Last night Lawrence was late for supper and she is still angry with him. He likes his roast beef medium rare and has been known to throw a fit if it is served otherwise. She had looked at the clock at seven-thirty and told the cook to hold the roast. By eight she was hungry and made herself a cocktail. It was most unlike Lawrence to be late. When he had not come home by nine she ate alone in the dining room.
Her husband is always on time. He is as dependable, as predictable as the grandfather clock in the hall—one of the many things about him that bored her.
Finally, Lawrence appeared in the dining room just as she had finished her coffee. Charlotte rang the bell for his supper.
“I’m sorry to be late, my dear,” he said as he went to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of wine.
“I suppose you had a good reason.” She spoke icily without looking at him.
He spent at least an hour unloading one of his long, tedious stories about the day—something about a merger between two small local companies and their insistence that he accept a position on their board. She can’t remember the details this morning because she didn’t listen. She was too wrapped up in what she wanted to say if he ever took a breath. Things like: You know, Lawrence, they have invented the telephone, and last time I looked, we had one in the hall. You might have called and let me know that I should not hold dinner.
The sound of rain outside makes her feel all the more forlorn. The roses are in full bloom and she can’t bear to look out at a garden full of sodden, drooping flowers. The rain will ruin them. She wipes a tear from her eye, then looks at her diamond encrusted watch. It is already ten and she wishes the rain would cease.
Suddenly, Kaitlyn bustles into the room humming a jolly tune whose very sound seems unspeakably rude. Her plump Irish maid stops abruptly, throwing back her head at the sight of her mistress sitting there in the gloom.
“I dare say, Madam, ’tis no good you sittin’ alone like this.” Flinging wide the draperies, she lets in the morning light and stops to gaze out the window. “Why, sure enough, it looks like the storm is passin’ on.”
Feeling molested and compelled to leave at once, Charlotte says nothing to her servant. She walks out of the morning room and ascends the staircase to the second floor toward her bedroom and then, as if forced by an omniscient power, turns toward the stairs to the attic, compelled once again to enter the top reaches of the house. Like a slave to something unholy, she climbs the stairs hating herself, terrified that against her will, she is forced to revisit that place.
She’s building a little suspense here. What’s in the attic and who compels her? Winna asked herself as she popped out of bed for a quick trip downstairs to get a splash of scotch. Back in bed, she pulled the covers up, plumped her pillows, took a sip, and read on.
The large, nearly empty attic space filled with cold light from the window still smells of new-cut pine. The rain has ceased and the sun is breaking through the dormer. Charlotte remembers the old house where she grew up. There, the attic was full of dusty old things. New houses, she thinks, have idle lifeless attics, no memories lurk here, nothing nostalgic or romantic and dusty, only my shame.
With a leaden weight in her heart, she is drawn to the high dormer window for a view of Broderick Place Boulevard. She looks down to see a farmer on his way to market passing below. He drives a horse-drawn wagon burdened with fresh produce. Across the street, old Mrs. Curlew folds her umbrella and herds her four grandchildren and two dogs toward Grant Park. Charlotte wonders what it feels like to be Mrs. Curlew or that farmer whose lives are filled with drudgery and guesses that both are happier than she. She longs for a child but has not yet been blessed.
Withdrawing from the window, she succumbs to her desire to open the trunk again. She had asked the gardener to drag it up the attic stairs and place it behind the chimney where it would be hidden from sight. She hurries to the dark corner and lifts the trunk’s top, revealing a set of wooden drawers. Charlotte pulls out one of the drawers and reaches inside, removing a heavy piece of jewelry.
Hastening to the window, she holds the jewels up to the sun letting its light gambol over six strands of perfectly round lustrous white pearls attached to a large canary yellow diamond, the centerpiece of a priceless choker. Charlotte turns the great yellow diamond in the light and watches set rows of small white diamonds dance a glistening circle around it. Weeping uncontrollably, she pulls away from the window and fastens the choker around her throat.
Then slipping behind the chimney to revisit the trunk, she opens another drawer and scoops out its contents. Then another drawer, and yet another, yields up precious gems. Her hands full, she hurries back to the window where she sits down on the floor in a splash of sunlight and drops the treasure into her lap.
The plain pale linen of her morning dress looks shabby as a backdrop for jewels of this magnitude. She should be wearing satin or silk taffeta. She lifts a cornflower-blue star sapphire ring set in platinum, circled by rubies and diamonds, and slips it on her finger. With a wavering hand, she turns a pendant necklace with a magnificent emerald at the center to the light. Curiously cut with intricate designs, the emerald looks very old and its markings primitive, almost out of place hanging under strands of pear-shaped pearls and pale green and blue beads. Are they topaz? Charlotte knows very little about jewels, but she knows that she holds a king’s ransom.
Trembling with ecstasy, she fondles the fiery gems set in icy precious metals remembering his kiss, the pressure of his body against her back, the excitement as he fastened the choker around her throat.
“Oh, Gramma, please not ‘trembles with ecstasy, fondles icy metals, fiery gems.’ Don’t make me have to read your description of them having sex.”
In an instant, her joy turns to painful yearning. She can wear none of these pieces in public. Indeed, no one must ever know she possesses them. Quickly, she returns the jewels to their hiding place, climbs down the stairs, and enters the morning room, closing the door behind her. Sitting at her desk, she lifts a sheet of writing paper from a drawer, opens her fountain pen, and begins to write.
My darling Andrew,
My heart is breaking. Since you left me, I have realized that I cannot live without you. Respectability, the thing I thought I needed more than love, means nothing without you.
I made a terrible mistake when I let you go. Lawrence has no feelings for me. It’s as if I live alone. I’m something he wears on his arm like a wristlet.
Now all I have are precious things hidden away—my memories and things you gave me, things I dare not mention. I visit them, I hold them and long for you. Please come for me. I will meet you anywhere you say. I cannot live without your love. Charlotte
Slowly, she puts down her pen, blots the ink, folds the paper twice, and slips it into an envelope. She addresses the envelope and takes it to the front hall where bright sunlight startles through etched-glass panels on either side of the door. Intending to go to the post office right away, she puts on her hat and coat and opens the door.
Suddenly stunned, she gives up a little cry. The post office will have to wait. Quickly, she slips the envelope into her pocket and puts on a forced smile.
“Lawrence! Why are you home so early? It’s barely noon,” she gasps as her husband approaches the door, leaving his brand new Winton touring car in the drive.
Lawrence smiles at her. “I want to make up for last night—being late. We haven’t been out for a drive in ages and it’s going to be a beautiful day. We can have lunch at the County House.”
Winna put down the notebook and lifted her drink for a sip. She wondered where she’d put her slippers. She felt compelled like Charlotte to hurry up to the attic and look through the trunk again. After a brief talk with herself about waiting until morning, she took another sip of scotch and read on—the unfaithful Charlotte changed her clothes and agreed to go for a ride with her boring husband.
“The air, my darling, will do us both good,” he says, opening the
door for his wife. She climbs into the passenger seat. He had put the top down, but she is sheltered under a wide-brimmed hat tied on with a swath of fine white tulle. She feels a bit unnerved wondering what is on her husband’s mind.
As the car climbs the road to Satan’s Needle, the day fairly glows with pink sunlight radiating off red sandstone. In this land of strange red rock formations, twisted junipers grow starkly beautiful under the bright cerulean sky. Charlotte does not care about the landscape, all she can think of is the last time she had been on this road with Andrew. Thoughts of her lover bring the hidden jewels to mind.
Though born and bred in this little town, the son of a humble stonemason, Andrew possesses a brilliant mind. In school, he had excelled in every subject. His professors persuaded him to go to college. Now he is a world-famous architect with homes in New York and London. Charlotte feels sure of her contribution to his success, she had encouraged him, believed in him. She had provided the inspiration, had given him his desire for success and wealth, but she had been a fool, unable to wait the long years it had taken him to make his fortune. She had married Lawrence instead—Lawrence was a bird in the hand…”
Winna raced through the next part of the story gritting her teeth as her grandmother described the guilt she felt as a faithless wife, her self-hatred, and wounded awareness that Lawrence had not proposed the drive into the country so that he could spend time with her. No, he was quite plainly in love with his fancy new car.
Every day Charlotte waits for the postman, for Andrew’s answer to her letter. But no letter comes. Late one afternoon, as the golden light of the day fades to dusky shadows, the evening paper arrives. Charlotte pours herself a sherry and settles into her favorite chair with the paper. She scours the front page. The war is raging in the Isonzo River Valley between Italy and Austria-Hungary. All of Europe has gone mad. She sighs and decides to look for the society column. As she thumbs through the paper, she notices a headline near the top of page four.
Death Claims Former Resident
Andrew M. Pierce of New York City and London, formerly of Grand River Crossing, died in early June as he traveled east by train after visiting his mother, Mrs. Hetty Pierce, of Grand River Crossing. A renowned architect, Mr. Pierce made frequent visits home to this city. Mrs. Pierce reported to the Daily Telegraph that she received word from the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad that the cause of her son’s death is yet unknown.
As if she had fallen from the roof of a skyscraper, Charlotte feels the breath leave her body, then sobs in agonizing waves. She slips to the floor, toppling onto the carpet in a faint. When she comes to her senses, she calls for Kaitlyn who helps her to her room and into bed.
The story had come to a sudden end. Winna dropped the old notebook on the bedside table. If Grand River Crossing was used as a pseudonym for Grand Junction, was Andrew Pierce Adolph Whitaker? If so, Charlotte Blackleash was Juliana Grumman. Did Juliana have a good imagination for storytelling—expanding her own romantic story of tragic loss to include a lover with great wealth, the gifts of priceless jewelry? Why did she stop there?
Winna got out of bed, went down the hall, and opened the door to the attic stairs. She felt around for the light switch. A light bulb went on somewhere in the attic. As her bare feet picked their way carefully up the stairs, she told herself she should wait until morning, but she knew she would not be able to sleep until she had searched the trunk again.
The attic, haunted in the light of one bare low-wattage bulb, looked like the garret in Winna’s recurring nightmare—a dream about her grandmother’s house that she had carried to bed with her for years. Though the dreams had stopped, she had not forgotten the terrible dark attic where a dead body lay hidden in a rolled up rug. She looked across the tangled array of stored objects and shivered. Everything seemed covered with frost.
She reminded herself that it was only dust.
The floorboards were rough and splintery as she picked her way carefully toward the chimney, wishing she had stopped to find her slippers. Passing the eerie bedroom tableau, she soon found herself kneeling beside the old wooden trunk.
Words from Juliana’s story came to mind, “Then another drawer, and yet another, yields up precious gems.”
She knew the first and second drawers were empty and that the third had held Adolph Whitaker’s letters. She opened the fourth drawer and found nothing. There were three other drawers. Winna pulled them out and let them fall to the floor.
Could there be a hidden panel somewhere? She ran her hand over the back of the trunk. Nothing. Then she saw it on the very bottom, a hidden compartment. She opened it. But it too was empty.
After her foray into the attic, sleep did not come easily. She lay awake thinking about Juliana, convinced that the story she wrote was pure fiction. There were no jewels, but there was an affair. She had told Winna about it. Who was Juliana?
Winna thought of her granddaughter, little Isabelle. She will never know the child, the girl, the woman I’ve been or the truth about my life. I barely know myself. Some of the things I’ve done are a complete mystery to me.
Gramma told me that she had wanted to leave her husband and baby son and run away with Whitaker. She had been capable of that much, at least, but what about Charlotte Blackleash? There was no son in the story, she had needed respectability, stability, money—then the excitement of being with her lover, not the love of a little boy.
Winna rolled over and pulled a second pillow close against her body, aware that allowing her mind to race would not bring sleep. But she could not rest.
18
ON THE WEEKEND, Chloe and Todd came to dinner at the house. Realizing too late that she hadn’t thought to serve a steak or something Todd might like to eat, Winna scooped chicken salad into avocado halves and placed them on a bed of field greens tossed with a fresh lemon and olive oil dressing. She sliced some French bread and, for dessert, served her quick raspberry charlotte. Todd seemed unfazed and accepted his beer in a glass. He called the plate “pretty” and appeared to enjoy the meal. Chloe, clad as if she had been invited to the White House for dinner, wore a strapless green silk dress with a gathered bodice that emphasized her lovely breasts. Chloe sipped white wine and nibbled while she talked.
“Back then—the seventies—I was in therapy and my shrink said I should write a letter to Daddy. She wanted me to vent—let him know what a lousy father he’d been. She wanted me to be specific—like the details—and express how I felt inside.”
Todd leaned back in his chair looking doubtful and said, “Did you write it?”
“Yes—I sure did,” she said, tossing her head of honeyed curls as if it had been her victory. “I knew at the time that Mercury was in retrograde, but I did it anyway.”
“But you didn’t mail it, I hope,” Winna said.
Chloe downed the last of her drink and looked at Winna. “I did.”
“Wow!” was all Winna could say.
“Ruth read it too. I got a phone call. She didn’t breathe a word about having read the letter but invited me to meet her for lunch downtown. She chose a public place for her scolding. I ‘crushed him,’ she said. He was ‘hurt and angry.’ She was angry too, and you know what she said? ‘Don’t be surprised if he disinherits you.’”
“So you knew he disinherited you?”
“He wouldn’t see me after that—not for a couple of years.”
“Really,” Winna said, “and I thought it had been a terrible surprise for you at the reading of the will.”
“I’m just figuring it out now, Winna. I didn’t know—I didn’t think he would actually do it,” Chloe said. “It was a terrible surprise—and then to hear those words—one dollar.”
“It might have been a good idea to write the letter for therapy’s sake and just file it away for safe keeping,” Winna said.
“No kidding. I should have made a ritual fire of it—sent it skyward as incense. Not having the sense to do that, I should have sued the shrink for—how much is m
y share of the estate—a couple of million dollars? By the way, nobody has ever given me that dollar.”
“Do you think Ruth suggested to Dad that he disinherit you?”
“Who knows. She was clever at manipulating him. When she walked out on him, she got a separation agreement that included alimony. Knowing he was usually drunk and not that attentive to his checkbook, she would call from California and claim that he hadn’t sent a check.”
“Chloe, remember when you heard her voice message on the answering machine—all pitiful and hurt? ‘You didn’t send my check, Henry.’” That bitter memory drove Winna to stand up in anger, then quickly sit down again. “But, Todd, when Chloe looked at Dad’s checkbook, he had sent it.”
“Yeah, and she’d done that more than once. I found a couple of months where he sent her two checks.”
Winna brightened. “Remember the letter we wrote her?”
“How could I forget?” Chloe rolled her eyes. “Todd, we guessed that she wasn’t reporting the support checks, so we wrote this letter to her threatening to reveal her trick to the IRS if she didn’t give him a divorce.”
“And it worked. He’d been trying to get rid of her for three years at least,” Winna said. “We did good, sis.”
Todd had listened all evening without saying much. He went back and forth to the refrigerator for beer, offering little but facial expressions—frowns, a deep thoughtfulness to his eyes, and occasional disbelief. Winna figured that he was scandalized by the family dysfunction.
“Sorry, Todd, there’s nothing worse than listening to people talk about their memories—memories you don’t share. You look a bit shocked. What was your family like?”
The House on Seventh Street Page 12
