The Gift of Happiness

by Amanda Carpenter

  The afternoon was gone by the time she opened her eyes. She stood carefully and the room stayed where it should, so she made for the bathroom with more confidence. As she looked into her mirror, she was truly shocked at the sight. Her face had a grayish tinge to it except where the skin was puffy and pink around the sensitive eye area. There were deep circles beneath her eyes and a haunted look in their green depths. A purple darkness was already becoming apparent on the ridge of her cheekbone, and there was some slight swelling. James had hit her hard. She saw no beauty in the sight and turned away in rejection of the despairing message of that reflection. Sitting on the edge of the bath, she tried to get herself to think, to force herself through the seemingly impenetrable, cottonwood-like fog of her mind, but the only thing that kept running through it over and over again was, insanely, a nursery rhyme from one of her long-since discarded children’s books: Rain, rain, go away, come back here another day.

  Was she mad? she asked herself tiredly. Was there really nothing more to expect from this life than pain, and boredom, and loneliness? Should she always be looking over her shoulder furtively and fearfully? If this was what life was all about, then she didn’t want to keep on living. She was tired. She was so very tired.

  After a long time, she persuaded herself that she should move to somewhere other than the hard edge of the bath, so she crept back into her bedroom and curled up on the bed. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t seem to have any energy at all. Even lifting her head to support it on her aching neck seemed to be too much of an effort.

  The present was too much to take, let alone any consideration of the future. An intolerable burden sat about her, stifling her with its weight and oppression. For a long time, she lay on her bed in the semidarkness, a lonely figure afraid to face the storm.

  Chapter Four

  “Miss Farlough? Miss Farlough?” A knock on her bedroom door, and Elizabeth’s voice calling, roused her from her lethargy.

  “What is it?”

  “You have a telephone call. Are you going to receive it?”

  She sighed, slipping off her rumpled bed and flicking on a light. Moving over to her mirror, she quickly brushed her hair from her forehead with a few flicks of her brush and said expressionlessly, “Yes. I’ll be right there.”

  She went downstairs quickly and picked up the phone. “Katherine Farlough,” was her brief and crisp enunciation.

  “Why wouldn’t you see me this morning, Kate?” She had never heard him on the phone before, but she immediately recognized Luke’s deep, controlled voice. The sound of it had her clasping the receiver in a tight clench as she pressed it painfully to her sore head.

  “It wouldn’t have done any good,” she replied coolly. “You must excuse me. I’m very—”

  “Don’t hang up!” he cut through her swiftly muttered excuses. “I still would like to talk to you. Can we get together, perhaps tomorrow?”

  “No.”

  “Please.” His voice was as quiet as hers.

  “No.”

  “Why are you doing this?” he asked in a puzzled tone. “You know you aren’t happy. You know your father is trying to rule your life to the extent that he is ruining you! For the love of all that’s good, why won’t you let me help you?” The concern in his voice was her undoing.

  Katherine closed her eyes. A sneaky tear slipped down her cheek, and another followed, and then another. “I can’t,” she whispered brokenly, catching her breath in furious reaction to her own loss of control. “I—oh, you don’t understand! I just can’t!”

  “No,” he agreed gently, “I don’t understand. I don’t understand what has made your father the way he is. I don’t understand why you feel that now, of all times, you must defy him past the point of reason. I don’t understand why you won’t talk to me, let me help you. Kate, let me come over tomorrow and see you. Please let me come.”

  “You don’t understand me—well, I don’t understand you!” She tried to keep her voice down, but in spite of herself her tone rose and made it quite obvious to him just how upset she really was. It wobbled horribly. “You are a stranger! I don’t know you, why should I trust you? Why should I listen to you, of all people? Who do you think you are, anyway? What do you want from me?”

  There was a silence from the other end. “This is probably very hard for you to believe,” he said softly, “but I don’t want a thing from you.” She was silent, breathing hard and holding on to the phone as if it were a lifeline. “I do, however, want a great deal for you. But you’ve been brought up in a different way. You probably don’t have a clue as to what I mean, do you? Do you have a pencil?”

  “Yes,” she whispered through dry lips. Her hand found and gripped a writing utensil, almost of its own volition.

  “I can’t do a thing for you unless you want me to. Will you take down my home phone number? Will you keep it, and if you find that things are getting to be too much, will you call me?”

  “No, I can’t.” She barely managed to make herself heard, the longing to do just what he asked almost too great to resist. “It’s what my father wants me to do—”

  “No, love. Can’t you see? James can’t do a thing to you or me, now that we know what it is he’s attempting with both of us,” he told her patiently. “He has power over you through your fear. You’re so busy thinking of him as the omnipotent god, you can’t see beyond his domination! It’s not your father you are afraid of now. It is yourself, Kate. You make your own happiness. Everyone in this world makes their own happiness. Now, pick up that pencil, and take down this number. It’s…” As he told her the phone number clearly, repeating it once, she found her hand moving awkwardly across the notepad and taking it down. “Call me, Kate. Any time of the day or night is fine—three in the morning if you have to! I’ll wait to hear from you, and won’t phone again, because now it’s up to you. No one can do it for you.” He paused as if waiting for her to respond and when she didn’t, he sighed and said, “I hope to talk to you later. Goodbye for now.”

  “Luke?” she said clearly, still clutching the phone tightly.

  “Yes?”

  She paused a long time, hearing in the background the old grandfather clock that was ticking slowly, inexorably. “Thank you.”

  After she had heard him hang up, she stood for a long while with the receiver in one hand and her eyes staring unseeingly at the opposite wall. The ticking of the clock was so ominous and frightening she found a strange fear gripping her tightly, shaking her resolve with icy fingers. After a bit, she recollected herself with a start, placed the receiver gently on its rest and headed back up the stairs. “Elizabeth?” she called, halting just once halfway up.

  A figure at the end of the hallway appeared. “Did you want something, Miss?”

  “Yes, a supper tray to my room, if you would. I won’t be down tonight. Would you please tell James for me? I have a headache. I think he’ll understand.” This last she said with a great deal of dryness.

  “I’ll tell him. What would you like on your tray?”

  “Whatever, anything. It doesn’t matter.” As she moved on up the stairs, Elizabeth retreated back to her kitchen and food, shaking her head in ponderous exasperation.

  Katherine paced the length of her room, mulling over Luke’s words. How could she have been so blind? It was true; James’s plan would’ve worked only if he had her cooperation and Luke’s ignorance. She had thoroughly scotched his chances for getting Luke off his guard. She had let her own fear create an obstacle where one did not exist. It had to be admitted that he would try to think of some other way either of publicly humiliating Luke or financially ruining him, but he would find another way without her, and she wouldn’t be able to stop him.

  What had angered James so much, she was beginning to see, was not that his little ploy to cast her after Luke had failed, but that it was she who had defied him and had caused it to fail. She was just understanding that her defiance and obstinacy was what had made him strike out at her. P
robably he was already plotting some other sordid business scheme for Luke to crash into, and had put her rebellion down as an annoyance, and a temporary one at that.

  How belittling it all was! She now saw that James had been right to consider her little storm in a teacup a minor and trifling thing. He had her past performance to base his opinion on. His domination of her whole life was her own fault. She had practically given herself to him on a silver platter when she had attended all those social functions at his insistence. She had sold her own soul to him very cheaply when she had gone out with the businessmen of his choice. She had bartered her self-respect for an escape from freedom. Katherine had a sneaking suspicion that she had been trying to make her father show some sign of approval, some sign of encouragement. She wanted to make him care.

  Luke had been right: she was afraid of herself and of stepping out. Freedom was a heavy and frightening gift for others who had known nothing but the indolence of domination. Freedom for Katherine meant having to pay her own bills, and make her own decisions and face numerous responsibilities. If she stepped out, she would never have the excuse, “It’s not my fault! I didn’t mean to do it! He made me!”

  A tray was brought to her room, with the message that her father wished to speak to her in the morning, but Katherine, wrapped up in her own thoughts, dismissed this ominous-sounding message with no more than an absent-minded—and wholly unquaking—nod. She put her tray on a little dresser beside her bed and climbed in. After uncovering one plate and picking up a delicate sandwich to nibble, she suddenly looked up and around her, as if seeing her room for the first time in her life.

  A goose-down quilt graced the spacious bed, and there were several hundred dollars’ worth of cosmetics on the elegant antique dressing table. Heavy oak dressers, a matching pair, stood as sentinels at either side of the roomy bedroom, and a walk-in wardrobe held expensive, glittering, fashionable clothes. Her bathroom was spacious also, with a double bath of marble, and antique brass water controls. A carelessly tossed silk dressing gown lay in a crumpled heap by the bath, and heavy plush towels were folded precisely, awaiting her use. The mirror was framed in gilt. Several different exclusive perfumes and bath oils were scattered about haphazardly, the tops pushed on anyhow, with no respect for their famous labels.

  The sandwich, she noticed, as she suddenly looked down at what she held in her hand, was crabmeat salad, tasty, tempting, and delicious. It was also very expensive.

  Katherine put down her half eaten sandwich slowly. The pretty bird preferred captivity to the dangers of the wild, did she? She could not support herself in such a style if she were to leave home. Was she indeed selling herself, for the price of her own self-respect and a paltry few blows about the head, for a life such as this? Did all the material things that money could buy really mean so much to her? Was she so afraid that she might fail utterly and humiliatingly if she were to leave, and was that keeping her here? Was this, in spite of all her protestations to the contrary, where she wanted to be?

  She moved to the mirror slowly, as if compelled by some inner force greater than herself and looked into it. What she saw was not some darling of Kentucky’s high society, nor did she see the spoiled bitch who made cocktail parties so much fun. She did not see one of the most beautiful young women ever to have graced the backs of the spirited thoroughbreds that made the Bluegrass State famous. She did not see a romantically spirited young girl who had stood before an ogre of a father and dramatically defied him to the very gates of hell. She saw a very sad and rather frightened little girl with shadows under her eyes and a dull, unnecessary bruise on her cheek.

  It was enough. She stared at herself for a long, long time and took a good look at the person without the pretense. She didn’t want to forget the sight. She wanted to remember every single aspect that made this person who she was. She wanted to remember, so that she would not make the same mistakes again. She would never be what this person was, not ever again. Then, going to the walk-in wardrobe and dragging out, not the expensive Italian leather suitcases she’d bought for one of her recent trips, but two canvas tote bags that had seen better days, she dumped them by the bed and started to pull out various items of clothing, throwing them on the bed by the half-eaten sandwich.

  After she had a pile of lacy underwear and nightgowns, dressing gowns and tights, she rummaged about for summer shirts and shorts, digging out several pairs of jeans and sandals, and a few skirts and dresses. Then, tossing it all together in an unceremonious heap, she looked from the pile of clothing to the two small canvas bags and began to sort out what was not absolutely necessary on to the floor on the other side of the bed. She found herself at war with what her practical mind told her was necessary and what her inner self whispered to her to take. She limited herself strictly to one pair of flat sandals, one pair of tennis shoes, one pair of casual shoes—which she set aside for wearing tomorrow—and one pair of high-heeled shoes. Then she threw aside the high-heeled shoes as not necessary after all. She would not part with one item of lacy underwear—they took up so little room, after all—and these were quickly packed. She sat back on her heels and held up several pair of cobweb-delicate tights. They would be full of runs soon enough. She stuffed them into the canvas bag that held her underwear.

  After much deliberation, she finally ended up with two skirts, two dresses and two pairs of jeans, with a cunning assortment of tops that would be interchangeable with all. Two items she laid out: a pair of jeans and a pretty ruffled shirt to be worn tomorrow. The rest she put into a bag. Happily, after finding that she had a little room to spare after the removal of the clothes she was to wear tomorrow, she picked up the discarded high-heeled sandals and tucked them into the bag with a shimmery gold dress.

  She set the two packed bags by the door and went to rummage through her purse, adding to it only one spray of French perfume, a toothbrush and some essential items of make-up. Then, satisfied with her evening’s work, she sat down to munch heartily on the sadly crushed sandwich and the remainder of her meal. It was late when she finished, so she didn’t attempt to phone Luke.

  After crawling into bed in the summer’s darkness, she lay curled up under the goose-down quilt, aquiver with excitement, anticipation and dread. Miss Farlough, for the first time in many years, was most certainly not bored. She was positively scared stiff. She didn’t sleep a wink all night. She felt as if her stomach was going to give up all her dinner. She wanted to cry and, crazily, she wanted to laugh.

  The pretty bird was about to fly her cage.

  When the gray tendrils of light wafted away the darkness, and yet before one could precisely call it dawn, she threw back her covers and gladly got up. She showered quickly, not even sending the multitude of fragrant bath oils one regretful glance, and dried her hair. Then she slipped into her jeans and clumsily put on her shoes. A light cream-colored blouse went on next, and then, because it was a favorite of hers and if she wore it that meant she could take it with her, she also slipped on a white angora sweater. Then, with a quick glance at the clock, she stealthily slipped out of her room and lightly skipped down the stairs. Five-thirty was a bit too early for just about anyone in the household, even for her father, for though he worked extremely hard at his business, he still kept banker’s hours. Not even the omnipresent Joss would be up, she knew, especially since her own hour for rising was usually around eight. This all is, she thought, probably out of character for me, and she had to stifle what sounded horrifyingly like a giggle. She had a nasty suspicion that from now on, she was going to be doing things that a lot of people would term “out of character” for her.

  It wasn’t, she reflected more soberly, as if she had possessed much character to begin with. In fact, hindsight showed her that she must have acted for several years with a remarkable lack of sincere character. The library door was ajar, so she decided to use the phone in there and close the door behind her, just in case.

  This is stupid, she told herself severely, as her hand began to
shake when she picked up the telephone receiver. She pulled out the number that she had hastily shoved in the pocket of her jeans and dialed, not giving herself time to think and perhaps back out. As she listened to the phone ring, she was aware of the most terrific feeling of panic she had ever experienced, and when a deep, alert yet quiet voice answered, she nearly put down the phone to run away.

  “Hello? Hello? Who is this?” It was, of course, Luke, and he was becoming very impatient.

  “I am trying,” she said as matter-of-factly as possible, “not to hang up on you.”

  “Katherine,” he breathed, incredibly sounding happy. Then, in quite a different tone of voice, far more matter-of-fact than she had been able to achieve, he replied, “Well, I’m very glad that you didn’t, because I would have taken you for a crank caller, and five-thirty is a very rude time to be making crank phone calls.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said instantly. “I know I shouldn’t have rung so early. You go back to bed, and I’ll phone back a little later, all right?”

  “No, it’s not all right, because I wasn’t in bed, and you’re trying to back out of whatever you wanted to say to me,” he retorted swiftly. “Out with it, love.”

  “You actually were up at this hour of the morning?” she asked, astounded. “I’ve never known anyone to do that before. The only reason why I’m up so early is because I couldn’t sleep and nobody else is up at this time of the morning around here.”

  “I am,” he told her patiently, “a morning person, and quit prevaricating. Were you calling to invite me over to have that talk this morning? You can do no less, since you did promise me, you know.”

  “Actually…” she whispered, afraid. She was afraid of him, of herself, and very much afraid that she was about to make the biggest mistake of her life. “I, uh, would like to take you up on that offer you made on Saturday night about…” Her voice petered out. She couldn’t go on if her life depended on it.