In elementary school, a lot of kids thought Lorelei and Ellis Rutledge were ghosts. There were stories about two children who haunted the third floor of the Sugar Hill mansion.
I can still recall seeing them in the window as we pulled up. Side by side they stood, Ellis next to Lorelei, a dish next to a spoon. The boy was bloated like a balloon. Puffed so full he was ready to pop. The girl no less unforgettable. Gaunt eyes and skeletal thin, with a sour expression marring her face. Pitiful-looking kids who were unloved and uncared for despite their wealth.
When I was younger, I didn’t know they still had all-boys and all-girls boarding schools that parents shipped off their children to. That was only something you read about in V. C. Andrews books. But the Rutledge twins come from old money. People like that can’t be bothered with raising children.
Inside, the formal receiving room was a vast soulless space—even with its many antiques and oil paintings. There we sat at a play table, finer than any kitchen table I’d ever seen but small enough for children.
Not a word between us three kids as I waited to be called.
Red velvet plushed over the chairs. A miniature sterling silver tea set graced the table. Fifth grade felt a little too old for teatime, but they were a year or two younger than me, so I guess it was fine. Their manners were intact, but their personalities devoid of emotion. Aunt Violet gushed about how wonderful it was to have a tea party on real china.
“Isn’t this a delight?” she asked.
Adults don’t hide their nerves from children as well as they think. It was the way she glanced over at Stone Rutledge, still as a statue, waiting for her to finish placating me, that gave her away.
Aunt Violet had brought me there to do the death-talking—without grandmother’s permission. But Aunt Violet’s taste for whiskey outweighed her fear of her mother.
Then we were alone.
We three kids.
With our fine china, petite cakes, and sugary hot tea. Tiny sterling forks scraped quietly. Teacups clinked delicately.
The crinkle of Ellis’s curls fought against the slick, glossy gel trying to tame them down. His plaid button-up shirt, freshly starched, made me a little embarrassed my cotton dress wasn’t ironed. He inhaled the sweets and gulped the tea eagerly, shooting me smiles from that rounded face of his. He seemed nice. Friendly, even, like maybe we could play again sometime if they were allowed.
I don’t think they would have been.
The girl’s blue floral dress with puffy sleeves was made of a fine polished cotton. Something fancy enough to wear to church on Easter Sunday, but here she wore it in the middle of the week on summer break. She didn’t offer any smiles. I would have thought her sad, had it not been for her grim stare. Maybe she didn’t want to share her twin brother with me. Or maybe she didn’t want someone of such a low caliber playing with her fancy tea set. I couldn’t help but feel like Lorelei Rutledge hated me, even though we’d never formally met before that day.
She picked at her icy cubed cakes—petits fours, I believe they were—never eating them. Just decimating them into crumbs with the illusion of being consumed. I remember wanting her cakes if she wasn’t going to finish them, my stomach rumbling all the while.
And death was there, too, slipping underneath the doorway from their grandfather’s room. It clung to the air, thick as molasses. Smelled like a horse’s stall that was sorely in need of a cleaning. The old man’s soul-song a scattered sound of piano keys twinkling with no rhyme or reason; the disjointed tune set my teeth on edge.
Then Aunt Violet called, and I walked into the room past Stone. He was unable to look at me. Shame was there, tucked in the corner of his eyes. That and sorrow, like maybe he felt bad for me and what I was about to do. I wanted to touch his hand and tell him I’d be alright; it wasn’t the first time I’d been called upon.
Velvet curtains stretched all the way to the ceiling, letting in a sliver of light. It was hard to make out the details in the dim, dusty room, but my eyes found Godfrey Newsome’s as he struggled to cling to life.
The bed was a majestic beast, with its tall brooding wood balusters and bloodred bedding. Mrs. Rebecca Rutledge sat on the opposite of her father’s bedside, eyes desperate and scared. It was a high bed, up to my chest. A stern, firm piece that looked uncomfortable to sleep on. I stood next to it, held out an open palm for old man Newsome to clasp. Cold and bony, his grasp was frail. He smelled of cigars and urine. I bent over to whisper the secret scriptures into his palm, and then I talked the death out of him.
Death curled itself in my belly like the gnarled roots of an old oak tree. It twisted inside me, a skeletal creature stretching to be born. It went on like that for more minutes than I wanted to endure. When it was done, a wad of death-ooze hung in my throat. With a garbled hawk, I spit it free in the fine teacup Aunt Violet held out for me. The black sludge slivered down and settled in the bottom.
Aunt Violet scuttled me out into the sitting room. My knees trembled like a fawn, weak and dizzy from the sickness that was coming. As I was ushered out, I saw a door on the other side of the room that was cracked open. It closed abruptly, the hem of a dress fluttering in its wake. We were sent on our way with a fistful of cash and not so much as a thank-you from the family.
Something made me turn around as we drove off. The tall dark figure of Stone Rutledge loomed in the upper window. It was impossible to know what he was thinking as he watched us go. Whatever it was made me feel sad and lonely. Forgotten.
Details of the sitting room haven’t changed much all these years later. An oriental red carpet, just as fancy as I remember, covers the floor and matching velvet curtains hang alongside the windows. Stuck in the center, a round table with a large bouquet of fresh flowers just like before. Across the room, double doors lead to the tearoom, where I once sat with the Rutledge twins.
I smooth a nervous hand over my thin cotton dress, reciting in my head the script I plan to use. That I found this old picture of my mom and Gabby... How well did they know each other? I’d work my way into asking about the button tin, and if she knew it’s importance for my mom. Doubtful, but Adaire didn’t leave me with much else to go on.
Then, before my nerves give out, I’ll ask her about the droplet of rain.
Not that great of a script.
Two light knocks on the door and a woman’s voice on the other side gives me permission to enter.
Thirteen years it’s been since I sat in this room that now houses an adult-sized table and tea set. Yellow balloons bunch around in various spots. Fresh flowers decorate a party table. A tiered cake, the center of attention, is beautiful enough for a wedding. A smattering of gifts are set in the corner. Fear hops in my chest. They’re getting ready for a party—and parties typically mean people. Holy hell, if I get busted for being here, I’ll be in a heap of trouble.
A woman samples one of the pastel mints from the silver candy dish and pops it into her mouth before she turns my way. I freeze for a half-second, not sure if this is Gabby.
“You’re early for my party,” the woman says, but then her brow dips in confusion as she realizes I’m not who she expected. It takes me a minute, but I slowly start to place her.
Her curly brown hair is riddled with wiry gray sprigs. The bags under her eyes too dark, like she’s lived a heavy life. Her dress a cheery blue, with a refined lace looks like something straight out of Southern Living magazine.
“I...” I start, but all those practiced words just slip out of my head. “Happy Birthday, Gabby?” is what rolls out of my mouth. I hold my breath and hope I’m right. Then I waggle my plastic sack with the old tin as if I’ve brought a gift and that makes my presence here legitimate.
Her face lights up. “Don’t you mean congratulations, silly?” She eagerly fans a hand for me to join her at the table already set for tea.
“Yes, sorry, I meant congratulations.” I sigh with relief. Though I’m unsure what I’m congratulating her for.
“You must be one of Lorelei’s friends from college.” Gabby pours steaming hot tea into our cups, eyeing me with an eager curiosity. Across the table, slouching in his seat, a giant teddy bear with a gift bow tied around his head. A dainty teacup of his own sits in front of him.
“We know each other” is how I leave it.
“Sugar?” Pinched between a pair of dainty sterling silver tongs, she holds an anticipatory white cube, awaiting its fate.
They don’t match her tea set. The tongs. They don’t have the fine dotted trim of the silver creamer and sugar bowl. Of course, the tray doesn’t belong to the set, either, as it is scalloped while none of the other pieces are. Like the antique dining table we’re seated at, similar to the chairs, but not the same, though they try to be. A bunch of one-off pieces. It’s like the family doesn’t trust her with the good stuff, and she hasn’t noticed they’re knockoffs.
“Yes please.” I hold out my cup for her to drop the cube into but she doesn’t.
