thing.”
“Agatha Christie is good,” Clara agreed. “But Zora Neale Hurston, now she could tell a story.”
Fanny, who had been sitting quietly, said abruptly, “You know Zelda Sayre was a writer.” They all looked at her. She smiled at Ava. “She was a distant cousin of ours on our mother’s side. Zelda was such a lovely girl, so full of life and laughter and high spirits! Sister visited them in Paris in ’29”—here Fanny glanced at Josephine—“and found Zelda very much changed.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” Alice said darkly. “Married to that scoundrel.”
“Wait just a minute.” Ava held up one finger. She shook her head delicately. “Zelda Sayre? Are you talking about Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald ? As in The Great Gatsby ? As in Tender Is the Night ?”
Fanny put the cat down and stood up, and a few minutes later she was back with a photograph of an unsmiling Josephine dressed in a fur-collared coat and a cloche hat, standing next to Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald in front of a Paris café. The Fitzgeralds looked small and chastened beside the tall and somber Josephine, as if her presence diminished them in some way. Ava stared at the photograph in amazement, trying to fathom the Woodburn legacy: a house filled with antiques and memorabilia most museums would envy; a family history of wealth and privilege tied to the same landscape for generations; dazzling family connections.
Once, in a moment of unexpected candor, Clotilde had told Ava the true story of how she and Ava’s father, Frank, had met. She had told Ava a hundred different versions of this event but somehow this one felt like truth. They had met on a Boblo boat during a cruise on Polka Night. The boat was on its way to Boblo Island, an amusement park in the middle of the Detroit River, and her mother had gone with a friend to hear Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels. Frank was there with friends from the line at Ford where he worked and he asked her to dance and later escorted her around the park, where they rode the Wild Maus and the Super-Satellite Jet. Clotilde told her, “I didn’t even like him at first. He had big feet, and his hands smelled of lemon soap. But he was persistent and he wore me down eventually.”
It was that detail of the lemon soap that had given the story its authenticity. Clotilde was a palm reader, and Ava could imagine her flipping Frank’s hand over to peruse its secrets. Picturing this, Ava had felt a sudden dizzying awareness of her parents as they must have been at that time in their young, hopeful lives. She had visualized the two of them, good-looking and wary, the whir of the giant machinery, the lights glittering on the water, the distant strident sounds of the band.
At that moment her imagined life, intertwined with the lives of these two strangers, had felt fateful and expansively heroic. But now, looking down at Josephine standing next to Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald, she could see what a small, inconsequential thing her family history really was.
“Zelda was the better writer of the two,” Alice said. “That was the tragedy of the whole thing. She was the better writer, and his jealousy drove her to have a series of—spells.”
“Nervous spells,” Fanny said.
“Spells?” Ava said, looking from one to the other.
“All the old families are prone to them,” Josephine said serenely.
The Tale-Tell Heart
I t was a beautiful morning, sunny but not too warm, when they started out for Longford. Will drove so that he could show her “the scenic route.” The farther they got from Woodburn Hall, the more his mood seemed to lift. They drove through the shady streets of the old town, the very streets Ava had driven just a day before, and he pointed out sites of interest: the first African-American school in the county, a house with a cannonball still visibly lodged in its outer wall, a leftover from a Civil War skirmish known as the Battle of Harpeth Hill. From time to time, in between
“Agatha Christie is good,” Clara agreed. “But Zora Neale Hurston, now she could tell a story.”
Fanny, who had been sitting quietly, said abruptly, “You know Zelda Sayre was a writer.” They all looked at her. She smiled at Ava. “She was a distant cousin of ours on our mother’s side. Zelda was such a lovely girl, so full of life and laughter and high spirits! Sister visited them in Paris in ’29”—here Fanny glanced at Josephine—“and found Zelda very much changed.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” Alice said darkly. “Married to that scoundrel.”
“Wait just a minute.” Ava held up one finger. She shook her head delicately. “Zelda Sayre? Are you talking about Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald ? As in The Great Gatsby ? As in Tender Is the Night ?”
Fanny put the cat down and stood up, and a few minutes later she was back with a photograph of an unsmiling Josephine dressed in a fur-collared coat and a cloche hat, standing next to Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald in front of a Paris café. The Fitzgeralds looked small and chastened beside the tall and somber Josephine, as if her presence diminished them in some way. Ava stared at the photograph in amazement, trying to fathom the Woodburn legacy: a house filled with antiques and memorabilia most museums would envy; a family history of wealth and privilege tied to the same landscape for generations; dazzling family connections.
Once, in a moment of unexpected candor, Clotilde had told Ava the true story of how she and Ava’s father, Frank, had met. She had told Ava a hundred different versions of this event but somehow this one felt like truth. They had met on a Boblo boat during a cruise on Polka Night. The boat was on its way to Boblo Island, an amusement park in the middle of the Detroit River, and her mother had gone with a friend to hear Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels. Frank was there with friends from the line at Ford where he worked and he asked her to dance and later escorted her around the park, where they rode the Wild Maus and the Super-Satellite Jet. Clotilde told her, “I didn’t even like him at first. He had big feet, and his hands smelled of lemon soap. But he was persistent and he wore me down eventually.”
It was that detail of the lemon soap that had given the story its authenticity. Clotilde was a palm reader, and Ava could imagine her flipping Frank’s hand over to peruse its secrets. Picturing this, Ava had felt a sudden dizzying awareness of her parents as they must have been at that time in their young, hopeful lives. She had visualized the two of them, good-looking and wary, the whir of the giant machinery, the lights glittering on the water, the distant strident sounds of the band.
At that moment her imagined life, intertwined with the lives of these two strangers, had felt fateful and expansively heroic. But now, looking down at Josephine standing next to Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald, she could see what a small, inconsequential thing her family history really was.
“Zelda was the better writer of the two,” Alice said. “That was the tragedy of the whole thing. She was the better writer, and his jealousy drove her to have a series of—spells.”
“Nervous spells,” Fanny said.
“Spells?” Ava said, looking from one to the other.
“All the old families are prone to them,” Josephine said serenely.
The Tale-Tell Heart
I t was a beautiful morning, sunny but not too warm, when they started out for Longford. Will drove so that he could show her “the scenic route.” The farther they got from Woodburn Hall, the more his mood seemed to lift. They drove through the shady streets of the old town, the very streets Ava had driven just a day before, and he pointed out sites of interest: the first African-American school in the county, a house with a cannonball still visibly lodged in its outer wall, a leftover from a Civil War skirmish known as the Battle of Harpeth Hill. From time to time, in between
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