah scarcely cared whether or not a new law had been signed. Earlier laws hadn’t helped, and he couldn’t rid his mind of thinking about the number of lynchings there’d been in just his lifetime. Lynchings. Human beings at their most inhuman and the sight of busted up black bodies swinging. On top of that, not three days since there’d been another death in the house. Some homes went a hundred years and crumbled in on themselves and never felt death.

I couldn’t watch his misery. Sorrow and guilt sent me from the room and into the library where Julian stood at a window holding his daughter, her body snug against his. After the mortician came and removed Jeannie’s body, Julian reached for the infant and took her to his room—as though only the two of them could understand what they’d lost. Since then, he’d not let the housekeeper, his sister, or even his mother tend to the infant. He gave the newborn each feeding, watching the clock regimentally for two-hour intervals, and changing each diaper, though he asked constantly, “Like this?” and “This way?” but not giving her over to other hands. Even during the funeral and at the graveside, he hung on to the infant.

Luessy stepped through the library door, her reading spectacles in one hand. Her wide skirt reached to mid-calf, and her shoes were “sensible.” She came quietly down the short aisle, scarcely glancing at the rows of books on either side. Avoiding the wide desk where she liked to spend her evenings reading, she studied her tall son. His time in France during the Second World War and his training at the Police Academy were years behind him, but he’d remained lean and strong. Until now. Now he looked fragile. She approached him slowly, “Your baby needs a name.”

Out the window, a young willow tree blew in an approaching spring storm, branches swaying back and forth in the evening light and fronds floating in the air. Julian’s gaze lifted from the young trembling tree and settled on his daughter. “Willow.”

“Willow,” Luessy repeated, pleased with the sound.

He turned back to the window and the first drops of rain. “I shouldn’t have brought Jeannie here,” he said. “I should have made sure she was in a hospital. That quack of a doctor should be thrown in jail.”

“Nonsense. Jeannie wanted to be here. Dr. Mahoney has delivered hundreds of babies. Nearly all of them in their homes. How could any of us have known?”

The skin along Julian’s clenched jaw blanched. “She trusted him. I shouldn’t have let her talk me into it.”

“You were born in this house. So was your sister. We just didn’t know.”

“Doctors are paid to know.”

Luessy saw the eyes of a hurt boy. “They aren’t gods.”

Willow stirred in his arms but didn’t wake. He’d not argue with his mother. It wouldn’t change anything. Dr. Mahoney failed Jeannie, but so had he. In that, he also failed Willow. His mind tripped over the name, Willow. His daughter. He would not fail her again. “You think I’ve got it?” he asked. “You think I understand what she needs? How to do it all?”

Luessy’s eyes dampened, and she looked to the small, sleeping face and the tuft of dark hair on the crown of her head. Julian, with his determined purpose and strong hands, had swaddled the infant so tight in her yellow receiving blanket it was a wonder she could breathe. And the way Julian held her, not rocking or cooing, but tight and tucked, he might have been holding a football. Luessy hesitated. She wanted to say, Heavens no, you’re not thinking of returning to Omaha so soon. Instead, she heard herself say, “Willow will teach you what she needs.”

“I can’t come back here.”

Swinging her hands behind her back was Luessy’s only way of keeping herself from grabbing her granddaughter. She thought of insisting that he leave the child there to be raised by the household of females, but this was Julian’s child, and he needed the infant. “I know how much you loved Jeannie, but someday this house will be Willow’s. I want this to be a second home for her while she’s growing up.”

Julian shifted his weight, ready to leave, but he stopped when Luessy dropped a hand on his forearm. “Take some time,” she said. And then, to keep him close a minute longer, “I know death can take years to heal. When you’re ready, bring Willow back here. I’ll be waiting.”

He lifted the baby to his shoulder, touching her soft cheek with his rougher one. He couldn’t explain his wanting to cut all ties to the house and everyone who lived there, but he did. “I need space. Don’t call, don’t hound me.”

“Hound you?” Luessy needed to sit, but she didn’t want to leave his side for a chair.

His brows pinched, apology grabbed his face. “I just mean you can’t fix this. You can’t mother me through and make it all right.” She looked tired—the last three days had aged her, too. She’d also lost Jeannie, and death had entered her house. “I know it sounds cold,” he said, “but let us go.”

He left her standing there. He couldn’t explain what he couldn’t understand. Loss for certain, shock, maybe even pity for himself and Willow, but that wasn’t all. Jeannie had needed him to understand something, to give her dying moment some assurance. He’d failed to understand, failed to give her what she needed. Now Willow needed away from where everything went bad, and she needed kept away until the world righted itself. If ever the world would be right again.