Dollenganger 05 Garden of Shadows Read online

  "Alicia," I said. "I must know what happened here before I came upon the terrible scene. What was Malcolm doing in your room?" Her sobbing intensified. "Alicia, you must tell me. You have no one else now," I added, thinking that was a good point to bring up at this moment. It struck home, for her sobbing lessened and she began to turn to me. She pressed her hands against her face as if to stop the tears, and then brought the blanket to her face.

  "It was horrible, horrible," she began.

  "What was?"

  "I was just lying here, reading, feeling so good about the party and how happy everyone was. Garland . . ." She started to cry again. "He was so proud, so happy."

  "What happened here?" I asked, pursuing

  "I didn't lock my door. Sometimes . . . sometimes Garland comes to me in the middle of the night," she said. "When I heard it open, I assumed it was Garland, but it was Malcolm," she said, looking at the door quickly, her face twisting as though the entire scene were being reenacted before her very eyes.

  "What did he want?"

  "He wanted--" She stopped as if telling me were the most indecent thing she could do. "He wanted me," she said, her anger growing. "He came to my bed. I told him he shouldn't be in here. He laughed and said not to worry. Garland was asleep. He said terrible things to me. He told me Garland was too old to satisfy me now, that now I would need him more than ever and it was all right since he was Garland's son."

  "What did you do?"

  "I told him to get out or I would call Garland, but he wouldn't leave the room. I sat up, preparing to scream if he came any closer. He must have realized that, because he rushed onto the bed and put his hand over my mouth, pressing me back to the pillow and . . . fondling me roughly. I tried to fight him off and he ripped my nightgown. During the struggle I knocked over that small night-table lamp and I managed a scream. Garland heard it and came to the doorway in time to see Malcolm trying to smother me with his body."

  "I thought as much," I said.

  "Garland rushed to the bed and pulled Malcolm off. They began to wrestle, Garland cursed him, and Malcolm said all sorts of terrible things about Garland's first wife, this room, his manhood. They fell to the floor and continued struggling, but neither struck the other with his fist.

  "Finally, Malcolm broke free of Garland's hold and crawled toward the doorway, but Garland was in such a rage, he wouldn't permit him to escape. He took hold of him again and they threw each other about until Garland screamed. He slipped out of Malcolm's arms and fell to the floor where he . . . he, oh, God. Is it true? Is Garland dead?"

  "It's true," I said.

  "Garland. Garland, my Garland." She fell back against her pillow and began to sob again. I knew she would cry herself into an exhaustion and fall asleep. There was nothing more I could do for her. I left her there and went out to seek Malcolm.

  I found him in the trophy room and imagined he had been watching us through his peephole the entire time. He was seated in a leather chair, staring at the doorway, his face silkily white and his eyes wide and wild like the eyes of a man looking at his own death. His hands clutched the arms of the chair so hard, I could see the veins popping below his knuckles. He seemed to be holding on for dear life. "What have you done?" I asked him.

  "Leave me alone."

  "Do you know what will happen when people hear of this?"

  "No one will hear of anything. It wasn't my fault. He was a sick man anyway. The doctor will testify to that.

  Now, get out and leave me be," he said, speaking through his clenched teeth.

  "You're a hateful person, Malcolm. You'll never be a happy man after this."

  "It was her fault," he said. "Not mine."

  "Her fault?" I almost laughed.

  "Get out," he repeated. I shook my head.

  "I pity you." At that moment I really did pity him. No matter what kind of face he put on, I knew he would suffer guilt that would haunt him for the rest of his life. It would change him in other ways later, but for the present it would work like a knife, cutting into his heart. It was obvious that he was trying to ease his own pain by blaming it all on Alicia. In his twisted mind she was responsible because she resisted him and called for Garland's help. In his twisted mind the woman was always responsible, never the man.

  Sometime later he would tell me that Alicia tempted him, tormented him. That was why she got what she deserved. He would blame it on the type of woman she was. He hated her and he loved her the way he hated and loved his mother.

  I left him in that dark room, sitting in the shadows.

  It was a large funeral, despite Malcolm's hope that it wouldn't be. People came from all over, some traveling great distances--business acquaintances, old friends, relatives, and many who were curious about the death of one of the area's richest men.

  Malcolm wanted his father's body cremated, followed by a small, short ceremony, but Garland had anticipated his son's indifference. He had left specific instructions with the minister, in writing; and when Reverend Masterson produced the document, Malcolm could do nothing about it. The elaborate funeral would be held, the money spent.

  The only fortunate thing, from his point of view, was Alicia's condition right before, during, and after the funeral. She was on heavy tranquilizers and moved about like a sleepwalker in a nightmare, her face ashen, her eyes vacant, hearing no one, seeing no one, saying nothing. Her mother, quite a sick woman herself at this point, was unable to make the journey. As I had told her the night Garland died, she had no one but me.

  I saw that she was dressed properly, that she took some nourishment, and that Christopher was well taken care of. I guided her through the ceremony, remained at her side, sometimes literally holding her up. I could see the way people were watching us, how they remarked on my concern for her to one another, how they were impressed by the way I took care of her.

  Mrs. Whipple, a middle-aged woman who had served as Garland's personal secretary for many years, told me: "Garland would be so grateful to you for the way you are helping Alicia. He was so fond of her, so fond."

  "I'm doing only what is right," I told her. "No one need thank me."

  "Of course," she said.

  The mourners came to comfort Alicia, but she looked through every one of them. Garland's death had turned them all into strangers. In a sense all those she knew through or because of him died with him She had already begun her transition into another world, a world without Garland, without his laughter and love, a world filled with echoes and memories. Perhaps I clung to her so tightly because I understood the world she was about to enter better than she ever would. It was almost as though I were welcoming her to it, understanding that she would be joining me, and from now on, we would both suffer the same loneliness.

  During the month that followed, Alicia was practically an invalid. Still under great mental strain and taking medication, she often had to be reminded to do simple things for herself, like come down to breakfast or dinner. She herself chose darker, more simple dresses to wear. Her complexion remained pale. Her broken heart had come up and darkened her eyes until they looked as vacant as the artificial eyes of some of the animals stuffed and mounted in the trophy room. The only thing that brought any light to her face was Christopher. If it weren't for him, she would probably never have come out of her room.

  During the days of mourning, Malcolm behaved as if Alicia were no longer there. Whenever he did see her, he looked through her, beyond her. He never spoke to her and she never said a word to him. He never asked me anything about her either. I knew it was his way of avoiding his own guilt. Perhaps he hoped she would languish and die and his

  responsibility for what had occurred would never be revealed.

  Of course, she had made it easy for him to do all this, walking about like a ghost, dressed in either black, dark gray, or dark blue, with no makeup, her hair pinned back sternly, and she always avoided his eyes.

  Our dinners, the ones she attended, were like funeral feasts. She ate slowly, mechan
ically. Malcolm sat looking forward, sometimes asking me a question, sometimes making a comment. There was never any long conversation--just questions and answers. Even though she ate, her fingers trembled when she took the fork into them. She cut her meat slowly, laboriously, as though the knife were terribly dull. Alicia didn't even realize when the dinner had ended. Malcolm would get up suddenly and leave the table, and she would look up, surprised. It was as if she had just realized she was sitting there.

  She would look down at Garland's seat pathetically. The absence of a setting pained her every time she sat at the dinner table. I was sure that was why she resisted attending.

  And when she did look at Malcolm, I saw her look of confusion. I imagined she was trying to put all of the events into some perspective, organize them in a way that would permit her to deal with them. He looked as calm and collected as ever. She couldn't see any change in him. Maybe it had all been a dream. Maybe Garland was coming down to dinner any moment. Once, I thought she even sat there waiting for him. I had to tell her to begin eating.

  Malcolm didn't permit her eerie presence at these meals to disturb him. His appetite was good. Nothing weakened him. If he were haunted by any dreams, I never knew. He seemed satisfied with the way things were, especially the way things were between him and Alicia.

  But her attitude was wearing on my nerves, and sending all three of the boys into a funk.

  Finally one day I went in to have a stern talk with her. I thought it was time. I was hoping that once she recovered from Garland's death, she would think about leaving Foxworth Hall. I thought that she herself would want to start someplace new, once the financial situation was clear. She was young enough to find a new husband, especially with the kind of wealth she enjoyed. What man wouldn't want a beautiful, rich woman with a beautiful child?

  "None of us is happy about what happened," I said, "but you still have responsibilities. You are still Mrs. Garland Christopher Foxworth, and as his wife you should overcome your grief and begin to take care of your son properly." She wanted to start to cry, but I wouldn't permit it, even though I pitied her sitting there on her bed, looking as fragile as a baby robin. Despair had washed all the color from her face.

  "What kind of an example are you setting for Christopher? For Mal and for Joel?" I continued. "They all see what you are and what you are doing. Your attitude is turning this house into a morgue."

  "Oh, Olivia, I can't get it through my head that Garland is really gone." She pressed her hands together and began to turn them as though she were wringing out invisible wet clothes.

  "He is gone, and it shouldn't be such a surprise. Some time ago, I had a discussion with you about your marriage, and I pointed out that he would die long before you. You didn't seem to care."

  "I cared. I just didn't believe it would happen."

  "I tried to warn you about living in a dream world. Now you are living in reality, just as I have had to from the first day I walked into this house."

  She looked up at me sharply. That she understood.

  "You're so much stronger than I am, Olivia. You're not afraid of anything; you're not afraid of being alone."

  "Life makes you strong. If you don't let it make you strong, it,will kill you. Is that what you want? Do you want to leave your son?"

  "No!"

  "Then shake off this self-pity and be a mother to your child."

  She nodded slowly.

  "I know you're right. I am indebted to you in so many ways. I knew from the first day I came here that you were a wise and intelligent woman. Malcolm never intimidates you, no matter what he does."

  "Get dressed, come down to dinner, and end this wallowing in grief," I commanded.

  Perhaps I should have permitted her to remain forever in mourning. Perhaps I should have

  encouraged it. My little talk was too effective. When she came down to dinner that night, she began a rather quick recovery. Grief, no matter how you cater to its gloom, has a way of dissipating. She appeared at the table that night as someone who had just awoken from a long sleep. She had rouged her cheeks, and painted her lips, put on a bright blue dress and wore one of the diamond necklaces Garland had bought her. I had forgotten how beautiful and charming she could be. I should never have forgotten that. The moment she stepped into the dining room, I realized I had resurrected more than Alicia's beauty. Malcolm's eyes widened; his undertaker face disappeared. Not only did he look at her intently again, but before the dinner ended, he spoke directly to her. He put on his haughty manner like a hat as he explained some of the details of Garland's estate and how he planned to invest her money.

  "It will be a while yet before I have things straightened out," he said, "but soon I will sit down with you and explain your financial situation."

  "Thank you," she said.

  "Why is it taking so long?" I asked. "It didn't take this long after my father died."

  "Things were not quite as complex. My father insisted on some intricate clauses that the probate lawyers have to work out. Our money is invested in diverse areas. Your father was a businessman, not an investor. His fortune should have been doubled by now," he added for my benefit.

  "It's all right, Olivia," Alicia said. "I'm sure it won't be much longer."

  Malcolm was very pleased by her comment. It was almost as though she had come to his defense. If she wants to be the fool, I thought, let her.

  Her recovery continued. She looked after Christopher completely and, as before, devoted most of the time to all the children. She went out to shop for some new clothing for herself and for Christopher and she grew stronger, brighter, even prettier every day.

  I saw the way Malcolm watched her recovery. Although they said only what was necessary to each other, I was surprised at how civil she was to him Surely she blamed him for everything, I thought. Surely she despised him How could she even look at him? Was there no anger and hate in her? Was she so innocent and pure that vengeance could find no home in her bosom? Her tolerance, her softness, her returning happiness infuriated me. I had even hoped to see her plot against Malcolm; perhaps enlist me in some plan to force him to give her more money, for that was the one thing that would have hurt Malcolm the most-- expanding on the settlement.

  But she was entirely trusting and patient. Didn't she understand how dangerous it was to be kind to a man like Malcolm? When I could tolerate it no longer, I confronted her and was astonished at her thinking.

  "Malcolm must be suffering too," she said. "It was his father. He has to live with it."

  "Look how well he is living with it," I said. "Has it slowed him down even a little? He's at his business just as vigorously as before. He's even happier because Garland isn't around to question anything he does!"

  "Perhaps it's just an act."

  "An act! Do you know that he didn't want to spend half as much as was spent on Garland's funeral? Do you know he still complains about that?"

  She smiled like some nun refusing to admit to violence and cruelty in the world God created. Everything had a reason, a purpose, and would be explained in the hereafter. She was incapable of facing or admitting the existence of evil in the hearts of men.

  "I understand his motives. He couldn't face the funeral; he wanted to keep it small so it would be easier for him."

  "You fool," I said. "He cared only about the cost, not the significance. Why don't you pressure him more to settle your estate? Who knows what he's doing to cheat you?"

  "I wouldn't even know where to begin, Olivia. I was never very business-minded. He'll follow Garland's wishes, I'm sure," she said.

  "Do you want to languish here forever, waiting? You're young, still very beautiful. Don't you envision a new life for yourself?"

  "I don't know," she said, looking around. "I can't see myself leaving Foxworth Hall just yet. Garland's spirit is still here. Shouldn't his son grow up here?"

  I sat back, frustrated with such simplicity, such innocent trust and faith.

  "What about a new husband?"
I said. "Do you think if you took a new husband, he could come here to live with you? Do you think Malcolm would tolerate that?"

  "Oh, I don't want to think about a new husband." She smiled as though the idea were farfetched.

  "You are making a mistake," I said. "You should be planning your future and the future of your son. No one else is going to do that for you, especially not Malcolm. Put the past away."

  "There's a time for that. I don't think anyone would be in so great a rush."

  "I would."

  "No, you wouldn't."

  "I assure you," I said, flushing with anger, "I would. And someday you'll wish you had listened to me." Someday was to come even sooner than I had expected.

  10 Malcolm Has His Way

  . ALICIA NEVER FORGOT MY WORDS OF WARNING, EVEN though she pretended not to have heard them. She continued to move through the house like a grown child, her innocence and brightness lighting the dark shadows of Foxworth Hall. Whenever Malcolm spoke to her or whenever she was forced to speak to him, she looked like a young girl who had built up her courage to face the dentist. She listened to whatever she had to hear; she said what she had to say, and then she moved off, her smile and cheery voice returning as it would to one who had lived through the worst and now could go on.

  The evenings were different though. After Christopher had eaten and she had finished dinner, and after she put her three-year-old son to sleep in the nursery, she would avoid any contact with Malcolm, and, after a while, even any contact with me. If she didn't leave the house for one reason or another, she would retreat to the Swan Room, supposedly to read and relax.

  Often, when I put my ear to the wall in my room, I would hear her sobbing and talking as though Garland were there living beside her on the bed. I could almost believe that a love as passionate as theirs had been would enable them to reach across the abyss between life and death and join hands for some precious moments every night.