The Riverhouse

by G. Norman Lippert

  “He is meant for greatness. That which I have only tapped, he will master. I will see to it. He will tame the world and make it his own if he so wishes, but only because he will not be hobbled by your weakness. He will be untainted by your commonness. Do you recall when those idiots threw stones at the Riverhouse because they believed I was a Nazi sympathizer? I may not have been so then, but now I am not so sure. Maybe Herr Hitler was right after all. Maybe we should winnow out the weaknesses of our ancestry, and of the lesser races. Of course, someone like you will not even consider such a thing. But Madeleine, she understands this, despite her own lesser heritage. She shares in the hope for our son. Together, we have already begun to teach him the way of strength and pride. I thank you for bearing him to me, my dear Lena, but I will tell you now—and only because you force me to—that that is a fact I will forget as soon as I can. A fact he, himself, will never realize. The boy you bore will cease to know you. He will not even remember your name.”

  Marlena’s eyes had grown glassy, but it was not his last words, his final hateful salvo, that had pierced her. It was his claim about Madeleine, and their plans for Hector. Together, we have already begun to teach him the way of strength and pride, he’d said. Hector, her sweet boy, her sensitive boy, the one who refused to step on an ant for fear that its ghost would come and haunt him at night, who loved music and, although barely two years old, already drew constantly—happy mermaids on the banks of the river, smiling suns, dancing kitty cats—they were taking him away from her, changing him, had in fact already begun their work, and right under her nose. He was being taught to subdue that beautiful nature of his, to seek power, to cultivate pride. They were tainting him, molding him into something contrary to who he was, something cold and selfish, a mirror-image of Gustav Wilhelm himself, but exaggerated, honed to a dagger’s point. Her husband, the father of her child, didn’t see her motherhood as something valuable, a balancing force to counteract his own hedonism and pride. He saw her motherhood of Hector as a poison, a weed to be systematically rooted out, burned, and forgotten. And he had already begun that work, with Madeleine’s help.

  “No…” Marlena whispered, her voice quiet, strangely calm.

  “Yes,” he said quickly, still looking at her piercingly, wanting to be sure she fully understood, wanting to break her. “She comes even now, and my son comes with her, carried in her arms. They are arms that he already knows more than yours, arms that have held him since birth, cradled him, fed him. From this day on she will not be his nanny. From now on, she will be his mother, in name as well as deed.”

  None of it was true. Marlena had nursed Hector, and had only recently weaned him. She had held him far more than Madeleine, and had even slept with him on many occasions. She had bought him his favorite toy, the silver rattle that he carried with him everywhere he went. Wilhelm would not know this, of course, nor would he believe her if she tried to tell him. It didn’t matter. Marlena could not allow them to take Hector away from her. She couldn’t allow them to change her sweet son, to pervert him into something he wasn’t. It was too horrible even to consider.

  “No,” she said again, more firmly this time.

  “It is not your choice to make,” Wilhelm said, dismissing her, turning away again. He began to snap the buckles of the suitcase. “The deed is as done. You may stay and watch, but I forbid you from interfering. You will only embarrass yourself.”

  “You will forbid nothing,” Marlena said calmly.

  Wilhelm’s hand swung out, almost casually, and struck Marlena, back-handed, on the cheek. She reeled to the side, but kept her footing. Her expression did not change. He turned on her one more time, raising his hand again.

  “I have never struck you before,” he said. “But I am not above it. Heed me or be prepared to receive the consequences.”

  Marlena swung her own arm, barely aware that she had meant to do it. She had never hit anyone in her life, had never had the need to. She meant to smack him, to shame him, to show him the full weight of her pain and rage. She had forgotten that she still had the river rock in her hand.

  The smooth rock smashed into the side of Wilhelm’s cheek, shattering it and throwing him off his feet. He collapsed sideways and backwards, falling like a tree and landing partly on the bed. The suitcase was knocked aside. It popped open and spilled the neatly folded shirts and socks onto the wooden floor. Marlena looked down at her hand, at the smooth brown rock gripped in her fingers, as if mildly surprised to see it there. Smears of blood marred its surface, and she noticed, for the first time, that she had cut her hand on the glass of the door. Not all of the blood on the rock was hers, however. She looked down at her husband again.

  He tried to speak, but his jaw seemed to be stuck. The left side of his face was already swelling, turning purple. Blood ran from his ear and the corner of his mouth. He rolled over onto his back, his legs still sticking off the end of the bed, his heels knocking on the floor. Marlena saw him as if he was a figure in a dream, a bogeyman that had threatened her, threatened to take away her son, to eat him perhaps; a bogeyman that would still do it, if she allowed him the chance. She moved forward, feeling the weight of the river rock in her hand, hefting it.

  “No,” Wilhelm tried to say, but the word came out as merely a mushy bark. He coughed and blood sprayed from his lips, staining his teeth.

  Marlena shook her head slowly, lifting the rock. Wilhelm struggled backwards onto the bed, raising his hands, but it was no use. Marlena was not herself. She moved like a woman sleepwalking, barely aware of what she was doing, responding to some basic, primordial instinct. She gripped the rock in her white, bloody fingers, raised it, and brought it down again.

  The sound of the impact was like the sound of Clara’s rolling pin striking a slab of dough in the kitchen of the Riverhouse. She repeated the action and Wilhelm collapsed backwards, making the bed squeak.

  Marlena climbed up onto the bed, straddling the now motionless form of her husband. If someone had glimpsed the two of them at that moment, in the stormy dimness of the studio, they might have believed that this was a moment of intimacy, even tenderness. Marlena had not descended upon her husband in order to be close to him, however. Nor had she done it because she felt any pity for him, or any remorse at the memory of the years they had spent together, the many times they had shared a bed, just as they were now. She’d done it simply because he was tall, and he had fallen backwards on the bed.

  She’d done it to give herself a better angle to keep hitting him from. She raised the stone in her hand.

  Shane brought the sledgehammer down on the fractured wall and a large portion of it caved in, falling to the floor with a heavy, resounding crash. Brick dust, plaster and mortar choked the space, obscuring the view through the broken hole. Shane coughed and covered his mouth and nose with his hand, breathing through his cupped fingers. He dropped the sledgehammer and hunkered over, peering into the darkness of the hidden room.

  The first thing he saw was the round window. It hung in the darkness, glowing blue, showing the black branches of the Magnolia tree and the peak of the forest beyond. Wind and rain tore at the bare trees, making them wave up at the gray sky as if in a panic. A small narrow shape stuck up from the bottom of the window, peaked with a bright tongue of flame. The candle burned, casting its reflection on the old glass. Shane could smell the scent of its hot wax, could see a bead of it dripping down into the brass base.

  He stepped gingerly through the hole, careful not to twist his ankle on the broken bricks that lay beneath it. The space was very small; the same length as his studio, but barely four feet deep. Cobwebs and dust cocooned everything, turning the scene into a gray photograph. It looked almost exactly like his final painting, except for a few minor details. The purse on the chair to the left was made of some sort of brocade fabric. Its mouth was framed in brass, with tiny hinges at the sides. On Shane’s right, the bed was shoved against the wall, obscure with shadows, but not enough to hide the shape sprawled bene
ath the loose sheet. One skeletal foot stuck out from beneath the covering, canted toward the window, still shod in a black leather shoe.

  Shane understood why his own version of the scene, shown in the Sleepwalker painting, was different than what he saw here. He had, of course, allowed his own story to mix with the vision. He had painted Steph’s purse instead of Madeleine’s. He had painted Earl dead in his bed instead of Gustav Wilhelm. They were small differences, but they had been just enough to hide the true story from him, to keep it just out of his grasp until now. Until it was too late.

  The candle at the bottom of the round window burned, and Shane understood the centerpiece of the painting now as well, the element that gave it its name: the Sleepwalker. Marlena had stood there after her husband was dead, looking out at the stormy night, watching, a woman somehow disconnected from herself, as if in a dream. Shane could all too easily envision her there even now, silhouetted against that round blue shape, haloed against it.

  She had gone downstairs, into the rudimentary kitchen, and found a knife. She didn’t mean to kill Madeleine with it, or so she vaguely believed. She only meant to scare her, to make her give over her son, and then to leave, forever. Marlena stood there in the window, behind that single glowing candle, just outside the reach of its light, and watched the path. She knew Madeleine would come. She might have realized by now that Marlena knew about the plan, but she would come anyway. Madeleine would believe that Gus Wilhelm had the situation in his control, no matter what. She would come even if she knew that Marlena was there with him. All Marlena had to do was wait.

  Shane watched as the vision played out in his mind, almost as if it was a memory, as if the crypt of this room had saved it up, collected it, and was now feeding it to him. Just like now, it was storming on the night that Marlena had stood there, the blood of her husband on her hands, his body haphazardly covered on the bed nearby. Marlena watched through the storm, unmoving, unthinking, and eventually, when it had grown fully dark outside, she saw them. Madeleine came quickly along the path, almost invisible in the darkness. She had a small suitcase in one hand. The other was wrapped around young Hector. She carried him on her hip, and he clung to her neck, sopping wet with rain, crying. Marlena could hear him, hear his simple, alarmed words under the roar of the rain.

  “Wet, Nanna,” he said, clinging to her, his feet dangling. “Rattle! I dropped my rattle, Nanna! it’s wet!” He was pointing back toward the path, his little hand seeming very white in the darkness.

  Madeleine didn’t reply. She shushed him as soothingly as she could, bouncing him gamely against her shoulder as she began to cross the yard. Her own face was dripping with rainwater, since her hands were too full to carry an umbrella. Marlena saw Madeleine glance up toward the cottage, looking toward the window, toward the pinprick of white flame that burned inside it. A flash of lightning lit the world outside, making everything jump into sharp focus, causing every branch and blade of grass to leap into view. A moment later darkness engulfed the scene again. Marlena’s eyes were dazzled. She lost sight of Madeleine and Hector. Taking a step closer to the window, she forced her gaze to readjust to the darkness. Madeleine was no longer walking across the yard. She was merely standing there in the rain, staring up at the window, her own eyes wide and blank.

  A slow realization spread over Marlena, chilling her. Madeleine had seen her, had glimpsed her in that sudden flash of lightning. It was evident in the sudden wariness on her face, the way she stood there and watched the window, uncertain and hesitant. Marlena fingered the knife in her hand and slowly backed away from the window, away from the glow of the candle. In the yard below, Madeleine backed away as well, slowly, one step. Then two.

  “Rattle!” Hector cried, reaching over Madeleine’s shoulder, reaching toward the path. “Rattle, Nanna. Go back!”

  Marlena turned swiftly. She bolted for the stairs, clambered down them at a near run, taking two at a time. She spun through the hall and kitchen, grabbing the frame of the open back door with her left hand. The rain was coming harder now, drenching her almost immediately. Wind tore through the trees, gusting so hard that it was like a hand on her chest, pushing her backwards. Underneath the roar of the storm, Marlena could still hear the insistent voice of her son, crying, calling for his rattle. She ran.

  The side yard was empty. Madeleine and Hector were nowhere in sight. Marlena bolted toward the path, following the sound of her son’s voice. She saw them as she came into the first clearing, the one that rounded the knob of the bluff that overlooked the river. Madeleine was on the far side, following the path back into the woods. Hector was leaning over her shoulder, still reaching, calling for his rattle. He saw Marlena and his face transformed in the darkness. He lit up, smiling with delight and surprise.

  “Mama!” he called out, waving.

  Madeleine stopped. Slowly, she turned around. Hector scrambled in her arms, trying to slip out of her grip, trying to keep Marlena in view. “Mama all wet!” he cried, laughing suddenly.

  Madeleine made eye contact with Marlena across the clearing. In the distance between them, the wrought iron bench sat in its drift of hydrangeas, now void of their blooms. Marlena shook her head, slowly, begging the other woman with her eyes. Wind tore at Madeleine’s dress. It stuck to her legs and flapped wetly. It was very dark, and yet Marlena could see Madeleine’s eyes. They looked into her own eyes, and then dropped to the knife in Marlena’s hand. It was all the confirmation Madeleine needed. Somehow, she seemed to know everything. Her lover was dead. And for all she knew, she soon would be as well. Her eyes met Marlena’s again, full of grim understanding, and then she turned. She hugged Hector against her, and she ran.

  “Wait!” Marlena called across the clearing, but it was too late. Madeleine was gone. Marlena dropped the knife into the weeds and gave chase.

  She passed the angel statue again. It glistened with rain, its face calm and benign. When she entered the second clearing, she saw that the stream had now swollen to the point of being impassable. Water coursed over the stepping stones, rendering them useless. They must have been very nearly submerged when Madeleine had first crossed over them, carrying Hector in her arms. Marlena shuddered to think about it. She looked around, knowing that Madeleine would never attempt such a crossing now, but neither she nor Hector were anywhere in sight. Marlena voiced a moan of fear and worry. As if in response, a thin cry suddenly sounded, carrying on the wet wind. Marlena turned toward it, gasping, her eyes wide. Madeleine and Hector were just visible in the dark distance on the river side of the clearing. They were descending toward the bank, toward the rickety wooden dock below.

  “No,” she said to herself, shaking her head in helpless negation. “She wouldn’t…”

  Marlena lifted her skirt again and ran.

  The dock had been built three summers ago, meant to be used for fishing and for mooring the little rowboat that visitors sometimes enjoyed taking out on the river when the current allowed it. Hector loved the boat, loved being out on the rocking waves, even though Marlena herself had never taken him out in it. Under the best of conditions, she didn’t like the idea of him being out on such a big river in such a little craft, but he talked about it constantly, and even featured it in his drawings. He’d draw himself in the little rowboat, sometimes with his father, sometimes all by himself, usually waving to the viewer, or to the mermaids that poked their heads happily from the waves. He had a name for the little rowboat, one he had picked up from the songs that Gus had played for him on the Victrola. He called it the Good Ship Lollipop.

  As Marlena crested the low hill that overlooked the bank, she saw them again. They stood on the end of the dock, which was nearly submerged in the swift current. Madeleine was lowering Hector into the boat, but he was clinging to her in the darkness, unwilling to go. It was pure madness to go out on the river now, with the current so high and fast, and the rain beating it in sheets, turning it into a brown cauldron.

  “Madeleine, no!” Marlena screamed, cup
ping her hands to her mouth, but it was useless. Thunder barreled across the sky overhead, drowning her out. She tried again, but the wind tore her words away. She gave up and ran down the short hillside, heading toward the dock.

  Madeleine looked up and saw her coming. Her eyes were wide with terror. She gave up trying to set Hector in the little boat. Instead, she clambered down into it herself, still carrying him. It rocked precariously.

  “Stop!” Marlena cried, her voice cracking. “Don’t take him out there! Please!”

  Hector was crying, still clinging to Madeleine. She turned away from Marlena and reached for the ropes that anchored the boat to the dock. Her hands moved quickly, undoing the simple knots.

  Marlena screamed again, this time a wordless exclamation of terror. She reached the dock and began to pound along it. It was wet, slippery, and seemed to rock with the force of the current and the rushing waves. Hector finally looked up. He saw her just as Madeleine finished untying the ropes. The boat immediately began to drift, sucked out into the current.

  “Mama!” Hector cried, suddenly letting go of Madeleine. “Rattle fell, Mama! All wet in the woods!” He pointed with one hand, reached for her with the other.

  Marlena ran to the end of the dock, almost forgetting to stop. She threw both of her arms out toward the receding boat.

  “My baby!” she screamed. “Bring him back to me! Row! Bring him back!”

  Madeleine looked at her, her face growing quickly smaller as the boat became locked in the rushing current. She saw that Marlena no longer had the knife. She glanced around, as if surprised to see where she was. She scrambled toward the middle of the small boat and reached for the oars.