The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red (22 page)

wing is to extend beyond the Pool House and Bowling Alley so as

to not be seen from the approach, to not damage the continuity

of the look of the grand house. It will add some six thousand

square feet on two ?oors, twelve thousand square feet in all. A

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pittance of what is to come! We are adding three visitor suites, a

four-room home for Sukeena, complete with her own kitchen, a

Bird Room, a Map Room and more schooling facilities for the

children, as well as a Projection Room so that we might view

motion pictures in the comfort of our home. There is to be

another pool—a hot pool this time, with salts from Europe, for

cleansing of the spirit and treatment of arthritis, from which I

suffer since the birth of our second child. This pool will be made

available to my women friends—women only!—for those who wish

to purge the ills of city living. John has no doubt arranged for

another of his viewing closets to overlook this women’s pool, and

though loath to accept it, I see no way to stop its construction,

given that the ?nal say with the foreman is John’s and John’s

alone. (This condition I could not negotiate with my husband.) I

know such a room will be built and that I shall never ?nd its

entrance. I can imagine my husband enclosed there, my dear

friends without garments (for the salt will harm the fabric), seen

as God will have them. My husband leering. And him not knowing

that I know. (If possible, I may try to arrange an act or two to

stun his curiosity! I am not without a sense of prank when it

comes to John.) I will not blame him for these transgressions. I

have brought it upon myself by denying him any access to my

chambers. Those days are over. With motherhood prevented by

April’s unfortunate birth, I see no reason for union with this

horrible man. He can ?nd his pleasure elsewhere. (And he does,

I’m sure!) I take my pleasure from motherhood. It suf?ces for

me. It ?lls me as a man never could. As a man never will again.

The new wing shall rise from this hole in the ground now

being dug. It shall rise and give me extended life, as promised by

Rose Red herself. I swear at times I hear her. Not just the creaking

of an old house but the voice that inhabits it. A woman’s

voice, low and foreboding. A voice I heard utter from my own

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mouth. A voice that perhaps my little April hears too as she sits

playing with her model.

As to that, take note, Dear Diary. With these complaints of my

daughter’s continuing meditation on the brilliant model of Rose

Red, I elected to take tea on the upper Loggia. I instructed for

April to join me, and that her model be placed there as well, so

that I might see her playing with it, might come to understand the

nature of these complaints from the governess.

Daughter and mother did spend a lovely afternoon basking in

the fall sunlight, warm and pleasant on the skin. I had tea and

scones, and April ate a scone or two herself, a rare treat for me

since it is dif?cult to get April to eat anything at all. She played

with the large working model of the home while her mother

angled her wicker chair to face west, where the new wing’s excavation

was partly to be seen. I must have spent the hour there, April

just behind me and to my right, explaining to my child the construction

yet to come, how the new wing would rise from where

once only lawn existed, would rise to ful?ll our dreams and to

hold our love, one to the other.

Finally, the sun cooling and my fever beginning to rise again

as it does so many late afternoons, I turned to instruct my little

wonder with her withered arm that it was time to move inside for

the day. I turned to offer my hand to her, to help her stand. I

turned, my voice catching in my throat.

There on the red Italian tile of the Loggia’s ?oor, I looked

down upon the architect’s model that April had so long ago

claimed as her dollhouse. I reached out for my daughter’s one

good hand. And I gasped at what I saw beneath my child’s pointed

?nger, a devilish grin owning her face.

The working model of Rose Red had a new addition, complete

and perfect, every window, every chimney in its place. The new

wing, exactly as I imagined it in my mind.

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That wing had not been there on that model when our tea

began. Under my daughter’s care, that model had grown the wing

all of its own. The model of Rose Red is alive, and the grand

house along with it.

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12 october 1914—rose red

It is with heavy heart that I report the latest tragedy. As wife and

mother of his children, I appreciate John Rimbauer’s business

acumen, the wealth he has accumulated, and I avoid, as much as

possible, contradicting him in this regard or offering unsolicited

advice; this, despite the fact that I do not hold the man himself in

much regard. Today, however, I am desperate with dread over his

treatment of his former partner, Douglas Posey, a man whom

others continue to view as his partner despite secret negotiations

that have reduced Douglas to an employee (though a rich one at

that!), for I fear my husband’s actions were motivated by disapproval

of Douglas’s private choices rather than the man’s business

wherewithal. Oh, if that’s not the pot calling the kettle black!

While John lifts the skirts of his dockside whores he condemns

Douglas for taking up with his pale young men.

This morning Douglas appeared at the front door of Rose Red

and was announced by his footman there. A butler hurried

through the house searching out John and found him in the vast

library and study off his chambers, where my husband puts in

much time. John took his time responding, ?nally descending

the Grand Stair in a slow procession that I am certain was

intended both to make Douglas wait as well as to indicate John’s

regal attitude as concerns his former partner.

I had made a rare visit to the Kitchen, just beyond the Grand

Stair, to sample a soup to be served at a ladies’ luncheon (I am

hosting the board of the children’s hospital lunch) and so was in a

position to overhear the Lord and Master of Rose Red as he

greeted our guest.

“What is it, Posey?” John Rimbauer called out, still sixty feet

down the Entry Hall. Lined with his African game trophies, the

Entry Hall is a very masculine, very ominous place, all those glass

eyes bearing down on one. The dead heads of former predators.

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Dead souls. I hate the place at night—being watched like that.

Teeth glaring. The architect’s working model of Rose Red has a

home on a corner table by the front door and is only moved at

April’s request, shuttled around the house by butlers each day for

her entertainment. We keep a bouquet (nine dozen fresh ?owers)

on a sideboard in an Egyptian urn halfway down the Entry Hall, a

new bouquet every three days, and the ?owers throw color into

the hall where much is needed. I bought that urn the same day the

bandits tried to rob us in the market, the same day Sukeena

reduced them to cries of abdominal pain as we walked past to our

safety. That urn serves as a reminder to me that to pass by it is to

acknowledge such powers as Sukeena possesses. Nothing is as it

seems. The African maid is a witch doctor. The house is alive.

The lady of the house is half crazy—or more than half, depending

on the day.

My husband stops halfway down that long hall, his eyes as dead

as those of the beasts overhead. “Servants’ entrance is in the

back.”

“I’ve made some mistakes, John,” a quivering voice acknowledged.

“I would like to talk to you about coming back on.”

“Not possible. I’ve a company to run. I’m busy.”

“You cheated me!”

“Nonsense!”

“You convinced me to sell my stock. And now, in just six

months—”

“You threatened to sell your stock, Douglas. Is your memory

so poor? I offered to buy it from you—above market value, you

may recall—in order to keep that transaction, those shares, from

?ooding the market and setting off a selling spree. You were only

too happy to sell. That our shares have doubled in six months is

tribute to a good product and ?rm management—management of

which, as of today, you are no longer a part. This, because of

your own despicable actions and promises made that were bro-

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ken. End of discussion. Walter!?” John summoned our doorman,

who appeared miraculously through the doors of the Grand

Ballroom. “Show our guest out.”

Walter obediently opened the door. It is cold this October.

Colder than I remember.

Douglas did not move. “I’ve gambled some in the market,

John. I could use some help.”

“Our guest will be leaving.”

“Please.”

“Now!” John said sharply.

“Go to hell,” Douglas Posey mumbled, not really meaning it,

I fear.

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thanksgiving day, 1914—rose red

Young Adam is ?ve years old, April three, and for the ?rst year

both children understood the signi?cance of Thanksgiving. John

was delightful with the children, telling the story of the Pilgrims

and the ?rst Thanksgiving. The sun blessed us with a fall day to

remember. It had been cold of late, but not today.

The servants had their own gathering in the Carriage House—

nearly ?fty for Thanksgiving dinner. John provided them seven

fresh turkeys and bushels of yams, carrots and peas. Cases of

wine. The day was one of much celebration and served to remind

me how peaceful a place this can be when in high spirits. I think

that John’s break with Douglas Posey has proved to be a wise

move. He has been much calmer these past several weeks, less

given to unexpected outbursts of temper. He even played with

Adam—something unheard of these past several months. (He has

arranged for the construction of a giant toy train to occupy an

entire room in the children’s wing. Complete with mountains,

forests, bridges and stations, it is to be an exact replica of the

Seattle area and to utilize some nine hundred feet of toy railroad

track, a quarter ton of modeling clay, a dozen gallons of paint

and six thousand toothpicks—in one bridge alone. Adam is to

have the Christmas of his life!)

Oh, Dear Diary, thank you for the good times that outweigh

the troubled. Thank you for Sukeena, for the children, for our

good fortune. Bless those who have gone missing when inside

these walls, and give them rest.

We have had no grave tragedy within this house for some time

now. I hope and pray it shall stay this way. Perhaps Madame

Stravinski saved us. Construction continues unabated. This

house is growing daily.

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20 february 1915—rose red

This family continues to pay for the sins of its father. I fear my

children may never recover from this latest incident, and I am

loath to prevent it, to stop it now for it has already happened.

The events of this story were not personally witnessed. Instead,

they are put here in ink through my own interpretation of

Sukeena’s having spoken in con?dence with young Adam. (He

would only speak to Sukeena, and no one else.)

This afternoon, Douglas Posey came to visit. He did not

announce himself at the front door, was not greeted by one of the

doormen. In fact, if the events of this day are to be explained—

sawdust was found on his shoes—it would appear that Douglas

entered the house via the new construction to the west. His

motorcar was found parked alongside the main road, pulled off

into the trees. From there, he hiked the hill and crested to the

west of the new construction, approaching Rose Red from a side

where he might go unnoticed, as alas, he must have so done. His

next accomplishment baf?es me, as mother to our children, for

we employ no fewer than two governesses, Miss Crenshaw and

Miss Dunn, and three other dedicated nannies, including April’s

wet nurse, Miss Helms, whom we held over to care for the children

when her primary purpose had been served. The sole

responsibility of all these women is to watch over the children.

Nonetheless, for reasons that are not immediately explained, the

children went unattended on this day, at the particular hour that

I now relate here to your pages.

Somehow Douglas managed to make his way from the new

construction through the Pool House and the Bowling Alley to

the south stairs. If one goes down these stone stairs, one is led to

the Game Room, where John butchers and hangs his deer and elk

after a hunt. Up these same stairs leads one to the West Wing and

our chambers—John with ?ve rooms including his private study,

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and me with seven, including my dressing and ?tting rooms. It

was a cunning move on the part of Douglas Posey, for excepting

the chambermaids who clean and service the linens, and the butlers

who attend our ?replaces and chimneys, these rooms and

hallways go unoccupied—except when I am in?rmed, of course,

more often than not these days, but as it happens, not on this day