“Leave my room, Malcolm,” I ordered him coldly. “You are sick, and I do not ever want to hear you say such things about our daughter again.”
Malcolm left, and I was happy to explore my new baby’s perfect body, to introduce myself to her and assure her of my love and care. I counted her ten perfect dainty toes, her ten long, slender fingers. Yes, she would be everything I could never be, as well as everything I was. Through this special child, I would be able to live the life I’d never lived, for she would be loved by all who knew her. I rocked her to sleep in my arms, singing, “Hush little baby, don’t say a word, Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.” Then I drifted off beside her. It had been a long, hard day.
The winter sun was at its zenith when I pulled the curtains in my room the next day. Little Corinne, angel that she was, had slept six hours straight, unlike any newborn I had ever heard of before. The nurse came in to give her her bottle. “Let me do that,” I insisted. I had no intention of keeping any nurse around for long. I wanted to raise this child myself. Then I remembered Christopher, I had to go and see him, and introduce him to Corinne. He must have felt very lonely and bewildered. Why, I had abandoned him at the Christmas tree without a word of explanation! Reluctantly I handed Corinne to the nurse and ran to find Christopher.
He wasn’t in his bedroom. He wasn’t in his nursery. With a mounting sense of dread I ran to the north wing. I threw open the door. The room was empty, perfectly clean and still. Alicia and every trace of her ever having been there was gone.
“Christopher!” I yelled as I sped down the stairs. “Christopher! Where are you? Please, Christopher, come to your Olivia!” My voice echoed in the silent, empty halls. I sat down on the parlor sofa and cried as I hadn’t cried ever in my life. Christopher was gone, without even saying good-bye. Alicia had reclaimed her son, and Malcolm had squired them off without so much as a faretheewell to me. I swore then and there that never, never would I let the same thing happen to Corinne.
The Christmas Mal and Joel came home to was a Christmas unlike any they had ever seen or even imagined. Malcolm planned the biggest, grandest, most extravagant Christmas party ever to be given at Foxworth Hall. He had even outspent Garland, whom he often accused of being extravagant. I was quick to learn that when it came to Corinne, Malcolm’s usual frugality was forgotten. Efficiency and economy had nothing to do with what he was to consider her needs.
For one thing, the guest list was considerably expanded from the guest list for our previous Christmas parties. Close to five hundred people were invited, many who had only the slightest acquaintance with Malcolm. Almost anyone who owned property, had a business, or was a professional within a fifty-mile radius was invited. To stress the importance of Corinne, he designed a special Christmas party invitation. “Corinne Foxworth cordially invites you to her first Christmas party at Foxworth Hall” was lettered in gold at the top of the invitation.
He set up a bar in the foyer and ordered cases of expensive champagne. The bubbly liquid was fed into four enormous crystal fountains that sprayed it into great silver receiving bowls. Six waiters filled the stemmed goblets under the sparkling liquid and handed them out continuously to the arriving guests. Everywhere people turned, they were greeted by waiters and waitresses in black and white uniforms flowing in and out of the ballroom, bearing silver trays laden with dainty hors d’oeuvres—small pieces of bread smothered in caviar, pink chunks of salmon on crackers, the largest shrimps I had ever seen speared on golden toothpicks.
The other Christmas tree was replaced by one twenty-five feet high, bedecked with thousands of sparkling ornaments and lights. The star at the top of the tree was made of solid silver, and Malcolm surrounded the base with dozens and dozens of presents for Corinne wrapped in glittering holiday paper. I had to remind him to add the presents for Mal and Joel.
Malcolm tripled the number of extra servants for the occasion. Every five feet there was someone standing with a tray or someone to collect used glasses and dishes. A forty-foot table was set up against the far right wall and upon it were arrayed roasted turkeys, roasted hams, roast beefs, Cornish hens, chunks of salmon, dish after dish of caviar, platters of shrimp, and rows of lobster tails. Everything was dressed ostentatiously and placed on silver serving dishes. There were flowers on every available tabletop, and in some places tables were brought in to hold enormous poinsettias. He spared no expense.
He hired a ten-piece orchestra and had a temporary stage constructed for them in the left corner of the foyer. There was even a female singer who sang the most up-to-date music, something Malcolm rarely tolerated. He had planned this party out like a major business venture, not trusting me with any of the details.
It was as though we had ordered the weather for our Christmas party, for it was snowing gently and the big flakes added to the festive atmosphere. One of our neighbors below had harnessed a horse to a sleigh and brought some guests up the hill with the bells jingling, all of them wrapped in furs and singing holiday songs.
Butlers and maids took their coats and hats at the door and they were immediately directed to the champagne so they could toast the birth of Corinne with Malcolm, who drank more than I had ever seen him drink.
Malcolm had also ordered hundreds of red candles which flickered gaily in silver holders. All five tiers of the three gigantic crystal and gold chandeliers were lit too. The glittering lights created a web of dazzling beauty, stretched from the mirrors to the crystals to the jewels of the women.
It looked like a scene out of a movie about the kings and queens of Europe. The opulence created a sense of magic. One almost expected the arrival of Prince Charming with Cinderella on his arm.
The guests wore their richest clothing, their most expensive jewels and furs. The air was electric with their excitement, their animated chatter and laughter.
For the purpose of celebrating Corinne’s birth, Malcolm had hired a professional photographer to take pictures of her in her crib or in his arms. The photographs were then blown up into enormous sizes and placed in gold frames, a half dozen of them held up by tripods in the entranceway so people who came to the party could first see Malcolm Foxworth’s beautiful daughter. The photographer had caught the blue in her eyes and the richness of her golden hair. No one could walk past a photograph without remarking about her perfect complexion and dainty features.
In fact, Corinne’s looks became something of a topic early on. Some people, like Beneatha Thomas and Colleen Demerest, were rather obvious with their thoughts, or, rather, their jealousy. When I stopped to talk to them and some of their friends, I discovered they had been analyzing one of Corinne’s photographs in detail.
“I see so much of Malcolm in her,” Beneatha said, “but not so much of you.” I saw the way the other women smiled at one another and I recalled my first party with the Virginia society, how they had made me feel so awkward and foolish. I was determined to protect Corinne, and never let what had happened to me ever ever fall on her ears.
“I’m sure she will be strikingly beautiful and tall,” Colleen said, stressing “tall.” Some of the women turned away to hide their smirks and laughter, but I straightened into a firmer, taller posture, uninhibited. They didn’t have daughters like Corinne. We would show them all.
Snidely, I said, “Yes, I can already tell she has my disposition. She doesn’t cry and whine, so she won’t be weak and dependent like so many women are today. I expect she will have my attention span and intellectual curiosity so that when she is our age, she will have more serious subjects to talk about.” I left them standing there, speechless.
Other people made comments about Corinne’s features, however. I overheard a number of comments about her blue eyes and golden hair, about how much she looked like a Foxworth. I was walking behind Dorothea Campden, whose husband was the president of a major textile factory Malcolm was negotiating to buy, and I heard her say that Corinne was proof that children often take after their grandparents more than they do their parents.
“And in this child’s case, it’s a blessing,” she said. “At least on the mother’s side.”
Everyone in her group gasped when I stepped up to them immediately after the remark had been made.
“Blessing in what sense, Dorothea?” I asked. She was a small middle-aged woman who was in a constant battle with age, dyeing her hair, wearing clothing meant for younger women, seeking out skin creams with so-called miraculous formulas to wipe away wrinkles. I towered over her and she shrank back, her hand at her throat as if I had threatened to choke her.
“Well … I … I meant that she looks so much like Malcolm’s mother.”
“I didn’t realize you were so old, Dorothea, that you would remember his mother.”
“Well, yes, I do,” she said, her eyes darting from one woman to the next. She was looking for someone to rescue her. How I enjoyed making them uncomfortable.
“Of course, babies change so as they grow older, don’t they? Why, would anyone recognize any of you from your baby pictures?” I asked. Then I falsely raised my hand to cover my mouth, as if I’d made a terrible slip of the tongue. “Oh, I’m sorry, Dorothea. Did they have cameras when you were a child, Dorothea?”
“What? Why … of course, I …”
“Excuse me,” I said. “I see the Murphys have just arrived,” I added, and pivoted quickly to leave her stuttering.
“How rude,” someone in her group said, and they closed around her like chickens around a wounded hen.
I circulated about, sometimes interrupting similar conversations, sometimes feeling that I had just appeared when derogatory things were being said about me. I rather enjoyed baiting and biting at these vapid women. Before long, when I looked about the ballroom it seemed to me that many of them were glaring at me hatefully. But I no longer cared. Now I had Corinne and I would be known as the mother of the most beautiful child in the state.
Somehow what I was doing got back to Malcolm and he grabbed my arm and dragged me into the library with him. I recalled again that first party and the way he went into the library arm in arm with that “flapper.” It brought back my anger and pain. I was in no mood for any of his tantrums now.
“What is it that couldn’t wait?” I demanded.
“It’s you and what you’re doing out there,” he said, his eyes wide and a bit bloodshot. The champagne had gone to his head.
“Doing out there?” I knew to what he was referring, but I feigned ignorance and wore an expression of innocence.
“Insulting all those women, letting them know exactly how you feel about them, even insulting the wives of some very important business associates,” he added as if I had uttered blasphemies in front of clergymen.
“As far as I am concerned,” I began, “these so-called high society women are—”
“I don’t care what you think,” he snapped. “This isn’t your party to ruin. It’s Corinne’s. We’re doing it for Corinne. We want to give her the good beginning, not you!”
“Corinne? Are you mad? She’s my daughter, too, but she’s only an infant. I don’t want her growing up to be a frivolous spoiled thing like those women there—like your mother was. Besides, she doesn’t even know what we are doing,” I said. “And this expense for an infant… no matter how precious and wonderful she is … it’s sinful.”
“It is not sinful,” he responded, pounding his right fist into his palm. I had never seen him so animated in an argument. “It’s what she deserves.”
“Deserves?” I started to laugh.
“You’re jealous,” he said, pointing at me. “You’re jealous of an infant, jealous of Alicia for having such a beautiful baby, envious of her blue eyes and golden hair and magnificent complexion. Well, I won’t have it, I tell you; I won’t have it!” Both of his hands were now clenched into fists. I thought he was enraged and drunk enough to actually strike me, but I wouldn’t permit him to intimidate me this way.
“No, Malcolm, it’s you who are jealous. Jealous of me and my daughter.”
“What?” The idea seemed to confuse him. He backed away as if I had been the one to strike him. “She’s my daughter, not yours. She has none of your blood and none of you in her. And I’m glad of that.” His look was hateful and mean, but I wouldn’t let him hurt me now.
“Oh, no, Malcolm, you’re wrong about that. You wanted me to be this child’s mother. And I will be. And she does have me in her, she has had me in her from the moment I said I would participate in your little scheme. But now, Malcolm, it isn’t simply your scheme, it’s your life and mine, and our sons’ and our daughter’s. It’s our family and I am now as much a Foxworth as you are.” I walked past him and opened the library door.
“I am returning to the party,” I said. “You can remain in here and continue this argument with yourself for all I care.”
He collected himself and joined me, glaring at me threateningly from time to time. I ignored him. At twelve o’clock he had the nurse bring Corinne down. I had kept the boys up even though they were exhausted, and the five of us stood in front of the great Christmas tree for a family photograph.
Malcolm held Corinne, and the two boys stood on either side of me and held my hands. The lights flashed and the crowd of guests applauded. Malcolm was beaming with pride as he looked down at his daughter. She was awake, but she wasn’t crying.
“She knows it’s her party!” he announced, and gave me a piercing glance. The crowd laughed at his joviality.
“A toast,” Matthew Allen, one of Malcolm’s business associates announced. He was more like Malcolm’s stooge, I thought. He raised his champagne glass and the waiters scurried about quickly offering glasses to the guests. “To the Foxworths,” he said, “and especially to their beautiful new daughter, Corinne. Merry Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.”
“Hear, hear!” the audience chorused, and the glasses were emptied. The band struck up “Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holly” and Malcolm circulated through the crowd displaying his beautiful new daughter.
I gathered my boys to me.
“Father loves her more than he loves us,” Mal said. He was so perceptive. It gave me hope.
“You must learn to live with that, Mal. Both of you must learn,” I said. I hugged both my boys to my breast. I loved them dearly, and my love and protection were large enough for three children. No one would be left out of my affections. I kissed them both on their heads and hugged them again as the three of us watched Malcolm across the big room holding his golden daughter up into the air so she almost looked like a cherub that had flown from the Christmas tree. He held her there and smiled in jubilation.
14
Corinne
FROM THE NIGHT OF THE CHRISTMAS PARTY ON, MALCOLM never hesitated to show that his love of Corinne had no boundaries. The boys knew this, and it really hurt them and I tried and tried to compensate, to reassure them that all children were precious to their parents, that they would always be cherished by me and by Malcolm, too, even if it wasn’t so easy for him to show his affection for his sons. I think the boys were actually happy to return to school after the New Year, so displaced did they feel by the fuss Malcolm continually made over Corinne. He was home most evenings now, where before he almost always went out. He endlessly crowed and crooned over Corinne, while, as usual, criticizing and overly disciplining Mal and Joel. My heart went out to them. They were good boys, sweet and loving, and I know they felt lost amid the attention Malcolm lavished on Corinne. After they left, I felt free to turn more of my attention to her too.
But Malcolm insisted that the nurse whom he had hired in the beginning remain. Every time I went to feed, or even to lift Corinne, that woman was hovering behind me, trying to take control, frowning disapprovingly at the way I handled my daughter. This really angered me.
One morning, while Mrs. Stratton was giving Corinne her bottle, I blew up. “I told you time and time again that I am to be the only one who feeds Corinne. How dare you disobey my orders.”
“Ma’a
m,” she countered snidely. “I was never told I was to follow your orders. On the contrary, Mr. Foxworth instructed me in detail exactly how he wanted every aspect of the baby’s schedule to be executed.”
“What?” I was flabbergasted. “I want you out of this house this afternoon. Services such as yours will no longer be necessary.”
“I’m afraid there’s some confusion, Mrs. Foxworth,” Mrs. Stratton persisted. “When Mr. Foxworth hired me, our agreement was that the child would remain under my care indefinitely.”
I was furious, but I didn’t want my rage to infect my sweet innocent child, so I quickly turned and stormed out of the room. All that morning I paced the corridors of Foxworth Hall, filled with agitation and determined once again to take control of this situation from Malcolm.
That afternoon I had my second surprise: the decorators arrived. Again it was something Malcolm had contracted to do without my knowledge. They proceeded to the room adjacent to his and began planning out the construction of Corinne’s personal nursery. It was Malcolm’s decision that she not use the boys’ nursery. New furniture had been ordered, and I saw from the intensity with which the decorators worked that Malcolm had demanded everything be completed post haste. Again, no expense was too great when it came to Corinne, and I was to have no input about the colors of the new wallpaper and rug or the style of the furniture. The decorators barely acknowledged my presence.
I sat fuming all day. I tried reaching Malcolm at his offices, but Malcolm rarely, if ever, spoke to me on the telephone. During Corinne’s first few weeks, he did call once in a while to ask about her, but usually he spoke to Mrs. Stratton. If I ever did phone him, his secretaries told me he was in a meeting or away from his desk. It mattered not that I left a message for him to return my call. Whenever I asked him about it, he told me he was just so busy, he never got to call me back; so I stopped calling him.
Garden of Shadows (Dollanganger) Page 21
