by John Saul
Julie’s brows arched. “Well, I like her, but if Mom ever treated me the way Grandmother treats Aunt Marguerite, I sure wouldn’t be around very long.”
Kevin chuckled. “All right, so you’re not exactly like her. Which is fine with me. I like you just the way you are.” Then his voice turned serious again. “And as for your mother treating you the way my mother treats Marguerite, you needn’t worry about it. If your mother were anything like mine, you can believe I wouldn’t have married her.”
Anne drew herself up in mock indignation. “That, Kevin, has to be the weakest compliment I’ve ever received. From what I’ve seen today, nobody in the world is like—”
But before she could finish, there was a sudden shrieking from upstairs, followed by a loud thump. Instantly Kevin and Anne rose to their feet and hurried up the stairs, followed by Julie and Jeff. Behind them, moving her bulk more slowly, Ruby, too, started up the stairs.
Kevin opened the door to his mother’s bedroom to find the old woman propped against her pillows, her eyes fixed furiously on Marguerite, who was sprawled on the floor by the bed, her lame leg twisted beneath her, her face contorted into a grimace of pain.
Kevin glanced quickly at his mother, then dropped to the floor to help Marguerite. “What happened?” he asked.
Marguerite looked at him ruefully. “She said I didn’t get her dinner up quickly enough, and it was cold.”
Kevin’s jaw dropped as he stared at the plate of untouched food on his mother’s tray. “But—for Christ’s sake! You brought it up an hour ago, before we even started. Didn’t she eat it?”
Marguerite shook her head quickly, but said nothing. Kevin stood up, glaring at his mother and the heavy cane still clutched in her hand. Suddenly he understood. “So you hit her, Mother? You sat there while it got cold, then called Marguerite up here so you could hit her with your cane?”
Helena’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and when she spoke, her voice was a malevolent hiss. “Watch what you say, Kevin. You don’t know her as I do. You haven’t been here! You went away and left us alone! Don’t you start criticizing now, young—”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Mother,” Kevin snapped. “Stop behaving like a child. Marguerite, come on. Ruby can reheat it, or I’ll do it myself. But you come back down and finish your dinner.”
Marguerite started to get up from the floor, but before she had regained her feet, Helena’s voice lashed out like a whip.
“No! I want her to do it, Kevin! If she’s going to spend her life acting like a servant, who are you to stop her?”
Stunned, Kevin looked down at his sister.
Though her eyes had filled with tears, Marguerite said nothing. Instead, she simply pulled herself unsteadily to her feet, and picked up her mother’s tray.
* * *
It was long after midnight when Kevin slid out of bed, careful not to disturb Anne, whose breathing had slipped into the regular rhythms of sleep hours before. Kevin himself had lain awake, feeling the house around him, his nostrils filled with the familiar scents of his childhood, the summer night heavy with the shrill sounds of tropical insects. All of it seemed so far in the past and yet was still so familiar.
But the image that hung in his mind was that of Marguerite, crouched painfully on the floor, betraying nothing of her pain and humiliation, quietly suffering her mother’s fury. How long had it been like this? he wondered. And why had Marguerite never called him, never told him what was happening and what her life had come to?
Or did she even realize that her existence didn’t have to be tied to a bitter woman who was living in the past?
Knowing he wasn’t going to drift into sleep, he put on a light robe and went out into the broad corridor, closing the door behind him. He needed no lights—every inch of the house seemed familiar to him, and as he moved along the hall toward the main staircase, he remembered each of the rooms as he passed them.
Even when he was a child, the many guest rooms of the mansion had already begun to deteriorate, for the wide circle of wealthy friends his grandparents had once entertained had long since disappeared, along with the large staff of servants necessary to keep up the house in the manner for which it was designed. Though he hadn’t yet looked at them, he was certain they were just as he remembered them, although no doubt more faded—the Blue Room, the Emerald Room, the Rose Room—all of them with their damask wallpaper, their matching carpets, their marble fireplaces.
He moved down the stairs, through the small reception room and into the main salon, instinctively sidestepping the bench of the grand piano. He switched on the crystal lamp on the table behind the Louis XVI sofa, and the room was suffused with a soft glow that couldn’t quite wash the shadows away from the far corners. He crossed toward the double doors that led through a small solarium to the dining room, pausing for a moment to gaze up at the portrait of his mother above the fireplace.
Done in France by a society painter who had been the rage among touring Americans, his mother was posed in the formal costume of a danseuse of her day, her hair drawn back from her face, her high cheekbones needing no makeup to accentuate them. One hand was lifted gracefully, and her left leg was oddly bent, as if she were about to loft herself to her toes. Kevin stared at the picture for several minutes, trying to see in that youthful face any faint hints of the haggard and bitter harridan the portrait’s subject had become.
There were none.
He moved on, then, pausing in the solarium, but passing quickly through the dining room and the butler’s pantry to the enormous old-fashioned kitchen. Little here had changed since he was a boy. The ancient range still stood against the far wall, opposite the immense built-in iceboxes that had been electrified long before he was born. An array of enormous pots and pans, their copper still kept immaculate by Ruby, hung on the rack above the long counter, but he was certain they weren’t used anymore, for next to the sink, stacked neatly in a draining rack, was the cook ware Ruby had used for that evening’s dinner—small pans, of a size to serve six instead of sixteen or twenty-six.
At last he opened the refrigerator, pulled out the remains of the roast, found some bread, and made himself a sandwich. He sat down at the table next to the window and listened for a while to the sounds of the house.
A light breeze had come up, and limbs brushed against the house’s siding. Everywhere there were faint creaks as the old wood adjusted to the slightly cooler temperature of the night.
And then, slowly, he began to feel a creeping sensation on the back of his neck. The hairs stood on end and a faint chill passed over him.
A plank of the floor creaked loudly, and he started, turning quickly, not certain what to expect.
Ruby stood at the door to her room, her old eyes fixed on him, her expression strangely blank. She smiled faintly and moved toward him.
“Can’t sleep, can you, Mr. Kevin,” she said softly. “Just like when you were a boy. Well, I reckon you’re gonna have to get used to more nights like that, now that you’ve come home.”
Kevin frowned and shook his head. “Not many, Ruby,” he replied. “And I haven’t come home. My home is in Connecticut. I’m just here for a couple of weeks’ vacation.”
Ruby settled her weight into the chair opposite him, grunting slightly with the effort. “Not a couple of weeks,” she said. “You’re back, and you’ll stay back. No Devereaux has ever left Sea Oaks yet.”
Kevin cocked his head, his brows rising. “I did. I’ve been gone a long time, Ruby. I’m not coming back.”
“That’s not what Miz Helena says,” Ruby countered. “She says you done come back and you going to stay. And you ask me, if that’s what she says, that’s what she mean. You’ll stay.”
Kevin’s voice hardened slightly. “I didn’t ask you, Ruby,” he said. “But since you’ve taken it upon yourself to tell me, let me answer you. I don’t give a damn what my mother wants, and haven’t since I was eight years old. No more than she’s given a damn what I want. So why would I sta
y? I love my family, and I love my life, and I have no intention of changing it. Certainly,” he added, glancing meaningfully around the ancient kitchen, “not to live in this relic and try to pretend there’s anything left in Devereaux for any of us. The town’s dead, Ruby, and so is the house. When Mother’s gone—if Mother’s gone—I’ll be gone too. But even if she lives awhile longer, I won’t be staying.”
Ruby said nothing, only watching him with her nearly black eyes. At last she heaved herself slowly to her feet and started back toward her room. She had nearly reached the door when she stopped and turned back.
“I understand what you’re saying, Mr. Kevin,” she said. “But I know what Miz Helena means. You are a Devereaux, Mr. Kevin, and you will stay at Sea Oaks. That’s just the way things are. Don’t try to fight it, Mr. Kevin. It won’t do you no good at all. None.” Before he could reply, she disappeared into her own room and silently closed the door behind her.
Kevin sat alone for a long time after Ruby left, then finally bit into his sandwich. It tasted dry, and the bread seemed to stick in his throat. Throwing the rest of it into the trash basket beneath the sink, he switched off the lights and went back upstairs.
But even after he was back in bed and had heard the clock in the hall softly strike the hour of two A.M., he was still awake.
Ruby’s words had driven the last possibility of sleep from him, and now the tiredness in his body was accentuated by something else.
A cold knot of fear had begun forming deep inside him as he wondered if perhaps Ruby wasn’t right.
Perhaps, indeed, his mother had determined that he should not be allowed to escape from Sea Oaks again.
Perhaps she intended to imprison him, just as she had imprisoned Marguerite.
Perhaps she intended to imprison them all.
CHAPTER 4
By Thursday morning Anne was beginning to grow used to the strange daily rhythm of Devereaux Island. Breakfast, she had learned, was served at exactly seven in the morning, and, like all meals, was constantly interrupted by the harsh buzzing that signaled Helena Devereaux’s insistent demands for her daughter’s attentions. After breakfast Ruby would go about her cleaning, moving heavily about the house. Anne was certain that each year fewer of the rooms were used. Most of them, indeed, were closed off, their furnishings draped with muslin dust covers, their heavy draperies drawn against the brilliant burning of the sun. Ruby would go slowly through the rooms still in use, dust cloth in her hand, but her ministrations had little effect—the house, though occupied by seven people now, was still imbued with the stultifying atmosphere of a museum. Even Julie and Jeff found themselves unconsciously lowering their voices when they were inside.
After breakfast Marguerite disappeared into her mother’s room, where she would sit in a chair whose upholstery had grown shiny from constant use, reading quietly to Helena, who lay in her bed, snoring softly.
Unless Marguerite stopped reading.
Then the querulous tones of the old woman’s voice would sound through the house as she berated her daughter. “I don’t ask much,” were the words she repeated most often. “I’ve taken care of you all your life—the least you can do is read to me a little now and then!” Once, Anne listened outside Helena’s door, but all she heard after the old woman’s furious outburst was the calm melody of Marguerite’s sweetly modulated voice.
Before lunch Marguerite would change clothes, always appearing on the veranda as if she were prepared to greet twenty guests, though there was never anyone but the family in attendance. Somehow, even when Anne herself felt her clothes clinging damply to her skin, Marguerite always managed to look cool and fresh, her dark hair coiled up in a French twist held in place by a large tortoise-shell comb. On anyone else the ornament might have looked ridiculous, but the comb only accentuated Marguerite’s graceful figure, and if she felt self-conscious about her pronounced limp, she never showed it. Yet, even on the veranda, there was no escape from the buzzer’s demands. Indeed, Anne had quickly realized that the buzzer was only silent during the long hot afternoons when an even deeper somnolence fell over the house. Then Helena would drift into a fitful nap while Marguerite disappeared into the sewing room, where she would spend an hour or two at the ancient Singer.
Already, she had produced a sea-green shift for Julie, its waist loosely belted in white, which not only fit Julie perfectly, but set off her skin in a manner that lent her the same exotic beauty as her aunt’s.
Each of the evenings was a repeat of the first one they had spent at Sea Oaks—a simple meal, ruined by Helena’s continued demands for attention.
For Anne, unused to the southern heat, the days were turning into endless damp hells of boredom, which she spent searching for shelter from the oppressive heat. Once, on the third day of their visit, she’d driven across the causeway into the village, but quickly returned. The stark poverty of its dusty streets and failing businesses had only depressed her more, and by the time she returned to Sea Oaks she understood well why Marguerite seldom left the island and sent Ruby to do what little shopping was necessary. And so, on Thursday morning, she wasn’t surprised when Julie, her expression almost guilty, asked her how much longer they would be staying.
Anne smiled sympathetically at her teenage daughter, knowing full well how she herself would have reacted to being stuck in such a place when she was fifteen. “It seems like weeks already, doesn’t it?” she asked. When Julie nodded, but said nothing, Anne sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you, darling. Your father keeps saying it’ll just be another day or two, but knowing how your grandmother is …” Her voice trailed off, and she could read the disappointment in Julie’s eyes.
“It’s just that there’s nothing to do,” Julie said softly. “Dad keeps finding things around here to fix—”
“Which could certainly take a year or so,” Anne observed archly, but Julie didn’t seem to notice her mother’s attempt at a joke.
“—and Jeff has Toby to play with, but I haven’t met anybody yet.”
Her aunt’s voice interrupted her. “I intend to fix that this very morning,” Marguerite said, stepping out onto the veranda. Julie flushed in embarrassment, but Marguerite tossed her niece’s discomfort away with an airy gesture. “My girls are coming this morning, and I thought you might like to join the class.”
Julie looked at her aunt uncertainly. “I—I don’t know. I’ve been taking ballet for three years, but—”
Understanding immediately, Marguerite squeezed Julie’s hand. “If you’re worried that you might not be good enough, you can stop,” she said. “Every now and then I get a really good student, but most of them are …” She hesitated, searching for just the right words. “Well, let’s just say they aren’t all quite as motivated as they might be, shall we?” She turned to Anne, winking. “Still, whatever I can teach them, I’m happy to do. And even if you don’t want to join the class,” she finished, turning back to Julie, “at least you can meet the girls.”
“I’d love it,” Julie replied. “And I’m sorry about what I said before. I didn’t really mean for you to hear it. It isn’t that I don’t like it here—”
“Enough!” Marguerite commanded, holding up her hand to stem Julie’s words. “You’re not the only one who doesn’t have anything to do around here, you know. That’s one of the reasons I keep teaching—it gives all the girls something to do. Besides—” But once again her words were interrupted by the sharp sound of Helena’s buzzer, and almost automatically she turned and disappeared back into the stifling darkness of the house.
“I feel so sorry for her,” Julie said, her eyes filling with tears. “Aunt Marguerite’s so nice, and Grandmother’s so mean to her. Why doesn’t she just—” And then, before she spoke the word, Julie bit it back.
“Why doesn’t she just die?” Anne finished quietly, and Julie turned to face her mother, nodding unhappily.
“I wish I didn’t think that, but—”
“But you do,” Anne finished for her.
“And so do I, if it’s any help. Of course, it would be nice if your grandmother was a sweet old lady we could all love, but the fact of the matter is that she’s not. So you mustn’t worry about what you might think of her.”
“I don’t even see why we came,” Julie said, releasing the anger that had slowly built inside her over the last few days. “Grandmother won’t talk to Jeff or me, and she hardly speaks to you. I don’t even think she cares that Dad’s here!”
“I know,” Anne sighed. “But we’re not just here for her. We have to think of your father too. If this visit will make him feel better about staying away so long, then it will be worth it. All right?”
Julie nodded, and Anne gave her a reassuring hug. “Now let’s go up and find you something to wear to Marguerite’s class. I think I have a running suit that’ll fit you, if you don’t mind dying of heat.”
“Shoes!” Julie exclaimed. “I didn’t bring any toe shoes!”
Anne smiled triumphantly. “Which is exactly what mothers are for. At the last minute I stuck in a pair. I couldn’t believe you wouldn’t be dancing at all.” Together, they went into the house and started up the stairs, just missing being bowled over by Jeff, who was pounding down from the second floor, two steps at a time.
“Hey!” Anne cried out, swinging him off his feet. “Where are you going in such a hurry? Didn’t I tell you not to run in the house?”
“But it’s Toby,” Jeff protested, squirming in his mother’s grasp. “He’s coming across the causeway, and he’s got a fishing pole!”
“A fishing pole!” Anne repeated. “Well, I guess we can’t get in the way of fishing!” She set Jeff back on his feet, then she and Julie went on upstairs.
As they passed the closed door to Helena’s room, they could hear the old woman’s voice, railing once more at Marguerite.
Self-consciously they quickened their steps, neither of them wishing to witness Marguerite’s humiliation.
