"Yes, it is, Olivia. It is the point. You will have this child; you should feel it. Put your hand on your stomach and feel it moving within you. Feel it drawing on your strength. Eat for it, sleep for it, and pray for it as you would any child in your womb," she said with more determination and energy than she had said anything the entire time she was in this room. Her eyes were small, her mouth firm.
I backed away. I felt as if it were getting harder for me to breathe. "Why don't you open a window in here?"
She got up and walked to me. "It's life. Feel it." She took my hand into hers and put my palm on her stomach. For a moment we stood there looking into each other's eyes. She held mine to hers so intently, I did not look away, and then . . . I felt the movement in her stomach and it did feel as though I were feeling it in my own. I started to pull my hand back, but she held it to her. "No, feel it, want it, know it. It is yours," she said. "Yours."
"You're mad," I finally said, and successfully pulled away from her. "I'm doing this only to . . . to wash away your sin and Malcolm's and to convince people that the child is mine And it will be mine t, backed up to the door, reached for the handle behind my back, and slipped out quickly, hurrying down the hall and away, pursued by that mad look in her eyes.
That night when I entered my bedroom and locked my door behind me I did not unfasten the pillows from my stomach. I lay there on my bed with my hands on my stomach thinking about the way Alicia had held my hand to her stomach. There was an electricity that still tingled in the tips of my fingers and the surface of my palm. As if the memory lingered in my hand, I felt the movement I had felt in Alicia, only I felt it in my false stomach. Was there a spirit I was touching within me? Had God indeed chosen this role for me and filled me with his spirit? Suddenly, it frightened me that I would feel such a thing and I jumped out of the bed and quickly removed the padding from myself.
After I fell asleep that night, however, I awoke to the strange sensation of movement in me again. It was a dream, I told myself, just a dream. But it took me a long time to fall asleep again. I even imagined I heard a baby's cry.
Mal and Joel stayed for the rest of the Thanksgiving weekend, and Monday morning I packed them off to school. During the next month, I waited with increasing eagerness for the birth of my child, while Christopher became more and more worried about it. He even became moody and cranky, so unlike his bright, sunny self. "You are the bad witch now, Olivia. And I'm going to eat your baby up."
The day we brought home the Christmas tree, Alicia's labor pains began. The boys had not yet returned for vacation, and Christopher and I were decorating the tree.
Just as I was hanging a Christmas ball on one of the high branches, I heard a distant scream. I dropped everything and ran to the north wing, leaving Christopher in the care of the maid.
"Alicia!" I called as I stormed into the room. "I could hear your screams in the rotunda. What do you think you are doing!"
"Olivia," she moaned, "please help me, the baby's coming."
Suddenly, Malcolm appeared behind me. "Olivia, now I shall take control. Go to your room immediately, you are about to give birth," he ordered me. His voice was so stern and certain, I obeyed him immediately, for the first time in months.
For twelve hours I lay in my room, screaming birth pain for the benefit of the two servants that remained and Christopher, while Alicia, muffled by Malcolm and the midwife he had called, silently labored in the north wing. At dawn the next day Malcolm appeared at my door carrying a squalling pink bunting. He walked over to my bed, and lay the baby beside me. "It's a girl," he announced with such pride and arrogance in his voice.
I unwrapped the bunting and peered at the most beautiful newborn I had ever seen. There was no redness to the baby's complexion. Why, it was as if she were indeed immaculately conceived and born without the anguish of the human birth process. This baby would be so easy to love, so beautiful and sweet, my heart went out to her. Oh, I would accept her as my own, and make her my own. And she would love me.
"It's the most beautiful baby in the world, isn't it? Dimpled hands and feet, golden wavy hair, the bluest of blue eyes. . . why, my mother must have looked like this when she was a baby," he cooed with a gentleness I had never before heard in his voice. "Corinne, my sweet beautiful daughter, Corinne!"
"Corinne!" I was shocked! "Surely, you wouldn't . . . how can you name that innocent baby after the mother whom you claim to hate?"
"You don't understand." He shook his head and waved his hand in front of his face as though he were clearing away cobwebs. "It will be my way to keep constantly aware of the deceitful, beguiling ways of beautiful women, or I may allow myself to believe and trust in her too much. As much as I love her already, every time my lips say 'Corinne,' I will be reminded of my betraying mother who promised to stay and love me until I was a man. I will never be so hurt again," he concluded, nodding with the same kind of certainty he had when he made his pronouncements about the business world.
His strange thinking sent a chill down my spine. How could he impose such character on this sweet angelic little baby? What was wrong with him? Would he never change? That moment I hated Malcolm with all my being, and I promised myself that I would try in every way I could to protect this child from his perversion. I would hold and cherish this child as one of my own. She may have inherited the Foxworth ancestry without my lineage to offset their madness, but I would raise her with my character and prevent her from becoming like Alicia or like the first Corinne,
"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 fiftymile 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 socalled 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.
Dollenganger 05 Garden of Shadows Page 20
