The End in All Beginnings

by John F. D. Taff

  He heard his knock on the heavy wooden door echo through the cavernous house. It didn’t take long for someone to answer it. A hand pushed aside a corner of the sheer curtain covering the door’s glass, and Chris heard a startled intake of breath.

  After some fumbling with the locks, a man drew the door open slowly. He was perhaps sixty or so, dressed casually but warmly for a Midwestern autumn morning. He looked on Chris as if he wasn’t sure whether he should let him in.

  “Good lord,” the man whispered, his breath puffing out in clouds of fog. “How did you get out?”

  Although the only memory of this man that came to Chris immediately was his name, Uncle Joe, there was something cold and off-putting about him.

  “Well, come in, I suppose,” Joe said. “Any man who could manage that deserves at least a cup of coffee and some breakfast.”

  They wound their way through hallways lined with family pictures, faces barely glimpsed, barely remembered. In the large, airy kitchen, Joe poured him a cup, handed it to him. He drained it quickly, hoping that its warmth would steel his muscles, stop them from shaking. But it didn’t. Nonetheless, he held out his cup for more.

  “How much do you remember?” Joe asked.

  “A little more all the time, especially after seeing this place.”

  Best to play it safe with everyone and pretend to know a lot less than you do.

  Which shouldn’t be hard.

  “Are you planning on staying?” Joe asked, looking over the rim of his thick, porcelain cup to see what kind of reaction this elicited.

  He’s as scared of me as he is of her.

  “I don’t know,” Chris answered, setting his cup down. “Where is she?”

  “In the breakfast room. If you want, I could...”

  “No thanks,” he smiled. “I’ve managed quite well for the last couple of years without any help from the family. I suppose I can deal with this, too.”

  As he turned, Joe caught hold of his shoulder. “She’s not as patient as she used to be.”

  But Chris’s smile only tightened. “Neither am I.”

  * * *

  He took a shortcut he wasn’t aware he knew. Through the butler’s pantry, across the hallway, through the parlor, his path unfolded before him with each step.

  The breakfast room was at the rear of the house, looking out to the woods. It wasn’t part of the original structure, but had been added by Uncle Frank when Chris was still a kid. Another chill at that name, and Chris remembered that he was Aunt Olivia’s husband.

  He paused outside the pocket doors that opened onto the breakfast room. The slight clinking of metal on china drifted through the partially closed door.

  Self-consciously, he smoothed his shirt, ran his hands through his hair. He caught himself, smiled. Old habits—and fears—die hard.

  He swallowed, wet his lips, and drew the doors open.

  She sat with her back to the doorway, and even seated, it was obvious she was tall and carried herself proudly. Her long, grey hair fell over her shoulders, spread across the royal blue silk robe she wore. A tea service sat on a small table to her side, and she held a newspaper outstretched before her.

  “Well, you’re finally up. Good, I need a little company,” the woman said without turning around.

  “Good morning, Aunt Olivia,” he said in a loud voice.

  She dropped the newspaper to the floor, all but leapt from her seat.

  “You!” was the first thing she said, and Chris could see she was truly startled. A second later, her face looked as if she were angry with herself for letting him know she was surprised.

  “Well, dear boy,” she said when she’d collected herself, “you’re back. I hope it’s because the doctors have been able to do something for you.”

  Her face—lined, but not seriously so for a woman who claimed to be eighty-three years old—was now cool and even, displaying no more thought of the matter than she probably showed when she ordered breakfast this morning.

  To Chris, she looked older, though, more worn than before she sent him away.

  And more afraid.

  He could feel her fear. It flowed from her in waves, just as it had earlier from Uncle Joe.

  She motioned him to a seat next to hers, poured him a cup of tea.

  “The doctors did a lot for me,” Chris answered, trying to be as matter-of-fact as she was.

  “Not the least of which was to disappear quietly. I’ve already forgotten the entire incident.”

  He sat, took the cup of tea from her as she looked uncomfortably at him. Her eyes, so brown they were black, fixed on him.

  She reached for her tea.

  “You didn’t.” she said, slightly hesitant. “All the doctors?”

  He smiled as he took a loud, long slurp from the little china cup of tea she’d handed him.

  “And to think you were so dead set against doing the very same thing for me. That’s why you were there in the first place. You do remember that, don’t you, dear boy?”

  She returned his smile with one so cold, so full of loathing and menace that he actually shivered as he gulped the last dregs of tea.

  “I don’t remember a lot. I know you’re the reason that I was held there, pumped full of drugs and wired to a car battery. If nothing else, you’ve got that to answer for. The rest will come back to me in time, especially the more I’m in this house.”

  He drained his cup of tea and stood, feeling her angry gaze boring into him. “I’ve got to unpack, but we’ll have plenty of time later to talk about what went on before. I’ll take my old bedroom. That should jog some memories.”

  He bent to kiss her cheek, but she didn’t stir. As he drew the pocket doors open to leave, Aunt Olivia turned to him and said, “I’ve been more patient with you than anyone, because you were my favorite. But you haven’t learned anything. Some things are best left forgotten, dear boy.

  “When I forget you this time, it will be permanent,” she said.

  He paused in the open doorway, turned back to her.

  “Like Uncle Frank?” he said, and smiled as the color drained from her face.

  * * *

  He reclaimed his boyhood room, unpacking quietly so as not to disturb a small child asleep in what used to be his bed. Dumping the empty laundry sack in a corner, he carefully bent to see the boy’s face. Peaceful and innocent as only a sleeping child can be. He looked exactly like a cousin he’d known from his childhood, Ben.

  Must be one of his kids. The old lady had such a hold on the family that they all tended to hang around.

  But as Chris stood, surveyed the room and its furniture, the toys, the comic books, the dirty clothes and sneakers, it suddenly felt strange, too familiar.

  He left the room quickly, before the creeping realization had a chance to gel in his awakening mind.

  * * *

  The house was still quiet when he left a little later. He needed to take a walk, clear his head. Uncle Joe was in the backyard, chopping firewood. When he waved, Joe pretended not to notice him and went on chopping.

  The tree-lined street stretched quite a distance before another house appeared. Continuing past this, the street met another road—Main Street, of course—that wandered through the heart of Mission Springs. He turned right there, knowing the way toward the few shops and businesses that made up downtown.

  Little had changed that he could see from the last time he was here. Although this was a small town, and they tend to age more slowly than big cities, it made him feel slightly uneasy.

  Few people were out, which seemed odd for a farming community where everyone is up early. Those he passed seemed to know him and appeared shocked to see him. They flashed wary, benign smiles, or threw a quick, “Good morning,” then turned away.

  A big, black ‘52 Chevy pulled up alongside him, and Uncle Joe leapt out, scampered around to the passenger side. There, he opened the door and offered his arm. Accepting it was a gloved hand that Chris immediately recognized.

&n
bsp; Aunt Olivia unfolded gracefully as a butterfly from the cocoon of the car, stretching to her full, regal height. She looked around, took note of everyone near her, dismissed Joe with a motion.

  “You probably don’t even remember that you used to accompany me on my morning walks, do you?” she asked as the car pulled away.

  He shook his head, and she reached out toward him, took his arm, cozied close. As she did so, he suddenly remembered walking with her on many occasions, her holding his arm like this.

  “I have a house that I want to stop by this morning. Do you mind? I’m sure they’d love to see that you’re back safe.”

  She smiled at him, feral and uncompromising, but he assented without a word.

  * * *

  They walked for some blocks, Chris listening as the old woman prattled on about this house or that, this family or that. He said little, grunting or nodding when he remembered something or someone to whom she referred.

  As they rounded a corner onto Third Street, a nervous tingle started in his belly. Aunt Olivia paused long enough to notice his discomfort. She smiled, reinforcing his belief that she was taking him somewhere for a purpose.

  “Cold, dear boy?”

  He looked down the street at the row of widely spaced older homes and wondered why this scene should make him nervous. “No, no. Just a feeling, really. Déjà vu.”

  “Well, I should hope so. You’ve certainly visited them enough. They’ll be upset if you don’t remember them,” Aunt Olivia clucked. “Quite upset, I should say.”

  They continued on, but Chris noticed that the old woman was no longer subtly leading him. She wanted to see exactly how much of his memory was coming back, if he could find his way to their destination on his own.

  He slowed his pace, carefully scanned each house as they passed. But they looked only remotely familiar, like landmarks passed day after day on the way to another destination.

  The street ended in a cul-de-sac, and another great, old Victorian mansion sat there. But while his aunt’s house seemed to shine and invite, this house glowered and grimaced. Drapes were closed tight in its many windows.

  He paused before the house, his stomach churning, and he knew this was the place Aunt Olivia wanted him to find.

  “I haven’t seen the Archibalds in so long, well, I’ve almost forgotten them,” Aunt Olivia leered at him.

  He snapped his attention to her, anger, fierce and bright and violent, coursing through him. But, of course, he didn’t know why.

  She noted his reaction, expected it. “Not to worry, dear boy. How could I forget them? You’ll thank me when you see I’ve kept them exactly as you left them. Exactly.” She took the lead again, almost pulling him up the walkway that led to the front porch.

  Paper Thanksgiving decorations, the kind found on the cinderblock walls of school lunchrooms and tacked to bulletin boards in public libraries, were taped haphazardly to the windows. A large paper turkey, faded and tattered, was stuck to the front door, haggardly resplendent in its pop-up tail of reds, golds and browns.

  His first knock brought no response, nor did his second or third. On the fourth, he heard someone fumbling with the lock, and after a moment, the door opened a tiny crack.

  “Hello,” he said. The girl behind the door hissed in a breath, then fainted to the floor, the door swinging open into the house.

  Chris immediately bent to her aid, grabbing her wrist, slipping an arm under her neck. From somewhere in the house, he heard the confusion of feet on hardwood floors and voices calling, “Emma! Emma, who’s there?”

  “Ma’am,” Chris said, lifting her head, “Are you all right?”

  As he brought her head up, a spray of brown hair covering her face slipped away.

  The scabrous woman from the institution. The one he’d made love to and healed.

  The one he’d thought was a delusion.

  Shock, confusion and nervousness raced through him as the voices and the footsteps came closer, but he ignored all that, focused on her face. He reached out, stroked it absently, feeling how cool and soft her skin was.

  “Emma, what’s the matter? I thought I heard the d—,”came a woman’s voice, which ended in a gasp when she saw who was cradling her.

  “You! Why did you come back?” the woman said, wrenching Emma’s still comatose body away from him. “After what’s been done to my daughter…your wife! To us!” She lifted Emma onto her plump lap, rocking and stroking the girl, who was beginning to come around.

  “And you, you witch! Get out of my house. I’ll not have you here.”

  “Well, good morning, Mae,” cooed Aunt Olivia. “You’re looking well today. Pray tell, where are the grandchildren? I trust they’re all in good health.”

  At the mention of the children, Mae blanched, fell silent.

  Emma had begun to come around, and then her eyes snapped open.

  “Chris,” she whispered. “It is you.” She took his hand, brought it to her face and kissed his palm.

  “Wife? I…I don’t remember you.”

  “I know, but it’ll come back. It’ll all come back. I promise,” she said, stroking his hand and kissing it.

  Without realizing it, he’d begun to cry, and his tears plopped to the polished floor, beaded there. Angry and ashamed, he stood, dragged his hand across the well of his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he choked.

  He knew he was sorry, believed it to the core of his being. Even though he was not sure why.

  Reaching out, Chris offered a hand to both women. Emma took it eagerly, but Mae hesitated. Finally, she relented, and he hauled her to her feet as well.

  “Well, enough of the heartfelt family reunion. I’m here to visit,” Aunt Olivia said, removing her gloves. “Bring everyone out to see me. Hurry, it’s been so long I’ve nearly forgotten them.”

  This time, color rose red and hot in Mae’s cheeks, but Aunt Olivia disregarded her, sat slowly and regally on a sofa in the parlor as if she were the Dowager Empress preparing to receive guests of state.

  Mae returned a moment later, a throng of older people shuffling behind her with eyes downcast, faces sullen. They filed into the room, stopping in turn before his aged aunt, who reached out and clasped their limp hands in hers. She spoke a few words to each, in a bright, high voice, and then they left.

  Chris wondered at this odd ritual and the reactions of each of his wife’s family members. This was not the delight, boredom or downright antipathy most people exhibited when greeting guests. Rather, it was dejection, an uncaring acceptance of some fact that had been fought against and lost to long ago.

  Mae ushered them all out, and when Aunt Olivia had greeted the last, Mae prepared to leave the room as well.

  “Mae?” Aunt Olivia sang. “I do believe you’ve left somebody out. Where’s Thomas? Wouldn’t want to forget him, would you? “

  Mae stood in the hallway near Chris and Emma, silent and wide-eyed.

  “Mae?”

  “Please. Just this once. Please. Let him be. He’s so close, so close,” Mae cried, burying her face in her hands.

  Aunt Olivia rose from the sofa in a shot, strode into the hallway with frightening speed and determination. She grabbed Mae by the front of her dress and shook her, the veins on her bony hands practically popping.

  “Where is he, Mae? You damned old fool, you’ll never learn!” she screamed. Emma curled up to Chris, who was snapped out of his reverie by this outburst.

  Mae’s head rolled loosely on her neck, and she looked plaintively upstairs.

  Aunt Olivia unclenched her fists, pushed Mae from her, and dashed up the stairs at a pace that astounded Chris.

  “Do something,” Emma cried, looking at her husband.

  He disengaged himself from her embrace, ran up the stairs after the old woman.

  * * *

  When he reached the top of the steps and followed the shouts and shrieks, he saw several people in various states of distress outside the bedroom door. They quickly parted as he p
assed. Inside the room, light from a stained glass window colored the swirl of people. Their faces, their gestures struck him with the intensity of a medieval tableau.

  All of the activity seemed to center around a massive bed that occupied much of the room. At the center of its four, thick wooden posts, a tiny figure huddled, clutched the covers. Pale and drawn, the man seemed only fitfully aware of what transpired around him. And when he did show any awareness, it was the same resignation that Chris had witnessed from the other family members downstairs.

  Aunt Olivia stood at the side of the bed, her eyes closed, clutching one of his hands tightly in both of hers.

  The old man was dying.

  Aunt Olivia was preventing it, not helping, Chris realized.

  Preventing.

  As she held his hand, a remarkable thing happened. Color returned to the old man’s cheeks. Focus and a sparkle of awareness swam into his eyes, and the trembling of his limbs stopped. His free hand lost its convulsive grip on the sheets, and his breathing returned to normal.

  “Fool!” Aunt Olivia hissed at him, throwing his hand to the bed. “You’re lucky that you didn’t die, Thomas. I would have made your family pay dearly.”

  The old man, who now didn’t look so old, hung his head upon his breast, dejected and utterly beaten. The twinkle Chris had seen in his eyes just a moment ago was gone.

  Aunt Olivia turned and saw Chris standing in the doorway, the others skirting him gingerly in their attempt to leave the room.

  “I have a surprise for you, Thomas,” she said, turning her death’s head grin on him. “I have someone who’s come back to see you and your family.”

  The man raised his head, looked in Chris’s direction.

  Tears welled in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks.

  “Please, let me die. Just let me die,” he whispered.