Out of the Attic Read online

  I went upstairs to pack a small overnight bag. Dora and Malcolm were down in the ballroom, Malcolm playing with his trains and toy people, houses, and animals. The seeds of the godlike Foxworths were being planted and exercised. His fingers and his imagination gave him the power to move families, cause accidents, save lives, and change day to night. It was a rehearsal for the day he would sit on the throne and really affect how people lived. How bitter I suddenly felt, and how guilty over how easily it could spread to my son.

  I stopped packing for a moment and sat on the swan bed, gazing around helplessly. From the day I had first seen it, seen this fantasy room, I thought it would be perfect for romance. I wondered, of course, why it had been kept as more of a museum piece and never used. The little changes I had made in lamps and pictures did nothing to diminish the wonder of its colors and the wonderful dreamlike atmosphere the graceful and beautiful swan projected.

  Who wouldn’t want to make love beneath her? What made Garland avoid it? Why, in fact, had our lovemaking become so mechanical, quick, and far between these past years? Why did he feel so much guilt, enough for him to create this dark fantasy with Dora? Would I mention it to my parents? I should, I thought, and yet that trembling returned, the trembling that began inside me every time I planned on revealing it or asking him direct questions about it.

  I had no doubt that Dora knew more than she was telling me. Even after all this time, any reference to it put her in a small panic. She stuttered, looked for ways to escape, and answered my questions as vaguely as she could. The implication was clear. She had actually come right out with it once: if she said too much, Garland would send her away and take revenge on her brother.

  Occasionally, I would make a vague reference to Mrs. Steiner or Mrs. Wilson by mentioning Garland’s mother’s clothes and how he guarded them like gold. My comments were always met with silence or a shrug, sometimes just a nod. Once Mrs. Wilson said, “It’s through the possessions of your dear departed ones that you hold on to memories. Once someone is forgotten, he or she dies a second death.”

  I recalled that was something Garland had told me, almost word for word. Did loyalty to the Foxworths go so deep as to affect the words these servants used or thought?

  And yet how could I complain about that idea, that way to preserve the memory of someone you had loved?

  However, I was sure there was more to it; there had to be. Garland was certainly not a religious man. He had no older brother or even a sister to confide in now. He had little contact with the more distant relatives. As far as I could see, he shared some of his most intimate or most secret thoughts only with Lucas, who moved about him like some shadow, turning where he turned, following where he went, and going wherever he wanted him to go. Lucas kept Garland’s words as sacrosanct as a priest in a confessional kept a sinner’s.

  A man who carried heavy guilt and had no place to go or no one to go to in order to relieve himself quite understandably invented or resurrected the one person he might have trusted in his life, his mother. I certainly, even after five years, couldn’t fill that role. It was painful to realize that I probably never would. Yes, in so many ways, I had married a stranger and remained one, even to my own child and especially to all the servants.

  I finished packing and went down to inform Mrs. Wilson and Mrs. Steiner of my trip to visit my parents.

  “That’s very nice, Mrs. Foxworth,” Mrs. Wilson said. “Too many young girls forget their parents when they marry. It’s truly like the bird leaving the nest. Birds fly by their mothers without so much as glancing or waving a wing at them.”

  “And then there are those who never stop circling them,” I muttered, loudly enough for both of them to hear. I watched their eyes. They looked at each other quickly and then back at what they were doing.

  I left to look in on Malcolm and Dora. Dora was sitting off to the side, reading, and Malcolm was totally absorbed with what was becoming his toy city, his own little Charlottesville. It looked like he had doubled the width and length of it from when I had seen it the last time.

  “You build things as fast as your father,” I said, and he looked up.

  “Mama, the train can go backward, too!”

  “It can?”

  I looked at Dora.

  “He discovered how to do that himself,” she said.

  I couldn’t believe how much I resented her taking pride in him, but at the moment, I felt like slapping her. I didn’t need his achievements pointed out. Or did I? Maybe I should be slapping myself.

  Instead, I went over to Malcolm and lowered myself to the floor beside him. His eyes widened with surprise and glee.

  “Show me,” I said, and he went about doing it.

  The more joy I took in watching him explain and do, the more I felt the tears falling inside me. How could I love my son if I lived in a house without love for me? He was, after all, an integral part of this house and this family. He was first and foremost a Foxworth.

  Later I made sure to have dinner with him and described the real train rides I had taken and the one I was going to take tomorrow. He surprised me by asking if he could come along. I looked up at Dora. I didn’t want her going with me on this visit, but without her, Malcolm could distract my parents and take their concentration and interest away from my purpose.

  “It’s only going to be an overnight trip this time, Malcolm,” I said. “I’ll take you on a longer trip.”

  “When?” he asked, with those Garland eyes that focused so hard on you that you couldn’t make a general, noncommittal response.

  “We’ll take the train to Virginia Beach and maybe do some cycling along the water on the boardwalk,” I said.

  His face exploded with excitement. He turned to Dora. “Dora, too?”

  “Maybe we’ll give Dora a day off,” I suggested. “She has one coming.”

  He looked at me suspiciously. “You won’t change your mind, will you, Mama?”

  “Not as long as you don’t do anything bad,” I said.

  He still looked skeptical. “Pinkie promise?” he asked, holding out his hand.

  “Who taught you that?”

  He looked at Dora.

  “Something I did with my mother,” she confessed.

  “People who demand you make promises already show they don’t believe what you say,” I told him, but he didn’t take away his hand.

  I did the pinkie promise, and we went back to eating. He was full of questions about our prospective trip now. Would there be a bike his size? How far would we pedal? What if it rained? Would we also go rowing in the ocean? Would I buy him more toy people and houses? What about the rides? It was as if I had opened a dam. I barely had time to chew and swallow.

  Afterward I was happy to send him back to the ballroom with Dora and go up to rest for my trip and plan on what exactly I would tell my parents. I had to make them see this wasn’t simply conjecture. To me there was clear evidence my husband had been and was unfaithful. It was a restless night for me, but I was up early to prepare. I wasn’t going to look like some house-wrecked wife. I wasn’t going to arrive with my tail between my legs.

  Because I knew how I hated train travel now and how nauseated it could make me, I made sure to have a small breakfast. My departure occurred before Malcolm was up and Dora was getting him dressed, but when she came to bring down my overnight bag, I left instructions for him, something I ordinarily didn’t do. Most of the time I permitted Dora to design his activities.

  “I don’t want him spending all his free time in the ballroom with those trains. He needs to be out in the fresh air, too. Make sure of that,” I said.

  “Yes, ma’am.” She avoided my eyes. She always did when I spoke to her sternly. Nevertheless, her fear was palpable.

  “When I return, I want to have a real heart-to-heart talk with you, Dora.”

  She looked up. “Have I done anything wrong, anything to upset you?”

  “I don’t know. Yet,” I added. Let her worry about it, I thought. She’d be more truthful when I wanted her to be. I nodded at the door. “Lucas should be waiting for me.”

  She walked ahead. I checked my appearance one more time and followed her down the stairs and out where Lucas was indeed waiting. He looked nervous and moved quickly to help me into the carriage, making sure I was comfortable.

  They’re all walking on tiptoes today, I thought. They sense something is very wrong. Good.

  When we arrived at the train station, Lucas wished me a good trip. I made sure Lucas knew exactly when to be back to greet me on my return. From my seat, I watched him hurry back to the carriage. Would he go right home, or would he go right to the telegraph office to inform Garland I had left Foxworth Hall? My telegraph operator would certainly be curious. I wondered how Garland would react. Would he be angry, frightened, and worried about his precious reputation?

  I sat back to close my eyes and think. My parents’ house opening was almost four years ago. I felt a mixture of emotions returning now, but for some reason, fear was the strongest. What if my parents didn’t support me, weren’t at all outraged for me, and sent me home feeling more alone than ever?

  I was disappointed when I arrived at the Alexandria station. My father wasn’t there in person to greet me. He had sent a carriage with my name on a placard. I waved to the driver, who hurried to get my bag. He looked like Abraham Lincoln with his beard, his height, and the rather sad expression Lincoln was depicted and photographed wearing throughout the Civil War. Bad omen, I thought, and boarded the carriage.

  So much of Alexandria had changed since I had gotten married and moved to Foxworth Hall. It obviously hadn’t lagged behind when it came to streets and lanterns, storefronts and sidewalks. We actually had to pass my father’s bank on the way, but I saw no poin
t in stopping to see him there. Privacy was what we needed now, and I wanted my mother and father together when I spoke. Checking the time, I saw he would be home in an hour if he followed his usual schedule. I was confident he was as intrigued as my mother about why I was making this sudden visit.

  She was at the door when we drove up, obviously sitting near the front windows, waiting and watching for me.

  “What’s happened?” she demanded before I reached the entrance.

  The driver carried my bag behind me. “I can take that now,” I told him, and reached for it. He nodded and left.

  “Well?” my mother asked when I entered.

  “I’d like to freshen up first, Mother, if you don’t mind. The train ride was quite tiring and dusty.”

  “You know where the guest room is,” she said. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Tonight is your father’s night for a pork chop and applesauce. I assume you’ll have the same.”

  “Whatever. I’m not that hungry.”

  She looked at me askance. My mother was aging faster than she had hoped she would, I was sure. I would never deny that my mother was an attractive woman with nearly perfect features. How could I be pretty if she were otherwise? She was tall and regal and had hands as pretty as mine. When I was younger and would catch her sitting quietly by herself, I thought her face was like one carved in ivory, a cameo, and her blue-gray eyes, not stained with anger or disgust, were strikingly attractive.

  Gray strands had invaded her hair with a vengeance. I was surprised at how she was letting it just go whichever way Nature decided. In my mind Nature was not gentle or forgiving. Her features were corrupted somewhat by the way her skin was starting to sag and her pallor losing whatever hold it had on a youthful, healthy look with soft crimson in the crests of her cheeks. Her lips looked thinner and her eyes tired. I never noticed until this moment how her shoulders had begun to sink and her back to rise just below the base of her neck.

  I didn’t feel as much pity for her as I felt fear for myself. Would I age as quickly? What would I be without my beauty? I despised the thought of my being stodgy and irritable, my posture gone, my arms hanging like two branches drenched in ice. Standing there, I realized that we see the changes in our loved ones more clearly the more time we are apart. It was as if during the days, months, and years you were separated, age had a freer hand. Was this how it was and how it would be between Garland and myself, no matter what? After each of these long business trips, when he set eyes on me, would he see more and more of my faults and less of my beauty? Unless your love for each other was deep and powerful, time would sweep away affection. You could grow to despise the very sight of each other without those immortal moments of warmth and fondness.

  “I do hope this isn’t some overly dramatic crisis in your life, Corrine. Your father has enough to burden him in these difficult financial times.”

  “I’ll wash up,” I said, and, without further comment, turned and walked down the hallway to the short stairway that led to the guest room.

  When I stepped in, I simply stood there looking around for a moment. Every room in every house looked like a cupboard to me now. Whenever I left Foxworth Hall, it was as if the world had shrunk. Even my thoughts could be crowded in a bedroom this small. I put my bag down and sat on the bed for a moment. My mother’s instant reluctance to permit me to complain told me this was not going to be the place where I would find sympathy easily. I framed my words, planning on how I would make my parents feel more abused than me.

  By the time I had washed and changed and started down, my father had arrived. They were both sitting in their living room anticipating what had brought me home so suddenly. Despite being less than a quarter of the size of my living room, or the Foxworths’, I should say, their room struck me as far more cozy and comfortable. My father still had his favorite soft-cushioned chair with his footstool. My mother sat in another, and I was obviously to take the settee across from them.

  Unlike my mother, my father hadn’t aged as quickly. He had some gray hair, even in his eyebrows, but his face was as robust, and he was, as always, obviously dedicated to his physique. He was certainly not as muscular as a laborer, but he didn’t look as soft and pudgy as most bank executives his age or even younger.

  “Hello, Daddy,” I said. I approached him as he leaned forward for me to kiss him on the cheek. “You look well.”

  “Thank you. You’re taking good care of yourself, too, Corrine.”

  He glanced at my mother. Was that a small reprimand for the way she was letting herself go? I sat.

  “Well, let’s not waste time,” my father continued. “For you to come rushing here would take something serious. Are you sick? Is Garland ill, or Malcolm?”

  “I’m fine, and so is Malcolm. Garland is not ill unless you consider adultery a disease,” I said. I waited. Neither spoke or stopped staring at me with stolid faces.

  My mother shifted in her seat and sighed.

  “And you know this how?” my father asked.

  I told them about Melinda Sue, her women’s club, the gossip, and crowned it all with a detailed description of the exchange between myself and the hotel clerk at the Caroline House.

  “A widow?” my mother said, looking almost amused. “And wealthy?”

  “I doubt that money would be Garland’s prime reason anyway, Mother. Although I know he likes to get people to invest in his enterprises.”

  I glared at my father.

  He sat back. “Have you confronted him?” he asked.

  “No. He’s not home. I suspect he’s traveling in England with her as we speak.”

  Both were silent.

  “I think it’s a terrible act of disrespect to drag our family through the muck,” I said. “Eventually,” I added, when that drew no response, “it will seep into the Alexandria social world, if it hasn’t already, and you will be embarrassed, too.”

  “When one enters the world you’re in and the world we’ve been in for most of our lives,” my father said slowly, speaking just the way he did when he was going over a financial issue at the bank, “we expect gossip behind our backs. For most of these people, that’s all there is. Perhaps you’re blowing this out of proportion. It might be just that, gossip.”

  “Well, how do you tolerate it?” I demanded.

  He shrugged. “Most of what happens to us in our lives can be overcome by ignoring it. It’s like a terrible icy rain. You wait, and eventually it’s a memory, sometimes not even that.”

  “Men of that stature and wealth are prone to such things,” my mother said. “Your father’s right. That comes and goes like a bad day. It’s far worse to harp on it and destroy your marriage. These dilettantes are throw-away napkins,” she said. “What sort of a future will they have, rich or not?”

  “I don’t care about her future. I care about my own. I care about our family’s reputation.”

  “You didn’t care about that the night you conceived Malcolm,” my mother said.

  “Now, now. No reason to rake up past errors,” my father said. “You are the mistress of Foxworth Hall, Corrine. You have a position almost all women would envy. This will pass. Perhaps Garland suffers his own passing regrets. Even if your worst suspicions are true, he’ll realize it’s a waste of his time to chase some widow, and he’ll come back to you stronger and be even more dedicated to you and Malcolm.”

  I stared at him a moment and then looked at my mother. What was he really saying?

  “Did you…” I lived with some suspicion whenever I considered how indifferent my mother seemed to passion. “Why do you say these things?”

  “Let’s not get into such a discussion,” he said. “We appreciate your coming to us for advice. Let’s have a wonderful dinner together and talk about happier things. The future bodes well for us all. Things are improving in the country, although I’m sure you don’t lack for anything.”

  “Maybe everlasting love,” I said in almost a whisper. If they did hear it, neither responded.

  I looked at my mother. She was complacent, satisfied with my father’s rationalization. This was who she was her whole life, I thought. No wonder it was always deep inside me and strong to become someone she wasn’t.

  My father slapped down on the arms of his chair and rose. “Your mother makes the greatest pork chops,” he said, smiling.