The Unloved

by John Saul

  “It—It’s a mansion,” she breathed.

  “It’s a white elephant,” Kevin replied. “In its day it served a purpose. Now it’s just a huge house that’s outlived its usefulness, and unless something’s changed since last time I was here, it’s getting just as run-down as the rest of the town.”

  Julie cocked her head and looked up at her father curiously. “But if Grandmother lives there, she must be rich, isn’t she?”

  Kevin’s lips twisted into a smile that was both wry and bitter. “There hasn’t been a rich Devereaux in three generations,” he replied. “My grandfather and my father hung onto the island by selling off the rest of the property bit by bit. A hundred years ago the family owned most of the county, and before the Civil War, a lot more. By now there can’t be much left except the island.”

  “Grandmother owns the whole island?” Jeff asked, his voice reflecting his awe. “All of it?”

  For the first time that day Kevin grinned, for he suddenly remembered when he was Jeff’s age and spent endless days exploring the hundred fifty acres of the island—discovering the ruined remains of the slave quarters which were all but lost in the overgrown tangle of vines that had long since been allowed to reclaim the once cultivated tracts; combing the beaches after storms, in search of lost treasures that might have washed up; hunting the marshes and patches of forest for rabbits, squirrels, and an occasional deer. For the first time since he had grown up, he saw the island through the eyes of a boy, and reached down to tousle Jeff’s blond hair. “Every acre of it,” he said. “And if you can’t find anything to do out there, then you’re going to be condemned to a life of boredom.” His mood suddenly lighter, he winked at Anne. “Come on. Let’s go see just how bad things have gotten in the decadent South.”

  A moment later the family was back in the car, moving slowly toward Devereaux. As they came into the town, it was apparent to Kevin that nothing had changed. The main street was just as he remembered it, slowly rotting away in the heat and humidity. There was a somnolence about the place; even the people seemed to move in slow motion. A dog slept in the middle of the road, flies buzzing around its head, but even when Kevin tooted the horn, the animal refused to bestir itself, and finally Kevin had to maneuver the station wagon around it.

  It didn’t occur to him until he had passed the animal that it might be dead.

  Just like the town, he reflected silently to himself. The whole place is dead, but nobody’s noticed.

  The scratchy sounds of the final moments of Swan Lake emerged from the speaker of the old phonograph in the corner of the ballroom on the third floor of Sea Oaks, and Marguerite Devereaux glanced quickly at the clock. For the first time in her memory, the hour-long ballet class seemed to drag on interminably and she was actually looking forward to her girls going home. Of course, she’d had to leave them twice already, going down to the second floor to explain to her mother that they couldn’t expect Kevin to arrive much before eleven, and she knew that in letting her excitement about Kevin’s arrival distract her from the lesson, she wasn’t being fair to the girls.

  The girls—only five of them this year—were the center of Marguerite’s life. Only when she was with them, carefully passing on to them all the dancing technique she herself had learned in her youth, was she able to forget the pain in her hip. Indeed, sometimes when she was teaching her girls, she would forget her ruined hip completely and once more find herself dancing as she had when she was young. Of course, it wasn’t the same—her movements weren’t nearly as smooth as they once had been—but the girls always watched her carefully, seeing what she was trying to show them, rather than what she was actually doing. And somehow, despite the clumsiness her lame leg inflicted upon her, they were able to understand what she wanted from them.

  Often, after the class was over, the girls would stay at Sea Oaks for a while, listening as Marguerite talked to them about what a career in ballet could offer them.

  “It can be the key to the world,” she would often say. “The dance can take you anywhere you want to go. It can open a world of music and art and beauty that no one else ever sees.”

  And it was true, even for Marguerite, whose life as a dancer had been cut short before it truly began. For even here, in the faded elegance of the ballroom, where no ball had been held for more than thirty years, Marguerite could still escape into the music, transporting herself to the great theatres of the world.

  Sometimes she would imagine herself in the Royal Ballet of Copenhagen, whirling across the stage of that small jewel box of a theatre in the heart of a city she had never seen but could clearly imagine. And it was her dreams, as well as her knowledge, that she was passing on to her students. They didn’t have to stay in Devereaux, didn’t have to give up their futures to the enervating torpor of the dying town.

  And some of them hadn’t. Three of her students had gone on from her tiny classes on the third floor of the ancient plantation house to study in New York, Paris, and London. One of her girls was a prima ballerina now, and in her room, hidden away in the bottom drawer of her bureau, Marguerite kept a scrapbook full of clippings.

  Once in a while, when she found a girl of particular promise, she would take the scrapbook out and share the treasured clippings. “This can be you,” she would say. “All it takes is work, my dear, and you can have everything.”

  With the work, Marguerite offered the girls endless patience, giving them as many hours of her time as they wanted, never too busy—or too tired—to rehearse them one more time, until every movement of every step was as perfect as she could make it.

  Except today.

  Today Kevin was coming, and though she was doing her best not to let her impatience show, she knew the girls could sense that something was taking her concentration from their lesson. And so, as the last notes of Swan Lake faded away, she smiled, and clapped her hands once in the gesture she always used to gain their attention. “I think that will be all for today,” she said. “And I want to apologize to you. I know I haven’t been quite myself this morning, and I know it hasn’t been fair to you. But my brother is coming today, and I haven’t seen him for nearly twenty years. I’m afraid I’m a little excited. I—”

  The harsh sound of the buzzer over the door sliced through her words, the buzzer her mother could use to summon her in an emergency. She smiled apologetically once again. “I guess I’m talking too much, aren’t I? Well, thank you all for coming, and I’ll try to be better focused next week. All right?”

  She started toward the door, pausing to speak to each of the girls as they said good-bye to her. Jenny Mayhew—Marguerite’s favorite, though she tried never to show it—hung back, pacing herself automatically to match her teacher’s slow step as they made their way down the stairs.

  “Does your brother have children?” Jenny asked when they were halfway down.

  Marguerite smiled at the girl. “As a matter of fact, he does. A girl just your age, and an eight-year-old boy.” A hint of a smile played around the corners of her mouth. “I suppose you were hoping it might be a boy about your age, weren’t you?”

  Jenny flushed, but Marguerite chuckled softly. “Don’t try to fool me, Jenny. It wasn’t all that long ago that I was your age, and I can tell you I’d a lot rather have had a new boy coming to town than a new girl. It always seemed we had entirely too many girls, and not enough boys to go around.”

  Jenny’s flush gave way to a grin. “I bet you could have had any boy you wanted, Miss Marguerite.”

  “Well, I won’t say I didn’t,” Marguerite replied. “Of course, after my hip went, so did the boys. It’s amazing how unpopular a limp can make you.”

  Jenny gasped in embarrassment, but Marguerite only laughed again. “Oh, come on, it wasn’t the end of the world, even if it seemed like it at the time. And if I hadn’t had the accident, I wouldn’t be teaching, would I? And then I never would have gotten to know all of you.”

  “But you would have had a career—” Jenny started to pr
otest, but Marguerite shook her head.

  “It doesn’t matter. I haven’t had a bad life, and whatever I might have done couldn’t have been as much fun as having you girls around.”

  They were on the second floor now. A thin, high-pitched voice pierced through the door at the far end. “Marguerite? Where are you? I want you!”

  “Oh, dear,” Marguerite whispered. “Now I’m in trouble, aren’t I? Well, you run along, Jenny, and I’ll see you on Thursday.” Giving the girl’s hand an affectionate squeeze, Marguerite waited until Jenny had started down toward the first floor, then hurried up the hall to try to calm her mother once more.

  She found Helena sitting up in bed, glaring angrily at Lucinda Willoughby, whose face was a mask of controlled indignation. On the floor at the nurse’s feet were the remains of the breakfast the old woman hadn’t touched all morning.

  “She’s fired,” Helena snapped as soon as Marguerite came into the room. “I won’t have, her in my house another moment!”

  “Now, Mother,” Marguerite began, but Helena cut her off.

  “Don’t you patronize me, Marguerite! This is my house, and I will have what I want.”

  Marguerite opened her mouth, but for a moment no words came out. Finally she turned to Lucinda. “What happened?” she asked, though she was almost certain she already knew.

  “I came in to ask her if her breakfast was all right, and found it on the floor.”

  Helena’s eyes sparkled with anger, and she drew herself up in the bed. “I told her it was cold, and she took it upon herself to tell me I should have eaten it when it was hot! I won’t have a—”

  “All right, Mother,” Marguerite broke in, struggling to control her own voice. “I’ll have Ruby take care of the mess, and we’ll start looking for someone else this afternoon.” With her eyes she signaled Lucinda into the hallway, then joined her a moment later, after listening to Helena’s demands as to the sort of person who must replace “the incompetent trash you hired.”

  “I’m sorry, Lucinda,” she said as she accompanied the nurse down the main stairs. “I know it wasn’t your fault, but I don’t see what I can do—”

  “It’s all right, Marguerite,” Lucinda replied. “If she hadn’t fired me, I would have quit anyway. And not for the reasons you’re thinking,” she added quickly, seeing the concern in Marguerite’s eyes. “I’ve dealt with a lot of patients and been called a lot of names. It doesn’t bother me—sick people get that way, and I don’t blame them. It’s tiring being ill, and you have to make allowances for that. But for her, having me around isn’t going to help.” Lucinda sighed, and shook her head sadly. “She’s just been getting madder and madder, and that’s not good for her. With some people a little good, honest temper can help. But not for someone like her, with a heart that could go any minute. I’ll think on it and see if I can come up with someone who can deal with her.”

  They were on the wide veranda that ran the length of the front of the house now, and Lucinda started down the front steps. Marguerite watched her as she got into her car, and waved to her as she began driving away. She was just about to go back into the house when she saw the station wagon coming along the road from the causeway, and knew immediately who it was.

  She hurried down the steps, unwilling to wait even an extra few seconds to greet her brother.

  “Well, I hope you’re proud of yourself, Miss Helena,” Ruby said as she carefully picked the last scraps of the ruined breakfast out of the threadbare carpet that covered the oak floor of the bedroom. “Now you got rid of Lucinda, so me and Miss Marguerite can do even more than we’s doing already.”

  “Which is little enough,” the old woman observed, lowering herself back onto her pillows. “And Lucinda isn’t the only person who can be fired.”

  Ruby carefully got to her feet and glanced scornfully at the woman for whom she had worked for more than fifty years. “Don’t rightly see how you can fire Miss Marguerite, and there ain’t anybody else left in the place.”

  “There’s you, Ruby,” Helena snapped. “I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak to me.”

  “And I’ll thank you for the same courtesy, though I know perfectly well I won’t get it,” Ruby replied. “Only thing that keeps me from quitting is that there ain’t no other jobs around here. And I don’t see how I can leave Miss Marguerite alone with the likes of you.”

  A vein in Helena’s forehead began throbbing, and she pushed herself once more into a sitting position. “Don’t you dare speak to me that way,” she raged. “Don’t you forget your place in this house—”

  “And don’t you either,” the old servant snapped, her own eyes glinting with anger now. “You can’t fire me, and you know it. And since I ain’t going to quit, the best thing you can do is relax and try to enjoy whatever life you got left in you!” She moved closer to the bed, and Helena shrank back, pressing herself into the pillows. “Now, I’m willing to go on about my business and go on taking care of you and Miss Marguerite just like I’ve always done, but I won’t have you throwing no more food around and driving no more nurses away! You think you’re such a high and mighty aristocrat, seems to me you better start acting like one!”

  She was about to say more when a car horn honked outside, and then the sound of voices floated in through the open window. Ruby smiled thinly. “Sounds like Mr. Kevin’s finally come home,” she said softly, her eyes fixing once more on the old woman in the bed.

  Her words seemed to galvanize Helena Devereaux. She threw back the bed covers and swung herself around so her legs hung over the bed, though her feet didn’t quite touch the floor. “Help me,” she demanded. “Help me get dressed!”

  Ruby’s eyes widened. “Get dressed? Miss Helena, you ain’t been dressed in five years! What are you thinking of?”

  “He’s my son,” Helena insisted, her eyes burning feverishly now. “I am not going to greet my son wrapped in this rag and sitting in this bed. Help me!”

  She tried to get to her feet but staggered, nearly falling, until Ruby moved forward and grasped her under the arms. Moving slowly, the old housekeeper guided Helena across the room and lowered her to the chair in front of the vanity. Immediately Helena’s hands began searching the top drawer for her comb and brush and the box of makeup she hadn’t touched for years. A minute later she began brushing the thin wisps of hair that only partially concealed her pink scalp. “The black dress,” she said. “Find the black silk, and the shoes that go with it. And my jet beads. I’ll wear them, with the garnet brooch.” She glanced into the mirror and saw Ruby still standing behind her. “Do as I say!” she commanded, her voice rising shrilly. “Now, damn you!”

  As she began applying her makeup, Ruby went to the closet and searched for the dress.

  Fifteen minutes later Helena examined herself in the mirror. “Nothing’s really changed, has it?” she asked, her voice so soft that Ruby wasn’t certain she meant to speak aloud at all. “I haven’t changed, and the house hasn’t changed. It will be almost as if he never left. We’ll all go on again, just as if he’d never been gone!”

  “But he’s only here for a visit,” the old servant replied. “He ain’t going to stay.”

  Helena’s eyes flickered in the mirror, then fixed on the servant. “Yes, he will,” she whispered darkly. “He’s a Devereaux, and no Devereaux has ever left Sea Oaks.”

  “Mr. Kevin did,” Ruby reminded her. “And you can believe he’ll leave again.”

  “He won’t,” Helena insisted. “I want him to stay here, and I’ll see to it he stays.” She turned and struggled to her feet. “How do I look?”

  Ruby stared at her mistress, wondering what to say. Helena’s hair—once luxurious, but now thin and limp—hung down around her shoulders, framing a face that had been turned into a garish parody of the beauty she had once been. The skin that years ago had glowed with a deep clarity was now covered with a mask of white powder. Thick blotches of rouge were dabbed on each cheek and a bright
red slash of lipstick was smeared across the thin line of her mouth. Whatever remnants of dignified beauty might have remained to her had been completely lost in her vain attempt to turn back the ravages of time.

  “Fine,” Ruby breathed at last, knowing that what Helena saw in the mirror bore no resemblance to reality. “You look just fine.”

  Helena smiled at her. “Then I’m ready to go downstairs, aren’t I?”

  Once again Ruby’s mouth opened in surprise. “Downstairs?” she repeated. “But Miss Helena—”

  “Don’t argue with me,” Helena commanded. “If I wish to greet my son downstairs, I shall. Now give me your arm.”

  Almost against her own will, Ruby allowed the old woman to grasp her arm, then walked her slowly out of the bedroom and down the hall to the main stairs. Supporting Helena as best she could, she helped her into the seat of the ancient chair lift that had been installed in the house years earlier. She fastened the safety strap around the old woman’s waist and waited as Helena arranged the flowing skirt of the old black silk dress. Finally, when Helena nodded her readiness, Ruby pushed the brass button at the top of the stairs.

  Instantly the machinery rattled to life and the chair began its slow descent, carrying the frail body of Helena Devereaux down from the second floor of her house for the first time in nearly a decade.

  At the bottom of the stairs Kevin and Anne Devereaux and their two children watched the slow approach of the strange apparition.

  We should never have come here.

  The thought flashed unbidden through Anne’s mind, and she took an involuntary step backward before she caught herself. She forced a smile onto her face, feeling its falseness even as she made herself step forward once more to greet the mother-in-law she’d never met. At her side she felt Jeff’s hand tighten in her own, and then, a second later, Julie took her other hand. Though neither of the children spoke a word, Anne knew that both of them were feeling exactly the same thing she was.