Beneath the Attic Read online

  Of course, Louise Francis and Etta Benjamin completely agreed with her and expressed their sympathies. I was sinking into a deep funk and thought I would just spend the whole day in my room with the door shut. But as I was going back upstairs, I heard a knock on our front door. My first, hopeful thought was I was receiving a telegram from Garland, who had discovered I had fled from Charlottesville and was feeling very guilty. I was still debating with myself whether or not I would forgive him.

  It was as if there really were good and bad angels, one of each on my left and right shoulders, whispering in my ears. The bad angel told me Garland Foxworth, no matter what his faults, was still the most exciting and best-looking man I had ever met. Whether I had drunk the limoncello or not, I’d have wanted to make love with him, wouldn’t I? I just wanted it to be more romantic. Well, couldn’t that happen the next time? The good angel stressed I was violated and reminded me how rough the sex had been. That wasn’t gentle and loving, but the bad angel said, “You liked it. Deep down, you liked it.”

  Did I?

  Thinking about this caused me to move slower to the door. Whoever it was knocked harder. This had to be important, I thought.

  But it was only Elsie Daniels and Emma Lawrence, who had ridden their bikes over to my house. They both were wearing divided skirts, having convinced their parents to buy them for them after they had seen me wearing one.

  “What?” I asked instead of saying hello. The sight of them was too much of a letdown.

  “We came by to see if you wanted to go with us to Bessie Raymond’s house,” Elsie said. “Her cousin Arthur is visiting, and we remembered how handsome you thought he was. He’s in his first year at Penn State, and he’s on the football team. We asked Daisy to come, but her mother has her doing chores in the house.”

  Emma’s smile reminded me of a splattered egg. I imagined how they gossiped about me on the way over to my house. Nevertheless, I pondered the possibility. I had seen Arthur Raymond two years ago, and like most of the boys who first met me, he spent most of the time talking to me. His mother was from Dublin, and he had her striking kelly-green eyes, rust-brown hair, and what I thought was a very sexy smile because of his firm lips. He was easily six feet tall, with very manly shoulders. It wasn’t until after he had left that I remarked about him, because I saw how jealous the other girls were of his attention to me.

  “He’s good-looking,” I had said, but made it sound so casual that no one bothered even to attempt to tease me.

  “He asked after you almost as soon as he arrived, Bessie says,” Elsie said.

  “Did he?” I said with almost no enthusiasm.

  Their smiles wilted.

  “Well, you did say he was good-looking,” Emma practically bellowed with frustration.

  “Good-looking is not enough as far as I’m concerned. I don’t expect to have interest in any boy who isn’t. When you realize that there has to be a lot more, you’re an adult. Children have crushes; young women have flings with young men, not boys. I haven’t thought of Arthur since he left.”

  One thing I would never need, no matter what had just happened to me, was other girls finding me beaus.

  They looked disappointed. They had probably promised him they would bring me over this afternoon. It made them seem more important, and they could enjoy a romance vicariously.

  “But I’m bored, so I’ll come,” I said, rescuing their smiles. “I’ll go change.”

  I closed the door on them so they knew I wasn’t going to invite them in and up to my room to watch me get into my cycling clothes, fix my hair, and maybe put some tint on my cheeks. Then again, I thought the bike ride would bring enough of a flush to them. For a little while, this felt like some sort of vengeance I was taking out on Garland. I could easily go on with my life and simply forget him, forget what had happened, and never give it another thought. But then I told myself what my mother often told me: The easiest person to lie to is yourself.

  When I came down again, my mother had put up some tea for her friends and saw me in my divided skirt.

  “And where are you going?”

  “With my friends to visit Bessie Raymond. It’s only a little over a mile.”

  “Well, you be home before dark,” she said, and was suddenly suspicious. “I thought you were still exhausted from your horrible experience. You complained about the train ride so much the railroad would pay to lock you up and keep you from talking about it.”

  “Being home has revived me,” I said.

  She looked at me skeptically but nodded.

  Elsie and Emma leaped to their feet when I stepped out. They had been lying on the lawn.

  “We were beginning to think you weren’t coming,” Emma said.

  “Well, here I am. I just don’t jump into my clothes and go out. Let me get my cycle.”

  I took it from the shed, and we started cycling. It was a relatively easy ride, with just a few small hills. For most of it, we pedaled side by side, even though they both had trouble keeping up with me.

  “Have you seen that man you danced with at the Wexler gala?” Elsie asked.

  I saw the way she glanced at Emma. So this was really their motive for coming to get me, I thought, more gossip and more inside information about my love life.

  “No,” I said. I would never tell these two anything close to the truth. “Nor did I expect to. Men like that are like shooting stars. Now you see them, now you don’t. You certainly don’t let them break your heart or give them a chance to disappoint you.”

  “He looked much older than us,” Emma said. “That’s what surprised us when we saw you together.”

  “I don’t think I look that young, especially not at the Wexler gala.”

  “You didn’t, but he still looked a lot older.”

  “So what?” I said. “Do older men frighten you? Do they make you squeeze your knees together?”

  They both giggled.

  “That’s not so funny. Older men want to do more with you right away,” Elsie said with the authority of someone who had been there.

  “Oh, so you’ve been with older men and know all about their sexual desires?”

  “Noooo!” she exclaimed. “I mean, not that much older.”

  “So, you really will never see him again?” Emma asked.

  “Why is that so important to you?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” I said.

  They both giggled again, never sounding more like children.

  I felt like turning around and going home.

  “What if you did see him again?” Elsie asked. “What would you do if you and he were alone like you were in the Wexlers’ garden?”

  So this was it, they wanted to live some excitement through me. Why was I not surprised?

  “I might say, ‘Hello, how are you?’ Or ‘What took you so long to come calling?’ ”

  Another giggle.

  “And then what?” Emma asked.

  “I’d make him take me somewhere expensive and spend a lot of his money on me.”

  “He’d want something in return for that,” Elsie said. “Older men don’t just flirt.”

  “So?”

  “How far would you go with a man?” Emma asked.

  I knew this was the main question. It would make their day to hear the answer.

  “How far?” I pedaled silently, as if I was thinking hard about it.

  They both were paying so much attention they nearly bumped into each other.

  “Yes, how far?” Elsie said.

  “I think Charlottesville,” I said.

  “What?”

  The bad angel was laughing on my shoulder.

  I sped up, now giggling to myself and leaving them behind in more ways than one.

  Arthur Raymond had become even better-looking, but it would always be in a pretty-boy way, with his long eyelashes, his perfect but soft lips, and his attractive kelly-green eyes that had never looked as innocent and vulnerable to
me. His hair was shaped and shiny like hair just washed, probably for my benefit. It looked like he had spent more time on his coiffure than most of us girls. Since he had begun college, he had manicured fingernails and the posture of a military cadet. He rushed to greet me with a “So pleased to see you again, Corrine. How are you?” He sounded like he had memorized a page out of The Correct Thing in Good Society, one of my mother’s other bibles.

  Ordinarily, a girl like me would appreciate a boy who conducted himself so politely and respectfully, but for a reason I couldn’t fathom, his well-mannered way annoyed me at the moment. Maybe I was comparing him to Garland; maybe I would always do that. Maybe every man I met from now until forever would be similarly doomed.

  We sat on Bessie Raymond’s back porch. Her father, who was a stationmaster, tinkered with carpentry as a hobby and had built a swing seat with a bright blue cushioned bottom and back. Arthur quickly offered it to me, with the obvious intent to sit beside me. None of the other three would have dared taken it anyway. I sat, and Bessie brought out lemonade. I felt my stomach churn at the sight of it. I was the only one who declined and asked for just water.

  Emma and Elsie might as well have sat at Arthur’s feet, I thought. They were wide-eyed and painfully obvious, exaggerating their “oohs” and “ahs” with every claim Arthur made about his good grades and achievements on the football field. He constantly watched for my reactions, hoping to impress me most of all, but I was sure I looked totally disinterested, because I was.

  While Arthur spoke in his silvery perfect English, describing his college classes, his dormitory, and college social events, I found myself drifting back to images of Foxworth Hall, its silhouetted roofline against the night sky, and Garland’s firm, arrogant pride about its charm and power. Maybe it was because all the boys I had been with and even the young men I had met at dinners and events with my parents put me on a pedestal, rushing to satisfy my smallest desire. Now Garland’s really at times impolite, gruff, and aggressive ways seemed more manly to me and thus, ironically, more attractive. Despite what had happened or maybe because of it, I never felt like he saw me as a young girl instead of a young woman. He had confessed it himself: he thought I was more worldly, which I knew meant more sexually sophisticated. I was; I just wasn’t ready for how fast it all happened.

  I assumed that any other woman, especially any of these three girls, would probably have concentrated on and emphasized how she was seduced. She would be moaning, “Poor me.” Garland would be seen as a criminal, easily a rapist, but I was thinking now that I honestly shared a large part of the blame. In fact, I could see him claiming I had seduced him and not vice versa. Maybe I was straining to find a way to forgive him. Perhaps I was being a fool, but I honestly couldn’t help it. I even imagined his response to the accusations.

  “She fooled me, tempted me, brought me to the brink, and for a man balancing himself on that cliff, there was no other way to go.”

  What would be my defense if I really wanted a defense? Hadn’t I let him kiss me at the Wexler gala after I had gone into the garden with him unchaperoned, leading him to believe I was more worldly? I did write to him and eagerly await his response. I encouraged him to pursue me, didn’t I? When I was there, I did agree to rush off to Foxworth Hall without telling anyone. I did willingly drink the limoncello. I did sneak back into my great-aunt’s house, and afterward, I told no one anything. I envisioned a jury made up of all my mother’s stiff-faced friends and spinsters scowling at me and pointing their long, bony fingers when they shouted, “Guilty!”

  Get over it, Corrine, I told myself. Maybe now you really can claim to be a woman of the world. Isn’t that what you always wanted to be? So it came a little sooner than you anticipated and not exactly how you had dreamed it would come—so what? You’ll never see Garland again. You can live with it. There’ll be other Garlands, won’t there? Maybe none will be as wealthy and none will come accompanied by a Foxworth Hall, but there’s surely someone out there, rich and powerful, who will want you beside him, and now, now you will know exactly what switches to throw and what levers to pull.

  Of course, I still would be successful when it came to romance and marriage. How could I doubt it? I envisioned my own gilded horse and carriage, having miles of closets filled with the latest fashions, and having servants at my beck and call. There would be galas and dinner parties and lots of jewelry. Oh yes, there would be diamonds and gold practically dripping off my neck and wrists and covering my fingers. I’d make Lucy Wexler look like a pauper. I could practically hear the music and feel myself doing that waltz again.

  “Corrine?” I heard. The voice sounded far off. “Corrine!”

  “What?”

  I looked at the others, who were staring at me as if I had done something terrible, as if they had heard my thoughts and knew what had happened at Foxworth. For a moment, I did think I had been speaking aloud. They continued to stare.

  “What?” I practically screamed.

  “Arthur just asked you how you intended to spend most of your summer,” Bessie said, scowling as if ignoring a question from Arthur was akin to treason.

  I looked at her, at Emma and Elsie and then at Arthur, who was smiling but more like someone who was embarrassed he had been caught with such interest in me. It was painfully clear to them all that I hadn’t heard a word he had just said, maybe none of what he was saying. What was a more recognizable way of telling someone that you had no interest in him than totally disregarding him while he was working so hard at being attractive and interesting to you?

  “Oh. I have no idea right now. I’m waiting on an invitation from Queen Victoria to visit her at Windsor,” I added.

  “What?” Emma said.

  Elsie giggled uncomfortably.

  Bessie swung her eyes, and Arthur’s smile wilted.

  I stood up. “I’m sorry, everyone. I’ve got to go home. Sorry to rush out, but I just remembered that I promised my mother I would sift through my wardrobe today and sort out the clothes I no longer want or need. We’re going to present our annual gift to the Salvation Army.

  “So,” I said, turning to him, “to answer your question, Arthur, I’ll probably spend a lot of time this summer replacing things, and we have been talking about a trip to the beach. I’ve also been thinking about taking private painting lessons, too. My father says I doodle so much that I might as well see if I can sell one.”

  Arthur stood. “I’d be happy to borrow Bessie’s bike and escort you home, Corrine.”

  “How gallant, but I find I go faster when I don’t carry on a conversation while cycling. To most, it’s a social event. To me, it’s merely another means of transportation and some good exercise. Besides, it would be cruel of me to take you away from your devoted audience. I’ll catch up when I see you all again. Good luck with your football, Arthur,” I said. I couldn’t help but make it sound like something insignificant, even childish.

  He looked at the others and then said, “Thank you,” but weakly, his disappointment so obvious that it could bring someone more susceptible to it to tears.

  “ ’Bye.”

  I hurried around Bessie’s house to my bicycle and started away, pedaling more like someone fleeing the scene of a crime than someone merely going home.

  I’m changed, I thought. Months ago, I would have loved being the center of attention for my friends, but everything felt different. Was it for the better? A year ago, I would have easily permitted Arthur to escort me, if for no other reason than putting icing on the cake of jealousy the other girls baked. I’d string him along and enjoy watching how hard he was trying to get me to care about him.

  Now all that appeared so childish to me. Almost everything I was doing with these friends this afternoon seemed beneath me. I had outgrown them all practically overnight. Conversations with my girlfriends, even my best friend, Daisy, now loomed like clouds stuffed with words of the immature. I would drown in boredom, as I just nearly did moments ago. I wasn’t joking when I
suggested I might take lessons in art. It was something I could do alone. Right now, there wasn’t a friendship or a prospect of one among my peers that appealed to me, even having someone at my side who adored me. All that seemed to be in the very distant past.

  I hadn’t lied about sorting through my clothes, however. I had returned from Charlottesville years older. I wanted to rid my closet of anything and everything that looked juvenile. I glanced at blouses and skirts, petticoats and stockings, and then tossed on the floor everything I thought was ridiculous. I wasn’t left with much and thought I would work on my father to allow me to buy new things for daily life.

  Later, when I descended to help my mother prepare our dinner, I decided my wardrobe was going to be the top of our talk. I had all my new arguments prepared, but my father stole the stage by announcing he was starting on the construction of a new house.

  “It’s going to have all the new modern appliances and be twice the size of this one. I’ve bought acres of land across from the Fieldings’ house on Garden Grove.”

  “Twice the size?” my mother exclaimed. “And I’m to take care of such a monster?”

  “Oh no. We’re going to have more household help.”

  “Can we afford all that?” she asked.

  He smiled and looked at me as if I should have known. “Yes. I’ve made some investments of late that have boosted our net worth, and there is talk about our having a new chairman of the board. I think you might be looking at him. Early indications are that I have the necessary votes.”

  “You’re taking my breath away, Harrington,” my mother said.

  “No worries, Rosemary. I have a prospective buyer for this house,” my father continued. “There are so many new things to modernize our new home. I’ll be explaining and describing it all to you, Rosemary.”

  “Exactly how big will this new house be?”

  “You’ll be delighted to know it will be at least three thousand square feet bigger than this house. In fact, it will be one of the biggest in Alexandria,” he declared proudly.