His rooms were all black and white with red accents; dramatic, but somehow cold. I sat down on his white leather sofa fully twelve feet long, my feet on his red carpet, with black velvet and satin pillows behind my back. In one corner was a marvelous bar sparkling with crystal decanters and various stemmed glasses, and every kind of liquor he kept there for his private use, along with snack foods. There was also a small fridge and a micro oven for melting cheese, or doing whatever light cooking he wanted.
Every photograph was matted in black or red and' framed in gold. Three walls were of white moire fabric. One wall was covered with padded and quilted black leather. A deceiving wall. One of those leather buttons concealed the large safe in which he kept his stock and bond certificates, for he'd proudly shown me his suite just once, soon after it was completely decorated. He'd operated the secret buttons, happy to display the complexity of all he controlled. The safe in his office downstairs was used for less permanent and important papers.
I turned my head to stare at the door to his bedroom, covered with black leather, too. Beautiful doors to a magnificent bedroom with the same decor as this room. I thought I heard something. The soft rumble of male laughter--the softer giggle of a woman. Could I be wrong? Did Bart have the ability to make Melodie laugh when none of the rest of us could?
My imagination worked overtime, picturing what they had to be doing, and I felt sick at heart, thinking of Jory in his room, hopefully waiting for a wife who never came to him. Sick because Bart would do this to him, his own brother, whom he'd loved and admired very much for a short while, such a pitifully short while . . .
Just then the door opened and Bart came striding out, wearing not one stitch of clothing. He moved swiftly, his long legs a fast blur. Embarrassed to see him naked, I shrank back into the soft cushions, hoping he wouldn't see me. He'd never forgive me. I shouldn't be here.
Due to the sudden storm, the gloom in his sitting room was so dense there was some hope he wouldn't notice me sitting on his white sofa. Straight to the fully equipped bar he stalked, and with quick, skilled hands mixed some drink using crystal decanters. He sliced lemon, filled two cocktail glasses, put those half-filled glasses on a silver tray and headed back for his bedroom. The door behind him was kicked closed.
Cocktails in the morning, before twelve . . . ?
What would Joel think of that?
I sat on, hardly breathing.
Thunder rolled and lightning cracked, the rain beat on the windowpanes. Lightning zagged and lit up the gloom every few seconds.
Moving to a more secluded spot in his room, I made myself part of the shadows behind a huge plant, then waited.
It seemed an eternity passed before that door opened again, and I knew Jory was waiting anxiously, perhaps even angrily, for Melodie to show up. Two glasses, two. She was here. She had to be here.
In the dimness I finally saw Melodie step out of Bart's bedroom wearing a filmy peignoir that clearly showed she wore nothing beneath. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated her, showing the bulge of the baby that was due early in January.
Oh, Melodie, how can you do this to Jory?
"Come back," called Bart in a slurred, satisfied voice. "It's raining. The fire in here makes it cozier-- and we have nothing better to do . . ."
"I've got to bathe and dress and visit Jory," she said, hesitating in the doorway, looking at him with apparent longing. want to stay, really I do, but Jory needs me once in a while."
"Can he give you what I've just given you?" "Please, Bart. He needs me. You don't know what it's like to be needed."
"No, I don't know. Only the weak depend on others for sustenance."
"You've never been in love, Bart," she answered hoarsely, "so you can't understand. You take me, use me, tell me I'm wonderful, but you don't love me, or truly need me. Someone else would serve your purpose just as well. It feels good to be needed, to know someone wants you more than he wants anyone else."
"Leave, then," he said, his happy tone turning quickly icy as he stayed hidden from my sight. "Of course I don't need you. I don't need anyone. I don't know if what I feel for you is love or just desire. Even pregnant, you're very beautiful, and if your body does give me pleasure now, it might not tomorrow."
I could tell from her profile that she was hurt. She cried out pitifully, "Then why do you want me to come every day, every night? Why do your eyes follow wherever I go? You do need me, Bart! You do love me! You're just ashamed to admit it. Please *on't talk so cruelly to me. It hurts. You seduced me when I was weak and afraid, and Jory was still in the hospital. You took me when I needed him, and told me my need was you! You knew I was terrified Jory might die . . . and I needed someone."
"And that's all I am?" he roared. "A need? I thought you loved me, really loved me!"
"I do, I do!"
"No, you don't! How can you love me and still talk of him? So go to him. See what he can give you now!"
She left, her frail garment fluttering behind her, reminding me of a ghost frantically fleeing to try and find life.
The door slammed behind her.
Stiffly I rose from my chair, feeling my knee throbbing with pain, like it always ached when it rained. I limped a little as I neared the closed door of Bart's bedroom. I didn't even hesitate as I threw it open. Before he could protest I'd reached inside to throw the switch and bring his cozy, firelit room into electric brightness.
Immediately he bolted up in the middle of his king-sized bed. "Mother! What the hell are you doing in my bedroom? Get out, out!"
I strode forward, covering the large space between the door and the bed in a second.
"What the hell are you doing sleeping with your brother's wife? Your injured brother's wife?"
"Get out of here!" he bellowed, taking care to keep his privates well covered, while the mat of dark hair on his chest seemed to bristle with indignity. "How dare you spy on me?"
"Don't you yell at me, Bart Foxworth! I'm your mother, and you are not thirty-five years old yet, so you can't order me out of this house. I'll go when I'm ready, and that time hasn't arrived. You owe me so much, Bart, so much."
"I owe you, Mother?" he asked sarcastically, bitterly. "Pray tell me why I owe you anything. Should I thank you for my father, whom you helped to kill? Should I say thank you for all those miserable days when I was young and neglected, and unsure of myself? Should I thank you now for putting me on such unstable ground that I don't feel I'm a normal man, capable of inspiring love?"
His voice broke as his head bowed. "Don't stand there and accuse me with those cursed Foxworth blue eyes. You don't have to do one damned thing to make me feel guilty. I was born feeling that way. I took Melodie when she was crying and needing someone to hold her and give her confidence and love. And I found for the first time the kind of love I've been hearing and reading about all my life, from the noble type of woman who's only had one man. Do you realize how rare they are? Melodie is the first woman who has made me feel truly human. With her I can relax, put down my guard, and she doesn't try to wound me. She loves me, Mother. I don't think I've ever been happier."
"How can you say that when I just overheard the words the two of you exchanged?"
He sobbed and fell back to roll on his side away from me, the sheet just barely covering enough. "I'm on the defensive, and so is she. She feels she's betraying Jory by loving me. I feel much the same way. Sometimes we can let go of guilt and shame, and it's wonderful then. When Jory was in the hospital, and you and Chris were gone all the time, she didn't need a great deal of seducing. She fell with only a little reluctance into my arms, glad to have someone who cared enough to understand her feelings. Our fights all grow from the mire of guilt. Without Jory in the way, eagerly she'd run to me, be my wife."
"BART! You can't take Jory's wife from him. He needs her as he has never needed her before! You were wrong to take her when she was weak from desperation and loneliness. Give her up. Stop making love to her. Be loyal to Jory, as he's been loyal to
you. Through everything, Jory has stood behind you-- remember that. "
He flipped over, clutching the black sheet modestly. Something fragile broke behind his eyes and made him seem vulnerable, a pathetic child again. A wounded, small child who didn't like himself. His voice was hoarse when he said, "Yes, I love Melodie. I love her enough to marry her. I love her with every bone, muscle, ounce of my flesh. She's awakened me from a deep sleep. You see, she's the first woman I've loved. I have never been touched or moved by a woman as I've been touched and moved by Melodie. She slipped into my heart and now I can't push her out. She steals into my room wearing her delicate clothes, with her beautiful long and shining hair down, fresh from her bath and smelling sweet, and she just stands there, pleading with her eyes, and I feel my heart begin to beat faster, and when I dream, I dream of her. She's become the most wonderful thing in my life.
"Don't you see why I can't give her up? She's the one who has really awakened this burning desire for love and sex that I didn't even know I had. I thought that sex was a sin, and never did I pull away from a woman without feeling dirty, even dirtier than I thought I left her. When I made love to other women, I was always left feeling guilty, as if two naked bodies meeting in passion was evil--now I know differently. She's made me realize how beautiful loving can be, and now I don't know how to carry on without her. Jory can't be a real lover anymore. Let me be the husband she needs and wants. Help me to build a normal life for her and for myself . . . or else . . . I don't know . . . I just don't know what will happen . . ." His dark eyes turned my way, pleading for my understanding.
Oh, to hear him say all of that, when all his life I'd longed to have his confidence, and now that I had it, what could I do? I loved Bart, as I loved Jory. I stood there wringing my hands, twisting my
conscience and tormenting myself with guilt, for somehow I must have brought this about. I had neglected Bart, favored Jory, Cindy .. .
Now I, and Jory, had to pay the price . . . again.
He spoke, his voice lower and cracked, making him seem even younger and more vulnerable as he lay there, trying to lock his happiness away in a safe place I couldn't reach, and in this way forever shield it from killing exposure.
"Mother, for once in your life, see something from my side. I'm not bad, not wicked, or the beast you . sometimes make me feel I am. I'm only a man who has never felt good about himself. Help me, Mother. Help Melodie have the kind of husband she needs now that Jory can't be a real man anymore."
The rain beat a frantic tattoo on the window glass. It matched the rhythm of my heart. The wind whistled and shrieked around the house, while frenzied bat wings threw themselves against the inside of my skull. I couldn't split Melodie into two equal halves and give to Jory and Bart each their share. I had to stick with what I knew was right. Bart's love for Melodie was wrong. Jory needed her most.
Still I stood there, riveted to the carpet . . . and felt overwhelmed with my second son's desperate need to be loved. So many times in the past I'd believed him capable of evil, and he'd been proven innocent. Did my own guilt for bringing him into being curse me with eyes that refused to see the good in Bart?
"Are you sure, Bart? Do you truly love Melodie--or do you just want her because she belongs to Jory?"
Turning on his back, his dark eyes met mine with more honesty than he'd ever shown. How those dark eyes pleaded for understanding. "In the beginning I wanted Melodie only because she belonged to Jory. I honestly admit that. I wanted to take from him what he treasured most. Because he'd taken from me what I wanted most--YOU!"
I cringed as he went on. "She rejected my advances so many times that I began to respect her, to see her as different from other women who were easy to get. The more she shoved me away, the higher burned my desire, until I had to have her or die. I love her! Yes, she's made me vulnerable . . . and now I don't know how to live without her!"
I threw my hands wide before I sank to the side of his king-sized bed. "Oh, Bart . . . what a pity it couldn't have been another woman. Any woman but Melodie. I'm glad you've experienced love--and know it isn't dirty or sinful. Would God have made men and women the way he did if he hadn't meant for them to join together? He planned it that way. We recreate ourselves through love. But Bart, you have to promise not to see her alone again. Wait until Melodie has her baby before you and she decide anything."
His eyes filled with hope, with gratitude. "You'll help me?" Disbelief flooded his eyes. "I never thought you would .. ."
"Wait, please wait. Let Melodie have her child, then go to her, and then to Jory, and face up to him, Bart. Tell him how you feel about her. Don't steal his wife without giving him a chance to have his say."
"What can he say, Mother, that will make any difference? He's already lost. He can't dance. He can't even walk. He can't perform physically."
Seconds ticked away before I found more useless words to speak. "But does she honestly love you? I was in your sitting room. I heard her. She hasn't had her say in this matter. From what I can tell, she's torn between loving Jory and needing you. Don't take advantage of her weakness, or Jory's disabilities. Give him time to recover--then do what you must. It isn't fair to steal from Jory when he can't fight back. Give her time to adjust to Jory's condition. Then, if she still wants you, take her, for she'd only harm him more. But what would you do with Jory's child? Will you take that child from Jory, as well as take his wife? Are you planning to leave him nothing?"
Staring up at me, his eyes glittered
suspiciously. Bart jerked his eyes away to stare up at the ceiling. "I don't know yet about the baby. I haven't thought it out to that extent. I try not to think of the baby--and you don't have to go running to Chris or Jory with this. For once in your life, give me a chance to have something of my very own."
"Bart--"
"Go now, please. Leave me alone to think. I'm tired. You can weaken a man, Mother, with your demands, with your judgments. Just give me a fair chance this time to prove to you that I'm not as bad as you think, or as crazy as I once believed myself to be."
He didn't ask me again not to tell Jory, or Chris. As if he knew I wouldn't. Standing and turning about, I left his room.
On the way back to my room I thought about confronting Melodie, but I was too upset to face her without giving it more thought. She was already distraught enough, and I had to consider the health of her child.
Alone in my rooms, I sat before a guttering log fire and contemplated what to do. Jory's needs came first. In three months Jory's strong legs had begun to wither into thin sticks, reminding me of Bart's legs when he was very young. Short, thin legs covered with scratches, cuts and bruises, always falling, always breaking his bones. Punishing himself for being born and not living up to the standards Jory had set. That alone stood me up and headed me toward Jory's bedroom.
I stood in his doorway, my face washed clean of tear streaks, my eyes cooled by ice packs so they weren't red, and I smiled brightly at my firstborn. "Melodie is napping, Jory. But she'll see you before dinner. I think it would be nice for the two of you to dine alone before the fireplace. The rain outside will make it very cozy in here. I've asked Trevor and Henry to carry up logs and a special small table for dining. I've planned a menu with everything you like. Now, what can I do to help you dress and look your best?"
He shrugged indifferently. Before the accident he'd always loved clothes, had always groomed himself to perfection. "What difference now, Mom, what difference? I see you didn't bring her back with you, and why did it take you so long to come back and say she's napping?"
"The telephone rang. . . and Jory, I have to do a few things for myself once in a while. So now, what suit do you favor most?"
"Pajamas and a robe will do," he said distantly.
"Listen to me, Jory. Tonight you are going to sit in that electric wheelchair, wearing one of your father's suits, since you didn't bring a winter suit with you." Immediately he objected, while I insisted.
Already we'd sent to New
York for all of Jory's clothes, but Melodie had requested we leave hers where they were--and that had made me heat with anger inside, although I'd said nothing.
"When you look good, you feel good, and that's half the battle. You've stopped caring about your appearance. I'm going to shave your face even if you do want to grow a beard. You're much too handsome to hide behind bristly hair. You've got the most beautiful mouth, and a strong chin. Only weakchinned men should hide behind beards."
Eventually he gave up and smiled sardonically, agreeing to all I wanted to do to make him look more like himself. "Mom, you're something else. You care so damned much--but I won't ask why. I'm just grateful somebody cares enough."
About that time Chris drove home from Charlottesville, and he was eager to help. He shaved Jory's handsome face with a straight-edge razor, claiming that kind of shave did more for a man than anything else.
I sat on the bed to watch Chris finish the shaving before he splashed on lotion and cologne. All the time Jory looked so tolerant. I couldn't help but wonder what Bart was doing, and how I was going to approach Melodie and tell her that I knew what was going on between her and my second son.
Already Jory's arms were strong enough to swing his upper body into the chair. Chris and I stood back and watched, not offering to help, knowing he had to do this for himself. He seemed somewhat humiliated, and also somewhat proud that he did It easily the first time. Once he was in the chair, Jory looked pleased despite himself. "Not so bad," he said as he studied his face in the mirror I held up. He activated the chair and buzzed around the room for a trial spin. He grinned at us both. "It is better than the bed. What a fool you must think me--now it will be easier to finish the ship before Christmas, and maybe, with pampering like this, I'll struggle through."
Seeds of Yesterday Page 18
