For the first time since he'd known he would never walk or dance again, Jory turned his head. That alone filled me with breathless joy.
He met my eyes briefly. I saw the tears there, unshed but shining. "Mel is thinking about going to her parents?" he asked in a hoarse voice.
Hope struggled to survive within me. I didn't know what Melodie would do now, even if he did come back to being himself. Yet I had to say everything right, and so seldom was I adequate. I'd failed with Julian, failed with Carrie.
Please, God, don't let me fail with Jory.
"She'd never leave you if you'd come back to her. She needs you, wants you. You turn away from us, proving to her that you'll turn from her as well. Your prolonged silence and unwillingness to eat say so much, Jory, so much to keep Melodie afraid. She's not like me. She doesn't bounce back, spring forth and kick and yell. She cries all the time. She only half eats . . . and she's pregnant, Jory. Pregnant with your baby. You think about how you felt when you heard what your father did and consider the effects your death will have on your child. Think long and hard about that before you continue with what you've got your mind set on. Think about yourself, and how much you wanted to have your own natural father. Jory, don't be like your father and leave a fatherless child behind you. Don't destroy us, when you destroy yourself!"
"But, Mom!" he cried in great distress. "What am I going to do? I don't want to sit in a wheelchair the rest of my life! I'm angry, so damned angry I want to strike out and hurt everyone! What have I done to deserve this kind of punishment? I've been a good son, a faithful husband. But I can't be a husband now. There's no excitement down there anymore. I feel nothing below my waist. I'd be better off dead than like this!"
My head lowered to press my cheek against his inert hand. "Maybe you would be, Jory. So go on and starve yourself, and will yourself to die, and never sit in a wheelchair--and don't think about any of us. Forget the grief you'll bring into our lives when you're gone. Forget about all those Chris and I have lost before. We can adjust, we're used to losing those we love most. We'll just add you to our long list of those to feel guilty about . . . for we will feel guilty. We'll search and search until we find something we failed to do right, and we'll enlarge that and make it grow, until it shuts out the sun and all happiness, and we'll go into our graves blaming ourselves for yet another life gone."
"Mom! Stop! I can't stand to hear you talk like that!"
"I can't stand what you're doing to us! Jory! Don't give up. It's not like you to even think of surrendering. Fight back. Tell yourself you're going to lick this and turn out a better, stronger person because you've faced up to adversities others can't even imagine."
He was listening. "I don't know if I want to fight back. I've lain here since that night and thought about what I could do. Don't tell me I don't have to do anything because you're rich, and I've got money, too. Life is nothing without a goal, you know that."
"Your child . . . make your child your goal. Making Melodie happy, another goal. Stay, Jory, stay . . . I can't bear to lose another, I can't, can't . . ." And then I was crying.
And I'd determined not to show weakness and cry. I sobbed brokenly without looking at him. "After your father died, I made my baby the most important thing in my life. Maybe I did that to ease a guilty conscience, I don't know. But when you came along on Valentine's night and they laid you on my stomach so I could see you, my heart almost burst with pride. You were so strong looking, and your blue eyes were so bright. You grasped my finger and didn't want to let go. Paul was there, and Chris, too. They both adored you right from the beginning. You were such a happy, well-behaved baby. I think we all spoiled you, and you never had to cry to get what you wanted. Jory, now I know you are incapable of being spoiled. You've got an inner strength that will see you through. Eventually you'll be glad you hung on to see that child of yours. I know you'll be glad."
During all of this, I'd sobbed my words almost incoherently. I think Jory felt sorry for me. His hand moved so he could wipe away my tears with the edge of his white sheet.
"Got any ideas about what I could do in a wheelchair?" he asked in a small, mocking voice.
"A thousand ideas, Jory. Why, this day isn't long enough to list them. You can learn to play the piano, study art, learn to write. Or you can become a ballet instructor. You don't have to strut around to do that--all you need is a good vocabulary and an untiring tongue. Or you can do something more mundane, like become a CPA, study law and give Bart some competition. In fact, there is very little you can't do. We're all handicapped in one way or another. You should know that. Bart's got his invisible handicap, worse than any you'll ever have. Think back to all his problems while you were dancing and having the time of your life. He was tormented by psychiatrists probing painfully into his deepest self."
His eyes were brighter now, filling with vague hope that tried to find a mooring.
"And think about the swimming pool Bart put in the yard. Your doctors say your arms are very strong, and after some physical therapy you can swim again."
"What do
you
want me to do, Mom?" His voice was soft, gentle as his hand moved over my hair, and his gaze was tender.
"Live, Jory, that's all."
His eyes were soft now, full of tears that didn't fall. "What about you, Dad and Cindy? Weren't you planning to move to Hawaii?"
For weeks I hadn't thought of Hawaii. I stared blankly before me. How could we leave now that Jory was injured and Melodie was in such distress? We couldn't leave.
Foxworth Hall had trapped us again.
Regretfully Chris and I neglected Cindy as we spent most of our time in the hospital with Jory. Cindy grew restless and bored in a hostile house with Joel, who gave her only disapproval, with Bart, who gave her only scorn, with Melodie, who had nothing to give to anyone.
"Momma," she wailed. "I'm not having a good time! It's been a terrible summer, the worst. I'm sorry Jory's in the hospital and he won't ever walk or dance again, and I want to do what I can for him, but what about me? They only allow him to have two visitors at a time and you and Daddy are always with him. Even when I do see him, half the time I don't know what to say, or what to do. And I don't know what to do with myself when I'm here, either. This house is so isolated from the rest of the world it's like living on the moon-- boring, boring. You tell me not to go into the village, not to have dates unless you know about them, and you're never here to ask when someone invites me. You tell me not to swim when Bart and Joel are around. You tell me not to do so many things . . . what is it that I
can
do?"
"Tell me what you want to do," I said with sympathy. She was sixteen and had expected this vacation to give her great pleasure. Now the mansion she'd admired so much in the beginning was proving, in some ways, to be as much a prison for her as the old one had been for us.
She came to sit cross-legged on the floor near my feet. "I don't want to hurt Jory's feelings by leaving, but I'm going crazy here. Melodie stays in her room all the time with her door locked and refuses to let me in.
Joel dries me up with his mean old eyes. Bart pretends he doesn't see me. Today a letter came from my friend Bary Boswell, and she's going to this marvelous summer camp just a few miles north of Boston, where there is a summer stock theater nearby. And there's swimming in the lake nearby, and sailing, and dances every Saturday, plus they teach all kinds of crafts. I like being with girls my own age, and I think that's just the kind of camp I'd enjoy. You can check into it and see that it has a good reputation, but let me go, please, before I go batty."
I'd so wanted all of us to have a close gettingto-know-you-all-over-again kind of summer, and here she was, wanting to leave, and I hadn't spent nearly enough time with her. Still, I easily understood. "I'll talk to your father about it tonight," I promised. "We want you to be happy, Cindy, you know that. I'm sorry if we've neglected you while we care for Jory. Let's talk now about you. What about boys you met at Bart's party, Cindy? What's going on between you and them?"
"Bart and Joel hide the keys to the cars so I can't drive off. And that's exactly what I would do, permission or not. I want to slip out a window, but they're all so high above the ground, and I'm afraid to jump and fall and hurt myself. But I think about boys all the time, that's what. I miss being with them, having dates and going to dances. I know what you're thinking, because Joel is always muttering about me being without morals . . . I'm trying hard to hang on to them, really I am. Yet I don't know how long I can keep myself a virgin. I tell myself that I'm going to be old-fashioned and hold out until I'm married, but I plan not to marry until I'm at least thirty. Then, when I'm out with a boy I really like, and he begins to apply pressure, I want to surrender. I like the sensations I feel leaping up and making my heart beat faster. My body wants it to happen. Momma, why can't I find the kind of strength you have? How do I find the real me? I'm caught in a world that doesn't really know what it wants, you tell me that all the time. So if the world doesn't know, how can I? I want to be what you want me to be, sweet and pure, while
I
want to be sexy. The two contradict each other. I want you and Daddy to always love me, so I try to be as sweet as you think I am--but I'm not that innocent, Momma. I want all the good-looking boys to be in love with me--but someday I'm not going to be able to hold back."
I smiled to see her troubled expression, her fearful glance to see if I'd be shocked. I guessed, too, that she was afraid she'd just ruined her chances to escape this house. My arms went around her. "Hang on to morality, Cindy. You're much too talented and too beautiful to give yourself away like a bit of worthless trash. Think highly of yourself, and others will as well."
"But Momma --how do I say no, and still keep the boys liking me?"
"There are a lot of boys who won't expect you to `give out,' Cindy, and that's the kind you want. Those who demand sex for one reason or another are more than likely to dump you quickly after they get what they want. There's something about men that makes them want to conquer every woman, especially an exceptional beauty like you. Remember, too, they talk amongst themselves and report on the most intimate details when they don't really love you."
"Momma! You make me feel that being a woman is a trap! I don't want them to trap
me--I want
to trap them! But I have to confess, I'm not good about resisting. Bart's made me feel so insecure about myself that I keep wanting the boys to convince me differently. But every time from this day forward, when some jerk gets me on the backseat and says he'll fall ill if I don't satisfy his lust, I won't feel sorry for him. I'll just think of you and Daddy and bash in his head--or give him the knee where it hurts worse."
She made me laugh, when I hadn't laughed in weeks. "All right, darling, I know in the end you'll do the right thing. So let's talk more about that summer camp so I can give your father all the details."
"You mean I haven't spoiled my chances?" she asked in a delighted way.
"Of course not. I think Chris will agree that you need a break from all this tragedy here."
Chris did agree, thinking as I did that a sixteenyear-old girl needed this special summer for fun. The moment Cindy knew, she had to visit Jory and spill it all out to him. "Now, just because I'm leaving doesn't mean I don't care, but I'm so damned bored, Jory. I'm going to write often and send you little gifts." She embraced him, kissed him, her tears falling to put beads on his clean-shaven face. "Nothing can take away what you are, Jory--that wonderful thing that makes you so special, and it doesn't live in your legs. I'd want you for my own if you weren't my brother."
"Sure you would," he said with some irony. "But thanks anyway."
Chris and I left Jory alone with his nurse long enough to drive Cindy to the nearest airport; where we kissed her goodbye and he handed her some "pin" money. She was delighted with the amount and had to kiss him again and again before she backed off, waving vigorously. "I'll write real letters," she promised, "not just postcards, and I'll send pictures. Thanks for everything, and don't forget to write often and tell me what's going on. In a way, living in Foxworth Hall is like being caught up in some deep, dark, mysterious novel, only it's too frightening when you're actually living the story."
On the way to the hospital to stay with Jory again, Chris told me of his plans. We couldn't move to Hawaii now and abandon Jory to the frail mercies of Bart and Joel, and Melodie wasn't able to care for herself, much less a husband in a back cast, even if she did hire a nurse. And neither Jory nor Melodie would be in any condition to make the long plane trip to Hawaii for many months.
"I won't know what to do with myself when Jory goes back to the Hall and has his own attendants, any more than Cindy knew how to keep herself occupied and happy. Jory won't need me every hour. I'm going to feel useless unless I do something meaningful, Cathy. I'm not an old man. I still have many good years ahead of me."
Sadly I turned my head to watch him as he kept his eyes on the traffic. He went on without turning to meet my eyes. "Medicine has always played a very important part in my life. That doesn't mean I'm breaking my promise to share more time with you and my family than I do professionally. Just remember what losing a career means to Jory . . ."
Sliding closer on the seat, I lowered my head to his shoulder, telling him in a choked voice to go ahead and do what he felt was right. ". . . but keep in mind a physician has to have an impeccable record, and someday there may be gossip about us."
He nodded, saying he'd already considered that fact. This time he was going into the research side of medicine. He wouldn't be meeting the public, who might recognize him as a Foxworth. He'd already thought enough on the subject. Already he was bored with staying home and contributing nothing. He had to do something important or lose the identity he felt he needed. I put on a bright smile even if my heart was sinking, for his dream of living in Hawaii had also been my dream.
With arms about each other, we entered the huge house that waited with its gaping jaws wide.
Melodie had sequestered herself in her room, Joel was in that little room without furniture, down on his knees praying while a single candle burned in the gloom. "Where is Bart?" asked Chris, looking around as if astonished that anyone would want to spend so many hours in such a dismal place.
Joel frowned, then faintly smiled, as if he had to remember to appear friendly. "Bart is off in some bar drinking himself under the table, as he put it."
I'd never known Bart to do such a thing. Regret for setting up the performance that ruined his brother's legs, and cost him his career? Regret for driving Cindy away? Did Bart know how to feel regret? I didn't know. I stared blankly at Joel as he paced the'floor, seeming terribly upset, when what difference did Bart's behavior make to him?
The old man followed us as usually he followed Bart. "He should know better," muttered Joel. "Whores and harlots hang out in bars, though I've warned him about them."
His words intrigued me. "What's the difference between a whore and a harlot, Joel?"
His smeary eyes turned my way. As if light blinded him, he shaded those eyes with his gnarled hand.
"Are you mocking me, niece? The Bible mentions both nouns, so there must be some difference."
"Perhaps a whore is worse than a harlot, or vice versa? Is that what you mean?"
He glared at me, telling me with his glittering, faded eyes that I was tormenting him with my silly questions.
"Then's there's a strumpet, Joel, and today we have hookers, call girls and prostitutes--do they come between harlots and whores, or are they the same?"
His eyes hardened to rivet on me with the piercing glare of a virgin saint. "You don't like me, Catherine. Why don't you like me? What have I done to make you distrust me? I stay to save Bart from the worst in himself, or I'd leave today because of your attitude, and I am more Foxworth than you are." Then his expression changed, and his lips quirked. "No, I take that back. You are
twice
the Foxworth I am."
How I hated him for reminding me! Still, he did manage to make me feel ashamed, as if I'd misconstrued the silent messages he sent out. I didn't defend myself, or protest to convince him otherwise. Nor did Chris say a word to prevent this confrontation he'd already sensed would come sooner or later.
"I don't know why I distrust you, Joel," I said in a kinder voice than I customarily used with him. "Perhaps you protest too much about your father, making me doubt you are one whit better or different."
Without another word, but with a sad look that I think he feigned, he turned and shuffled off, his hands again tucked up those invisible brown monk sleeves.
That very evening, when Melodie insisted on dining in her room alone again, I made up my mind. Even if she didn't want to go, and fought against me, I was driving Melodie to see Jory!
I stalked into her room and removed her almost untouched dinner tray without saying a word. She wore the same shabby robe that she'd worn for days. I pulled her best-looking summer outfit from her closet and tossed it on the bed. "Shower, Melodie, and shampoo your hair. Then get dressed--you are going to visit Jory tonight, whether or not you want to."
Instantly she jumped up and protested, acting hysterical as she said she couldn't go yet, wasn't ready yet, and I couldn't make her do anything she didn't want to do. I overrode everything she said, shouting back it seemed she'd never be ready, and I didn't care what excuses she offered, she was going.
"You can't make me do one damned thing!" she yelled, very pale as she backed away. Then, sobbing, she pleaded for me to give her more time to become adjusted to the idea of Jory being crippled. I said she'd had enough time. I'd adjusted, Chris had, Cindy had . . . and she could pretend; after all, she was supposed to be a professional used to playing roles.
I had to literally drag Melodie to the shower and shove her inside when she wanted the tub. But I knew about Melodie in a bathtub. There she'd sit until her skin puckered, and visiting hours would be over. Waiting outside the shower door, I urged her to hurry. She stepped out, swathed in a towel, still sobbing as her blue eyes pleaded for mercy.
"Stop crying!" I ordered, shoving her down on the dressing room stool. "I'm going to blow-dry your hair while you put on your makeup--and do a good job of concealing that red puffiness around your eyes, for Jory will be very perceptive. You've got to convince him that your love for him hasn't changed."
On and on I talked to convince her that she would find the right words to say, the right
expressions to wear, as I dried her pretty honey-blond hair.
Her hair had marvelous sheen, more depth to the color than mine had. No red in mine at all. The texture was stronger than my frail, fine hair of flaxen color. When I had Melodic dressed, I sprayed her lightly with the perfume Jory loved most, as she stood as if in a trance of not knowing what to do next. I hugged her before I pulled her to the door.
"Come now, Melodie, it's not going to be that bad. He loves and needs you. Once you're there and he looks at you, you'll forget his legs are paralyzed. You'll instinctively do and say the right things.
I
know you will because you love him."
Pale beneath the makeup, her large eyes stared at me bleakly, as if she had her doubts and knew better than to bring them up again.
By this time Bart had come home from whatever bar had served him enough to make his legs limp and his eyes unfocused. He slouched in a deep chair, legs sprawled forward, and behind him in the shadows, Joel sagged limp as a dying palm. "Where yuh goin'?" Bart asked in a slurred voice, as I tried to slip Melodic down the hall to the garage without him noticing us.
"To the hospital," I said, pulling Melodie toward the huge garage. "And I think it's time you went to visit your brother again, Bart. Not tonight, but tomorrow.
Buy him a gift that will entertain him . . . he's going mad in there from doing nothing."
"Melodic, you don't have to go if you don't want to," Bart said, rising unsteadily to his feet. "Don't let my dominating mother push you around."
She was trembling, hanging back to plead mutely with him. Ruthlessly I pulled her on and forced her into the car.
Bart came staggering into the garage, calling out to Melodie that he would save her . . . and then he lost his drunken balance and fell to the floor.
I
pushed the electric button to open one of the huge garage doors and backed out of the garage.
All the way into Charlottesville, until I was parking in the hospital lot, Melodie trembled, sobbed and tried to convince me she'd harm Jory more than she'd help him. And all the way, I'd tried to give her confidence that she could handle the situation.
"Please, Melodie, walk into that room with a smile. Put on your nobility, that regal princess air that you used to wear all the time. Then when you're near his bed, take him in your arms and kiss him."
Numbly she nodded, as a terrified child would.
I shoved the roses I'd purchased into her arms, and other gifts I'd wrapped prettily, one she'd chosen to give him after Bart's party. "Now, tell him you haven't been before because you've been feeling weak, sleepy and sick. Tell him all your other concerns if you want to. But don't you dare even hint that you can't feel toward him like a wife anymore."
Like a blind, automated robot she nodded stiffly, forcing herself to keep pace with me.
We ran into Chris coming down the hall as we left the elevator on the sixth floor. He beamed happily to see Melodie with me. "How wonderful, Melodic," he said, giving her a quick hug before he turned to me. "I went out and bought Jory his dinner, and enough for me as well. He's in a fairly good mood. He drank all his milk and ate two bites of the pecan pie. And usually he adores pecan pie. Melodie, if you can, try to see that he eats more of that pie. He's losing weight rapidly, and I'd like to see him gain some back."
Still speechless, her eyes wide and blank, Melodie nodded, looking toward the door numbered 606 as if she faced the electric chair. Chris gave her a friendly, understanding pat on her back, kissed me, then strode off. "I'm going to talk to his doctors.
I
will join you later on and follow you home in my car."
For the life of me I couldn't feel confident as I ushered Melodie toward Jory's closed door. He had a privacy fetish about keeping his door closed at all times so no one could see a former
premier danseur
lying helpless on his bed. I rapped once, then twice, our signal. "Jory, it's only I, your mother."
"Come in, Mom," he called with more welcome than he'd used before. "Dad told me you'd be showing up any second. I hope you brought me a good book to read. I've finished--"
He broke off and stared as I shoved Melodie into his room first.
Because I'd called Chris to tell him my plans, Chris had helped Jory out of his hospital garment, and he was now wearing a blue silk pajama top. His hair was neatly brushed, his face was clean shaven and he'd had his first haircut since his accident. He looked better than he had since that horrible night.
He tried to smile. Hope flared in his eyes, so glad to see her again.
She stood where I'd pushed her and didn't take another step toward his bed. This caused his tentative smile to freeze on his face as he tried to hide his hunger . . . his faltering flame of hope as his eyes tried to meet with hers. She refused to meet his eyes. Quickly the smile vanished as the flame in his eyes sputtered, flickered, then went out. Dead eyes now. He turned his face toward the wall.
Instantly I stepped up behind Melodie, pushing her toward his bed, before I moved to see what she was revealing on her face. She stood there with her arms full of red roses and gifts, rooted to the floor and trembling like an aspen tree in a high wind. I gave her a sharp nudge. "Say something," I whispered.
"Hi, Jory," she said in a quivery, small voice, her eyes desperate. I shoved her closer to him. "I've brought you roses . . ." she added.
Still he kept his face to the wall.
Again I nudged her, thinking I should get out and leave them alone; yet I feared the minute I did she'd whirl about and run.