"My mother writes poetry," Alexandra revealed.
"Oh?"
"I just dabble," she said modestly.
"Hardly," my father said. "She's been published often in a number of prestigious literary periodicals; just this past week, matter of fact."
"Larry, don't make it sound like so much."
"It is to me. I'm very proud of her," he added and leaned over to kiss her on the cheek.
Both Alexandra and William smiled softly at their father's show of affection for their mother. They were properly behaved, I thought, but they didn't stuff away their need for love and their happiness and contentment. The pretty and elegant home, the magnificent garden, the warmth and love that put light in all their eyes and glitter in their smiles was wonderful to see and feel; and yet, it also made me feel lonelier than ever.
There was a time when Mama, Roy, Beni and I had something close to this, but that seemed so long ago, almost another life and maybe just a dream.
How could I ever become part of this life? I wondered. My father's world was truly as perfect as a valuable diamond. There was no room in it for someone like me, someone so lost and confused I could only bring trouble and pain. Why, the moment my half sister learned she had to share her daddy's precious love with me, this diamond would shatter.
"I'd like to hear one of your poems," I told Leanna.
"Read her the one about the clown, Mummy," Alexandra coaxed.
"Yes, do," William said.
"Maybe later," she said blushing a bit.
"What's your favorite subject, Alexandra?" I asked.
"I like music. I play the clarinet," she bragged.
"She sounds like a foghorn," William teased.
"I do not."
"Children," Leanna said softly.
Except for one final look of indignation, both William and Alexandra returned to their perfect posture and finished eating. I laughed to myself thinking how ineffective such a soft reprimand would be with most of the young children I knew back in D.C. Jake, Grandmother's driver, would say, It's like trying to hold back a wild colt with a bridle made of thread.
Leanna asked me more questions about the school for performing arts. She seemed to deliberately skirt any questions about my life back in America. From the occasional glances she gave my father when he spoke to me and from the way she stared at me when I replied, I had the sense she was wondering more and more about me and him. How much did she know? How had he explained my being around their house so often?
Maybe it was wishful thinking or maybe it was just raw paranoia, but there was a curiosity in her eyes that grew more and more prominent as the afternoon went on.
Afterward, my father offered to show me his rare book collection. Alexandra helped Leanna with the dishes and William trailed along behind us.
"I'm really very glad you decided to come," my father told me.
"I don't know exactly why I did," I said.
He laughed.
"Oh, I think it's probably natural. I know I would have done the same. I never did. I just accepted it all. I guess I was more stoic or fatalistic. You see why I'm drawn to Shakespearean tragedy?" he added with a laugh.
"Life's a stage," I quipped.
We stood there, staring at his books, neither of us really looking at them. William became bored with our conversation and wandered off to find his sister.
"Leanna doesn't know about me then?"
"Not yet."
"How did you explain my being around your house so often?" I asked.
"I told her you were very shy and just trying to build up the courage to approach me," he replied. I looked at him askance.
"Somehow, I don't expect she would believe that."
"Probably not. I'm going to tell her all of it, you know. I wanted her to meet you this way, first."
"There's no point in your telling her. I certainly don't want to be responsible for anyone else's unhappiness. I don't expect to stay in London after school ends anyway."
"But you'll come back here often until school does end." he said as if it was now a requirement.
"I don't know."
"Sure you will."
Alexandra entered the library with William in tow.
"Well now," my father said, speaking louder, "London is full of bookstores with very old and precious first editions. It's fun to go out on a weekend and scour the stacks, searching for a great find. This Dickens, for example," he said, plucking one from the shelf, "is really worth close to two thousand pounds. I bought it for twelve."
"Mummy says she'll be in the garden," Alexandra declared.
"Oh, certainly. We should go back out. It's so beautiful and Leanna wants to show you her garden. She's rather proud of it."
"I helped her plant the Bells of Ireland," William boasted.
My father laughed and brushed his son's hair.
"Mr. Green Thumbs himself," he declared. William beamed and took his hand. The love between them was practically palpable. How I envied my half sister and half brother.
Leanna took me through her garden, explaining the various flowers. She spoke about them as if they were her children, too, an extended family on which she lavished love and care.
"It's all so beautiful," I said.
"We have so much opportunity to bring beauty into the world if we just have the patience to nurture it," she told me. She looked back at my father, who sat with Alexandra at the table, watching us. "You've made quite an impression on my husband. He's been very selective about the students he invites to our home, and yet, if I understand what he tells me, you and he haven't known each other long."
"No," I said. Standing in her garden amidst so many natural and beautiful things, I felt deceitful and ugly. "But I really appreciated the invitation." "You don't have much family, do you?"
"No. I have a brother who's in the army, stationed in Germany. He might come to see me."
"A brother? Does he live with your
grandmother too?" she asked.
"No. Only I do. Now," I added. I smiled at her. "It's not a very happy story. I'd prefer to leave it for another time. I'm having such a good time today."
"Oh. Of course," she said. "I understand and I'm happy you're enjoying the day with us. You're a very pretty girl, Rain, and I just love your name. For me, a gardener, rain is very important. It's refreshing. It cleans and stimulates growth. I'm sure your name fits you well," she added.
"Thank you."
She laughed and put her arm around my shoulders to give me a quick hug.
When we returned to the patio, I reminded her I'd like to hear one of her poems and she brought out the most recent publication, which made William happy because it was the one entitled "The Clown." She sat and we all gathered around her at the table. My father beamed with pride.
She began, her voice soft, melodic.
He thinks the whole world is a circus
and God is the great Ring Master.
Chosen to bring smiles and laughter, the clown pretends to stumble and fall. He bumps into lampposts and trash cans. He turns himself upside down
and crosses streets on his hands.
He makes sick children and frightened mothers forget.
He dances away depression and sadness
and turns gray skies blue.
He spends his days this way
and people passing toss him a coin or two.
When night falls he crawls back into his box,
a homeless jester born under a tent, content,
his stomach full of laughter and smiles.
Safely asleep, he dreams about tomorrow's show,
hearing the voices in the crowd chanting,
The clown, the clown, give us the clown.
As long as they want him, he'll never be alone.
"Look," William said, pointing at me. "She's crying."
"That's not polite, son," my father told him.
"It's a beautiful poem," I told Leanna, and she thanked me.
I l
ooked at the clock and said I had better be going. I thanked her again for the tea. Then I said good-bye to William and Alexandra.
"Are you coming back?" William asked me.
"Of course she is," my father quickly said.
"Next time, I'll show you my animals," he promised. "Animals?"
"He has a collection of toy animals. Some he had to put together," Alexandra explained. "He's actually very good at it," she offered with a sister's pride.
"I'll look forward to seeing them," I told him. He lifted his shoulders and nodded, once again the little gentleman. My father followed me out.
"Leanna is a very perceptive woman," he told me. "Before this day is over, she'll ask me the key questions about you, I'm sure. I hope you'll find a place for us in your life," he added.
I laughed.
"Me, find a place for you? I'm like an apartment building with no tenants," I said.
He laughed.
"Please call during the week. We'll do something next weekend perhaps. All of us," he emphasized.
"I'll see," I said.
I was truly like someone out in the cold so long, I was afraid of the warmth of a fire, afraid that if I got too close, I'd burn myself.
Everyone was home by the time I returned to Endfield Place. Almost as soon as I entered, Leo approached me immediately. He was more animated than I had ever seen him. Usually, he hobbled about with sleepy eyes, looking as though he would have to go and rest after opening the door.
"Oh, miss," he declared with raised eyebrows and arms lifting. "Mrs. Endfield's been asking for you ever since she and Mr. Endfield returned. She wanted me to send you right up as soon as I set eyes on you."
"What's wrong?" I asked.
Leo behaved as if he didn't hear my question. He closed the door, turned and muttered, "Right up."
I gazed down the corridor. All was quiet. Then I started up the stairs. When I reached my great-aunt's bedroom, I knocked arid waited and then knocked again, a little harder.
"Please, come in," I heard her moan.
She was in bed with a damp cloth over her forehead. Her pillows were so large and fluffy, she looked like she was sinking into them and soon would be gone. The comforter was up to her neck.
"Oh," I said, "aren't you well?"
"Some bloody allergy, the doctor thinks. The country doctor, that is. I just suddenly started to sneeze and sneeze and sneeze. I sneezed so much, my legs gave out and they had to carry me into the house. They've got me stuffed with medicine, which is making my head spin, but at least I'm not sneezing?'
"I'm sorry," I said. "Has this ever happened to you before?"
"No, but this isn't why I wanted to see you, dear. My sister called and was very, very insistent that you return the call, no matter what time, which I thought was quite unusual under the circumstances?'
"What circumstances?" I asked.
"She's apparently back in hospital."
"Oh no. Why?"
"I couldn't make head or tail of what she was saying. Words were going into my head and then getting ground up like vegetables in a blender. Something about a blocked artery is all I do recall. That and her rather dramatic demand that you call as soon as possible.
"I must say Frances has become quite a mystery to me these days," she added, focusing on me. "You can use that phone right there," she said, nodding at the phone on her little secretary desk to the right of her bed. I knew she wanted me to use it so she could listen in on the conversation, but I couldn't think of any way to avoid it. "I've written the number and country codes out for you. She has a private room, of course."
"Thank you," I said and went to the phone.
"Mr. Endfield was so upset about my getting sick and ruining the day that he barely uttered a syllable our whole journey back," she muttered. "It's all made me feel so miserable, and now we have Frances back in the hospital. Oh dear, dear, dear. Whenever it pours, it rains," she said.
"I think you mean when it rains, it pours," I told her and she thought a moment.
"Oh, do I? Yes, I believe I do. You would know, of course, with a name like Rain." She closed her eyes and groaned.
I read the telephone number and then I dialed and waited. It rang only twice before I heard Grandmother Hudson say hallo. I knew we were talking over a great distance, but her voice had sounded so much stronger the last time.
"It's Rain," I replied. "What's wrong, Mrs. Hudson?"
"This idiot I have for a doctor and his specialist have decided that there is more to my problem. They want to do some ridiculous thing involving a balloon, which is intended to open my artery. Something in the realm of science fiction, I'm sure, but they insist if I don't have it done, I'll topple over and die.
"I have your letter in hand," she added after a very short pause. "How far has this melodrama gone?"
"I've been to see him," I said.
"At his home?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"They're all very nice."
"And?" she sang.
"His family doesn't know about me yet," I revealed. "He says he wants to tell his wife, but I asked him not to."
"Very wise. You asked for my advice and it's simply let it be. What's done is done and too much time has passed. No one wants to be reminded of their mistakes, Rain."
"I don't think he sees me as that," I said.
"Nevertheless, when and if he does have to explain you to his wife, he will have to describe it that way. Once, he was young and careless, something like that," she said.
I recalled my first conversation with my father and his description of him and my mother being rebellious young people with no sense of
responsibility. Grandmother Hudson was probably right. She had great wisdom.
"Eventually," she predicted, "you'll be resented no matter how nice they seem to you now, Rain. Don't invest too much hope in this situation. Concentrate on your purpose, on your own life now."
"Okay," I said, my throat closing. I wanted so much to say, "Okay, Grandmother," but I knew my great-aunt was hanging on every word and would be cross-examining me as it was.
"My sister is nearby?" she asked as if she could gaze through the phone line and see how sad I was and how tears had come to glaze over my eyes.
"Yes."
"I thought she was only moments from being swept away by the Grim Reaper," she quipped. I smiled. "I never heard such moaning and groaning and I'm in a hospital, too."
"She's in bed, treated for an allergy."
"Tell her it might be something more," my great-aunt prompted from behind, revealing that she was indeed plugged into my every syllable.
"She says to tell you it might be more than an allergy."
"Of course. She was always looking for attention. That's why I could never understand her marriage and her decision to live in a country where everyone is judged on how stiff their upper lip is."
I laughed again.
"What did she say? Rain?"
"She says she hopes you feel better quickly," I offered. "Let me speak to that woman as soon as you're finished," she ordered.
"I've got to go, Mrs. Hudson. Please call to let us know how you are doing. Your sister would like a few words with you," I added. "Thank you for calling."
"I don't know if I have the strength to listen to her, but put her on or she'll make your life miserable," Grandmother Hudson said.
I handed my great-aunt the receiver and used the opportunity to slip out of the room before she could question me about my conversation with my grandmother. After I closed her bedroom door behind me, I took a deep breath and started down the stairs. When I had left my father's home and family, I started to hope that I could become part of his life, part of their lives. I even fantasized that I would eventually move in to live with them, continue my training, and eventually become a citizen of England as he had. Grandmother Hudson would come over frequently to see me in major theater productions and I would return to America to star in movies and on the stage. What d
reams.
Are people like me more susceptible to dreams and fantasy? I wondered now. Are they like germs and viruses? Do we have less of an immune system when it comes to illusions? Surely people who are content with themselves, their identities and their lives don't spend as much time imagining another life, another identity. They don't need the avenues of escape. They're not trying to run from themselves.
Would I always be like this? Maybe it would drive me mad and I would lose all sense of what was real and what was not. Yes, Grandmother Hudson was giving me good advice. Brush away the fantasies and concentrate on what you're there to do, she'd advised. She was right. I would not return to my father's home. It was like visiting a dream, but I'm awake now, I thought, awake and ready to deal with cold reality.
Maybe that was a vain hope as well for at the bottom of the stairway, glaring up at me sternly, was Boggs, his hands behind his back.
"Mr. Endfield wants to see you immediately," he announced.
"Everyone wants me immediately today:' I muttered and turned to go to my great-uncle's office.
"No," Boggs said. "Not that way. Follow me:' he commanded and opened the front door.
"Where are we going?"
"Just step lively," he ordered and waited for me to go outside. I did so and he closed the door and led the way around the house toward the cottage. My heart felt as if it was made of ice and was sliding slowly down into my stomach. In daylight the cottage didn't look anywhere near as ominous and mysterious as it did in the evening with candles lit behind the translucent curtains, but I couldn't help thinking of myself as crossing from one world into another, perhaps into someone else's fantasies and dreams.
Boggs stopped at the door and knocked. He gazed at me disdainfully and rocked on his heels, but I refused to let him intimidate me with those cold gray eyes.
My great-uncle opened the door and smiled.
"Oh. Thank you, Boggs. Please come in, Rain," he said stepping back.
He was wearing a pair of dark, silk slacks, black leather slippers, a burgundy smoking jacket and held a white meerschaum pipe. It had either just gone out or hadn't yet been lit.
Boggs started away and I entered the cottage. I hadn't seen it all through the windows at night. The small sitting area had two beige oval rugs over the dark wood floor. There were two settees, a threeseater and a two-seater, a small butler's table and some antique lamps. The fireplace had white marble around it.
Lightning Strikes Page 22
