Dollenganger 05 Garden of Shadows

by V. C. Andrews

"But yours are so . . . so big, Olivia."

  "What difference does it make what you look like in that room, Alicia? Only I will see you. You're not dressing to draw the attention of men anymore, dear. All that matters is that you are warm and comfortable."

  The image of her lost in my maternity dresses suddenly made me smile. Now she would know what it felt like not to see beauty looking back at her from the mirror. Now she, too, would be awkward and unappealing And what was more fitting than that she wear my maternity clothing, I thought. After all, she was having what was going to be my child.

  "Of course," I added, "I will be wearing maternity clothing also."

  She looked up at me as if she were shocked. Could this not have occurred to her? Did she think I would move about the community as I was and then suddenly announce that I had given birth to a child? How simple and naive she could be! There was no conniving, no deceit in her, even when it was necessary for her survival.

  "Oh," she said, finally understanding. She looked back at her fine dresses and blouses and skirts. In the end I reduced everything she would take to the north wing to what would fit into one trunk and two suitcases.

  Sadness reigned in Foxworth Hall the day Alicia made her false departure. It was a gray, rainy day, the sky crying along with the children. Although it was the first day of summer, a cold winter chill filled Foxworth Hall. We had to keep lights on and close windows tightly.

  The servants, who had been packing their own things, stood in the downstairs as Alicia descended with me behind her, carrying her suitcase. I had never seen her look so small and gray, like a sad little mouse. I had insisted the children remain in the nursery. I did not want the histrionics of an overly emotional farewell. Christopher had been barely consolable for days, and my boys, too, were on a short tether. But I had insisted that Malcolm be present at this painful little charade. As we reached the bottom of the stairs, I handed Malcolm the suitcase and he grasped it awkwardly, annoyed, but afraid to cross me at this juncture. Alicia's eyes filled with tears as she came upon the farewell gathering, for she was truly bidding everyone good-bye. She looked about the great foyer like one who knew it would be some time before she would see it again. Her act was very convincing because it was only half an act. She would see it when she returned, but it would be only a short glimpse on her way up to the north wing.

  She went to embrace Mrs. Steiner, but I grasped her arm and ushered her toward the awaiting car. "There is no time for sentiment," I said.

  Suddenly, she felt limp in my arms. "Please, please let me say good-bye to Christopher one more time," she pleaded.

  Malcolm whispered in my ear. "Must I stay and witness this hysteria?"

  "Put her in the cab, Malcolm," I ordered.

  Alicia had to be half carried, half dragged to the car. As soon as the suitcase was locked in the trunk, I rapped on the window and ordered the driver to be off. The tires spun in the wet mud and the car lurched to life. Behind me, I heard the front door fly open and the boys screaming "Wait, wait" as they hurtled down the steps, yanking themselves free of the servants' restraining arms. Mal led the pack, holding Joel by one hand and Christopher by the other, practically dragging them along. They chased the car for some time, screaming and crying.

  "Get your sons, Malcolm," I ordered, "all of them."

  12 The Prisoner and the Warden

  .

  THAT SAME NIGHT, AFTER ALL THE SERVANTS HAD LEFT, Alicia returned.

  The cab drove up in the darkness. Clouds still

  hung over the sky, blocking out the moon and the

  stars. It was as if there were no light left in all the

  world.

  Malcolm and I were waiting in a front salon,

  just the way we had been waiting for his father to

  arrive the day he had brought Alicia here. The boys

  had cried themselves to sleep, all three of them

  cuddled together against the loneliness of Alicia's

  departure. Truly, I wanted to comfort them, to be a

  mother to little Chris, to be a comfort to my own sons.

  I wanted them all to love me the way they loved

  Alicia. Oh, I knew I couldn't be lighthearted and gay

  as she was; I didn't know how to romp and jump and

  play silly rhyming games. But I loved them well, in

  my own way, and I would bring them up to be strong,

  moral young men. When they grew older, they would

  appreciate the values I had bequeathed them. "What time is it?" Malcolm asked.

  I pointed across the room, not saying a word.

  The house was quiet, still, except for the sound of the

  ticking grandfather clock and the evening winds winding their way in and out of the shutters, threading

  through the cracks between windows. Malcolm

  snapped his paper, folding it neatly to check the stock

  market columns.

  We had been sitting there for two hours,

  drowning in our own silence. If either of us took a

  deep breath, the other would look up, surprised. In

  fact, Malcolm's only comment during the last half

  hour concerned one of his stocks that had appreciated

  ten points. I imagined he was making the comment to

  emphasize how much better he could do with my

  money than I was doing.

  Then I saw the headlights of the cab tear an

  opening in the darkness and pull up in front of the

  house. Malcolm didn't move.

  "She's back," I said. He grunted. "You'll take

  her trunk upstairs." He looked up, surprised. "Well,

  who did you think would do it? Lucas is gone, or did

  you forget we dismissed the servants today and there

  won't be a new driver until tomorrow."

  I got up and went to the front door. Alicia

  emerged from the cab slowly, reluctantly, anticipating what awaited her in Foxworth Hall. I could see that she was exhausted from the traveling and the tension.

  The driver took her trunk and suitcases out.

  "Leave them," I said to the driver quickly. It

  was impossible to remain outside long. "My husband

  will take them in."

  Malcolm had appeared behind me on the steps.

  I took Alicia's smaller suitcase.

  "How is my Christopher?" she asked the minute

  she stepped from the car. "Does he miss me?" "Christopher is my responsibility now," I said

  curtly. "He's in bed, where he belongs." I took her arm

  and led her up the front stairs. "Go directly to the

  north wing," I told her, "and move as quietly as

  possible. You must not wake the boys."

  She didn't respond. She walked like a

  condemned criminal, pausing only when she passed

  close to Malcolm, who was on his way to get her

  trunk and larger suitcase.

  Stepping softly, we both floated like ghosts

  through the silent, dimly lit foyer. The loudest sound

  was the rustle of Alicia's dress when we turned the

  corner at the rotunda and headed quickly into the

  north wing, moving down hallways and passing the

  many empty, lonely rooms of Foxworth Hall. She paused at the doorway of the room at the end of the corridor. I came up behind her impatiently. Did she

  think she was the only one who was tense and upset? "If you don't go in and go in quickly," I said,

  "this will become even more difficult for you." She looked at me hatefully for the first time. Of

  course, it wouldn't be the last.

  "I was thinking all the way to the station, on the

  train, and all the way back," she said "Thinking that

  you might be enjoying all this." Her eyes narrowed. "Enjoying this?" I stepped to the right, my

  shadow draping her in my
darkness. She cowered

  back as if she could feel my weight on her. "Enjoying

  having to pretend that your baby is my baby?

  Enjoying the knowledge that my husband has been

  unfaithful to me, not once, but many times? Enjoying

  having to dismiss loyal and faithful servants who I

  have spent years training? Enjoying lying to my boys

  and to your son, watching him swallow his tears and

  unhappiness until he was exhausted and had to be put

  to bed?" My voice was thin, nearly hysterical. Her eyes widened, and then her face crumpled,

  her lips quivering.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "It's just that I'm . . ." "We can't stand out here and talk with me holding this suitcase," I said. "Malcolm is coming up

  with the trunk."

  "Yes, yes, I'm sorry," she repeated, opening the

  door.

  I had left the lamp on the table between the two

  beds lit. It cast a weak yellowish glow over the

  ponderous dark furniture. My one donation to warmth

  and beauty was the red Oriental rug with gold fringe.

  It would help alleviate the dreariness in the room,

  which was large yet confining because of all the

  furniture crowded into it. I had found two paintings in

  the attic that I thought fit the circumstances and hung

  them on the walls that were papered in cream with

  white flocking. One had grotesque demons chasing

  naked people in underground caverns, and the other

  had unearthly monsters devouring pitiful souls in hell.

  Both paintings had bright red colors.

  She went directly to the bed on the right and

  began to take off her coat. We both turned as Malcolm

  dropped the trunk to the right of the door. He looked

  at Alicia and then he looked at me. My glare was

  enough to hurry him.

  "I'll get the other suitcase," he said. Although

  he was a strong man, the indignity of having to carry

  the luggage up the spiral staircase and down the hallways to this room wore on him. He was breathing

  hard and sweating.

  "Hurry," I said, intensifying his indignation. He

  grunted and was gone.

  "How will I eat up here?" Alicia asked. "I will bring up your meals every day, after we

  have eaten ours. That way the servants won't be as

  suspicious."

  "But the cook . . ."

  "There will be no cook until you are gone. I

  will be the cook." She tilted her head and widened her

  eyes in surprise. "Don't look at me like that," I said. "I

  used to cook all the time for my father."

  "I didn't mean to imply that you couldn't cook; I

  was just surprised that you wanted to do it." It

  occurred to me that all the time she had lived here, she

  never mentioned her own ability to cook. Her mother

  must have spoiled her, I thought, never giving her the

  opportunity to work in the kitchen and learn anything.

  And then Garland came along and put the icing on the

  cake. She didn't have to lift a finger to do anything for

  herself.

  "There isn't much choice about it now, is

  there?" She looked away. "Is there?" I repeated. "No, I suppose not."

  "Of course, I won't be able to make special

  meals. This can't be one of those fancy restaurants you

  and Garland were always going to," I snapped. I went

  to the two front windows and closed the curtains more

  tightly.

  "I didn't expect special meals," she retorted. It

  was beginning already--she was losing her softness,

  her gentle look, her warm coat of innocence. "The meals will be nourishing, considering the

  condition you are in. That's what's most important,

  isn't it?" She nodded quickly.

  "Oh, Olivia, what will I do here?" she asked,

  looking around. "I will positively be bored to death." "I'll bring up your magazines. The servants

  won't know or care whether or not they are for me,

  and I will try to visit with you every opportunity I can

  get." she looked grateful for that.

  "I would like a radio or a Victrola."

  "Out of the question. Such noise, even in here,

  might be heard." I widened my eyes for emphasis,

  feeling as though I were talking to a child.

  "But what if I took it upstairs, into the attic?"

  she pleaded.

  I thought about it.

  "Yes, I suppose that would be all right. I'll get you a radio and a Victrola. Your pile of records is still downstairs. No one would want to listen to them anyway." Neither Malcolm nor I liked the new jazz music she endlessly listened to, and it occurred to me that we should not have left them behind when I packed her things. Fortunately, none of the old

  servants noticed or cared.

  "Thank you, Olivia," she said. She had already

  begun to understand that I could grant her little

  pleasures and little happiness and I could take it away

  as well.

  I helped her start unpacking and putting

  clothing into the dresser. Malcolm returned with the

  larger suitcase. After he dropped it on the floor, he

  stood in the doorway looking in at us.

  "That will be all, Malcolm," I said, dismissing

  him as I would dismiss any servant. His face blanched

  and he bit down on his lower lip. I saw the rage in his

  eyes and sensed the frustration he felt. He hesitated.

  "Did you want to say anything before you go?

  Something apologetic?"

  "No. You seem to be saying everything that

  needs to be said," he added, pivoted, and stalked out

  of the room. I heard his footsteps pounding the

  hallway floor as he departed. When I turned back to Alicia, I saw she was staring at me. "He has already been quite clearly informed that he must stay away

  from you during your . . . your stay here," I said. "Good," she said, a sincere look of relief on her

  face.

  "However, I am not naive enough to believe

  what he tells me. I see the way he looks at you." She

  looked toward the doorway as though Malcolm were

  still standing there and she could verify my

  impressions.

  "Surely he . . ."

  "You must understand, my dear, that you are

  quite vulnerable alone in this room, far away from

  anyone else, the sounds muffled by the thickness in

  the walls. You can't shout out for help; you can't

  expose yourself. Where could you flee?" I held out

  my hands and turned from one wall to the next. "Up

  into the attic? That would be worse."

  "But you would know if anything . . ." "During the night, after I fall asleep, he could

  prowl these dark halls, moving over the floors

  barefooted, and if he came in here, you wouldn't shout

  and bring attention to yourself. Imagine if Christopher

  discovered you were hidden up here," I said. "I'll keep the door locked," she said quickly. "You kept a door locked before, my dear.

  Locking doors in Foxworth Hall does not keep

  Malcolm Neal Foxworth out."

  "What do I do?" She looked frantic.

  "As I told you when we discussed all this, you

  must change your appearance, make yourself

  unattractive to him, not remind him of anyone," I

  sneered. Alicia stared at me. I seized up her hair. "I'm

  sorry,
but there is no other way."

  "Are you sure? Are you sure?"

  "I'm sure."

  She began crying softly.

  "Sit at the table," I commanded her. She stared

  at the chair as if she were about to step onto the

  gallows and then walked to it and sat down, her hands

  in her lap, her eyes flooded with tears.

  I took the large scissors from my sweater

  pocket and stepped up behind her. First, I unpinned

  her hair, freeing the strands and stroking them down

  so they lay softly exposed. They did feel so silky and

  pleasing to the touch. I could imagine Malcolm

  stroking her hair for hours as he dreamt beside her.

  My hair, no matter what I did to it, never felt this

  good, and never once during our sexual relations--I

  could scarcely call them lovemaking--did he even

  touch my hair.

  I grasped a section in my left fist and held it up

  tautly. She winced because of how roughly I tugged.

  Then I closed the blades of the scissors around her

  tresses and began to chop away, cutting her hair as

  close to her scalp as I could, deliberately cutting it

  unevenly so it would grow in awkwardly. As I cut

  away, the tears continued to flow down her cheeks,

  but she made no sound. I placed all the cut strands

  neatly in a silk shawl, wrapped them up, and tied a

  knot in it.

  After I was finished, she pressed her palms

  against her scalp and uttered a single, mournful cry. "You know it will grow back," I said, making

  my voice as sympathetic as I could. She turned and

  looked up at me with those hateful eyes again, but I

  smiled at her. The haircut had changed her appearance

  radically. She looked more like a boy now: the crown

  of her beauty had been removed. It was as if I had

  snuffed out the fire behind her eyes. "If Malcolm

  should look at you, he won't see the same things now,

  will he?"

  She didn't respond. She simply stared at herself

  in the mirror. After a moment she spoke more to her

  image than to me.

  "This is all like a bad dream," she said. "In the

  morning I will awaken and Garland will be beside me.

  It's all a dream." She spun around, her face dressed in

  a wild, insane smile. "Isn't it? Isn't it all a dream,

  Olivia?"

  "I'm afraid not, my dear. You had better not sit