Part 15 (1/2)
”When the groundskeeper called him that, I thought he was ordering a drink.”
”My mother used to call him that, too. But that reminds me. When you go back down to the kitchen, you tell Rye Whiskey that I want him to come up to see me. Right away. Tony was supposed to send him up, but he must have forgotten. Will you do that, please?”
”Oh, of course, I will. I'll go right down now. Would there be anything else you might want with your supper?”
”No, this all looks fine.”
”Then you'd better eat it before it all gets cold,” Mrs. Broadfield snapped as she came into the bedroom and crossed to the bathroom, carrying an armful of fresh, white towels. ”Didn't I ask you to bring up these towels?” she said, turning at the bathroom door. Millie blushed.
”I was going to do just that, ma'am, as soon as I served Annie her supper.”
Mrs. Broadfield grunted and continued on into the bathroom. Millie started away quickly.
”Don't forget Rye Whiskey,” I called to her in a loud whisper.
”I won't.”
Mrs. Broadfield came out and stopped at my bed to look over ray meal. She frowned at the small piece of chocolate cake.
”I distinctly told that cook not to put rich desserts on your tray. Just Jell-O for now.”
”That's all right. I won't eat the cake.”
”No, you won't,” she said, and reached over to take it of the tray. ”I'll see that you get the Jell-O.” ”It's not important.”
”Following my orders is important,” she i uttered, and then she pulled her shoulders back like a general and marched out of the room. Poor Rye Whiskey, I thought. I hadn't even met him yet, and now, because of me, he had gotten into trouble. I finished my meal, eating more out of necessity than out of pleasure, chewing and swallowing mindlessly. Each piece of broiled chicken tasted as if it were made of stone. It wasn't the fault of the carefully prepared food. I was just too tired and too depressed to care.
Just as I finished, I heard a knock on my outside door. I looked out and saw the elderly black man I knew had to be Rye Whiskey. He still wore his kitchen ap.r.o.n and carried a small dish of Jell-O.
”Come in,” I called, and he came forward slowly. As he drew closer I saw that his eyes were wide, the whites around his black pupils so bright, it was as if a candle burned behind them like the candles in pumpkins on Halloween. What he saw in me obviously took his breath away.
”You must be Rye Whiskey.”
”And you surely is Annie, Heaven's daughter. When I first set eyes on you from the doorway there, I thought I was lookin' at a ghost. Weren't the first time I thought I saw sornethird like that in this house, neither.”
He tipped his head to whisper some prayerful words and then looked up, his face a portrait of sadness and worry. I knew he had been here through all of it: my grandmother's flight from home, my great-grandmother Jillian's madness and subsequent death, my mother's arrival and eventual unhappy parting with Tony Tatterton, and now my tragic arrival.
His thin hair was as white as snow, but he had a remarkably smooth, wrinkle-free face and looked very spry for a man I estimated to be close to if not over eighty.
”My mother often spoke fondly about you, Rye.”
”I'm glad ta hear dat, Miss Annie, for I was sho' fond o' yer mama.” His smile widened and he nodded, his head bobbing as if his neck were a spring. He glanced at my supper tray. ”Food all right?”
”Oh, very tasty, Rye. I'm just not that excited about eating right now.”
”Well, ole Rye Whiskey's goin' ta change that.” His eyes crinkled in a smile and he nodded his head again. ”So, how you-gettin' along, Miss Annie?”
”It's hard, Rye.” Funny, I thought, but I felt comfortable being honest with him right from the start. Maybe it was because of the way Mother had spoken about him.
”Oh, I expect it would be.” He leaned back on his heels. ”I can remember the first time yer mama came ta the kitchen ta see me. Remember it just like it was yesterday. Just like you, she was so much like her own mama. She would come in an' watch me cookin' for hours, sittin' there on a stool, restin' her head on her hand and pepperin' me with all sorts of questions 'bout the Tattertons. She was 'bout as curious as a kitten who got inta a linen basket.”
”What did she want to know?”
”Oh, jes”bout eveythin' I could remember 'bout this family--uncles, aunts, Mr. Tatterton's pappy and grandpappy. Whose picture was that on the wall, whose was this? 'Course, like in any family, there was things decent folk don't gossip 'bout.”
What things, I longed to ask him, but I held my tongue, biding my time. Rye slapped his hands to his thighs and sighed.
”So, is there anythin' special I can make you?” he asked to quickly change the subject.
”I like fried chicken. My cook in Winnerrow makes a batter--”
”Oh, he does . . . well, you ain't tasted mine yet, chile, make you that this week. Unless your nurse says otherwise.” He looked back to be sure Mrs. Broadfield wasn't there. ”She come inta the kitchen with a list of do's and don'ts. Made my a.s.sistant, Roger, as nervous as the Devil on Sunday.”
”I don't see how Southern fried chicken could hurt. Rye,” I said, swinging my eyes toward the window, ”Farthy was a much prettier place when my mother lived here, wasn't it?”
”Oh, and how! Why, when the flowers would bloom, it looked like Heaven's Gate.”
”Why did Mr. Tatterton let it fall apart?”
He s.h.i.+fted his eyes away quickly. I saw that my question made him nervous, but that only made me more curious about his answer.
”Mr. Tatterton's had a hard time, Miss Annie, but he sho' has changed a whole lot since yourself arrived. Almost back to the way he was--talking 'bout fixie this and buildin' that. Things are comin' back to life 'round here, which is good for us aid bad for the ghosts,” he whispered.
”Ghosts?”
”Well, like any big house that had so many people movin' through it, spirits linger, Miss Annie.” He nodded for emphasis. ”But I ain't one to challenge that, and neither is Mr. Tatterton. We live side by side with 'em and they don' bother us none and we don' bother them.”
I saw he was serious.
”Are there many servants here now who were here when my mother lived here, Rye?”
”Oh no, Miss Annie. There's jes' myself, Curtis, and Miles. All the maids and grounds helpers are gone, mostly dead and gone.”
”Is there a tall, thin man working here, too, a man much younger than Curtis?”
He thought a moment and shook his head. ”There's groundsmen, but they're all short and stocky.”
Who was that man at my parents' tomb? I wondered. Rye continued to gaze at me, a fond smile on his face.
”Has it been hard for you these past years, Rye, because of the way Mr. Tatterton was?”
”No, ma'am, not hard. Sad, but not hard. 'Course, I stayed in my room after supper and left the house to the spirits. Now,” he smiled, ”they gonna retreat and hover 'bout their graves mostly, 'cause we got light and life again. Spirits hate young people roamin' 'bout. Makes 'em jittery 'cause the young folks got so much energy and brightness 'bout 'em.”
”You really heard these spirits in the house, Rye?” I tipped my head and smiled, but he didn't smile back.
”Oh yes, ma'am. Many a night. There's one spirit, very unhappy one, who roams the halls, goes from room to room, searchin'.”
”For what?”
”Don' know, Miss Annie. Dan' talk to and he don' talk ta me. But I've heard him walkin”bout and I've heard the music.”