The Dark House

by John Sedgwick

  She stirred, stretched, groaned. “You might want to think about a midsize, Rolo,” she said. “God, my back.”

  Marj spotted a Denny’s in the mall, and they climbed out of the car to use its bathroom. Rollins hated to be apart from her while she went into the women’s room. In the men’s, Rollins almost didn’t recognize the shadowy, unkempt, bleary-eyed figure staring back at him in the mirror over the sink. His clothes seemed encrusted on him. He used the toilet, splashed some water on his face, tucked in his shirt, and then joined Marj at a table for a breakfast that neither one had much stomach for.

  “You okay?” Rollins asked Marj as he watched her pick at her eggs.

  “I’m not sure I can do this, Rolo.”

  “It’s only my mother.”

  “Oh, right. Only.”

  Afterward, they returned to the car and drove back to Maple Hill, and parked in the visitors’ lot. He switched off the engine, but she didn’t move.

  “I’m just going to talk to her,” he said. “There are things we need to find out.”

  “Be careful, okay?”

  Rollins came around to open the car door for her, but Marj had already stepped out by the time he reached her. The two made their way through the big glass door to the reception desk. Unshaven and filthy in his California clothes, Rollins felt like an impostor, but the woman at the desk merely asked him to sign in while she telephoned up to his mother to say her son was here. She put down the receiver. “Should she have been expecting you?”

  “No. Tell her I was in the area.”

  The receptionist passed that along.

  “Okay,” she told him. “You know where it is?”

  His mother’s apartment was on the third floor, at the end of a long hall that was broken up by loveseat-and-table clusters that looked like they’d never been sat in. A few of the doors they passed were adorned with sprigs of plastic flowers. But his mother’s door bore only a metal nameplate with JANE ROLLINS on it.

  Rollins straightened his shirt collar and gave Marj’s hand a squeeze. Then he knocked. After an agonizing delay, his mother swung the door open. She was dressed informally—for her—in a white blouse and blue skirt. Her thin lips were brightened by lipstick, and she’d rouged her cheeks. Hastily, it seemed.

  “Oh, my heavens,” his mother declared as she took in Rollins’ attire. “Look at you.”

  Rollins braced himself for questions, but none came. Neither did a kiss, a handshake, an embrace. There was nothing between them.

  His mother turned to Marj in her running clothes. “And what do we have here?”

  “This is my friend Marj Simmons, Mother.”

  “My my,” Mrs. Rollins said, looking Marj up and down.

  Inside, Rollins recognized some of the artwork—a Flemish landscape, a craggy mountain scene done by a lesser member of the Hudson River School—from the library of the Brookline house. The striped chair by the window had come from his mother’s bedroom: she’d always sat in it to brush her hair while she listened to the evening symphony on the radio. But these familiar items were intermixed with some newer, too-bright watercolors and blond-wood Danish furniture that didn’t seem to go. Perhaps he and Marj didn’t belong here, either.

  “I used to know an Alexandra Simmons in Brookline,” his mother was telling Marj. “Married a Princeton man, Connie Baxter. Is she one of yours, do you suppose?”

  “I don’t think so,” Marj replied, coloring a little. “I’m from the Midwest.”

  “No Eastern relations?” His mother sounded disappointed.

  “None that I know of. My parents are from Chicago.”

  “No matter.” Mrs. Rollins clasped her hands together, as if to dismiss a subject that had proved unpromising. She sat Rollins and Marj down on the green velvet couch, which Rollins realized had come from his father’s dressing room. It was soft and wide, and Rollins suddenly had a hideous vision of his father reclining on it with Neely. Mrs. Rollins plucked the tea cozy off the engraved silver teapot on the low table between them. “It should have steeped by now. I’ve got some toast here, too.” She pointed to a plate with a short stack of sliced toast, and butter and jam beside it. “I didn’t know what you’d want.”

  “Actually, we’ve eaten,” Rollins said.

  “Have some tea, anyway,” his mother insisted. “Formosa oolong—very healthful.” She poured out cups for her guests. They chattered in her hand as she passed them. She followed each cup with a tiny urn of sugar cubes (complete with a tiny pair of tongs) and a small, silver milk pitcher. “Now tell me, Marjorie, are you one of Edward’s friends from Williams?” she asked Marj.

  Rollins heard the coolly gracious tone of a church social.

  “I went to Lesley,” Marj replied.

  “Oh, yes, of course. Now I remember. You’re with him at Johnson.” Mrs. Rollins seemed to regain her balance a little, now that she had placed Marj in an acceptable part of the universe.

  “That’s right,” Marj said uneasily, with a glance at Rollins. “We’ve been working in the same department.”

  Mrs. Rollins raised an eyebrow. “That’s permitted, Edward? Dating a colleague?”

  “It doesn’t really matter,” Rollins said. “We’ve quit.”

  Mrs. Rollins pulled her head back as if she had encountered an unpleasant smell. “Well! You are full of surprises this morning.”

  “What, your spies haven’t told you?” Rollins asked.

  His mother’s face was like an arrowhead—nose, eyes, and mouth narrowed toward him. “What on earth—?”

  “Oh, Mother. For God’s sake—let’s quit this.” Rollins set his teacup down with a clatter. “I need some answers from you.”

  “My goodness, you sound like some sort of prosecutor.” Mrs. Rollins turned to Marj as if trying to win an ally against a monster that had loomed up in their midst. To Rollins’ relief, Marj turned her gaze away.

  “Am I on trial on here?” Mrs. Rollins asked. She sounded amused, as if her son’s behavior had to be a joke.

  “What do you know about Jerry Sloane, Mother?”

  “Why, I don’t believe I know anyone by that name,” she replied airily.

  “He’s a realtor,” Rollins pressed.

  Mrs. Rollins still looked blank; she was the picture of innocence. “Sorry.”

  “You recommended him to your sister when she was selling Cornelia’s house.”

  Finally, a slight glimmer. “Did I?”

  “Aunt Eleanor told me you did.”

  “Well, perhaps I did then.” She picked some lint off her skirt, giving it far more attention than she did her visitors. “You’ll find when you get to my age, you forget so many things. I’m lucky if I can remember my own name some days.” She turned to Marj. “You sure you wouldn’t like some toast?”

  Rollins raised his voice slightly—enough to lower the temperature in the room noticeably. “He stands to inherit Cornelia’s estate.”

  “Who does, dear?” she asked idly.

  “Jerry Sloane.”

  “Well, isn’t that interesting.”

  “Through Cornelia’s friend Elizabeth Payzen,” he said, eyeing his mother’s response. “She’s Cornelia’s sole beneficiary. And Jerry Sloane is hers.”

  His mother said nothing, but her eyes did not leave his.

  “Elizabeth died yesterday,” Rollins went on.

  “I’m sorry,” his mother said.

  “Of course you are, Mother. Jerry comes in to the money next month.” He explained about the seven-year rule, which appeared to be a revelation to her. “Perhaps as much as ten million—isn’t that what you told me?”

  “Yes, I suppose I did.” His mother turned her head away, as if the news possibly weighed more heavily on her than her words would indicate. “How lucky for him.”

  “And for Father,” Rollins said evenly.

  Mrs. Rollins turned back to him—the quick, sharp movement, Rollins thought, of a frightened animal.

  “They’re friends, too,” Rol
lins went on. “Small world—isn’t it, Mother? They met under rather scandalous circumstances, at a house in North Reading. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? A ranch house on Elmhurst Drive. Number twenty-nine? Neely went there, too. I’ve seen photographs. They’d shock you, Mother. They shocked me.”

  “Well, thank you for the information.” It was the tone she used with salesmen.

  “It’s nothing you don’t know.”

  Mrs. Rollins turned to Marj, whose glance had been shifting uneasily from mother to son. “You must forgive him. There has always been some strain between us.”

  “That’s family for you,” Marj said. “I’ve got one of my own.”

  “You’re in on this, aren’t you, Mother?” Rollins shot out the words like bullets.

  “My dear boy, I have hardly understood a thing you’ve said from the moment you arrived. In on what?”

  “Neely’s murder!” Rollins thundered.

  Hearing those words spring from his lips must have been like seeing the world crack apart. Marj’s eyes widened, and Rollins felt himself quaking in unusual parts of his body, like his wrists and the underside of his knees.

  But his mother merely shook her head. Rollins had seen that expression before: years ago, when she spoke to his psychiatrist, Dr. Ransome, after his sessions. Bafflement and self-pity that a son of hers should have such regrettable problems; that’s what her look said.

  Rollins’ irritation mounted—a lifetime of slights, indignities, and willful misunderstandings on the part of his mother now rose in his chest. He tried to pierce her with his eyes, to strip away that protective veneer and engage with the soul underneath—a soul, he thought bitterly, he had only inferred. But she looked away.

  “He’s a real bastard, Mother, and you’ve been working with him,” Rollins seethed.

  “That is quite enough.”

  Rollins leaped up. “My God! I can’t believe it! You!” The words flew out of his mouth, high-pitched and breathless. He was barely aware of what he was saying. “You! You had Neely killed!”

  His mother tensed; her gaze tightened on him. “Would you please talk sense.”

  “We’ve seen the letter, Mrs. Rollins,” Marj told her.

  Mrs. Rollins turned to Marj. “Don’t you start.”

  Rollins came to Marj’s aid. “The one that Cornelia wrote to you, telling you of her affair with your husband.”

  “You couldn’t have,” Mrs. Rollins snapped.

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because I burned it.”

  That brought silence for a moment. Rollins could hear some people slowly make their way down the corridor outside her door. “We saw a copy, Mother. A carbon copy from her typewriter. She kept it.”

  Mrs. Rollins picked up her napkin and then set it down again. “I see.” She looked at Rollins, who was standing up just to her left. “Oh, sit down, would you?” she commanded. “I think we’ve had enough histrionics for one morning.”

  With some irritation, Rollins returned to the sofa.

  “All right,” Mrs. Rollins continued. “I will tell you about that letter. It’s time you knew. It’s past time. Hand me that cane, would you?” She directed Marj to the walking stick propped against the end of the sofa. “Excuse me, but I must rise. I find that my hip bothers me if I sit too long.” She took the cane from Marj, stood up, and went to the window. It bothered Rollins that his mother should range freely while he was confined to the couch.

  “Yes, I received Cornelia’s letter.” It had not come in a conventional envelope, Mrs. Rollins explained, but in a puffy brown mailer. It arrived in late December 1969 with the words Do Not Open Until Christmas on the front, along with the initials C. B. Mrs. Rollins didn’t recognize the initials or the handwriting. She figured it was a box of chocolates from somebody at the club and set it under the tree without thinking. On Christmas Day, however, she couldn’t find the package. Increasingly puzzled, she searched everywhere for it. She finally found it late that night; it was out in the trash barrels behind the house. “Of course, it didn’t contain chocolates at all.”

  Besides Cornelia’s letter, the package contained photocopies of twenty or thirty of Henry’s love letters to her. Jane Rollins read them all right there in the driveway in the light from the windows, even though it was snowing, and she was standing there just in her slippers. “They were very passionate letters. Rather graphic.”

  “We’ve read them,” Rollins said. “Cornelia saved those, too.”

  “Have you.” Mrs. Rollins stopped a moment. “Then you know. Your father was asleep by then, and I ran right into his room and woke him up. I’m surprised you didn’t hear us, because, my God, I tore into him. I felt such anger. I made him leave that night. Just—out. Good-bye. I simply could not bear to have him stay another minute.”

  When she finished her tale, there was silence for a few moments—until Rollins started clapping. Slowly at first, then faster. “Well done, Mother,” he exclaimed. “A stunning performance.”

  Mrs. Rollins looked at him, surprised.

  “There’s only one problem,” Rollins went on.

  “What’s that?”

  “You already knew. You’d known for years. You knew the night that Stephanie died. You knew when you screamed at me, blaming me for her death. When I was six, damn you. Six! When I was not to blame. And you knew when you slapped Neely and sent her out of the house.”

  “How can you presume to say what I knew?”

  “Because Father told me,” Rollins said. Beside him, Marj looked at him anxiously. But he felt strong, secure. He had gotten very good at lying.

  His mother professed surprise. “When?”

  “Just last night, Mother. On the phone. He’s in Townshend, you know. I called him. We had a nice talk. We hadn’t talked like that in years. Much of it was about you. Oh, yes, Mother. He told me all about your arrangement with him.”

  Mrs. Rollins eased back slightly onto the windowsill. Rollins had the sense of her falling, as though some powerful support had given way beneath her. Marj had been right. She had known his mother better than he had himself. Now, it was as if he were seeing his mother for the first time. She had granted her husband his fateful affair with Neely: It had gained her the upper hand. She held his secret, and she also got to play the stoic, a role to which she was always much better suited than that of lover.

  “So, after the letter, you cast him out,” Rollins told her. “You married again. To dear Albert Crossan, may he rest in peace. And Father remarried, too. Not once, but twice. But you couldn’t forget him, could you? He was the only man you ever loved—that’s what you were trying to tell me at the Harvard Club, wasn’t it?” He waited a moment, then decided to give the knife another twist. “And he loved you, too. He told me that.”

  “He did?” Rollins’ mother said eagerly. “He said that?”

  “Yes. He loved you. He loved everything about you.”

  There was hope in her eyes.

  She was exposed; it was time to strike. “Especially your money. That was the thing he loved best. And those fabulous parties you got invited to. And, oh yes, he loved your many connections in Boston society. And your family. He just loved your family. Especially Neely.”

  “The viper!” His mother seemed to be in physical pain.

  “He also told me his suspicions about you and Jerry Sloane.”

  “Me and—?” It was as if he’d struck her.

  “That’s what he said, Mother. I wanted to speak to you before I reported it to the authorities.”

  A last flicker of anger. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Rollins stood up, victorious. “I think we can go now, Marj.”

  Leaning on her cane, Mrs. Rollins lurched unsteadily toward them, her arm outstretched toward her son. “No! Don’t go—please!” A new tone in her voice—asking, not telling.

  For the first time ever, he thought his mother might actually cry. He pressed his advantage. “As I said before, M
other. I’ve come here for answers. If I can’t get them, I’ll let the police do it.” He reached for the door handle.

  “Wait!”

  Rollins stopped, turned.

  His mother was leaned toward him, her hand outstretched. Seeing him halted before her, she clamped her free hand down on her cane to recover her balance. She waited a moment, as if to muster the strength for what she had to say.

  “All right. Yes, I loved your father. To that, I plead guilty.” She waited a moment. “He could be difficult. Every man comes at a price. That affair with young Cornelia was his. Oh, but it was a vile, horrid thing. I suppose I tried to convince myself that she enticed him. There are two sides to these stories, you’ll find. Always. But yes, my God, I did love him. We had some wonderful times together.” She leaned back against the doorway to the kitchen, as if exhausted by the revelation. “Sometimes, I think that those early years with Henry were the only time I ever really lived.” She paused a moment. “Pathetic, I suppose.” Her voice found a deeper register. “But I had nothing to do with Cornelia’s disappearance. The first I heard of it was a week after it happened, when my sister called me in a panic to say that Cornelia couldn’t be found anywhere.” She reached for her son’s hand. “You have to believe that, Edward, no matter what your father says. I am shocked that he would suggest otherwise. That is a detestable lie.”

  Her eyes fell again; she looked abject, ashamed. “But yes, I do know Jerry Sloane. I should have been more candid with you. I am not particularly proud of the association.” She paused. “I met him through your stepfather at a golf event of his on the North Shore. The concrete business attracts all sorts, as you may know. We fell into conversation. He was drinking, I believe. He mentioned to me that he knew my former husband. Gradually, things proceeded from there. He has been very useful to me. He is a man of the world. He knows things that I could never have found out on my own, and would not care to. He was my liaison to Henry.”

  “Through the house in North Reading?”

  “Initially, yes.” She closed her eyes, as if seeking absolution.

  “Did you have any idea what went on there?”