"But yours are so . . . so big, Olivia."
"What difference does it make what you look like in that room, Alicia? Only I will see you. You're not dressing to draw the attention of men anymore, dear. All that matters is that you are warm and comfortable."
The image of her lost in my maternity dresses suddenly made me smile. Now she would know what it felt like not to see beauty looking back at her from the mirror. Now she, too, would be awkward and unappealing And what was more fitting than that she wear my maternity clothing, I thought. After all, she was having what was going to be my child.
"Of course," I added, "I will be wearing maternity clothing also."
She looked up at me as if she were shocked. Could this not have occurred to her? Did she think I would move about the community as I was and then suddenly announce that I had given birth to a child? How simple and naive she could be! There was no conniving, no deceit in her, even when it was necessary for her survival.
"Oh," she said, finally understanding. She looked back at her fine dresses and blouses and skirts. In the end I reduced everything she would take to the north wing to what would fit into one trunk and two suitcases.
Sadness reigned in Foxworth Hall the day Alicia made her false departure. It was a gray, rainy day, the sky crying along with the children. Although it was the first day of summer, a cold winter chill filled Foxworth Hall. We had to keep lights on and close windows tightly.
The servants, who had been packing their own things, stood in the downstairs as Alicia descended with me behind her, carrying her suitcase. I had never seen her look so small and gray, like a sad little mouse. I had insisted the children remain in the nursery. I did not want the histrionics of an overly emotional farewell. Christopher had been barely consolable for days, and my boys, too, were on a short tether. But I had insisted that Malcolm be present at this painful little charade. As we reached the bottom of the stairs, I handed Malcolm the suitcase and he grasped it awkwardly, annoyed, but afraid to cross me at this juncture. Alicia's eyes filled with tears as she came upon the farewell gathering, for she was truly bidding everyone good-bye. She looked about the great foyer like one who knew it would be some time before she would see it again. Her act was very convincing because it was only half an act. She would see it when she returned, but it would be only a short glimpse on her way up to the north wing.
She went to embrace Mrs. Steiner, but I grasped her arm and ushered her toward the awaiting car. "There is no time for sentiment," I said.
Suddenly, she felt limp in my arms. "Please, please let me say good-bye to Christopher one more time," she pleaded.
Malcolm whispered in my ear. "Must I stay and witness this hysteria?"
"Put her in the cab, Malcolm," I ordered.
Alicia had to be half carried, half dragged to the car. As soon as the suitcase was locked in the trunk, I rapped on the window and ordered the driver to be off. The tires spun in the wet mud and the car lurched to life. Behind me, I heard the front door fly open and the boys screaming "Wait, wait" as they hurtled down the steps, yanking themselves free of the servants' restraining arms. Mal led the pack, holding Joel by one hand and Christopher by the other, practically dragging them along. They chased the car for some time, screaming and crying.
"Get your sons, Malcolm," I ordered, "all of them."
12 The Prisoner and the Warden
.
THAT SAME NIGHT, AFTER ALL THE SERVANTS HAD LEFT, Alicia returned.
The cab drove up in the darkness. Clouds still
hung over the sky, blocking out the moon and the
stars. It was as if there were no light left in all the
world.
Malcolm and I were waiting in a front salon,
just the way we had been waiting for his father to
arrive the day he had brought Alicia here. The boys
had cried themselves to sleep, all three of them
cuddled together against the loneliness of Alicia's
departure. Truly, I wanted to comfort them, to be a
mother to little Chris, to be a comfort to my own sons.
I wanted them all to love me the way they loved
Alicia. Oh, I knew I couldn't be lighthearted and gay
as she was; I didn't know how to romp and jump and
play silly rhyming games. But I loved them well, in
my own way, and I would bring them up to be strong,
moral young men. When they grew older, they would
appreciate the values I had bequeathed them. "What time is it?" Malcolm asked.
I pointed across the room, not saying a word.
The house was quiet, still, except for the sound of the
ticking grandfather clock and the evening winds winding their way in and out of the shutters, threading
through the cracks between windows. Malcolm
snapped his paper, folding it neatly to check the stock
market columns.
We had been sitting there for two hours,
drowning in our own silence. If either of us took a
deep breath, the other would look up, surprised. In
fact, Malcolm's only comment during the last half
hour concerned one of his stocks that had appreciated
ten points. I imagined he was making the comment to
emphasize how much better he could do with my
money than I was doing.
Then I saw the headlights of the cab tear an
opening in the darkness and pull up in front of the
house. Malcolm didn't move.
"She's back," I said. He grunted. "You'll take
her trunk upstairs." He looked up, surprised. "Well,
who did you think would do it? Lucas is gone, or did
you forget we dismissed the servants today and there
won't be a new driver until tomorrow."
I got up and went to the front door. Alicia
emerged from the cab slowly, reluctantly, anticipating what awaited her in Foxworth Hall. I could see that she was exhausted from the traveling and the tension.
The driver took her trunk and suitcases out.
"Leave them," I said to the driver quickly. It
was impossible to remain outside long. "My husband
will take them in."
Malcolm had appeared behind me on the steps.
I took Alicia's smaller suitcase.
"How is my Christopher?" she asked the minute
she stepped from the car. "Does he miss me?" "Christopher is my responsibility now," I said
curtly. "He's in bed, where he belongs." I took her arm
and led her up the front stairs. "Go directly to the
north wing," I told her, "and move as quietly as
possible. You must not wake the boys."
She didn't respond. She walked like a
condemned criminal, pausing only when she passed
close to Malcolm, who was on his way to get her
trunk and larger suitcase.
Stepping softly, we both floated like ghosts
through the silent, dimly lit foyer. The loudest sound
was the rustle of Alicia's dress when we turned the
corner at the rotunda and headed quickly into the
north wing, moving down hallways and passing the
many empty, lonely rooms of Foxworth Hall. She paused at the doorway of the room at the end of the corridor. I came up behind her impatiently. Did she
think she was the only one who was tense and upset? "If you don't go in and go in quickly," I said,
"this will become even more difficult for you." She looked at me hatefully for the first time. Of
course, it wouldn't be the last.
"I was thinking all the way to the station, on the
train, and all the way back," she said "Thinking that
you might be enjoying all this." Her eyes narrowed. "Enjoying this?" I stepped to the right, my
shadow draping her in my
darkness. She cowered
back as if she could feel my weight on her. "Enjoying
having to pretend that your baby is my baby?
Enjoying the knowledge that my husband has been
unfaithful to me, not once, but many times? Enjoying
having to dismiss loyal and faithful servants who I
have spent years training? Enjoying lying to my boys
and to your son, watching him swallow his tears and
unhappiness until he was exhausted and had to be put
to bed?" My voice was thin, nearly hysterical. Her eyes widened, and then her face crumpled,
her lips quivering.
"I'm sorry," she said. "It's just that I'm . . ." "We can't stand out here and talk with me holding this suitcase," I said. "Malcolm is coming up
with the trunk."
"Yes, yes, I'm sorry," she repeated, opening the
door.
I had left the lamp on the table between the two
beds lit. It cast a weak yellowish glow over the
ponderous dark furniture. My one donation to warmth
and beauty was the red Oriental rug with gold fringe.
It would help alleviate the dreariness in the room,
which was large yet confining because of all the
furniture crowded into it. I had found two paintings in
the attic that I thought fit the circumstances and hung
them on the walls that were papered in cream with
white flocking. One had grotesque demons chasing
naked people in underground caverns, and the other
had unearthly monsters devouring pitiful souls in hell.
Both paintings had bright red colors.
She went directly to the bed on the right and
began to take off her coat. We both turned as Malcolm
dropped the trunk to the right of the door. He looked
at Alicia and then he looked at me. My glare was
enough to hurry him.
"I'll get the other suitcase," he said. Although
he was a strong man, the indignity of having to carry
the luggage up the spiral staircase and down the hallways to this room wore on him. He was breathing
hard and sweating.
"Hurry," I said, intensifying his indignation. He
grunted and was gone.
"How will I eat up here?" Alicia asked. "I will bring up your meals every day, after we
have eaten ours. That way the servants won't be as
suspicious."
"But the cook . . ."
"There will be no cook until you are gone. I
will be the cook." She tilted her head and widened her
used to cook all the time for my father."
"I didn't mean to imply that you couldn't cook; I
was just surprised that you wanted to do it." It
occurred to me that all the time she had lived here, she
never mentioned her own ability to cook. Her mother
must have spoiled her, I thought, never giving her the
opportunity to work in the kitchen and learn anything.
And then Garland came along and put the icing on the
cake. She didn't have to lift a finger to do anything for
herself.
"There isn't much choice about it now, is
there?" She looked away. "Is there?" I repeated. "No, I suppose not."
"Of course, I won't be able to make special
meals. This can't be one of those fancy restaurants you
and Garland were always going to," I snapped. I went
to the two front windows and closed the curtains more
tightly.
"I didn't expect special meals," she retorted. It
was beginning already--she was losing her softness,
her gentle look, her warm coat of innocence. "The meals will be nourishing, considering the
condition you are in. That's what's most important,
isn't it?" She nodded quickly.
"Oh, Olivia, what will I do here?" she asked,
looking around. "I will positively be bored to death." "I'll bring up your magazines. The servants
won't know or care whether or not they are for me,
and I will try to visit with you every opportunity I can
get." she looked grateful for that.
"I would like a radio or a Victrola."
"Out of the question. Such noise, even in here,
might be heard." I widened my eyes for emphasis,
feeling as though I were talking to a child.
"But what if I took it upstairs, into the attic?"
she pleaded.
I thought about it.
"Yes, I suppose that would be all right. I'll get you a radio and a Victrola. Your pile of records is still downstairs. No one would want to listen to them anyway." Neither Malcolm nor I liked the new jazz music she endlessly listened to, and it occurred to me that we should not have left them behind when I packed her things. Fortunately, none of the old
servants noticed or cared.
"Thank you, Olivia," she said. She had already
begun to understand that I could grant her little
pleasures and little happiness and I could take it away
as well.
I helped her start unpacking and putting
clothing into the dresser. Malcolm returned with the
larger suitcase. After he dropped it on the floor, he
stood in the doorway looking in at us.
"That will be all, Malcolm," I said, dismissing
him as I would dismiss any servant. His face blanched
and he bit down on his lower lip. I saw the rage in his
eyes and sensed the frustration he felt. He hesitated.
"Did you want to say anything before you go?
Something apologetic?"
"No. You seem to be saying everything that
needs to be said," he added, pivoted, and stalked out
of the room. I heard his footsteps pounding the
hallway floor as he departed. When I turned back to Alicia, I saw she was staring at me. "He has already been quite clearly informed that he must stay away
from you during your . . . your stay here," I said. "Good," she said, a sincere look of relief on her
face.
"However, I am not naive enough to believe
what he tells me. I see the way he looks at you." She
looked toward the doorway as though Malcolm were
still standing there and she could verify my
impressions.
"Surely he . . ."
"You must understand, my dear, that you are
quite vulnerable alone in this room, far away from
anyone else, the sounds muffled by the thickness in
expose yourself. Where could you flee?" I held out
my hands and turned from one wall to the next. "Up
into the attic? That would be worse."
"But you would know if anything . . ." "During the night, after I fall asleep, he could
prowl these dark halls, moving over the floors
barefooted, and if he came in here, you wouldn't shout
and bring attention to yourself. Imagine if Christopher
discovered you were hidden up here," I said. "I'll keep the door locked," she said quickly. "You kept a door locked before, my dear.
Locking doors in Foxworth Hall does not keep
Malcolm Neal Foxworth out."
"What do I do?" She looked frantic.
"As I told you when we discussed all this, you
must change your appearance, make yourself
unattractive to him, not remind him of anyone," I
sneered. Alicia stared at me. I seized up her hair. "I'm
sorry,
but there is no other way."
"Are you sure? Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
She began crying softly.
"Sit at the table," I commanded her. She stared
at the chair as if she were about to step onto the
gallows and then walked to it and sat down, her hands
in her lap, her eyes flooded with tears.
I took the large scissors from my sweater
pocket and stepped up behind her. First, I unpinned
her hair, freeing the strands and stroking them down
so they lay softly exposed. They did feel so silky and
pleasing to the touch. I could imagine Malcolm
stroking her hair for hours as he dreamt beside her.
My hair, no matter what I did to it, never felt this
good, and never once during our sexual relations--I
could scarcely call them lovemaking--did he even
touch my hair.
I grasped a section in my left fist and held it up
tautly. She winced because of how roughly I tugged.
Then I closed the blades of the scissors around her
tresses and began to chop away, cutting her hair as
close to her scalp as I could, deliberately cutting it
unevenly so it would grow in awkwardly. As I cut
away, the tears continued to flow down her cheeks,
but she made no sound. I placed all the cut strands
neatly in a silk shawl, wrapped them up, and tied a
knot in it.
After I was finished, she pressed her palms
against her scalp and uttered a single, mournful cry. "You know it will grow back," I said, making
my voice as sympathetic as I could. She turned and
looked up at me with those hateful eyes again, but I
smiled at her. The haircut had changed her appearance
radically. She looked more like a boy now: the crown
of her beauty had been removed. It was as if I had
snuffed out the fire behind her eyes. "If Malcolm
should look at you, he won't see the same things now,
will he?"
She didn't respond. She simply stared at herself
in the mirror. After a moment she spoke more to her
image than to me.
"This is all like a bad dream," she said. "In the
morning I will awaken and Garland will be beside me.
It's all a dream." She spun around, her face dressed in
a wild, insane smile. "Isn't it? Isn't it all a dream,
Olivia?"
"I'm afraid not, my dear. You had better not sit