Authors: Elyse Douglas
Her vibrancy and inner light, once so palpable and contagious, were smothered. She stood like a woman so damaged by tragedy, so spirit-killed, that it was painfully clear that somewhere, behind those swollen dull blue eyes, she believed that not even death itself offered an escape.
She stared at me with an expression of reproach and pain, and without a movement or word, she held my gaze for the longest time. I was still. I could not find a voice to say “Hello.” An excruciatingly long moment later, her miserable gaze slid to the floor, and in a slow, awkward turn, as if being careful not to shatter, she exited through the door to the kitchen.
Chapter Five
I arrived at the house a little after ten, turned into the driveway and stopped. The morning rain had passed, but fog remained. It hugged the elms and maples and draped the beautiful salmon-stoned Victorian house, with its grand porch, soaring gables and large bay windows, in a thin cotton blanket, giving it the peculiar ghostly appearance of hovering between worlds. In that pearl light, it seemed a place where the past could easily and naturally return to life in a splendor of reenactments, as if from a play. My mother would enter, stage right, emerge from around the house on Saturday morning, dressed for gardening with those little heels, of course, snipping the shrubs, examining the petunias, snap dragons and pansies, pursing her lips in contempt because I hadn’t cut the dewy lawn.
“Alan…” she’d call, from the bottom of the stairs, minutes later. “Why do I always have to get mad and cross before you’ll cut the lawn?”
And from the dining room, where he lingered over coffee, a donut and a book, my father would almost always add, “For Pete’s sake, Alan. Listen to your mother!”
My bedroom was at the top of the stairs and sound carried terrifically and annoyingly. “I’m studying,” was my response, knowing it would buy me more time in bed. Though no one was fooled, it always worked. Studying was such a sacred word to my father, that to oppose or question it was tantamount to being damned for all eternity. To Mom, it meant that I’d gotten the message. There was no more to be said.
Even then, the lawn was professionally landscaped, but Dad left a half acre, untouched, just for me. Tending that little plot of sloping earth, Dad believed, was good sound character building and exercise, necessary for a boy of privilege and promise. And he knew it pleased my mother that I was helping out in the yard.
“You’ve got to get out of your head now and then, Alan,” Dad would say, although
he
seldom did. He abhorred exercise, unless going to get coffee and donuts was involved. “Get out there and breathe that good, healthy Pennsylvania air, son.”
I’d finally get up and drift downstairs. Mr. Dog, our old German Shepard in residence, would be languishing in his L.L. Bean Scottish colored bed next to the masonry fireplace, his brown eyes lazy, his pointed ears as still and tall as church spires. I’d pet him and pull him up, and we’d slump off toward the dreaded chores of the day, like slothful, apathetic soldiers.
Outside we’d find Mom, sealed tightly against any intrusion, assiduously at work. Dad would soon be retreating to his wine cellar, and I to the rider mower. Mr. Dog, inspired by scents and sounds, would trudge off toward the trees, with a happy swinging tongue and a passionate nose, vacuuming the grass.
I shut off the engine and lingered a moment longer, until the images faded. They were swiftly replaced by Rita’s devastated image that stuck to my eyes, like an overlay. I got out, pausing to take in the 10 acres of landscaped grass, trees and shrubs. For the last three months, I’d received bills for the landscaping and other needed house repairs. I’d paid for them. It allowed me to feel that I was helping Dad, and it helped assuage my guilt for not visiting him regularly. Dad and I were never the typical father and son, nor was our affection for each other ever expressed except in a handshake, a pleasant formal word, or the rare pat on the back. Dad kept me at a distance, and most of the time, that had been fine with me. There was something about him that made me a little uncomfortable and, I suspect, he felt the same about me.
My sister, Judy, on the other hand, was his joy. She was adoring, extroverted and perky: all the qualities he and I lacked. Though not typically “pretty,” Judy was earnest, resourceful and religious. The Presbyterian Church was her second home and had been from an early age. She married the son of a Presbyterian minister and they became true and stalwart “soldiers for God” in a large church in Florida.
Judy was popular at school, was a talented administrator, and, like me, had a great gift for numbers and facts. She became an accountant and works part time to help supplement her husband’s already handsome income as a dentist.
If Dad and Mom were not “soldiers for God” then they were, at least, supporters of the battle from a comfortable distance. They tithed, were socially involved and had an appreciation for the pedagogical foundation the church offered. “Leaning toward the light” helped sustain the family nucleus, in a corrupting age where sex, drugs and rock and roll proliferated, weakening and destroying the delicate fabric of home, town and country.
Mom took me to church, insisting that I wear a suit and tie, insisting that I sing at least one hymn, insisting that we “gently” debate the sermon on the way home. Judy was never comfortable with this and Dad just stayed out of it by saying, “Let’s not get all carried away about this.”
Judy and I had passed through various states of closeness over the years, but grew especially close during Mom’s illness and death. Judy’s religious faith deepened during that time but mine, which was always tenuous and tied to my deep love for Mom, nearly breathed its last when she did. Hers was not an easy death and, for a woman who possessed the finest of hearts and the best of faiths, her painful suffering death at 60 seemed a personal insult.
I crossed the walk, pulling my suitcase, and climbed the front stairs heavily, dreading the calls to the real estate auctioneer and the antique dealer. I turned off the alarm system, opened the door and entered. I closed the heavy oak door, and leaned back against it, standing in the broad foyer, facing the two-story chestnut winding staircase. In that ringing silence, I felt straining tears. I hadn’t cried since Mom’s funeral, but I couldn’t get Rita out of my head. I felt a storm of emotions.
It seemed to me that fate, or God, or whatever, had thrust a knife through Rita’s soul’s heart. And if, as my sister says, suffering brings wisdom, then the human race, for all of its suffering, remains supremely stupid.
I wandered the rooms, aimlessly: the dining room, with violet walls, Chippendale dining set and a massive gilded brass chandelier. Two pink French vases still emitted the rose and vanilla floral scent of Mom’s favorite potpourri. “I want this room to be spring-like all year long,” Mom had said. I heard the echo of her voice.
My father was truly religious when it came to the house: it was the heaven that had been secured for him by his great grandfather’s force, money and holy prestige, and Dad worshiped it with an undying devotion.
I stepped across the threshold of the living room. It hovered in a lively silence and solemn dignity. The mauve-colored walls ricocheted back to me my parents’ arguments about its color.
“Catherine…Catherine,” my father pleaded, “That color… well, it just reminds me of a house of ill repute. That’s all I’m saying.”
Mom glared, hands on her hips. “And how would you know that, Richard Lincoln?”
Poor Dad blustered and stammered. “Catherine…that…that is not worthy of a response and I’m disappointed in you for saying it. Now let’s just go with it and forget the whole thing.”
Mom had the last word. “That’s right! Forget the whole thing!”
The generous stone fireplace contained remnants of cozy talk on cold December nights about Christmas parties and school concerts. The plush Victorian couch, loveseat and side chairs, all red velvet and beechwood, reverberated with low gossip and sips of tea from Mom’s weekly bridge games.
There were two five-foot stained-glass windows, depicting nymphs, shepherds and fat little cupids, wings fluttering, bows cocked, arrows in flight toward the heart. Twice a week, Dad paused on his way to the library to take them in, with a satisfied nod, as if he were checking the accuracy of a grandfather clock.
The formal parlor had been redone in a Rocco Style, with rich blues and whites and a black marble fireplace. Dad’s wealthier clients, the minister and the mayor had all walked through it, impressed and assured.
I climbed the stairs, lethargically, feeling the weight of time, hearing old sounds. My mother’s hairdryer. Dad’s electric shaver. Mom’s flat singing voice. Judy’s enthralled voice, describing her new boyfriend to Dad. I heard Dad’s bathroom radio announcing the morning business report.
I drifted into my parents’ upstairs bedroom. Mom had chosen a Greek Revival theme, with salmon, rose and reds. Dad never liked it much, either.
“I feel like a man possessed,” he’d once said of it.
“And you are,” Mom had thrown back, with a chuckle.
My room was Early American, complete with antiques, including a four poster bed. I sat on it for a moment, gently bouncing, staring, remembering the nights I lay thinking of Rita and imagining her lying next to me. I saw my writing desk and recalled the arduous hours spent on my valedictorian speech. I’d stalked the room, like a mad poet, gazing out the windows and cursing Rita. After our break-up, I had to completely rewrite it, changing the themes from “Optimism and Hope” to “Challenges and Strength.”
“If a door slams in your face, find another and open it wide!” I’d written.
I smiled at the memory, and then stood, ready to complete my re-acquaintance of the house.
There were hidden cupboards, deep closets, a back spiral staircase and a wonderful attic packed with old letters, paintings, furniture and photographs that dated back to the 1890’s. It smelled old and, for America, it was old.
I finished downstairs, in Dad’s library. There was a museum quality and stillness about it. Without Dad’s presence, it seemed sad. I felt like an intruder.
It was gothic, with arches and a vaulted ceiling. It was a wise and lofty room, lighted by tall windows and surrounded by window seats with green cushions that looked out on rolling hills, our little pond and Mom’s flower gardens. It had built-in floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves, mostly empty now, once stacked with hardback first editions of Hemmingway, Steinbeck and Faulkner, as well as a stunning variety of 18
th
and 19
th
century novels. Biographies of Jefferson, Washington and Franklin occupied space with Shakespeare, Pope and Ruskin. In an adjoining bookshelf, he kept the latest books and periodicals on the tax code, Pennsylvania tax law and various revised editions of the Bible and its commentaries. He had a massive collection of records and various turn tables (he had an aversion to CDs) and when the three B’s, Brubeck, Bach or Beethoven were “ON”, the house throbbed. My mother would have to complain and ask for “Restraint, for God’s sake, Richard! Turn it down!” She would swiftly march to her room, slam the door and the competition would begin. Within seconds, The Beach Boys or Credence Clearwater Revival would thunder out in a sweet retaliation.
Dad preferred leather furniture, and it was all a rich chocolate brown from couch to chairs. His desk was an old-fashioned American antique roll top, bought from the editor of the Hartsfield Press over 40 years ago, and Dad executed all of his correspondence there with great pride and alacrity, feeling, as he’d once said, “Like a man infused with the practical and independent spirit of Jefferson and Franklin.” I was going to ship it to him in Florida. It would certainly lift his dark mood.
I settled into a deep leather chair and suppressed a sigh. I stared at the majestic trees, the foggy pond and a narrow winding path that led to it. As the fog lifted, my memories returned.
Mom had found me here the night I’d made love to Rita. She switched on the overhead light and adjusted the dimmer. “Why are you still up? It’s after 1 o’clock.”
I peered up at her. “I could ask you the same question.”
I suddenly noticed that she was pretty. It had seldom occurred to me: she was just Mom, and like most of the young, I was self-absorbed. But after making love to Rita, I seemed to have brand new eyes. I saw my mother in a different light. Her lips were ruby red, her cheek bones were high, her long glossy auburn hair was slightly tangled and askew. Her makeup and lipstick were smudged. She had a stately, refined stature and lovely formed hands. She stood before me flushed, youthful and dreamy-eyed.
Standing in her full-length cream-colored silk robe and high-heeled slippers, I felt great love and affection for her. I swiftly recalled my parents’ private little winks and covert touching when they thought Judy and I weren’t looking; recalled the glimmer of something both tender and racy in my mother’s prissy little smile and playful eyes. I saw my father’s ready acknowledgement and anticipation: that the night would bring a lucky rapture.
It was obvious then that they’d just shared such a rapture. She averted my eyes in gentle embarrassment, suddenly aware that I was studying her in a curious way. She spoke at a whisper, as if the walls had ears. “Your father…I mean, his snoring. Well, you know, it keeps me awake sometimes.”
I gave her a knowing side-long stare. “Why don’t you just move in to the spare bedroom?”