The Swan House Read Online Free Page B

absolutely perfect because mine was so little and turned-uppish, and I always wanted to sketch her face. It was the most real face I had ever seen.
    We called Ella Mae sturdy or round, but Mama, who loved to sneak up with a phrase from her French mother, would say, “She is not fat, just un petit peu enveloppée. ” I poorly translated that to mean she was well padded, but it sounded much more sophisticated in French.
    I found Ella Mae that morning of June third in the den, listening through the static on the radio and rocking herself back and forth, back and forth, moaning, “Lawd Jesus, have mercy on us. Have mercy.”
    I don’t think she heard me come into the room, because she let out a scream and then a “Lawd, chile, you done scared me ta daeth,” and when she looked at me, that beautiful round face was shining with tears.
    I’d never seen Ella Mae cry until that day. She was not supposed to cry. She was there to wipe my tears and listen to my stories and laugh at my pranks, but I felt a funny little quiver inside to see her face all wet with crying, and a cool shiver ran through my body.
    â€œElla Mae, what’s the matter? Why are you here today? Why aren’t you at your church?”
    â€œMy, my, chile. My, my,” she said, shaking her head and pulling me toward her and holding me in her strong black arms, snuggling me in her big bosom the way she used to when I was a little girl.
    â€œAin’t got no good news today, we ain’t.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, Ella Mae?” It was then that I had my first premonition that whatever was making her cry would do the same to me when I found out. If it was bad news, I didn’t mind hearing it from Ella Mae. I only wanted to get it over with before Mama and Daddy came home from the airport. Three weeks of touring museums around Europe with one hundred of the city’s most generous art patrons had kept my parents away. I wanted everything to be perfect for their return.
    â€œThey’s been a crash. A terribul crash, sugah. A plane in Paris, takin’ off early this mornin.’”
    The words froze me in place, and I narrowed my eyes, making them hard and angry, as if I were daring Ella Mae to tell me something too horrible to be true. “What plane crashed?” I mumbled after a moment.
    The doorbell rang before she could answer, and we both jerked ourselves up. I left the den, ran through the entrance hall, and pulled the front door open, hearing my heart hammering in my chest. Our neighbor and Mama’s best friend, Trixie Hamilton, was standing there looking stricken. Trixie was in her late thirties, petite and blond and loads of fun, but she had nothing happy on her face at that moment.
    â€œMary Swan,” she whispered and pulled me close. “Oh, Mary Swan. I came right when I heard the news. I was on my way to church. I wanted to be here before you got up.” Ella Mae’s eyes met Trixie’s, and she shook her head slowly. Trixie must have understood something, because she led me through the big hall to the kitchen, which was decorated in bright red, yellow, and blue—what we called Mama’s artistic touch. Adjoining the kitchen was the breakfast room with a sturdy round oak table around which our family ate all our informal meals. We each took a chair, and Trixie held my hands.
    â€œThere’s been a crash. A tragic accident. The plane . . .” She cleared her throat and started again. “The plane your parents were on that left Paris this morning has crashed. They don’t think there are any survivors.”
    If I had been six, I would have melted into Trixie’s arms or Ella Mae’s bosom and sobbed for hours. But I was sixteen, at that awkward, proud age when even those closest to me seemed at times distant. I sat there rigid as a board and numb, and Trixie just sat there too, her arms wrapped loosely around me as though she was afraid to squeeze me