Twilight's Child

by V. C. Andrews

  "And your precious Laura Sue, my mother," I said, jumping ahead, "was upset about all the attention you were giving your sister?"

  "Laura Sue needed a man who would make her the very center of his existence," he explained. "I wanted to be that man, desperately wanted it, but I couldn't turn my back on Alexandria."

  "So Mother turned her back on you," I said. "Why do you still care for her, knowing how self-centered she is and was?" I wondered aloud. "Is love so blind? Are men really such fools?"

  He laughed.

  "Perhaps," he said. "But for a young woman who has suffered something of a tragic romance herself, you don't show very much compassion and understanding."

  I blushed. Was he right? Was I turning into the hard, cold person Jimmy was afraid I would become?

  "I'm sorry," I said.

  He returned to his chair and sipped some more of his sherry. Then he leaned back and templed his hands under his chin again.

  "Laura Sue went off to finishing school, and I directed all my energies into my work. I tried to hide my emotional pain from Alexandria, but she was a very perceptive person, especially when it came to anything concerning me. I know she suffered terrible guilt, thinking she was destroying my life, and she tried to get me to spend less time with her. She even begged my father to put her into a facility for the handicapped, but he was embarrassed by her illness and refused to acknowledge it.

  "Not long after, I heard that Laura Sue had become engaged to Randolph Cutler. It was strange," he said, shaking his head and smiling warmly, "but it was as if a cloud had been lifted. Now that there was no longer any chance of my having Laura Sue, the torment ended for a while."

  "Did you have another romance?" I asked quickly.

  "Nothing serious. Perhaps I had a distrust of love by then," he added, his eyes sparkling mischievously. "It was a particularly hard period of life for me anyway. My father suffered a heart attack. He lingered for weeks in the hospital until he finally died. After his death I assumed his position in the bank.

  "Now there was only Alexandria and me. But her condition was growing worse. I hired a full-time nurse, took my meals with her in her room, wheeled her about in her wheelchair whenever I could; in short, spent even more time with her, knowing her days were limited. She never complained and did all that she could to make herself less of a burden.

  "Finally, one night she died in her sleep. Even in death she had this gentle smile on her lips." Tears filled his eyes and began to descend down his cheeks. He didn't wipe them away; he stared ahead as if oblivious to his own crying.

  I couldn't keep back my own tears, which had begun to burn behind my eyelids. When he saw me grinding them away with my small fists, he straightened up. His tears had stopped, but the anguish in his eyes remained.

  "By now, of course, Laura Sue and Randolph had married, and Philip had been born. Because the bank had such a close financial relationship to the hotel, I was often invited to dine with Mrs. Cutler and would sit at the table with her, Randolph and Laura Sue."

  "That must have been difficult for you," I said, "knowing how much you had loved her."

  "Yes," he said, happy with my understanding. "Actually, it was exquisite torment. I longed for those times, those opportunities to be at her side, to see her and talk with her and feel her hand in mine when we greeted each other. And I was soon convinced that I saw something burning for me in her eyes when we gazed at each other.

  "Those were particularly difficult days for Laura Sue. Mrs. Cutler was never happy about Randolph's marrying her, and Mrs. Cutler was not one to hide her feelings. You could cut the air between her and Laura Sue; that's how thick it was with the dislike they had for each other.

  "But Mr. Cutler was a different story. Randolph's father had a reputation for being something of a rake. He loved to charm the young women who came to the hotel, and there were always stories about his illicit affairs. Of course, no one dared say anything about it in front of Mrs. Cutler. She was quite a woman—diminutive in body, but towering and impressive."

  "I'm quite aware of how impressive she was," I said sharply.

  "What? Oh, yes, yes. Anyway, late one night I heard the chimes ring and then heard Livingston go to the door. I threw on my robe and slipped into my slippers quickly and came down the stairs to see Laura Sue. It was immediately evident that she was distraught to the point of hysteria. She had thrown on any old clothes, her hair was wild; she wasn't wearing any makeup, and her eyes were bloodshot. Livingston was literally terrified by the sight of her.

  "I took her into this room and got her some sherry. She gulped the glass down and then fell back on the sofa and burst into tears, gasping words. Gradually I put everything she was saying together into some sensible order and realized she was telling me her father-in-law had raped her.

  "Naturally, I was shocked. My mood moved from astonishment to pity to outrage. Twice I started out of the house to go to the hotel and tear the man apart, but twice she begged me not to do it.

  "Finally, we both calmed down. I held her in my arms for hours, kissing her and reassuring her that I would be at her side to help her in any way I could. I promised her I would get her the finest attorney. I offered her my home, but she was frightened, and no matter how much I pledged my support, she couldn't be persuaded to take legal action.

  "But"—he looked away and then turned back—"we knew we loved each other, and we admitted it openly. She stayed with me that night," he confessed.

  "After she had just been raped?" I asked incredulously.

  "We only held each other. The next morning she returned to the hotel, but she was to come back to me often from time to time. We thought it best I not go to the hotel. Mrs. Cutler stopped inviting me anyway." For a moment he blushed with shame and guilt. Then he straightened up in his seat and took a deep breath.

  "Mrs. Cutler was not someone who missed anything that was going on around her, no matter how furtive and careful we were. Soon afterward, Laura Sue realized she was pregnant with you, and, counting back the weeks, also realized you were Mr. Cutler's child. When Laura Sue announced her pregnancy, Mrs. Cutler accused her of having an affair with me and assumed I was your father.

  "She and Laura Sue had it out, and Laura Sue told her what her husband had done to her. Of course, Lillian Cutler refused to acknowledge it openly, but Laura Sue and I both feel that inwardly Mrs. Cutler knew it was true. Threats were exchanged, Mrs. Cutler pledging to cause a scandal for Laura should she as much as whisper this tale to anyone. She said she would simply bring witnesses to testify that Laura Sue and I were having an affair, showing that you had to be my child, and Laura Sue would be disgraced for falsely accusing Mr. Cutler. Laura Sue was no match for Mrs. Cutler. I often tried to get her to leave Randolph and marry me, but she was afraid.

  "Not long afterward, Mr. Cutler suffered his stroke, and after a week or so he passed away. With him gone, Laura Sue felt she had no way of ever proving what he had done.

  "As the date of your birth drew closer and closer Mrs. Cutler tightened her grip around Laura Sue, even to the point of bringing her attorney in to outline for Laura Sue what sort of things she would do to her if she didn't obey her every command.

  "She terrorized her into accepting the kidnapping hoax, thus eliminating you from the scene. You know the details of that story," he added.

  "Yes," I said sharply. "Unfortunately, I do."

  "But you don't know the pain and the sorrow Laura Sue felt afterward. She was haunted by guilt," he said.

  "I still find that difficult to believe," I responded. "I think I always will."

  "I know," Bronson said, nodding. "How can a child ever understand why her mother would give her away? Perhaps, though, you will find it in your heart to forgive her someday."

  I bit down on my lower lip and shifted my eyes. Numbly, I shook my head.

  "Maybe it's because you are a man and you are so in love with her still that you can find it easy to forgive her for her selfishness. I can't make
any promises," I said.

  "All that I ask is you try," he replied. "Would you like some more sherry?" he asked, rising and going to the bottle.

  "Yes, thank you," I said. He poured me a glass and gave himself another.

  I waited until he sat down again.

  "Tell me," I said, "how much of all this did Randolph know?"

  "Laura Sue told him everything, but he refused to hear. Early on, he withdrew into his own world, but it was his mother more than anyone who drove him into it. I knew him well enough to see that he was very insecure and even ashamed that he wasn't living up to his mother's expectations. She punished him in little ways for his having married Laura Sue against her will. It was the only thing he had ever done in defiance, and she wouldn't forgive him for it.

  "My feeling is that she made him feel less than a man, and that was the reason he became what he became. I don't think Mrs. Cutler minded. In fact, she was probably happy about what he turned out to be when it came to Laura Sue."

  "What do you mean?" I asked, catching something hidden between the lines.

  "Randolph still doted on Laura Sue, pretending as if they were still man and wife in every way. I think in his own way he still loved her very much, but he and Laura Sue had stopped sleeping together soon after his father had raped her," he said.

  "Stopped sleeping together." I let the sherry warm my chest, and then I sat up. "But that can't be," I said, realizing the chain of events. "Clara Sue . . ."

  "Is my child," he confessed.

  Bronson sat back, exhausted from his revelations. His face was flushed from that and from the glasses of sherry he had drunk, one after the other, to fortify his courage. His story had left my mind in a turmoil. My heart was racing. I felt as if I were drowning in a sea of conflicting emotions. I hated my mother and I pitied her; I pitied Randolph but hated his weaknesses. I thought less of Bronson for permit-ting Mother to torment him so and keep him on a string all these years, yet I admired him for the loyalty and love he gave to his sister.

  Most importantly and most tragically, I saw that there was always something keeping people from doing the right things, the things their hearts told them to do. Ironically, if Mother had been less self-centered, she might have married Bronson and had a wonderful life. She would have avoided the horror of living under the thumb of Grandmother Cutler.

  "I'm tired," I said, breaking the deep silence that had fallen between us. "I'd better go home."

  "Of course," he said, jumping up. "Let me have my driver bring up the car."

  While he was gone, Bronson's confession reverberated in my mind. Clara Sue was his. Now I knew why there was something familiar in his mother's face in the portrait. I had seen resemblances to Clara Sue. Since we had different fathers and her father was not a Cutler, the cords of blood that tied us together weren't as thick as I had once thought. I found myself feeling grateful about that. She and I had such different personalities. I didn't think I was capable of being as hateful or as vicious and cruel, not that Bronson struck me as a father from whom she could have inherited such qualities.

  Another irony that didn't slip past me involved Clara Sue and me. She would end up living with her real parents, but not knowing it; and I, because of the turn of events, had lived with people who were not my parents, and I didn't know it for most of my life. For both of us, family had been built on deception.

  That was why I was so silent when Bronson, escorting me out of his house and to the car, turned to me to say, "I hope that now we can all be more like a family." I stared at him bleakly, as if he spoke of pipe dreams made of smoke. To me the concept of family had become mythical. It was like a fairy tale. What was it like having parents and brothers and sisters whom you loved and who loved you? What was it like caring about one another, remembering one another's birthdays and celebrating each achievement, each wonderful new thing each of you did? What was it like being in a home on a holiday like Thanksgiving and having a family gathered around a full table with everyone laughing and smiling and being thankful all were here?

  "Dawn," he said, seizing my arm as I started to get into the limousine. I turned to him, and he riveted his pleading eyes on mine. "I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive us all our weaknesses and sins."

  "It's not for me to forgive anyone for anything," I said. I lowered my eyes and then lifted them to meet his agonized gaze again. "Thank you," I said, "for trusting me with your story and caring enough to want my understanding."

  He smiled, his blue eyes now gleaming.

  "Good night," he said.

  "Good night. The dinner was wonderful," I added. The driver started the engine and took me away. When I looked back, Bronson was still standing in front of his house, watching me go.

  As we careened around the turns going down the hill from Bronson's beautiful home I could see the lighted windows in houses below. Inside, perhaps, families were gathered in their living rooms, talking or watching television or listening to music. The children had no doubts that they were with their parents. Again ironically, many of them probably wished they owned a glamorous and famous resort like Cutler's Cove. They thought their lives were boring and uneventful, and they longed for the excitement we had.

  Yes, we lived in castles, but the moats that surrounded us were filled with lies and tears. The rich and the famous lived behind billboards; their houses were like movie sets, facades, glittering but empty. What person living what he considered a mediocre life would want to trade places with Bronson Alcott once he knew the truth about how the man had suffered?

  Suddenly, looking out over the ocean and seeing the quarter moon peek through two soft white clouds, I became melancholy. I wished I could fall back through time and be a little girl again, the little girl who thought she was running home to her real mother when she cut her finger and needed love and attention. I wanted to burst through the front door of whatever poor and shabby cottage or apartment we were living in at the time and throw my arms around Momma Longchamp and feel her arms around me and her kisses on my hair and face. I wanted all the scratches and cuts and bumps to go away in seconds.

  But they don't go away in seconds anymore. They linger in our hearts, I thought, because we have no one but ourselves to comfort us.

  As we turned into the driveway and climbed toward the hotel I felt some of the gloom lift from my heart, for I knew inside that Jimmy and Christie were there for me. It was important—more important than ever, I thought—that we hold on to one another and love and cherish one another dearly.

  The hotel was quiet. Most of the guests had gone to their rooms. Some lingered in the lobby, talking softly, and a few sat outside. I hurried up to our suite, stopping first to look in on Christie. She was fast asleep, her face turned. She still embraced her teddy bear. I fixed her blanket and kissed her cheek and then went in to tell Jimmy everything Bronson had revealed.

  He listened attentively, shaking his head in amazement every once in a while. When I was finished I made him hold me tightly.

  "Oh, it was terrible, Jimmy, terrible to sit there and listen to him describe how cruel and mean the people who were supposed to love one another had been to one another," I cried.

  "Our lives won't be like that," he promised.

  "Maybe there's a curse here, Jimmy. Maybe we won't be able to help ourselves," I said fearfully.

  "The only curses here are the curses people make for themselves," he said.

  "Jimmy," I said, pulling back from him, "I want us to have our baby right away."

  He didn't answer, and I saw that darkness around his eyes that always suggested something sad.

  "What is it; jimmy? Why doesn't that make you happy?" I asked.

  "It makes me happy. It's just"—he stared at me a moment—"I got a letter from Daddy yesterday."

  "Daddy Longchamp? Why didn't you say so? What did he say? Is he coming to see us?" Jimmy shook his head. "What is it, Jimmy?"

  "Edwina had a miscarriage," he said. "I didn't want to tell you b
ecause of all that was happening here. She's all right, but they were both upset."

  "And so you're afraid of my becoming pregnant now?" I asked.

  "It's not that. You're so involved with what you're doing that you barely have time for Christie and me at the moment."

  "Having our baby is more important than anything else I'm doing."

  Jimmy lay back against his pillow and watched as I got undressed. Naked, I crawled in beside him and cuddled up against him, feeling his desire for me quickly stir. Even so, he remained a bit hesitant.

  "Don't do this because you're feeling gloomy, Dawn," he warned. "There should never be any regrets."

  "There never will be," I swore, and then I brought my lips to his and kissed him long and hard, making my embrace more and more demanding until whatever reluctance he had in him evaporated under the heat of my passion. He pressed on lovingly. As he drove me higher and higher, the despondency that had invaded my heart began to retreat. I turned to look out the window and saw that quarter moon slip past the clouds and blink brightly against the inky sky.

  The past can't hurt us, 1 thought, if we build a fortress out of our love.

  Mother did not emerge from her suite the next morning, nor did she come out for lunch or go anywhere. Jimmy had told me she had cried softly in the hotel limousine all the way back to the hotel once they had left Bronson's house. Bronson had tried to paint a different picture of her for me; he painted a portrait of a little girl to whom her father barely paid attention, a little girl who grew up to become a beautiful but fragile and insecure person, trapping herself in a marriage that proved horrifying. I knew that much of his description evolved from his desperate and undying love for her, and that she wasn't the lily-white victim he had portrayed her to have been; but I was also haunted by the fear that I was becoming too hard and too cold.