Wicked Forest

  He nodded and quickly turned back to the window.

  I left him standing there looking down at the dock. How I wished that the world he saw was the real one, and the world I moved in was illusion.

  .

  Mr. Ross, our accountant, one of the first people I had met when I came here, turned out to be of great assistance to me. As soon as he heard about Mother's death, he called and told me he would take care of all the monetary matters. The Eatons didn't call, but Thatcher did. It was a short conversation. His secretary called and told me to hold on, and then Thatcher came on the line, sounding like he was in his car on his cellular phone and being patched in.

  "I'm sorry about Grace," he said, "I was fond of her.'

  "Thank you."

  "When is the funeral?"

  "The day after tomorrow at eleven."

  "Oh. I'm due in court." he said. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes." I said quickly. What I really meant was, if I wasn't, you would be the last to know.

  "Okay. I'm sorry," he repeated, and said goodbye.

  I called Aunt Agnes to tell her because I knew she would be insulted if I didn't, even though I also knew she wouldn't attend the funeral, nor would any of my relatives, Then I phoned Amou, and she and I had a good cry together over thousands of miles. Her words of comfort were the medicine I needed at the moment.

  Manon and the others phoned and told me they would be at the funeral. I thanked them for that. The Butterworth twins and some of my other friends at school paid a visit, those who could promising to attend the funeral.

  Linden spent most of the time in his room or in his studio. If I didn't make sure food was sent up to him, he wouldn't have eaten. He certainly didn't want to greet any visitors. The first two nights, I heard him wandering the hallways. I knew he paid frequent visits to Mother's suite. Perhaps it was his way of finally convincing himself she was really gone.

  I went to her room myself and sifted through some of her things. It was a way for me to feel closer to her, to hold on to her awhile longer. While doing so, I discovered some photographs she had buried in a small box in a bottom dresser drawer. They were early pictures of her and my grandmother, Jackie Lee. There were pictures of her stepfather, Winston Montgomery. too. He was a very handsome man, and she looked comfortable, even loving with him in the pictures she had.

  I could see more resemblances between my mother and myself when we were both in our early teens. Her face was brighter, full of life and joy. This was some time before she was seduced by Kirby Scott, of course. She still held on to that look of innocence and wonder we all see in young girls and remember once in ourselves. It's the beginning of the longing and the regret that comes with growing up and leaving your childhood behind.

  On the second night after Mother's death. Professor Fuentes came to see me. He had been down in Miami attending the christening of a cousin's new baby, and said he had just learned the news,

  "We have one of those families that comes to events in packs," he joked.

  "I envy you that." I told him.

  We were in the den off the rear loggia where I had first met the Eatons, and where Thatcher had appeared, surprisingly, after seeing me first at the Breakers. I'd had no idea at the time he was related to these people who were renting the property from my mother. There had been such electricity and excitement between us then. Now, when I sat here and thought about it. I wondered how we could ever protect ourselves against the little betrayals we commit against ourselves, Had I really loved Thatcher, or was I just excited by him, the woman in me stirred so deeply I thought whatever it was would last forever?

  Somehow we believe that true love is everlasting in this life by definition. That was why we said. "To love and to cherish until death do us part."

  Professor Fuentes gazed at everything and shook his head. He had been here only for the wedding.

  "This is an impressive house," he said. Then he smiled. "For a future therapist, that is."

  "I know, I've been wondering now if I shouldn't put it up for sale."

  "Don't make any decisions for a while." he advised. "Unless, of course, you have to for financial reasons."

  "No, that won't be the reason why I sell, if I sell." "What about your half brother?"

  "I don't know. He's not doing well facing up to the reality of my mother's death. Tomorrow should bring it home to him, and then we will see," I said.

  "Where is he now?"

  He stays in his room and in his studio. Mother's death has returned him to a more introverted state."

  "You'll have to consider professional help as soon as possible.,"

  Professor Fuentes said.

  "Yes. It's probably best for him if he is in a structured therapeutic environment. Maybe then I'll sell and go back to South Carolina."

  "I hope not." Professor Fuentes said, his eyes full of sincerity, even a little fear that I might do what I said. He kept his eyes fixed on me.

  I shook my head.

  "I don't really know what I'm saying, what I'll be doing. I have a baby to think about first."

  "Of course. You will find the strength. I'm sure. Please." he added, reaching for my hand, which was something he had never before done, "call on me for anything, anything at all."

  "I will," I said. Even I was surprised at how sincerely and definitely that came out.

  He patted my hand and stood,

  "I must get back to the campus." "Thank you for coming. Professor."

  "I think we know each other well enough by now that you can call me Miguel. Unless, of course, it makes you feel uncomfortable to do so." he quickly added. "No." I smiled. "Gracias, Miguel."

  He laughed, then hugged me, brushing his lips against my cheek as he pulled back. I walked him to the door and watched him leave,

  "Such a property," he said from the front steps.

  "Soon. I'll have you back and show you around." I said.

  "I'll hold you to that," he threatened playfully.

  I waited until he started away in his car, then went upstairs to see how Linden was doing. I didn't find him in his suite. so I went to his studio. As usual the door was closed, only this time it was also locked. I knocked and called to him. When he didn't answer. I knocked harder and called louder. Finally, I heard him unlocking the door. He opened it slowly.

  His hair was disheveled, his shirt opened, and some black paint was smeared on his chin. He had a brush in his hand, but it wasn't an artist's brush: it was a housepainter's.

  "Are you all right. Linden?" I asked. "I haven't seen you all day."

  "Yes," he said. He didn't step back as usual to permit me to enter.

  "What are you doing with that?" I asked, nodding at the brush in his hand.

  "I'm working," he said. "But--"

  "I can't talk now I'll see you later," he said, and closed the door.

  I heard him lock it quickly.

  What was he doing? What sort of work of art was he creating with that? I wandered. I stood there thinking about it for a moment more, and then went to my suite to take a bath and try to relax. Tomorrow would be a dreadful day. I remembered all too vividly how hard it was for me at my father's funeral. Of course. I had been with him so much longer than I had been with my real mother, but the bond between her and me had developed so quickly and tightly, it was as if we had truly been together all my life.

  After my bath I lay down and fell asleep. I hadn't realized just how tired emotional fatigue had made me. I slept until nearly seven, then got up and dressed quickly. If I didn't have dinner. Linden certainly wouldn't. I thought. As I was descending the stairs. I heard Jennings and our maids talking in the hallway. The moment they saw me, they stopped, and the maids went about their business. Jennings didn't look guilty as much as he looked troubled, I thought.

  "What's wrong. Jennings?" I asked. "I can tell something is." He shook his head.

  "Come with me." he said. "Please."

  I followed him through the house and out the French doors
of the den. We went across the loggia and down the steps. He continued about a dozen feet or so along the pathway, then turned and nodded at the house.

  "What?" I asked, following the line of his gaze.

  It was still light enough to see clearly. All of the windows of Linden's studio and all of the windows of his suite had been painted black.

  The sight of it made me gasp and step back, bringing my hands to my heart.

  "I saw him go to the work shed and get the paint and brushes. so I asked him what he was doing and if he needed any help, but he doesn't speak to me much. Mrs. Eaton, nor does he speak to Mary and Joan, and that spooks them as it is. I mean, he just looks at them with those eyes and makes them feel like they are in his way or something. They have been mumbling about him for quite some time now. Mary is terrified of him. and Joan won't stay in the same room with him. She will actually turn and go in the opposite direction if she sees him approaching. At least, that's what they always tell me.

  "Now this," he said, nodding at the windows again."I'm afraid you're going to lose both of them, Mrs, Eaton.

  "Actually," he continued, looking down, "I know it's not the best time to tell you, but I've found a new position myself and will be taking it in a few weeks. I'm sorry.''

  When he looked up, I saw his eyes were teary.

  "With your mother gone and all, and you busy at school and having a baby soon. I know you are worried about costs. I'm sure a nanny could do most of what I do. Mrs. Eaton. You don't entertain anywhere near what the Eatons did when they lived here. It's a waste for you to have a man like me about the house."

  "I understand. Jennings. It's all right," I said.

  "I'm not the one to give you advice. Mrs. Eaton. but I couldn't leave without telling you to at least think about selling this and finding yourself a more suitable home for your brother and you and your child. These places..." He looked back at the building, "Well, these places aren't so much homes as they are stages, if you know what I mean."

  "I do. Jennings. Thank you I am considering it."

  "Very good, Mrs. Eaton, Did you want me to do anything about that?" he asked, nodding at the blackened windows.

  "Not just yet, Jennings. No."

  "Very good. Mrs. Eaton," he said. "Should I see about dinner?"

  "Please do." I said, and he walked back into the house.

  I stood there looking up at the windows, and then I followed Jennings. Linden was still behind a locked door in his studio. This time I knocked very hard, almost pounding it. I heard it being unlocked, but he didn't open it for mec. I did and stepped in. He was seated in a chair to the right, away from the windows. With them painted black and no light on, the only illumination was what spilled in through the opened door.

  "What are you doing. Linden? Why are you sitting here in the darkness, and why did you paint all your windows black?" I asked him.

  "It's better this way," he replied.

  "Why is it better? How can it be better to shut the sunlight out of your rooms? Don't you like looking at the sea when you paint?"

  "I don't want to see her out there anymore," he replied. "Every time I look out one of my windows, she's there."

  "She can't be there, Linden." I said softly. "I know, but she is!"

  Even in the darkened room, I could see the way his eyes bulged and his temples strained. The tension was palpable. If I pushed him, I thought, he might explode in a rage of some sort. Tomorrow, I told myself. at the cemetery, when they lower her into the grave, this will stop.

  Nothing is as final as that.

  "Get cleaned up and come down to dinner, Linden," I told him. "You will need strength for what's coming. Believe me. I know,"

  He seemed to relax, "Okay," he said. "I will."

  "Good,I'll be waiting for you," I said, and backed out of the room, closing the door.

  My heart thumped like a sledgehammer, not fast, just heavy, rattling through my bones and giving me a shiver. I tried to calm myself.

  "You're pregnant, -Willow De Beers," I whispered.

  "Get control of yourself for the sake of the baby inside you." I sucked in my breath and went on.

  Linden was very quiet at dinner. He ate mechanically, pausing occasionally to glance toward the door of the dining room as if he expected Mother would come walking in any moment, as if waiting to turn to me with a smile and say , "See, this was all just a nasty nightmare."

  I almost felt like crawling into his madness and pulling it around me like a warm blanket of security.

  It was quite evident on the faces of our maids, Mary and Joan, that Jennings was correct in telling me they had endured all they would at Joya del Mar. After dinner, they informed me of their intention to leave right after my mother's funeral.

  "We'll stay to help you with greeting people, but not much longer," Mary said.

  I thanked them for that and went to my room, intending to try to get some sleep. Just before I crawled into bed, the phone rang. It was Miguel. Now that he had insisted I call him by his Christian name. I could no longer think of him as Professor Fuentes.

  "I hope I'm not calling you too late."

  "No, it's fine," I said "I don't expect to get much sleep tonight anyway."

  "Perhaps you should take something to help." "No. I don't want to be groggy in the morning."

  "I understand. I've been thinking about you there in that big house without much family. I'm so used to a houseful of relatives, especially on occasions such as this. I just wanted you to know that I will be there tomorrow at the church and afterward, and I will gladly stand beside you." he said. If you wish, that is,"

  "Thank you. I do wish."

  "Then it will be," he said. "Good night. Willow,'

  "Good night, and thank you for thinking of me. Miguel."

  What a strange mix of feelings was being stirred in my heart, I thought as I lay back against the big, fluffy pillow, phone call had done more than comfort me. It gave me some new hope, some new fantasies and delights, but this came at so sad a time. It was almost like putting candy in a bowl of castor oil. The sweetness was welcome, but for the moment it felt out of place, even awkward, especially as I lay alone in this large suite where my very thoughts seemed to echo.

  Now that my mother was gone, this house seemed empty already. How many times had I come upon her unawares and seen her touch a vase or a statue, gaze at a chair or stand by a window looking out, her lips caught in that small smile that comes only with a gentle, wonderful memory. I was sure she heard the click of her mother's footsteps over the tiles, looked up quickly in a mirror or in the reflection off a window and saw her standing there. Memories make ghosts of us all. And Mother's memories surely brought back so many images, so many moments from the past that she felt ethereal, a body of mist and dreams herself. That restoration of the past at least gave the house some character, some sense of identity; and now, with her gone forever, all the good memories were gone with her. What Linden remembered here. I did not care to know, and what I knew from so short a stay was not enough to give me a sense of place. I certainly was not in the mood to think of it as Thatcher's and my home.

  Could I make this a home without Mother? How much would I bury with her tomorrow? I wondered,

  .

  Linden put up a quiet resistance to attending Mother's funeral, I had to wake him and urge him to get dressed. I made sure to put out his dark suit. He took so long getting dressed. I thought we would be late ourselves. The limousine arrived and I went up to move him along. He would have no breakfast. I felt sorrier for him than I did for myself. He looked like a frightened young boy.

  Whenever we think of funerals, we think of gray days, rainy days, dark and cold: but as if Palm Beach would not permit such feelings, the sky was bright blue and cloudless, the breeze gentle and soothing. Everything glittered with life and freshness. Nature refused to acknowledge death and decay. The only darkness that existed, existed in me and certainly in Linden.

  There were just a dozen or so people
at the church. Besides Manon and the others, there was Mr. Ross and his wife, some of my friends from school. Miguel waiting for me at the door, and, to my surprise, the infamous Carriage sisters. Bunny Eaton's friends. I had no doubt they were there in the role of social reporters, to fill the coffers of gossip with every detail of the funeral, who attended, what they wore, what was said.

  The service itself was relatively short, the minister offering little in the way of a personal touch. It was almost as if he was afraid to say anything real about Mother. He cloaked himself in hymns and biblical readings. Throughout it all. Miguel stood at my side. I held Linden's arm. He was so stiff and terrified-looking, I was sure he provided a great subject for the tittle-tattle the chin-wagging Carriage sisters would pour into the eager ears of the Palm Springs socialites,

  Toward the end, my throat closed as I choked back a sob. Miguel seized my hand and held it tightly. Then, when they rolled the coffin out the side door to the waiting hearse that would bring it to the cemetery, we turned. Linden following my lead closely, and walked up the aisle and out to the limousine.

  I'll be right behind you." Miguel said as Linden and I reentered the automobile. Looking out, I saw Manon and the others clump together, all looking somber. I was sure they would rush off to some bistro and have wine or champagne as quickly as they could to wash the mournful sounds of the organ and the scent of funeral flowers from their consciousness. Actually, I couldn't blame them. I even envied them.

  I hadn't realized that Jennings was at the church. Besides Miguel and us, he was the only other person at the gravesite. He kept his head lowered throughout the minister's final prayers, then wiped his eyes and left before the coffin was to be lowered.

  I watched Linden closely as the coffin descended. Finally, he moaned. For the last twenty years, Mother had been really the only other person in his life. Now every dark and desperate thought he had put into his art surely seemed justified to him. From the way he looked down into that grave. I knew he was wishing he could throw himself over the coffin and be buried with Mother.

  Weakened by his sorrow, he began to lose strength rapidly, his legs melting. I wasn't just holding his arm anymore: I was holding him up. Miguel saw this immediately and took a firm grasp on his other arm.