Douglas Posey stepped off the ladder and bounced in the air, his eyes never leaving my little girl until they bulged from his florid head, a blue pallor overcoming him. Adam claims he heard a loud snap, like a limb succumbing to the wind of a northwesterly blow. He pulled the trigger of his popgun and its cork flew through the air and struck Douglas square in the chest, for Adam is a crack shot like his father before him. Adam said Douglas “danced,” his legs “jumping like when the Negroes do the tap at their parties.” His tongue sprang from his mouth, a swollen stiff mass, which was when both children screamed at the top of their lungs.
April was found with her hand bleeding slightly, the rose still clutched firmly in her grip. Her eyes had never left the body. Adam was called back from his hands and knees where he tried unsuccessfully to retrieve his cork from just beneath the body, fearing he had somehow killed Douglas himself and not wanting anyone to find the evidence.
Across the Parlor from where Douglas swung from the hemp, his distorted eyeballs nearly bursting from their sockets, he stared (if the word is appropriate here) at the life-sized portrait of his former partner, my husband, who, it just so happens (and some say that Douglas surely knew this), was at that very moment pulling into the driveway and up to the house returning home.
From his vantage point in his motorcar, John saw Douglas Posey, his stated enemy, swinging from his neck in the large expanse of window that fills the center of the Parlor. Douglas offered him only his backside, stained as it was with life’s final excretion.
I think every servant on the property heard April’s scream.
She hasn’t spoken a word since.
26 FEBRUARY 1915—ROSE RED
For the last week I have devoted every waking hour to my children, dividing my energies between Adam and April, though spending far more of my time with my daughter. I do not know how the male mind works, but suffice it to say Adam’s recovery seemed almost immediate. Whether there will be longer-lasting effects of his witnessing the suicide I do not know, and I do confess to these pages that I am fearful Douglas Posey’s death will linger within him and surface for some time to come. Little April is another matter altogether. Neither John nor I, nor the governesses, nor Sukeena, can get her to utter a single word. She sits, for endless hours at a time, staring at the architect’s model of Rose Red. She dragged it in front of the fireplace in the Parlor and there she sits. She screams wildly if anyone attempts to move it, or her, for that matter. The staff has been directed to work around her, to leave her alone, and not to address her unless instructed, for her outbursts are paralyzing. I am apparently the only one she will tolerate even near her. So, mother and child occupy the Parlor, the hissing of the logs, the sharp popping of the pine sap combusting the only sounds. I have taken to knitting, for I find reading impossible in this state. In truth, I stare at my daughter’s back, awaiting some sign of a return to normal. Twice I have lost my temper, though not for several days now, finding her silence insolent and enormously frustrating. I also, for a time, felt her prisoner, as if she had concocted this state of hers, taking advantage of the poor man’s suicide as a means of capturing me into her web. I have spent more time with her in this week than in the previous six months combined. (I fear this reflects on me poorly when viewed in the written word, but one must be reminded of my own infirmity.)
I have secretly ordered Abigail, one of the children’s understudy nannies, to photograph the Rose Red model each night before retiring to bed. This, on account of my troubling impression that it is subtly changing in appearance. I could swear that wings appear and disappear from one day to the next, and that the degree of these changes directly reflects the amount of time April sits staring. (I fear, Dear Diary, that she is, in fact, not “staring” so much as “sharing” herself with the model, with Rose Red. As absurd as this sounds, I tell you it is true: she enters a kind of trance in the company of that model and does not come out until the fire dies and the room goes cold.)
This leads me to another entry here in your pages that I have resisted putting to ink for several nights now. It is time, for I fear the results if I keep such things locked inside me:
My dear Sukeena came to me the other night with a look of pure fright on her deep blue face. I inquired immediately what was ever the matter, and she would not speak to me until we found ourselves sequestered in my chambers, with the door fully bolted. Our conversation went something like this:
“Sukeena! What is it?”
“It’s her, Miss Ellen.”
“April?”
“The house. Her! Rose Red.”
I awaited her, expecting to hear more. When she was not forthcoming, I prodded her, compelling her to speak. She appeared spooked—there is no other word for it. “Please,” I finally obliged her.
“Maybe not the Indians,” she said.
“What is not the Indians?” I asked.
“Me thinking, miss. Me listening. Listening to April, miss.”
“But April has not spoken for nearly a week.”
“Not to us, miss.”
“Sukeena?”
“It like a wind, miss. A wind all ’round that child. A wind like a voice … like many voices. Whenever she ’round that toy … that Rose Red dollhouse. It why she no want me near. She knows I hear.”
“What are you saying?” I felt exasperated. “My daughter is … is, what? … speaking to this house?”
“The house speaks to her, miss. Me think maybe not the Indians.”
“You’re speaking of the disappearances.”
She nodded, still afraid. It is not often I have seen her afraid. Not Sukeena.
“What if … miss. If you think of it as fire. Fire, miss. Fire on our insides, Miss Ellen. Like that.”
“Life?” I gasped.
“The power of life, miss. Yes. The fire. And what if … what if the house needs this fire for itself? The way you and me need our food. Like that. Fire, like that.”
“Not Indians.”
“No, miss.”
“Not the burial ground.”
“Not saying the Indians aren’t here as well, miss. This place feels crowded at times.”
She was right about that. We’d all felt it. Even the servants. We weren’t alone in this house. The occasional, unexplained Indian artifact surfacing in our collection seemed to support this spectral presence.
“Are you saying … ?” I found myself grinning nervously. I felt terribly uncomfortable. I did not want to express what I was thinking, but we had come too far for such reservations. No walls exist between Sukeena and me. “Are you saying the disappearances … ?” She nodded, knowing exactly where I was taking us. “That Rose Red is feeding on these disappearances?”
“Sucking the fire out of them, miss.” She nodded solemnly.
I sputtered a little laugh, not at all comfortable now.
She said ominously, “I think it has to do with you, miss. No question about that. This house loves you. But I think it takes them others for the fire that’s inside them. It living off that fire, Miss Ellen.” She added, “And the bigger she gets, the more she need to eat.”
I shuddered. “But we’re building her bigger,” I reminded her, willful of Madame Stravinski’s decree.
“Maybe that woman,” Sukeena said, meaning Madame Stravinski, “she working for the house. Maybe that was the house talking, not her.”
“I don’t believe that,” I whispered. Construction on the house is scheduled years ahead. “As long as I keep building …” I did not say it, but I was thinking: then I’m immortal! What I did say was, “I trust Madame Stravinski and what she told us about Rose Red.” I added, “My fevers are gone.”
Sukeena knows me well enough to leave it at that. I suppose I should not have been so heavy-handed as I was, for I fear I put to an end any further discussion on the subject. Sukeena rarely glares at me, but on this occasion she did just that: a wide-eyed leer of contained anger. I attempted to begin again.
I asked, “It�
��s living off the life of the girls that have disappeared?”
She would not answer me.
“And what of the men who have died?” I inquired.
“That between you and the house, miss.”
“Me and the house,” I echoed, feeling a chill. A window open? I wondered.
“The house protecting you.”
“Mr. Corbin was not protecting me,” I objected. “We had never met.”
“That man done shot the one man running the construction, Miss Ellen. That man Corbin—he been sent by the gods to stop this house being built, stop her before she ever started.” She added, “He done his best.”
It was true: Corbin had shot Williamson on the day the first stones had been laid. Coincidence? It added fuel to Sukeena’s theories. “Maybe that was the Indians,” I suggested, knowing full well Sukeena remained suspicious of the Indians’ involvement in the goings-on.
She did not look pleased. “It sucking the fire out a them young girls, ma’am. The bigger she grow … the more girls be disappearing. Sukeena know this … in here.” She placed a wide hand across her bosom.
I experienced another spike of cold—like a draft. Sukeena rarely committed to her convictions with such words. She had done so when she had been convinced I was pregnant, and again when convinced young Laura would never be found. And now this.
I fear I have grown susceptible to such suggestions, and I wonder at the woman I have become. Would the girl of nineteen have believed a house could be alive? Could she have envisioned her closest friend being an African high priestess capable of divining truths where no others could? A mother of two: one mute, with a withered arm, one admiring and emulating a man of questionable convictions? In just seven short years my life has so drastically changed to where even I do not recognize it. I cannot discuss such matters with my mother, for she is certain to misunderstand—to label me intemperate and harebrained. It leaves me in the care of my dearest Sukeena and her keen observations, her frequent connections with the “other side.” It leaves me wanting.
I want my April back. I want her arm to be right. I want Douglas Posey to die someplace else, to leave this poor house and all of us in it alone.
What if that model of Rose Red is growing? What if my daughter’s voice has been lost to its greed? What if April is trapped, half in, half out of these walls that surround us? What is to be done about that? How do I return her to her mother, her family?
I feel the need to shower even more love and attention upon the poor girl. I have ordered that she is to sleep in my bed alongside of me. I want her to find her mother’s warmth when she seeks it. To hear her mother’s voice when she awakes. If I am made to fight for her, I will. (If you are reading these words, Rose Red, mark my word on that!)
I want to leave, but I know that is not possible. You will never let me go. Any of us, for that matter. We are your captives here. Immortal captives, but captives nonetheless. Whatsoever does it all mean? How long can I tolerate being under this roof with John Rimbauer? As powerful as he is, as rich as he is, I feel none of his love anymore. Adam has replaced me in his eyes. He brings presents for Adam. Builds rooms for Adam’s train. Takes Adam on his business trips (along with the prettiest nanny! This does not escape a wife’s eye!). I am condemned. Rose Red owns me, not the other way around. I am a prisoner here. I must get April out at all costs. Her grandparents, perhaps. Ah … why had I not thought of this?
What have I waited for?
13 MARCH 1915—ROSE RED
The cruelty of marriage! It has been several weeks now since I mentioned to my husband my desire to get April out of this house. This morning I intercepted a letter delivered by a most unusual postman: well over six feet tall, a bum right leg that caused him to limp and the thickest of glasses! He came to the front door, mumbling something about a town in Italy … Florence, was it? No, Pisa. That was it! He said something like, “Pisa for Rimbauer.” I have no idea where the postal office obtains its deliverymen! (I hope our regular man, Floyd, returns to our service.) The letter was posted three days hence from the Cheshire Academy, Portland, Oregon. I opened it immediately (with steam, so that I might reseal it) and saw it to be a letter of acceptance—for Adam. It appears John is far more interested in protecting his precious lineage, his heir, than his daughter with the withered arm and silent tongue. (He believes April’s “difficulty with the language” to be a reflection upon her intelligence, and probably her gender, if truth be known; John suffers behind a single-minded, simpleton view of a woman’s purpose on this earth—to provide men certain unspeakable pleasures and to bear children. Nothing more.) I am a tangle of anger and grief, for I know my arguments will be lost on his ears. April will remain. Adam will leave us to attend the first grade. April is condemned with the rest of us; Adam is to be saved.
I prepare myself to defend my precious daughter, but I know in advance it is not an argument I shall win. Nonetheless it is a fight I shall give him. And if he ever returns to my bed with other matters in mind—which he’s bound to do at some point—he shall find young April under the covers with me. So it shall remain, until he entertains a change of heart.
Two can play this game. Three, if one counts Rose Red. And woe be to him who discounts her. Woe, indeed.
9 SEPTEMBER 1915—ROSE RED
It is with heavy heart that to-day I said good-bye to little Adam as he and his father left to deliver him to the Cheshire Academy. A mother’s heart cannot bear such loss, especially in the face of my increased (and failed) efforts to evoke some manner of speech from my daughter, who remains in her nearly comatose state.
To my horror, any attempt we have made to photograph the model of Rose Red has failed, as the images that are developed show a glowing white light where the model should be. It is as if the model itself were emanating some energy, some light, that spoils the photographs. (In one, dear April was captured as well—these same white clouds extended from her hands and fully surrounded her head. If a trick of the people developing these photographs, it is no laughing matter, and I pray for them to stop. John blames it on “dodging” the images while they are being developed and claims they are nothing but a practical joke. April’s “condition” is known all over town.)
The European war is all anyone can talk about. John travels incessantly: Denver, Portland, San Francisco—even Cleveland and New York, his exports growing rapidly. The more he is away, the easier life is at Rose Red. (So much of the tension here arises out of John’s presence and the staff’s fear of the man.) The newspaper’s front page is covered in worldly events: Germany offers not to sink ocean liners, a little too late for the Lusitania; another city in Poland falls to the Austro-German army; Haiti is in rebellion; Switzerland hosts a meeting of the European Socialists. Our lives here at home seem to have such little purpose any longer. There is war everywhere. The German submarines sink dozens of ships every week. President Wilson is under pressure to join the fight. I know not where any of this might lead, but none of it looks promising. In terms of our lives, there are fewer social events, as so many of our husbands seem overworked by the run-up to war. Although the heads of staff and I have had our first meeting concerning the annual January Ball, there is less excitement this year. The guest list is much larger, as John has added dozens of business contacts to the list. I have used my friendship with the Mastersons in order to arrange the invitation of a famous opera singer, Elizabeth Paige, who will be in the city at that time. Miss Paige, along with the film star Charlie Chaplin, should make it an interesting evening. John says William Randolph Hearst may attend. But he is most excited about some general he plans on inviting (this general has business with Mr. Boeing, and John, being a major investor with Boeing, is attempting to connect the two men socially prior to any discussion of business).
My larger concern is Rose Red herself. She has been “quiet” for many months now, content, I suppose, to use her energies to grow with the construction. (Just listen to me! How foolish this sounds!) This constr
uction, however, is scheduled to slow substantially, though not stop completely, this winter, as John believes the winter will be particularly severe (he reads the almanac and believes every word!) and sees no reason “to fight old man Winter.” What, if any, effect this may have on Rose Red I cannot be sure, but my instincts tell me that a woman in want of attention will attention receive, and after all this frantic building these many months, how will she react to her workers leaving her, her men deserting her?
How will her mood affect our annual inaugural? Will she leave well enough alone, or will she seek some company? With John gone so much, a part of me says that Rose Red has nothing to fight for, that her dormancy results from the lack of a need to protect me; but if Sukeena is right—and who am I to challenge her understanding of such matters?—then it seems possible our house may find herself in need of substance, the subsiding construction no longer stealing her attentions. If so, to whom will she turn, and when? I am reluctant to invite a soul into this house. I am of a mind to call off the party altogether for fear of guests disappearing. But never mind, Dear Diary, my attentions, my energies remain focused on my sweet child April and my attempts to win her back from wherever she has gone since Douglas Posey’s cruel departure from this earth.
Why has it taken me until this very moment to realize what must be done? How could I be so blind? Why must I write my heart to these pages in order to see clearly the way of it all? Sukeena would never suggest it, for she doubts the powers so, but where have I been that I did not see this sooner? I must call Tina at once! For I now understand the course of action required to free my dear daughter from the slavery of her silence: Madame Lu! Madame Lu! If anyone can unlock this mystery, it is the Great Lady herself.
The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer Page 16
