Twilight's Child

  Bronson Alcott finally lifted her in his arms and began to carry her from the cemetery. People stepped aside and gaped in astonishment. Word of Clara Sue's outburst and vicious attack on me was spreading with electric speed through the throng of mourners, and all eyes were on us as we followed Bronson down the path and through the arch to the hotel limousine. Julius opened the door for him, and he carefully slipped Mother into the rear seat.

  Mother's eyes began to flutter. They opened and closed, opened and closed.

  "You'd better get her back to the hotel quickly," Bronson whispered. "I'll be right behind."

  "Yes, thank you," I said. Jimmy, Philip and I got back into the limousine with Mother. Philip patted her hand, and to me, he looked just like Randolph used to look whenever he comforted her. She opened her eyes slowly and tried to smile.

  "I'm all right," she muttered. "But is it over . . . is it finally all over?"

  "It's over, Mother," Philip said. Mother smiled and closed her eyes again.

  Bronson Alcott was already waiting when we reached the hotel. Philip and Jimmy helped Mother out of the limousine, but Bronson took her from them immediately, and she accepted his support. She was able to walk, leaning on his shoulder. Staff members stepped aside and watched as we all entered the hotel. At the far end of the lobby Mrs. Boston came forward to take Mother from Bronson Alcott. Mother turned and smiled appreciatively up at him, her eyes filled with more than mere thanks, I thought. Then Mrs. Boston led her into the family section and helped her up the stairs and into her suite.

  "I'm sorry about the things Clara Sue said," Philip told Jimmy and me before we parted. "She's become a real problem for everyone, but I won't let her bother you."

  "Maybe she just doesn't know how to handle her grief," I replied. "I don't want to think about it right now. I'm very tired myself," I said, "and I want to freshen up and rest before we have to greet people."

  Jimmy and I went up to our suite and changed out of our mourning clothes. Later in the day the family's closest acquaintances, as well as others who wanted to pay their respects, arrived. Mr. Updike, Mr. Dorfman and I had decided we would provide some cakes, tea and coffee in the lobby. Mother remained upstairs in her suite, but Jimmy, Philip and I accepted sympathies and spoke with people. Clara Sue was nowhere to be seen, and, in fact, we learned later that she hadn't returned to the hotel.

  Finally, hours later, Mother made one of her miraculous recoveries and came down to greet people, too. She was still wearing her rather stylish funeral dress. Condolences, expressions of sorrow, kisses on the cheek and the pressing of hands fed her need for attention well, and instead of growing fatigued as the day wore on, Mother gained strength. I heard her laugh once or twice and saw her beam her smile, especially at Bronson, who remained faithfully beside her the entire time.

  After nearly all those who were going to pay their respects had done so, Jimmy, Philip and I retreated to a table in the kitchen to have something to eat. Like most everyone at the hotel, Nussbaum had put his sorrow into work and had cooked and baked enough food for an army of mourners. Despite my emotional fatigue, I was starving.

  Mother retreated to her suite to have her dinner brought up to her as usual. No one spoke about it, but we knew she had invited Bronson Alcoa to dine with her.

  "Clara Sue's not coming back to the hotel," Philip told us when he sat down at the table, "which is probably a good thing."

  "What do you mean, Philip? Where is she?" I asked. "She sent word with one of her spoiled-brat friends that she was returning to Richmond," he said.

  "Back to school so soon? But—"

  "It's all right," Philip said. "I'm going to leave myself in the morning. There's no point in my remaining any longer," he continued, "and I can't miss my final exams."

  Jimmy and I glanced at each other quickly and then looked down at our food.

  "As far as Mother goes . . . she'll recuperate from her sorrow as rapidly as she sees fit. My presence won't change that. Of course," Philip continued, "if there are some business reasons why you think I should remain . . ."

  "No, no. Mr. Updike and Mr. Dorfman have things pretty much under control. We'll reopen the hotel for the weekend," I said. "It's better that everyone gets back to work."

  I hated to admit it, but Grandmother Cutler's philosophy was probably correct when it came to that. I was glad, however, that we had shown some respect for Randolph's memory by closing the hotel a little while.

  "Right," Philip said. "That's why I want to get back to the books myself." Philip played with his food for a moment and then gazed up at both of us. "I want to apologize again about the things Clara Sue said at the cemetery. She really has become a nuisance. I'll try to keep her from bothering everyone," he promised.

  Jimmy nodded. I wanted to say more, but I didn't. I wanted to say Clara Sue wasn't much different from the first time I had met her. She was self-centered and vicious then, too. She probably always would be. But I didn't want to add any more unpleasantness to an already disagreeable time. It was better to put it all to rest.

  Afterward, Jimmy and I went up to check on Christie and then retire for the evening. As we walked down the corridor we heard Mother's laughter coming from behind the closed doors of her suite.

  "Mother's already begun her spectacular recovery from sadness," I muttered. Jimmy nodded and smiled.

  Later, though, when we lay together in bed, I felt very sad, and I snuggled up inside his arm and rested my head on his shoulder. We could gaze out the window and up at the sky. The heavy overcast that had hovered above us all day, adding to the mood of depression and sorrow, now began to break up. We could see a star or two twinkling between the misty clouds.

  "I can't help remembering the day Momma died," Jimmy said. "I thought my heart had shrunk so small in my chest it wouldn't have the power to pump my blood, and I would just die from sadness."

  "I remember how you ran all the way home from the hospital," I said.

  "I just wanted to pound the earth with my feet, strike out at something, someone. I just can't imagine burying your father and going off with your friends like Clara Sue did. I don't even understand how Philip can return to college so fast and get back into things so quickly," he said. "This has never been much of a family, has it, Dawn?"

  "No, Jimmy."

  "You think something like this is going to happen to us if we stay here and bring up our kids in the hotel?" he asked.

  "I hope not, Jimmy. I think we care about each other too much for that to happen anyway," I added quickly. He nodded, but even in the darkness, with just a twinkle of starlight coming through the window, I could see the anxiety in his eyes. It made my heart do flip-flops and brought a lump to my throat. How I wanted to assure him, to promise him, to guarantee him that for us, happiness and love were as certain as the seasons.

  But I couldn't shake off the memory of Grandmother Cutler's steel-gray eyes. Would they haunt me forever? Would she do something more to hurt us?

  I tightened my embrace around Jimmy, and he kissed my hair and stroked my hand.

  Across the grounds and up the street Randolph lay beside his mother. Was he finally at peace? And if he was, why did he have to pay so dearly for it?

  6

  AN EVENING AT BEULLA WOODS

  DURING THE DAYS IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING RANDOLPH'S DEATH I noticed a rather dramatic change in my mother. She had barely begun a period of bereavement when suddenly she no longer wanted to be shut up in her suite all the time. In fact, she burst out of her state of mourning with an explosion of startling new energy. But her attention and interests were not directed toward anything to do with the hotel. On the contrary, she seemed to avoid every aspect of it. She had no desire to meet guests or become involved in the hotel's activities. I knew she hated walking through the lobby even to get to the hotel limousine. She didn't want to see the critical eyes of the staff and others focused on her, so she began leaving via a side entrance, almost as though her exits and entrances were clande
stine. Sometimes I thought they were, even though she claimed she was only going shopping or to have lunch or dinner with old friends.

  Yes, suddenly Mother had old friends again. I could count on my fingers how many times anyone she knew in the vicinity had come to visit her socially since I had been brought back to the hotel, and I couldn't recall a single time she had gone to visit anyone else. But all that quickly changed.

  One day I met her in the hallway as she was leaving for one of these engagements. She had been digging into the depths of her closets to come up with some little-worn but quite stylish outfits. It was as if her having to wear the black gown of mourning, even one she had had designed especially for herself and even for so short a time, had left her craving colors and brightness. Her pinks and blues and greens were almost luminous. This particular day she also wore a matching blue bonnet. With her hair primped and curled, her face made up and her jewelry sparkling, she practically bounced down the stairs. I even thought she was humming.

  "Oh, Dawn," she said when I surprised her in the hall. A guilty look flashed momentarily through her blue eyes. Then she smiled and spun around. "How do I look?"

  I had to admit she looked years younger. Her face had a lightness to it, a rosy radiance that made her sparkle with exuberance. It was as if some dark shadow implanted in her soul had been lifted.

  "Very nice, Mother. Where are you going today?" I asked.

  "Oh, I'm meeting some old finishing-school girlfriends for lunch, and then maybe we'll go to a fashion show," she recited as if she had memorized the reply for anyone who would have the nerve to ask. She saw the look of confusion and skepticism on my face and continued, more forcefully.

  "Well, why shouldn't I get out? I've grown tired of my suite. It's become more like a prison to me. I spent so much time shut up in there, recuperating from one illness or another, that now I can't bear to stay in there a moment longer than I have to. Besides," she added, the corners of her mouth drooping, "there are too many sad reminders of poor Randolph. I must get rid of his things, give some to Philip and some to the Salvation Army so poor souls can at least benefit from the tragedy," she said.

  "Yes, that would be nice, Mother," I said dryly.

  "And have you ever noticed how little sunlight comes into my suite?" she moaned. "It's just the way it's situated, I'm sure, but it can get so dismal and dreary in there. No wonder Grandmother Cutler gave it to Randolph and me and kept the one across the way for herself. That one gets sunshine most of the day," she added.

  "Maybe you should move into hers, then," I suggested, half in jest.

  "Heaven forbid. I don't want anything whatsoever to do with that dreadful woman's things. Don't even joke about such a thing," she said, and then as quickly as her face had turned sour, it turned sweet. "Well, I must be off," she said. "I have Julius waiting in the hotel limousine outside. Perhaps," she said, calling back to me as she left, "I'll see something new and fashionable for you to buy."

  I watched her hurry away and then went up to get Christie. Because the summer season was in full swing, I had become more and more involved in the day-to-day administration of the hotel. Occasionally Jimmy gently reminded me of my promise not to become so involved in my hotel work that I neglected him and Christie. A few times I had been called away from dinner to solve a problem or two, and each time, when I returned to the table, Jimmy gazed up at me, that "I told you so" glint in his eyes.

  But both Mr. Dorfman and Mr. Updike were growing more and more confident about leaving things up to me. Phone calls and requests, questions from staff members and suppliers were increasingly directed to me. Every morning now my notepad was filled with things to do and people to call. It had become far more tiring and mentally draining than I had ever imagined it would be. It made me wonder how Grandmother Cutler had run this hotel so firmly when she was so much older. I couldn't believe that someone that age, especially someone like her, could outlast someone my age. And yet precisely because I had all these things distracting me, I felt more and more guilty about not spending enough time with Christie.

  She was developing so rapidly that one day I would look at her and think of her as a pretty little baby, and the next day I would see her as a precocious infant with a remarkable curiosity about her surroundings. She missed Randolph enormously—probably missed him more than anyone. Sissy told me how often she asked to go to his office. He had been so patient with her and so happy to have her interrupt his bizarre activities.

  Finally I told Sissy to bring her to my office, only I found it more difficult than Randolph had, for my work was real, and the people who waited to speak to me on the phone or came to see me about problems in the hotel weren't as happy about waiting for me to first explain something to Christie. But if I didn't explain it, she would pull on my skirt or ask her question repeatedly until she was satisfied.

  Sometimes, when Jimmy was in one of his more charitable and forgiving moods, he would come by and take her out with him to ride on the mowers or watch the men painting and cleaning. Nothing bored her, whether it be manual labor or simply watching the bookkeeper work away on an adding machine. People were always interesting to her.

  We bought her educational toys, and her speaking vocabulary grew by leaps and bounds. Guests were astounded when they were told she was only a little more than two. Growing up in the hotel environment, surrounded by different strangers weekly, she became quite outgoing and was shy only when someone complimented her clothes or her hair or her beautiful blue eyes.

  I couldn't help wondering if she had inherited Mother's coyness. She was certainly quite enamored of herself and would spend hours before her mirror with her first brush and comb set. She sat patiently, too, when Sissy did her fingernails for the first time, and she couldn't wait to be paraded through the hotel to show everyone.

  Only Mother paid her scant attention. If she did come upon her in the hallways or lobby, she would flash a smile, but I felt she was doing it because she was aware there were other people watching. She never volunteered to spend time with Christie or permitted Sissy to bring her into her suite. The one time Christie had wandered in there, Mother had shouted for Sissy to take her out because there were too many expensive things she might break accidentally.

  Mother's busy new schedule increasingly kept her away from the hotel. She rarely ate a meal with us in the dining room and saw guests only as she was passing through to come and go. Philip called me one day to ask me if I knew why she hadn't returned his phone calls.

  "I'm just wrapping things up at college and wanted to take a short holiday with Betty Ann and her parents in Bermuda. They've invited me, and I wanted Mother to know," he said, but I also felt he wanted me to know.

  "When did you call her last, Philip?"

  "At least a week ago, and I called twice before that. Where is she? Is she all right?" he inquired.

  "She's fine. I've never seen her looking healthier or more energetic. The fact is, I don't see her all that much these days. She's always going somewhere, and wherever she goes, she stays away for most of the day. Even most of the evenings sometimes," I added.

  "Hmmm," he said. "That's not like her. Anyway," he said, "please give her my message. send you postcards from Bermuda," he added.

  "Well, I hope you have a good time," I said.

  "Thank you. I do expect that when I return I'll pick up my share of the work," he promised.

  "There will be plenty for you to do," I advised him. He laughed.

  "Becoming the new Mrs. Cutler?" he teased.

  "Hardly," I said. "I'm my own person."

  I felt I had done much to make that happen. As I had planned, I changed the office decor considerably, replacing the dreary dark curtains with bright blue ones, tearing up the carpet and putting in a thick, beige one that gave one the feeling that he or she was walking on marshmallows. I added more light and put up some paintings that had color and brightness. The only painting I let remain was the portrait of my father on the wall behind the desk.
It just didn't feel right taking that down.

  I had pictures of Christie and Jimmy in frames all over my desk, and I let Sissy leave some of Christie's toys in a corner of the office. Jimmy made sure there were fresh flowers brought in and placed in vases every few days, so that the scent of lilac—a scent that had been Grandmother Cutler's—was replaced with the scent of roses and carnations, jasmine, or whatever was in bloom, except lilacs.

  "I hesitate to ask this," I said before Philip and I ended our conversation, "but what is Clara Sue doing?"

  "She won't return my phone calls either, but she passed word through some mutual acquaintances that she intends to spend the summer with a friend whose parents have a home on the Jersey shore. I'm sure that leaves you heartbroken," he concluded, laughter in his voice.

  "Has she told Mother?" I wondered aloud. "If she has, Mother had said nothing about it to me."

  "Her only contact with Mother will be to have her send money, I assure you," Philip said.

  I wished him a good time once more, and we ended our phone conversation.

  Early in the evening, when I had gone up to shower and change for dinner, Mother came to my door and knocked. Apparently she had returned from wherever she had been and showered and changed herself for another one of her evenings out. She looked quite smart in her crimson dress with its slender waist, billowing full skirt and boned bodice. I had just come out of the shower, and I had my head wrapped in a towel and wore a robe.

  "Knock, knock," she sang, peering in.

  "Come in," I said.

  "I just bought this today. How does it look?" she asked, turning to model the dress.

  "You look very nice," I complimented.

  "Thank you." Her face bloomed as it did whenever she received praise. "I feel very nice," she added, giggling. She looked drunk on herself and whatever good times she was having. Never had a husband passed so quickly from a wife's mind, I thought.