How had I forgotten that?
Soon I had -a fire going. The bright glow cheered up the room, which seemed so right in summer but not so right in winter, just as Bart had predicted. Now the dark paneling would have made Jory feel cozier.
"Mom," Jory said, suddenly looking very cheerful, "I've been thinking about something for days. I'm a fool to act as I am. You're right--been right all along. I'm not going to feel sorry for myself the minute I'm alone and no one can see, as I've been doing since the accident. I am going to accept what can't be helped and make the most of a difficult situation. Just like you and Dad did when you were locked away, I'm going to turn my idle moments into creative moments. I'll have plenty of time to read all the books I've never had time to read before, and I'm going to say yes to Dad the next time he offers to teach me how to paint with watercolors. I'll go outdoors and try landscapes. Perhaps I'll even venture into oils, other mediums. I want to thank you both for giving me the incentive to go on. I'm a lucky guy to have parents like you and Dad."
Feeling proud enough to cry myself, I embraced him, congratulating him for coming back to being his natural, enthusiastic self.
Cindy had set a bridge table for two, but Jory soon turned back to the clipper ship he was
determined to finish before Christmas. He was stringing the threadlike cords to the rigging, which was the last step before a little touch-up painting here and there.
"I'm going to give this to someone very special, Mom," he informed me. "On Christmas day, one person in this house is going to have my first difficult piece of handicraft."
"I bought it for you, Jory, to become an heirloom to pass down to your children . . ." I blanched when I heard myself say "children."
"It's all right, Mom, for with this gift I am going to win back the younger brother who loved me before that old man came and changed him. He wants it badly; I see it in his eyes every time he comes in and checks to see my progress. Besides, I can always put together another one for my child. Right now I want to do something for Bart. He thinks none of us need him or like him. I've never seen a man as uncertain about himself . . . and that's such a pity."
Holiday Joys
. Thanksgiving Day came, and with it arrived Chris early in the morning. Jory's nurse ate
Thanksgiving dinner with us, keeping his lovesick eyes glued on Cindy as if she had him under a spell. She couldn't have behaved more like a lady, making me tremendously proud of her. The next day she eagerly accepted our invitation to go shopping in Richmond. Melodie shook her head. "Sorry, I just don't feel up to it."
Chris, Cindy and I drove off with a clear conscience, knowing Bart had flown to New York and wouldn't be with Melodie. Jory's nurse had promised to stay with Jory until we returned.
Our three-day holiday in Richmond refreshed our minds and souls, gave me the sense of being still beautiful and very much in love, and Cindy had the time of her life spending, and spending, and spending some more. "You see," she said proudly, "I don't waste all the allowance you send me on myself. I save to buy wonderful gifts for my family . . . and Momma, Daddy, you just wait until you see what I bought for you both. And I certainly hope Jory likes his gift. As for Bart, he can take what I give and like it or not."
"What about your Uncle Joel?" I asked with curiosity.
Laughing, she hugged me. "Wait until you see." Hours later Chris turned onto the private road that would wend its crooked way up to Foxworth Hall. In one of the boxes that filled our trunk and rear seat of the car, I had an expensive dress to wear to the Christmas ball I'd overheard Bart arranging with the same caterers who'd taken care of his birthday party. In her own huge box, Cindy had chosen a spectacular dress, daring but at the same time wonderfully appropriate. "Thank you, Momma, for not objecting," she'd whispered before she kissed me.
Nothing unusual had occurred during our absence, except Jory had finally completed the clipper ship. It stood proud and exquisitely finished down to the last detail, its tiny brass helm gleaming, its sails full and bulging with invisible and unfelt high winds. "Sugar stiffening," revealed Jory with a small laugh, "and it worked. I took the sails and shaped them around a bottle like the instructions read, and now our maiden voyage is well under way." He was proud of his work, smiling as Chris stepped over to admire his meticulous craftmanship more closely. Then we had to help him lift the ship into a styrofoam form-fitting mold that would hold it securely until it reached the hands of the new owner.
His beautiful eyes turned to me. "Thanks for giving me something to do during all these long, boring hours, Mom. When I first saw it I was overwhelmed, thinking I'd never be able to do something that appeared so difficult. But I took one step at a time, and now I feel I won over those hideously complicated directions."
"That's the way all life's battles are won, Jory," said Chris as I hugged Jory close. "You don't look at the overall picture. You take one step, then another, and another . . . until you arrive at your destination. And I must say, you did a magnificent job on this ship. It's as professionally made as any I've seen. If Bart doesn't appreciate all the effort you put into this, he'll really disappoint me."
Standing, Chris beamed at Jory. "You're looking healthier, stronger. And don't give up on the watercolors. It is a difficult medium, but I thought you would enjoy it more than oils. I think one day you are going to be a fine artist."
Downstairs, Bart was on the phone directing a bank official to take over a failing business. Then he was talking to someone else about the Christmas party he was planning, a ball to make up for the tragedy of his birthday party. I stood in his open doorway thinking it was a good thing that all he ordered did not come from his personal fund but from the Corrine Foxworth Winslow Trust, which left Bart his annual five hundred thousand as "pin" money to spend only on himself. It more than irked Bart to be forced to confer with Chris each time he spent over the named figure of ten thousand.
Bart slammed down the receiver, glared at me. "Mother, do you have to stand in the doorway and eavesdrop? Haven't I told you before to stay away from me when I'm busy?"
"When do I see you if I don't do this?"
"Why do you need to see me?"
"Why does any mother need to see her son?"
His dark eyes softened. "You've got Jory--and he always seemed more than sufficient."
"No, you're wrong there. If I had never had you, Jory would have been sufficient. But I did have you, and that makes you a vital part of my life."
Uncertain looking, he stood up and strode to a window, keeping his back toward me. His voice came to me deep and gruff, with a melancholy sadness. "Remember when I used to keep Malcolm's journal stuffed inside my shirt? Malcolm wrote so much about his mother, and how much he loved her until she ran off with her lover and left him alone with a father he didn't like. Some of Malcolm's hate for her rubbed off on me, I'm afraid. Each time I see you and Chris head up those stairs together, I feel the need to cleanse myself from the shame I feel and you two don't. So don't you start lecturing to me about Melodie, for what I do with her is far less sinful than what you do with Chris."
He was no doubt right, and that's what hurt worse than anything.
More or less I grew unhappily accustomed to seeing Chris only on the weekends, although my heart ached and my bed felt huge and lonely without him, and all my mornings alone were wistful, wishing I could hear him whistling as he shaved and showered, missing his cheerfulness, his optimism. When the weather kept him away on the weekends, even then, I grew used to that. How adaptable we humans were, how willing to suffer through any horror, any adjustment, any deprivations, just to gain those few minutes of priceless joy.
To stand at the window and watch Chris drive up filled me with surprising youthful excitement so overwhelming it was as if I were waiting for Bart's father to steal away from Foxworth Hall and meet me in the cottage. Certainly I didn't act as placidly accepting as when I'd seen him every night, every morning. The weekends were something to be anticipated and dreamed about.
However, Chris was both more and less to me--more a lover and less a husband. I missed the brother who'd been my other half, and loved the lover-husband who didn't remind me as much of the brother I'd known.
There was no way and there were no words that could separate the two of us now that I'd accepted him and taken him as my husband, defying all scorn and society's moral rules.
Still, my unconscious was trying peculiar tricks to give my conscious relief. With determination I was separating Chris the man from Chris the boy who'd been my brother. An unconscious, unplanned game we both began to play with some finesse. We didn't discuss it, we didn't have to. No longer did Chris call me "my lady Cath-er-ine." No more did he say teasingly, "Don't let the bedbugs bite." All the charms and enchantments of those yesterdays when we were locked up, meant to keep away evil spirits, we let go, at last, in the middle years of our contentment.
He came home late one Friday night in December, stomping his feet in the foyer as I lingered in the shadows of the rotunda watching him take off his topcoat and hang it neatly in the guest closet before he raced up the stairs two at a time, calling my name. I stepped out of the shadows and threw myself into his eager arms. "You're late again!" I cried. "Who do you see in your lab that sends shivers up and down your spine?"
No one! No one! his passionate kisses assured.
The weekends were so short, so dreadfully short.
I was spilling out all that troubled me, about Joel and his weird ways of roaming about the house, scowling his disapproval at everything I did. I told him about Melodie and Bart, and Jory, who was depressed and yearning for Melodie, hating her indifference, loving her even so, while I was trying constantly to remind Melodie of her responsibilities, which hurt him even more grievously than the loss of the use of his legs.
Chris lay beside me and listened to my long tirade with quiet impatience before he said sleepily and bit out of patience, "Catherine, sometimes you make me dread coming home." He rolled on his side away from me. "You spoil everything wonderful and sweet we have between us with your incessant, unpleasant, suspicious tales. And most of all that troubles you is in your imagination. Haven't you always had too much of it? Grow up, Catherine. You are contaminating Jory with your suspicions as well. Once you learn to expect only good from people, then perhaps that's all you'll get."
"I've heard your philosophy before,
Christopher," I said with a flash of bitterness that shot through my brain like a laser beam, bringing to mind his faith in our mother, and the good he'd expected from her by his devotion. Chris, Chris, don't YOU ever learn? But I didn't say it, didn't dare to say it.
There he was, middle-aged, even if he didn't look it, presenting me with his same old rosy-glow boyish optimism. Though I could ridicule him verbally for this, inside I longed for his kind of redeeming faith . . . for it gave him peace, while I lived day in and day out, juggling from one foot to another on a hot frying pan.
Bart sat before the roaring fire, trying to concentrate on The Wall Street Journal as Jory and I wrapped Christmas gifts on a long table we'd cleared of all accessories. All of a sudden it occurred to me as I tied fancy bows and cut foil paper to size, that since Cindy had arrived, she'd drifted dreamlike throughout the house, lost in her own world, so that she seemed almost not there. Because of the peace this brought, I had more or less forgotten her needs as I attended to Jory's. I hadn't been surprised when she wanted to go with Chris into Charlottesville to finish up her shopping and see a movie before she came back with him on Friday. Chris had a one-bedroom apartment and planned to sleep Cindy on his sofa bed.
"Really, Momma, my special Christmas surprise will please you." Only when she was gone did I wonder what put that secret smile of pleasure on her pretty face.
As Jory and I topped off all his presents with huge satin bows and name tags, I heard the banging of car doors, the stomping feet on the portico, and then the sound of Chris calling out. It was only about two in the afternoon as he strolled into our favorite salon with Cindy at his side--and, to my amazement, a strikingly handsome boy about eighteen was with them. I already knew Cindy considered any boy less than two years older too young for her. The older and more experienced the better was the way she liked to tease me.
"Mom," said Cindy happily, her face radiant, "here is the surprise you said I could bring home."
Startled, I still managed a smile. Cindy had not once said her "secret" surprise was a guest she'd invited without asking anyone's permission. I stood so Chris could introduce the boyfriend Cindy had met in South Carolina as Lance Spalding. The young man had considerable poise as he shook hands with me, with Jory, with Bart, who glowered.
Chris kissed my cheek and briefly embraced Jory before he hurried toward the door. "Cathy, forgive me for leaving so soon, but I'll be back tomorrow early. Cindy couldn't wait until tomorrow to bring her house- guest home. I've got a few things to wrap up at the university. And I haven't finished my shopping." He flashed me a brilliant smile full of charm. "Darling, I've got two weeks off for the holidays. So take it easy and keep your imagination under lock and key." He turned to Lance. "Enjoy your holiday, Lance."
Cindy, very full of herself, pulled her boyfriend closer to the very one who was least likely to be hospitable to her guest. "Bart, I knew you wouldn't mind if I invited Lance. His father is president of the chain of Chemical Banks of Virginia."
Magic words. I smiled at Cindy's cleverness. Instantly Bart's hostile attitude changed into interest. It was embarrassing to see the way he tried to milk every bit of information he could from the young man, who was obviously very much infatuated with Cindy.
Cindy was lovelier than ever, glowing like a winter rose in her tight white sweater banded with stripes of rose to match her tight knit pants. She had a wonderful figure she was determined to display.
Laughing and full of joy, she caught hold of Lance's hand and tugged him away from Bart. "Lance, you just wait until you see all of this house. We have authentic suits of armor--two of them--and they would be too small for me to wear. Momma, maybe, but not me. And just think, knights were supposed to be big, powerful men, and they weren't big. The music room is larger than this room, and my room is the prettiest room of all. The suite my parents share is incredible. I've not been invited to view Bart's rooms, but I'm sure they must be fabulous." Here she half turned to toss Bart a wicked, teasing smile. His scowl deepened.
"Stay out of my rooms!" he ordered harshly. "Don't go near my office. And Lance, while you are here, you will remember you are under my roof and I expect you to treat Cindy with honor."
The boy's face turned red before he meekly said, "Of course. I understand."
The second the two of them were out of sight, though we could still hear Cindy singing the _praises of Fox- worth Hall, Bart hurled at me his opinion of Cindy's boyfriend. "I don't like him. He's too old for her and too slick. She or you should have told me. You know I don't want unexpected guests just dropping in."
"Bart, I agree with you entirely. Cindy should have warned us, but perhaps she was fearful that if she did, you would say no. And he seems a very nice young man to me. Remember how sweet Cindy has been since Thanksgiving. She hasn't given you one second of trouble. She's growing up."
"Let's hope she continues to behave herself," he grumbled before he smiled faintly. "Did you see him looking at her? She's got that poor kid snowed under."
Relieved, I settled back to smile at Bart, then at Jory, who was fiddling with the Christmas lights before he began to quietly arrange his gifts beneath the tree.
"The Foxworths had a tradition for always throwing a Christmas ball on Christmas night," said Bart in a pleasant tone, "and Uncle Joel himself drove to mail my invitations two weeks ago. I'm expecting at least two hundred if the weather remains fairly decent. Even if a blizzard blows in, I still think half will manage to get here. After all, they can't afford to slight me when I give them so much business. Bankers, attorneys, brokers, doctors, businessmen and their wives and gi
rlfriends friends, as well as the best of the local society. And a few of my fraternity brothers will be showing up. So for once, Mother, you shouldn't complain that our lives are lonely in this isolated area."
Jory went back to reading his book, seemingly determined not to let anything Bart said or did upset him. In the firelight his profile was classically perfect. His dark hair curled softly around his face, turning up at the collar of his knit sports shirt. Bart lounged in a business suit, as if at any moment he'd be up and away to attend a corporation meeting. That's when Melodie drifted in wearing a shapeless gray garment that hung from her shoulders and bulged out as if she had a watermelon beneath. Her eyes went immediately to Bart, who jumped up, turned his eyes away and hastily he left the room, leaving behind him an uncomfortable silence.
"I met Cindy upstairs," said Melodie huskily, her forlorn eyes avoiding contact with Jory's. She sat down near the fire and stretched forth her hands to warm them. "Her boyfriend seems very pleasant and well bred, and also very handsome." She kept her eyes on the fire while Jory diligently tried to force her to look at him His heart was in his eyes as he wistfully gave up and turned back to his book. "It seems Cindy likes dark-haired men who look like her brothers," she went on in a vague, distant way, as if nothing mattered and she was only making an effort, for a change.
Angrily Jory jerked his eyes up. "Mel, can't you even say hello to me?" he asked hoarsely. "I'm here, I'm alive. I'm doing my best to survive. Can't you say or do something to tell me you remember that I'm your husband?"
Reluctantly turning her head his way, Melodie gave him a vague smile of recognition. Something in her eyes said she didn't see him anymore as the husband she'd so passionately loved and admired. She saw only a crippled man in a wheelchair and as he was now, he made her uneasy and embarrassed.