The Swan House by Elizabeth Musser Page A

I’d like ya to meet my little brotha’s, Mike and James, and my sista’, Puddin’.”
    Mike, the oldest, stepped forward and held out his hand. “Pleased ta meetcha.” He puffed out his chest and mashed my hand in his, so that I stepped back and said, “Ouch!”
    â€œMike, watch yorese’f, boy!” Carl remonstrated in a voice that was very different from the one he used when he talked to me. Then he said, “Excuse us, Mary Swan. He’s mighty full of himself for a twelve-year-old, but he’s all right.”
    â€œNice to meet you, Mike,” I said. “Good grip you’ve got there.”
    Immediately the other boy rushed over to shake my hand. “I’m James and I’m ten.”
    I regarded him warily with a sliver of a smile on my lips. “Good to meet you too. Be careful with my hand, please.”
    He opened his mouth in a smile, took my hand, and pumped it up and down several times. I pulled my hand away and shook it down by my side, pretending to be in pain. The boys stared at me silently. Then I winked at them, and they burst into laughter.
    The little girl gazed at me timidly. “I’m Puddin’, and I ain’t never heard a name like Mary Swan before!”
    I bent down to her level and shrugged. “I know. It’s kinda weird. Family name.”
    Their eyes got wide at that comment, and James said, “You mean they’s lotsa folks in yore family called Swan?”
    I laughed. “No. That’s not what I meant.”
    But Carl brushed it aside and said, “Why don’t y’all take Mary Swan to the kitchen, and we’ll fix her some iced tea?”
    Puddin’ took my hand in hers and said, “Come on in our front room.” We left the porch and went through the “front room,” which looked to me just like a bedroom. A table in the corner was piled with newspapers and old magazines, the floor had a dirty rug and a dirtier dog on it, and a skinny woman with droopy eyes that followed my every move sat on an unmade bed.
    â€œAfternoon, ma’am,” she said with a scowl on her face.
    â€œGood afternoon,” I replied and licked my dry lips.
    â€œThat’s my aunt Neta,” Puddin’ confided as she led me through the front room and into the kitchen. Mike opened the fridge, and James gave me a big grin and pointed to a chair. I sat down and tried my hardest not to stare at the flies that were swarming around several crusty plates beside the sink. I could hear Carl whispering something unintelligible to his aunt.
    Mike placed a glass of iced tea on the table, and Puddin’ whined, “I want some too, Michael. You betta’ fix me some right now.” Then she stood behind me and started twisting my hair around her fingers.
    James gave her a hard look and said, “Stop it, Puddin’! Ain’t polite.”
    â€œOh no, it’s fine,” I said and winked at Puddin’. “Do you think you could braid it for me one day?”
    Puddin’ scrunched up her nose, looking unconvinced. Then she giggled. “I could try, I guess. Shore feels funny, yore hair, Mary Swan.
    All thin and straight.” She giggled again.
    For some reason, I pulled her into my lap and started tickling her the way I used to tickle Lucy, Trixie’s daughter, when she was younger.
    Puddin’ howled with delight, and Carl came into the kitchen to see what was going on. When he saw Puddin’ squirming happily on my lap, he nodded at me in approval.
    So I stayed at Carl’s house for about an hour and listened to the kids babbling about their dog and their friends and their school, and I forgot all about Buckhead and Mama and Oakland Cemetery. And when Carl said we needed to be getting back to the church so that Ella Mae wouldn’t worry, I didn’t really want to leave. I felt all warm inside and nervous, sort of the way I’d felt when I’d been given the