The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer

by Joyce Reardon

  The medium collapsed in her chair, sagged across an arm, half on the table, half on the chair. She appeared unconscious.

  “No listen, Miss Ellen.” Sukeena muttered her first words. “No listen to this evil.”

  “Life without fear,” I whispered. “Life without death.” I looked around the tossed room again, held my friend tightly in my arms and squeezed. “Rose Red has answered my prayers!”

  10 OCTOBER 1914—ROSE RED

  To-day, as Lyman C. Smith, of Smith-Corona typewriter fame, dedicated the tallest office building in all of Seattle, the Smith Tower, construction on the newest wing of the largest private home began. (I often think Lyman and others are jealous or envious of John and challenge him with these engineering accomplishments!) Here at the house, horse-drawn teams dragged plows and broke the earth while hordes of Chinamen shoveled furiously, filling wagons by the score. It is as if my former fevers—I have not taken ill since the séance—have spread to the project itself. I have hardly slept in the last month, working tirelessly around the clock on the plans and the arrangements to continue the construction of Rose Red. I fear I am leaving the children a bit too much to the governesses—I am told that April will sit for hours sometimes in front of the great working model of Rose Red and talk to the house in words that no one but she understands. They have called this state a trance, though I am loath to accept that. All children spend time in their make-believe worlds, April just a bit more than most. She’s an unusual girl. Nothing wrong with that. More important now is that I live on for my children, that I live to help them through this life, and Rose Red has made her promise, and I am not inclined to dismiss it as lightly as my dear Sukeena. (She remains infuriated with my acceptance of the séance and Madame Stravinski’s “performance” as she refers to that captivating evening. We were the talk of the town for weeks!)

  Hour after hour the workers outside the window toil. The new wing is to extend beyond the Pool House and Bowling Alley so as to not be seen from the approach, to not damage the continuity of the look of the grand house. It will add some six thousand square feet on two floors, twelve thousand square feet in all. A pittance of what is to come! We are adding three visitor suites, a four-room home for Sukeena, complete with her own kitchen, a Bird Room, a Map Room and more schooling facilities for the children, as well as a Projection Room so that we might view motion pictures in the comfort of our home. There is to be another pool—a hot pool this time, with salts from Europe, for cleansing of the spirit and treatment of arthritis, from which I suffer since the birth of our second child. This pool will be made available to my women friends—women only!—for those who wish to purge the ills of city living. John has no doubt arranged for another of his viewing closets to overlook this women’s pool, and though loath to accept it, I see no way to stop its construction, given that the final say with the foreman is John’s and John’s alone. (This condition I could not negotiate with my husband.) I know such a room will be built and that I shall never find its entrance. I can imagine my husband enclosed there, my dear friends without garments (for the salt will harm the fabric), seen as God will have them. My husband leering. And him not knowing that I know. (If possible, I may try to arrange an act or two to stun his curiosity! I am not without a sense of prank when it comes to John.) I will not blame him for these transgressions. I have brought it upon myself by denying him any access to my chambers. Those days are over. With motherhood prevented by April’s unfortunate birth, I see no reason for union with this horrible man. He can find his pleasure elsewhere. (And he does, I’m sure!) I take my pleasure from motherhood. It suffices for me. It fills me as a man never could. As a man never will again.

  The new wing shall rise from this hole in the ground now being dug. It shall rise and give me extended life, as promised by Rose Red herself. I swear at times I hear her. Not just the creaking of an old house but the voice that inhabits it. A woman’s voice, low and foreboding. A voice I heard utter from my own mouth. A voice that perhaps my little April hears too as she sits playing with her model.

  As to that, take note, Dear Diary. With these complaints of my daughter’s continuing meditation on the brilliant model of Rose Red, I elected to take tea on the upper Loggia. I instructed for April to join me, and that her model be placed there as well, so that I might see her playing with it, might come to understand the nature of these complaints from the governess.

  Daughter and mother did spend a lovely afternoon basking in the fall sunlight, warm and pleasant on the skin. I had tea and scones, and April ate a scone or two herself, a rare treat for me since it is difficult to get April to eat anything at all. She played with the large working model of the home while her mother angled her wicker chair to face west, where the new wing’s excavation was partly to be seen. I must have spent the hour there, April just behind me and to my right, explaining to my child the construction yet to come, how the new wing would rise from where once only lawn existed, would rise to fulfill our dreams and to hold our love, one to the other.

  Finally, the sun cooling and my fever beginning to rise again as it does so many late afternoons, I turned to instruct my little wonder with her withered arm that it was time to move inside for the day. I turned to offer my hand to her, to help her stand. I turned, my voice catching in my throat.

  There on the red Italian tile of the Loggia’s floor, I looked down upon the architect’s model that April had so long ago claimed as her dollhouse. I reached out for my daughter’s one good hand. And I gasped at what I saw beneath my child’s pointed finger, a devilish grin owning her face.

  The working model of Rose Red had a new addition, complete and perfect, every window, every chimney in its place. The new wing, exactly as I imagined it in my mind.

  That wing had not been there on that model when our tea began. Under my daughter’s care, that model had grown the wing all of its own. The model of Rose Red is alive, and the grand house along with it.

  12 OCTOBER 1914—ROSE RED

  It is with heavy heart that I report the latest tragedy. As wife and mother of his children, I appreciate John Rimbauer’s business acumen, the wealth he has accumulated, and I avoid, as much as possible, contradicting him in this regard or offering unsolicited advice; this, despite the fact that I do not hold the man himself in much regard. Today, however, I am desperate with dread over his treatment of his former partner, Douglas Posey, a man whom others continue to view as his partner despite secret negotiations that have reduced Douglas to an employee (though a rich one at that!), for I fear my husband’s actions were motivated by disapproval of Douglas’s private choices rather than the man’s business wherewithal. Oh, if that’s not the pot calling the kettle black! While John lifts the skirts of his dockside whores he condemns Douglas for taking up with his pale young men.

  This morning Douglas appeared at the front door of Rose Red and was announced by his footman there. A butler hurried through the house searching out John and found him in the vast library and study off his chambers, where my husband puts in much time. John took his time responding, finally descending the Grand Stair in a slow procession that I am certain was intended both to make Douglas wait as well as to indicate John’s regal attitude as concerns his former partner.

  I had made a rare visit to the Kitchen, just beyond the Grand Stair, to sample a soup to be served at a ladies’ luncheon (I am hosting the board of the children’s hospital lunch) and so was in a position to overhear the Lord and Master of Rose Red as he greeted our guest.

  “What is it, Posey?” John Rimbauer called out, still sixty feet down the Entry Hall. Lined with his African game trophies, the Entry Hall is a very masculine, very ominous place, all those glass eyes bearing down on one. The dead heads of former predators. Dead souls. I hate the place at night—being watched like that. Teeth glaring. The architect’s working model of Rose Red has a home on a corner table by the front door and is only moved at April’s request, shuttled around the house by butlers each day for her entertainment. W
e keep a bouquet (nine dozen fresh flowers) on a sideboard in an Egyptian urn halfway down the Entry Hall, a new bouquet every three days, and the flowers throw color into the hall where much is needed. I bought that urn the same day the bandits tried to rob us in the market, the same day Sukeena reduced them to cries of abdominal pain as we walked past to our safety. That urn serves as a reminder to me that to pass by it is to acknowledge such powers as Sukeena possesses. Nothing is as it seems. The African maid is a witch doctor. The house is alive. The lady of the house is half crazy—or more than half, depending on the day.

  My husband stops halfway down that long hall, his eyes as dead as those of the beasts overhead. “Servants’ entrance is in the back.”

  “I’ve made some mistakes, John,” a quivering voice acknowledged. “I would like to talk to you about coming back on.”

  “Not possible. I’ve a company to run. I’m busy.”

  “You cheated me!”

  “Nonsense!”

  “You convinced me to sell my stock. And now, in just six months—”

  “You threatened to sell your stock, Douglas. Is your memory so poor? I offered to buy it from you—above market value, you may recall—in order to keep that transaction, those shares, from flooding the market and setting off a selling spree. You were only too happy to sell. That our shares have doubled in six months is tribute to a good product and firm management—management of which, as of today, you are no longer a part. This, because of your own despicable actions and promises made that were broken. End of discussion. Walter!?” John summoned our doorman, who appeared miraculously through the doors of the Grand Ballroom. “Show our guest out.”

  Walter obediently opened the door. It is cold this October. Colder than I remember.

  Douglas did not move. “I’ve gambled some in the market, John. I could use some help.”

  “Our guest will be leaving.”

  “Please.”

  “Now!” John said sharply.

  “Go to hell,” Douglas Posey mumbled, not really meaning it, I fear.

  THANKSGIVING DAY, 1914—ROSE RED

  Young Adam is five years old, April three, and for the first year both children understood the significance of Thanksgiving. John was delightful with the children, telling the story of the Pilgrims and the first Thanksgiving. The sun blessed us with a fall day to remember. It had been cold of late, but not today.

  The servants had their own gathering in the Carriage House—nearly fifty for Thanksgiving dinner. John provided them seven fresh turkeys and bushels of yams, carrots and peas. Cases of wine. The day was one of much celebration and served to remind me how peaceful a place this can be when in high spirits. I think that John’s break with Douglas Posey has proved to be a wise move. He has been much calmer these past several weeks, less given to unexpected outbursts of temper. He even played with Adam—something unheard of these past several months. (He has arranged for the construction of a giant toy train to occupy an entire room in the children’s wing. Complete with mountains, forests, bridges and stations, it is to be an exact replica of the Seattle area and to utilize some nine hundred feet of toy railroad track, a quarter ton of modeling clay, a dozen gallons of paint and six thousand toothpicks—in one bridge alone. Adam is to have the Christmas of his life!)

  Oh, Dear Diary, thank you for the good times that outweigh the troubled. Thank you for Sukeena, for the children, for our good fortune. Bless those who have gone missing when inside these walls, and give them rest.

  We have had no grave tragedy within this house for some time now. I hope and pray it shall stay this way. Perhaps Madame Stravinski saved us. Construction continues unabated. This house is growing daily.

  20 FEBRUARY 1915—ROSE RED

  This family continues to pay for the sins of its father. I fear my children may never recover from this latest incident, and I am loath to prevent it, to stop it now for it has already happened. The events of this story were not personally witnessed. Instead, they are put here in ink through my own interpretation of Sukeena’s having spoken in confidence with young Adam. (He would only speak to Sukeena, and no one else.)

  This afternoon, Douglas Posey came to visit. He did not announce himself at the front door, was not greeted by one of the doormen. In fact, if the events of this day are to be explained—sawdust was found on his shoes—it would appear that Douglas entered the house via the new construction to the west. His motorcar was found parked alongside the main road, pulled off into the trees. From there, he hiked the hill and crested to the west of the new construction, approaching Rose Red from a side where he might go unnoticed, as alas, he must have so done. His next accomplishment baffles me, as mother to our children, for we employ no fewer than two governesses, Miss Crenshaw and Miss Dunn, and three other dedicated nannies, including April’s wet nurse, Miss Helms, whom we held over to care for the children when her primary purpose had been served. The sole responsibility of all these women is to watch over the children. Nonetheless, for reasons that are not immediately explained, the children went unattended on this day, at the particular hour that I now relate here to your pages.

  Somehow Douglas managed to make his way from the new construction through the Pool House and the Bowling Alley to the south stairs. If one goes down these stone stairs, one is led to the Game Room, where John butchers and hangs his deer and elk after a hunt. Up these same stairs leads one to the West Wing and our chambers—John with five rooms including his private study, and me with seven, including my dressing and fitting rooms. It was a cunning move on the part of Douglas Posey, for excepting the chambermaids who clean and service the linens, and the butlers who attend our fireplaces and chimneys, these rooms and hallways go unoccupied—except when I am infirmed, of course, more often than not these days, but as it happens, not on this day when I felt quite well.

  Particularly vexing is that had any of those under our employ encountered Mr. Posey, he or she is not in the position to report it. John has long had installed in this house a strict rule of confidentiality, as he carries on secret business meetings (or at least that’s the reason he gives!) and can’t have word getting out. (He is, in fact, said to be investing in an aero company with his good friend Bill Boeing. I think it’s a waste of money, personally, but John says aeroplanes will be important to the military.) So had any of the servants seen or encountered Douglas Posey, they would not have mentioned it anyway. They would be loath to do so. Whether anyone did see Douglas as he entered remains unclear. We all saw him leave.

  It is no easy feat to reach the Parlor undetected, especially from where Douglas Posey began his surreptitious entrance into our grand home. He understood the house well enough, and its internal politics, to increase his chances. The Parlor’s window looks out on the U-shaped pebble driveway, the Fountain Garden, which offers a welcoming splash of color year-round, thanks to our busy staff. He has been to the second floor plenty of times himself, to partake in one or another of John’s many secret business meetings, and even knows several of the staff by name. One can only imagine why a person would go to such lengths as did Douglas Posey, but if there is one thing I have learned from my time in the company of John Rimbauer, it is that there is no predicting the human condition. The man Freud can make all the claims he wants (he is said to attribute nearly every phobia and fear to the physical intimacies between man and woman—sex!—disregarding in the process the drive for sustenance, survival and power). I trust someday his findings will be disproved, despite their apparent accuracy where my husband is concerned. What I will never understand, since I once imagined Douglas took a keen liking to the children, is why and how he chose the Parlor, knowing how fond Adam is of playing there. Perhaps his decision stemmed from the presence there of an oil portrait of John that hangs over the fireplace. My portrait hangs in the Entry Hall, along with John’s game trophies—the similarity of our situations has not escaped me. These portraits were commissioned while we were in London at the end of our honeymoon, and I must say they see
m lifelike, the work skillful though unimaginative. Indeed, John’s portrait—looking so dignified—hangs with a view across the Parlor and out an opposing window toward the drive, as if surveying his domain and contemplating his dominion over same.

  I can scarcely write the words, and without the high spirits that fill my glass would feel helpless to do so, but the story must be told, and so, what I have been told of it follows.

  Adam was the first to enter the Parlor, on one of his “safaris” where he encourages his sister, April, to forage ahead of him in the great hallways and make like game, as Adam attempts to track her. (Little does poor Adam see or understand the significance of this practice to Sukeena and me—like his father, the game he stalks is a young girl! He must wonder why we discourage it so.) He had missed a cue and lost April as she dodged into the Smoking Room—a room she is forbidden to enter, but girls will be girls. Adam swung open the door, his popgun held at shoulder height and ready to “fire,” and apparently looked down that rifle barrel at Douglas Posey, who was himself halfway up a small wooden stepladder that is kept in a closet off the gallery to assist in the positioning and hanging of the artwork. Around the man’s neck was a length of hemp rope fashioned as a noose. He stared at young Adam, the boy’s physical similarity to his father impossible to miss.

  A moment later, dear April with her withered arm clutched tightly to her spare frame ran in behind her brother, in anticipation of surprising him and winning their little game. She too was confronted with the sight of John’s former partner up that ladder.

  Douglas Posey tossed his hat to the boy (for he had come to our house dressed head-to-toe as a cowboy!). Then he saw the girl and made a gesture toward her as well. Through the air floated a long-stemmed red rose. (Douglas is very much aware of the nickname of our grand house.) April’s one good hand swiped the air and stole the rose from its descent, the thorns tearing her flesh and eliciting from her a sharp cry of pain.