placed the pile of clothes on the bed. "Go through and
sort them out. You can't wear those things any
longer."
She didn't turn around.
"Alicia!"
"Last night Garland said, he said . . . Alicia,
don't ask me for the moon or I will go mad trying to
get it for you." She laughed. "Should I ask him for the
moon, Olivia?"
"The maternity clothing, Alicia," I repeated.
She continued to ignore me. Finally, I left the room,
expecting she would confront the clothing herself and
eventually realize what had to be done.
That evening, however, I lay there in my bed
thinking about her insane ramblings. Of course, her
pretending would have to be taking place in the
present tense, I thought; but there was something
about the way she referred to Garland that was more
than just madness; it was eerie, as if he indeed had
been visiting her nightly.
Suddenly a frightening thought occurred to me.
What if Malcolm had disobeyed my orders and visited
her? And what if she had looked at him and called
him Garland? What if he were taking advantage of her
madness and going to her in the middle of the night
after I had gone to sleep? She would not realize that
the man she embraced was not Garland but Malcolm.
The possibility kept me from sleeping.
Sometime during the night I thought I heard
footsteps in the hallway. By the time I looked out, Malcolm could have very well slipped around the corner in the hall and gone on to the north wing. I went back to my bed, put on my robe and slippers, and left my room very quietly. I was going to go to the north wing and merely open her door, but something better occurred to me. If he were in there, I would not want to give him the opportunity to get out of her bed. He could hear me coming down the hallway or move quickly before I had turned the key
in the lock.
I went down to the front entrance to the attic
instead. I put on the small light illuminating the
stairway, closed the door softly behind me, confident
that neither Malcolm nor any of the servants would
hear me, and started up the stairway. My intention
was to go through the attic and down the small
stairway that opened into Alicia's room. I would
watch them for a while in the bed and then I would
confront them.
But when I was in the attic, vaguely lit by the
small stairway light, the light suddenly went out and I
was plunged into complete darkness. I hesitated, not
sure whether I should go forward or retreat. Driven by
my original intention, I went on, groping my way
carefully through the attic.
I thought I remembered it well enough to make
my way in the darkness. Then I heard loud
was sure it was rats, rats I could imagine running over
my feet, causing me to fall, running over my face and
body. Suddenly I felt as if I might faint. The scurrying
seemed to whirl in my head. I had to get out of there! I turned abruptly into a person standing there in
the shadows! I barely subdued my scream, when I
recognized an old dress form, but I had jumped back
so abruptly that I tripped over a trunk and fell against
a rack of old clothing, sending it toppling to the floor.
Trying to regain my footing, I ran my hands over the
floor. I touched something furry! A rat! My panic rose
and I rushed forward on my hands and knees,
knocking over a stack of old books. It was so hot, I
could barely breathe.
I got to my feet, but I had lost my sense of
direction. Everywhere I turned seemed to be a dead
end. The darkness closed in around me, tightening its
hold on me until I was unable to move to the right or
to the left. Terror froze me. My feet felt leaden, my
legs tied together. I willed myself to move, but I
couldn't take a single step. I began to sob silently. The rats went wild, rushing over furniture, in and out of trunks and armoires. The entire attic seemed to be alive with hideous beasts. I imagined the shadowy forms of Malcolm's ancestors scratching their way out of the walls, awakened by my turmoil. This was a house that tolerated no weakness or fear. When they smelled it on you, they sought to destroy
you.
I turned to the nearest wall and began to feel
my way down it in the direction of what I hoped was
the front stairway. Frantically I bumped into old
furniture and birdcages, and tripped over trunks. My
hands clutched things that turned into pulsating,
blood-warm creatures, even though somewhere I
knew I was touching only articles of clothing or the
arms of old chairs. Then my hair got caught by the
tiny opened door of a birdcage and the cage came
falling toward me. When I caught the pole in my
hands, it felt like a long, dark snake. Everything here
had become alive and sinister.
I don't know how long it took me to reach the
stairway. It took all my control to calm myself so that
I could continue on, but finally I recognized the top of
the stairway and made my way down.
As soon as I opened the door and stepped back
into the hallway, I felt so happy I wanted to cry. I rushed back down the corridor to the south wing and my bedroom. When I confronted myself in the mirror, I looked like a wild madwoman. My hair was disheveled, my robe streaked. There were streaks along my face as well, and my hands were black from the dust and dirt. I knew that never could I ever go back up and into that attic again. I would go through it many times in nightmares, but just the thought of opening the door and starting up the stairs threw me
into a panic.
After I cleaned up, I returned to bed. For a long
time I just lay there, grateful for the warmth and
comfort of my room. Then I remembered my original
purpose. Not long afterward, I was sure I heard
footsteps in the hallway again. I rushed up and went to
the door. It looked to me like Malcolm had just
entered his own bedroom. I listened for the click of
I hadn't trapped and confronted him as I had
hoped to do. I had trapped and confronted myself up
in that old, terrifying attic filled with the twisted past
of the Foxworths. It would forever taunt me now, I
thought.
This house has a way of protecting its own. It
cloaked Malcolm in silence as he stole through the hall. I was sure of it. The walls knew the truth, only
they wouldn't speak to me.
I hesitated a moment and then closed the door
and went back to my bed. I didn't fall asleep until
morning and then I was abruptly awoken by
Malcolm's loud, arrogant footsteps as he made his
way down to breakfast.
When I joined him, I tried to read his face to
see if there were any clues as to whether or not he had
visited Alicia during the night. All this time he had
kept to his word and not asked me a thing about her,
pretending well that she was no longer here. He sat at his end of the table looking at the
morning paper, ignoring my arrival, as usual. After
the maid poured my coffee, I spoke to him
"Did you hear anything unusual last night?" I
asked him
He put his paper down, a quizzical look on his
face. "Unusual? What do you mean by unusual?" he
asked as though it were a foreign word.
"Like the sound of someone walking through
the north wing?" I said. He stared at me a moment and
then with his inscrutable eyes he leaned forward so he
could speak sotto voce.
"The door is locked, isn't it? She can't get out
and about, can she?"
"Of course not. But that doesn't mean someone
can't get in, does it?" I replied, my voice as low as his,
but sharper in tone.
"Now what are you implying?" he asked, sitting
back abruptly.
"Have you violated our agreement?" I
demanded.
"I assure you, I do not need to spend my time
sneaking about this house. I would hope you, too, had
more to do than go skulking about watching for some
. . . some violation, as you put it."
"I don't have to skulk about. There is only one
place in this house that concerns me right now," I
said, feeling my face tighten. He looked away from
my sharp gaze and shook his head.
"Has she told you something? Fabricated
something?
A woman like that, stuck back in that room
with no one would obviously daydream," he said,
smiling with ridicule. His lips curled so sharply, he
looked like a cat.
"How do you know if she daydreams?" I asked
quickly.
"Please, Olivia, your childish efforts at being a detective are far more ludicrous than you can ever imagine. You will not find my fingerprints in the room." He picked up his paper and snapped it, making sure to show me his derisive smile before hiding
behind the pages.
"I hope so," I said. If he was worried, he didn't
show it. He went back to his reading, finished his
breakfast as quickly as usual, and went off to work,
leaving me to continue as caretaker of the madness his
own madness had created.
13 Christmas Gift
. As THE GREEN LEAVES OF SUMMER DRIED AND SHRIVELED and fell, and the trees stretched their lonely arms to the sky, becoming more and more barren, my own false pregnancy began to grow. All summer I had wandered the house, trying to collect pillows of different sizes and shapes to form my mock pregnancy. I found a pillow in the parlor and thought, "Yes, this is three-month size." I discovered a few more up in the north wing. But Foxworth Hall was such a dour and unadorned mansion that by month seven, when the baby was really beginning to show, I had to go to the Swan Room to find a pillow fluffy enough to be my baby at this time. Yes, I had agreed to keep up the charade that it was I that was due to give birth in December. How ironic it was that the baby was due on Christmas Day.
As soon as my "condition" became apparent, I knew it was time to explain the upcoming birth to the children. Mal and Joel, as I had insisted, had already been attending boarding school in Charleston since September. Christopher had remained home with me. I missed my boys so much when they were gone and Christopher missed his mother so much that he and I became best friends, almost like a real mother and son. I doted over him morning, noon, and night. He was the only joy in my life during these strange, hard months. We used to play witch games, but
Christopher always insisted I be a good witch. And indeed as the baby grew, I felt more and more that this child would be a gift from God, as I knew Christopher to be a gift from God. I decided the most appropriate time to tell the boys would be to announce it at Thanksgiving dinner, so Malcolm would be present to share the joyful tidings. We would have much to be thankful for on this Thanksgiving Day.
As we now had only two servants, I had been busy all morning helping prepare an extra-special feast. By midday, when it was time to sit down to eat, I was exhausted, feeling the "weight of my
pregnancy" fully. As Malcolm carved the perfectly browned turkey, I held up my crystal goblet and rang my teaspoon against it. "Boys, boys, I have a very special announcement to make on this happy day. You may have noticed my figure has been changing of late. Well, here's the secret. Another child is to be born into our household, a very special child, who is due to come right near Christmastime. Truly God is giving us all a very special Christmas present this year."
Malcolm threw down the carving knife, his face reddened, and he looked at me with fury. "Olivia, this was my news to announce! How dare you try to play such a part in this!"
I narrowed my eyes at him and made my voice as cold as the November wind that blew away the dry leaves outside. "As we discussed, Malcolm, you will recall that I am to be in charge of all matters concerning the birth of our new child."
"Mother, is it going to be a girl or a boy?" Joel interrupted.
"Oh, don't be stupid," Mal chided, "nobody knows until it's born." Mal was becoming more and more like Malcolm. He loved being the smarter, wiser one, and often lorded his power over Joel. Christopher just burst into tears. "Please don't let anyone else come here, Olivia. I don't want a little baby taking up all of your time. I don't want to lose another mommy," he sobbed.
I comforted him, and said, "No one will ever replace you, Christopher, neither a little boy nor a little girl."
"It's going to be a girl," Malcolm thundered. He glared at me and resumed carving the turkey with a sort of vicious concentration aimed at me.
Malcolm's rage cast a pall of silence over our Thanksgiving meal. The boys seemed cowed, Christopher kept looking at me, silently pleading with his eyes for reassurance. Malcolm kept correcting both our boys in the way they held their knives and forks. Oh, couldn't he ever leave them alone! He accused Joel of cutting his meat like a sissy, and when Mal shot back, "But I thought you wanted a girl," Malcolm simply let out a snort of disgust, and went on eating his mashed potatoes.
I helped the maid clear the dishes. I could see her stealing glances at me, wondering why my news had not made for a more festive celebration. But I hardened my eyes; my sadness was not for maids to see. As soon as the boys were back in their room preparing for bed, and Malcolm, as usual, had some "business in town" to attend to, I prepared a picnic basket filled with Thanksgiving food to take up to Alicia. Usually, I brought her dinner before we ate. It was now eight o'clock. I knew she'd be famished.
As I ascended the stairs for what seemed like the millionth time, I rested the basket atop my pillowed ledge.
The first time Alicia had seen me with my built-up stomach she had laughed. Of course, she had to wear my maternity clothing and I thought if anyone was comical-looking, it was she.
She had made some clumsy attempts to pin up the hems, but most of the skirts dragged over the floor. The bodices hung down over her smaller bosom, and her arms looked lost in the sleeves. As with her previous pregnancy, she did not become bloated-looking. I thought she looked like a child in a grown woman's clothing. Her hair had grown back, but we had kept it trimmed so it reached only the base of her skull.
I opened the door and put a bright, cheerful smile on my face. "Thanksgiving feast, Alicia." Alicia ravenously attacked the basket, not even greeting me as she tore it out of my hands. She picked up the drumstick, bit into it, and sighed. Then, delicately, she scooped up the stuffing with her fingers and licked off every last crumb.
"Don't you find your appetite growing enormous now?" she asked. She sounded excited, like a schoolgirl comparing notes.
"Pardon?" I really didn't understand her question. She kept smiling in between bites. I had never seen her devour food in such a lustful manner.
"Your appetite," she repeated. "Isn't it absolutely huge? Sometimes I think I could eat all day and I'm tempted to go
to the windows and shout for you to bring up more food. I would eat anything, any combination, any amounts, even things that weren't cooked. Last night I dreamt about steak and ice cream and cookies. Don't you have those urges?" she questioned, tilting her head and pressing her right forefinger into her cheek. She had been acting more normal lately and I wondered if her madness was returning.
"Hardly. Why should I?" I asked, not knowing whether to smile or to be angry.
She didn't answer. She laughed and went back to her food. Was she teasing me? Was it her way of taking some mad revenge on me?
"I eat no more or no less than I always do," I snapped, and left her. She was still laughing when I closed and locked the door behind me.
However, from that day on, every time I went to her to bring her things, she managed to make some sort of comment concerning my pregnancy as well as her own. She ignored anything I said to the contrary and acted as if I were the one who was going mad Finally, I felt a need to spell everything out for her again.
"You realize why I am doing this, don't you?" I said one day after I had been in the room awhile. She was sitting by the window, endlessly knitting pink booties, receiving blankets, and buntings. She already had a pile large enough to outfit six infants, but on and on and on she knitted. The most peculiar thing was that she, too, seemed to be certain this child would be a girl, as if along with his seed, Malcolm had impregnated her with his obsession. The cold winter sun peered into the windows, making the room bright without making it truly warm. Of course, the layers of pillows strapped to my stomach always kept me warm. I patted my false stomach so she would understand exactly what I meant by "doing this." She looked up at me, her eyes dancing with glee.
"You are doing this," she said, "because Malcolm Neal Foxworth demands a large family, but mostly because he demands a daughter."
"But you are the one having the child, Alicia. All the real symptoms are yours, not mine."
The smile left her face. "Don't you wish you were pregnant with a child?" she asked with a sharp and biting tone.
"That is no longer the point now, is it?" I said, intending to intimidate her. If there was any one reason why I couldn't tolerate her weird questions, it was because they put me on the defensive, not her. I was the pure one; she was the one who had sinned. I was the one who would be rescuing her child from sin, and making it wholesome and pure.
Her expression didn't change. If anything, she became more aggressive.