Secrets of the Greek Revival

by Eva Pohler

  “Yes, indeed,” the woman replied. “And it’s caused quite a stir. I believe Penelope Williams is here, and she will definitely want to speak with you. Why don’t you have a seat in there while I get her?”

  Relieved they wouldn’t be sent away without a chance to express their concerns, Ellen followed Sue and Tanya into the elegant parlor across from the foyer. They each took a seat and immediately began whispering.

  “This place is amazing,” Ellen said. “I really hope we get to do something like this.”

  “What will we say if Penelope Williams seems set on selling to the zoo?” Tanya asked.

  “We’ll ask to speak with someone else,” Sue said. “And if we can’t find a sympathetic ear in this organization, we try the mayor.”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary,” a woman in her sixties said as she came into the parlor. “I’m your sympathetic ear. I’m Penelope Williams. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Sue turned red as she shook the woman’s hand and introduced herself.

  Ellen and Tanya did the same.

  “Did you read my email then?” Sue asked.

  “Yes, I did.” Penelope took a seat beside Tanya on the sofa. “Is that the box of photos?”

  Ellen suddenly wondered why she had brought them. What if she never got them back? How would she paint portraits without them? In spite of her concerns, she handed the box over. “We found them while viewing the house two weeks ago.” She wasn’t about to admit that they broke in after the society purchased the house.

  “And you stole them from the property,” Penelope pointed out.

  “To preserve them,” Ellen said defensively. “Have you seen the attic? There are important papers and books scattered all over the floor.”

  “I’m sorry to say I have not personally viewed the estate, but after reading your email I wish I had. I had no knowledge of the home’s use as a mental health facility. You see, I’m actually from Pennsylvania, where Weir Mitchell’s rest cure originated. I have first-hand experience with that barbaric form of treatment.”

  “You were a patient?” Sue asked.

  “No. But my mother was. And as the current president of this organization, I give you my word that I will do everything in my power to prevent the sale of that property to the San Antonio Zoological Society.”

  “Fantastic!” Ellen said. “What a relief!”

  “Does this mean you’d be willing to sell it to us?” Sue asked. “With our promise to honor its history?”

  “I’m willing to discuss it,” the woman said. “I want to hear about your vision.”

  Chapter Twelve: Marcia Gold

  Within one week, the Conservation Society accepted Ellen, Tanya, and Sue’s offer at four thousand over the original asking price. Since they were paying cash, they were able to close quickly, and within another week, the contractor had replaced the broken windows and had begun work to reconstruct the exterior walls and roof. While a crew worked on the outside, Ellen and her friends were able to begin the demolition of the kitchen and bathrooms with the help of their contractor. Standing in the middle of the kitchen sporting her boots and work gloves, Ellen couldn’t recall the last time she’d felt so excited. She and Tanya scraped away the backsplash as Ed, their contractor, tackled the heavy cabinets overhead.

  Since Sue wasn’t as excited about smashing cabinets and ripping down wallpaper as Tanya and Ellen were, she was in charge of taking the photos. She had the best camera and the best skills, so it only made sense. She took photos of every room—including the attic—before the demolition. Their plan was to take some during, and then more after, so they could each make a scrap book documenting their experience. Sue was also in charge of bringing the snacks and drinks and entertaining them with her never ending sense of humor.

  So far, they hadn’t seen any sign of the ghost.

  Every night, Ellen went to bed looking forward to the next day. Every afternoon, she went straight over to the Gold House from work at two o’clock, changed into her work clothes, and got busy. Tanya was usually already there with Ed. Sometimes Sue was there, too, and sometimes she came a little later, but always with generous snacks and drinks.

  On Friday, about four days into the project, Ellen had just begun to work on one of the downstairs bathrooms when she got the idea of salvaging the trunk that had been left behind. Maybe they could reuse it in the house. Sue volunteered to refinish the trunk and make it back into a beautiful piece of art. She hadn’t been working on it long, when she discovered a secret compartment in its base, and tucked inside was a diary.

  Inscribed on the inside front cover was “Marcia Gold, 1881.”

  Sue began reading right away, but because all of them were eager to hear what Marcia had to say, and each wanted to be the first to read, they decided no one could read it unless they were all three together. So that night they met at Tanya’s house, since her husband Dave was out of town on business. They shared a bottle of wine as Sue read the diary out loud.

  June 10, 1881

  I am not entirely certain why I have been prevailed upon to care for the woman responsible for ruining my life. Surely my father knows that I am fully aware of the injustice he and this woman have done against my mother and me.

  If the boarding school where I am currently employed had not decided to close down for summer renovations, I might have had the means to deny this infernal command of his.

  It was quite a shock to walk into this house after living away from it for so many years. I was but a girl of fifteen when my mother finally gave up her spirit and my father, perhaps afraid that I might finally speak the truth, sent me away to my beloved school. And now, six years later, to enter my childhood domain and be struck immediately by that scandalous portrait of her, of Inger, hanging above the mantle where my gentle mother’s face once perched, was the most cruel abhorrence committed against me since the day that woman poisoned my mother and the day my father, upon returning from the war two years later, pretended not to notice.

  How could they expect a child of five years not to realize the truth? How could they expect me to believe that Inger was Alma and Alma Inger? I was old enough to know the difference even if those far older than I accepted the deceit.

  Everything about this house suffocates me. And everywhere I look, I see memories of my innocent brothers, who were as much victims in their mother’s scandal as I and my mother. Poor Robert and Roger! Such untimely deaths! Since my mother was a woman of grace, I am certain she will welcome them into heaven and care for them as her own, unlike my cruel aunt who has surely secured her place in hell.

  How ironic, dear Inger—yes, I know that is your name! The rest of the world may believe you are Alma, a name given at birth to my sweet mother, but I have always known the truth! How ironic that you are now under the supervision of the person against whom you have committed the greatest harm, since my mother was never in her right mind after you poisoned her. (Had she been cognizant, she would have surely died of heartbreak to have been deceived by her own sister.) How ironic that my father is never here, and it would be so easy for me to kill you.

  Perhaps my father has no idea that I know the truth, since I was too afraid to speak it as a child. Or, perhaps he is aware and hopes that I will kill you, since it is so obvious to me he already fancies another.

  Sue paused, and all three women looked at one another with wide eyes.

  “So Inger Bohrmann, the invalid, was really Alma Gold? And Inger pretended to be Alma?” Tanya asked.

  “That’s what Marcia seems to be saying,” Sue said.

  “But how?” Tanya asked.

  “Inger poisoned her own sister while Theodore was fighting in the war,” Sue said.

  “So Theodore comes back and…what? Goes along with it?” Ellen asked.

  “Marcia seems to think so,” Tanya said.

  “Do you think they were in on it from the beginning?” Ellen asked. “Maybe they were in love and having an affair before he left.”

&n
bsp; “Well, Marcia answers that question on the next page,” Sue said. “But I promise that’s as far as I’ve read.”

  “Go on, then,” Ellen said.

  So Sue read on:

  June 17, 1881

  Inger, it is not my responsibility to free your twisted soul, and you do not have the right to make me your confessor. And yet, I am incapable of preventing you from recounting your sins, because I desperately want to know the truth about my poor mother.

  And my poor father!

  How I have hated that man for over fifteen years, and now you tell me you manipulated him into going along with your scheme. You wicked, wicked woman. I could explode with the hate I feel for you, and yet, here I am, spoon-feeding you and bathing you as though you were a beloved elder. No existence has ever been as miserable as mine. I have wanted to kill you; now I want to kill myself. The only thing that prevents me is the pain it would cause my father.

  “What?” Ellen asked when Sue stopped reading. “What is she saying? What did Inger do?”

  “Do you think she threatened to hurt Marcia if Theodore didn’t go along with her?” Tanya asked.

  “Why wouldn’t he just have her arrested and thrown in jail?” Sue pointed out.

  “Oh my God, keep reading,” Ellen insisted.

  June 24, 1881

  How I wish I would have left dear Joseph on better terms! I miss him terribly, as I knew I would, but of course it was impossible to allow him to court me. My family’s twisted history could never properly be explained without frightening off even the most arduous gentleman. I’m afraid the promise of my father’s gold would do little to make up for the sins that have been committed beneath this roof; and yet, I could not allow myself to live a lie by hiding my family’s crime from him. To do so would place me nearly on the same low level as my evil Aunt Inger. No, only honesty and purity will guide me, and, because of this, I shall forever live alone.

  But I shall always think fondly of my beloved Joseph.

  “She mentioned her father’s gold!” Tanya interrupted.

  “I wonder if she mentions it again.” Sue skimmed through the pages.

  “No reading ahead,” Ellen said. “Let’s hear the whole thing. If she mentions the gold, we’ll get to it when it comes.”

  Sue sighed. “All right, if you insist. But I may need another glass of wine.”

  Tanya got up and brought over the rest of the bottle, and once Sue had her glass refilled, she continued.

  June 30, 1881

  As Inger’s last days draw ever nearer, she is overcome with guilt and terror. If she wishes to win me over before she expires, she is in for a rude awakening; and yet, it is difficult for me to not to feel something for this woman. Tears roll from her swollen eyes at all hours of the day. I am often awakened in the middle of the night by her moans and shrieks when the nightmares take an awful hold of her. Then yesterday, she told me more about her relationship with my mother before they moved here from Germany with my father.

  As I listened to her tale, I became vaguely aware that my need to hear it was as urgent and compelling as her need to tell it.

  It began with a story I had never heard—about a day on the ice in Bremen, when my mother was nine and Inger eight. They were skating together on the frozen pond not far from their home. According to Inger, my mother shoved her to the ground. Inger admits that my mother meant, not to injure, but to tease. During the fall, Inger broke her ankle, and because it was never properly set, she walked with a limp her entire life. Yesterday she said again that she knew my mother had meant her no ill will, but she felt that every misfortune that befell her could be traced back to that careless shove on the icy pond.

  When I asked my aunt why I had never been told the story before, she replied that she did not like to think of it, and she had made my mother swear never to speak of it.

  She went on to say that because of her limp, she could no longer keep up with the other children at school. Her friendships suffered, and later, she failed in all her efforts to attract the attention of suitors. She became a burden to her parents. When my wealthy father fell in love with my mother and wanted to bring her with him to America, my mother’s parents gave their consent on the condition that he bring Inger, too. They decided that their lame daughter could become his burden because he could better afford it.

  Inger said her close proximity to their happiness and their deep love for one another drove her mad with jealousy. She felt trapped—an unwilling and miserable spectator to a wonderful life she would never have. If only Alma hadn’t pushed her, she would say to herself again and again. And she would fantasize about switching places with her sister. What if their whole lives could be reversed and Inger could be the happy one, the one doted on by a handsome and wealthy man? What if Inger were the one who would have children and host social events and be admired by the community?

  While my father served in the war, the madness infected Inger’s ability to think clearly. She told herself that the woman living under the same roof was not her real sister but a monster which had ruined Inger’s life. Inger believed that if she had any hope for happiness, she must destroy the monster in the house.

  I interrupted my aunt’s rantings and ravings to ask the question I had wondered my whole life: “How did you make my mother ill?”

  “I fed her rat poison for three months.”

  I couldn’t speak for many moments. I am sure my face must have become as pale as Inger’s. As I sat there in stunned silence, she went on with her story. I couldn’t hear her first few sentences, but when she mentioned that my mother began to bleed from her nose and ears, and that she bruised from the softest touch, I returned to life. Images from my past flooded into my mind, and I recalled those fearful days when I was but five and my mother was falling apart. At first, I believed my aunt’s lies, but I eventually noticed something was not right. Why was my aunt so cheerful? I could sense that she had something to do with my mother’s condition, but by the time I tried to warn my mother, the dementia had already set in.

  Sue stopped to take a few swallows of wine.

  “I still don’t understand how Inger managed to get Theodore to go along with her,” Ellen said.

  “Me, too,” Tanya said. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Should I go on?” Sue asked.

  Ellen crossed one leg over the other. “Is that okay with you, Tanya?”

  “Of course. I have nothing better to do.”

  July 7, 1881

  I received a letter today from Joseph! It was addressed to my school and then forwarded to our Alta Vista address. My heart beat very rapidly as I opened the envelope. Tears filled my eyes as they gazed upon his sweet words.

  He wrote that he misses me and isn’t the same without my company. He wrote that he has been stricken with what must surely be a fatal melancholia, and that if I don’t reply soon, I will have his death on my conscience. He compared his heart to talc, saying that I could easily crush it to powder with my indifference.

  I immediately took pen to paper to reply, but before I had gotten very far, I ripped the page to shreds. What good would it do either of us for me to respond? I am much too broken and damaged by my past to ever fully love with confidence and enthusiasm. In fact, I am sure I will serve him better with silence.

  “That’s so sad,” Tanya said when Sue paused to turn the page.

  “She should have given him a chance.” Ellen took a sip of her wine. “Maybe she underestimated his ability to love her.”

  “I think so, too,” Sue said just before she continued.

  July 14, 1881

  Yesterday Inger finally revealed how she managed to deceive my father. He’d been away for two years, and during that time, she had already managed to convince our friends and neighbors that she was Alma. It hadn’t been difficult, because during those first few years here in America, Inger had lived in the shadow of my mother. Inger said she was always ashamed and embarrassed to be the misfortunate sister, dependent
on her brother-in-law for every necessity. She tried to earn her keep by cooking and keeping the kitchen tidy, and when my mother entertained in those early years, Inger never came out of the kitchen. There were a few instances when Alma insisted that Inger receive guests, but Inger always made sure to be seated before they arrived, and she remained so until they left. She was self-conscious of her limp and hid it as best as she could.

  So when my mother became incoherent, Inger took measures to re-create her identity. She told me that she and my mother had always resembled one another and that if it weren’t for her limp people would have difficulty telling them apart. It was for this reason that her lameness became her most defining characteristic back in Bremen: she was the sister who was crippled.

  But in America, no one outside of our family knew the details of her condition. They knew only that she had a condition that kept her from social engagements. So after my mother fell ill under the power of the poison, Inger dressed in my mother’s clothes and began attending events in her name. She explained her need for a cane with a story of having fallen in the garden. Rather than being shunned by others as she’d been as a child, the community expressed sympathy. For the first time in her life, people doted on her.

  Inger told me that when my father returned from the war in 1865, he wasn’t the same man. He had witnessed too many deaths of both enemies and friends, and because he’d been new to America, he was never really sure on which side he belonged. He’d been quiet and withdrawn, and while Inger’s insistence that she was Alma might have confused him, he didn’t have it in him to contradict her. Inger told me that he probably found it easier to accept that she was Alma than the alternative: that his beloved wife was an incoherent, babbling idiot.