Mrs. Griffin was asleep in her bed when I entered. A thin, cocoa-skinned nurse in a white uniform sat close to the bed, knitting. The soft click-click-click of her knitting needles underscored Mrs. Griffin’s irregular breathing. The nurse looked up at me. She had bright brown eyes and a pointed face. Her glistening black hair was pulled back tight in a bun. She reminded me of a bird of prey. I was pleasantly surprised when she opened her mouth and spoke with a soft, musical voice.
“Mrs. Griffin,” the nurse said, “your guest is here,” gently nudging the old woman to awaken her.
Mrs. Griffin turned toward me. Her startled eyes, pale skin, and a wig, stiff and incongruously dark, all made her look like a macabre doll.
“Faith,” she said in a weak, raspy voice, “I’ve been thinking and thinking of you.”
The nurse got up and moved to the other side of the room, leaving the chair by the bed vacant. I sat down. Mrs. Griffin gave me her hand. I took it and held it as a matter of courtesy, though I felt strange in doing so. My new thoughts about her possible guilt made me feel hypocritical.
“I’ve been thinking of you too, Mrs. Griffin,” I said. “You must be very happy to be home.”
“I’ll be damned if I’ll die in a hospital. They’re terrible places. So white and ugly and modern. My idea of hell . . . So tell me, have you finished yet?”
“Almost,” I said. “Not quite.”
“I’m eager to see what you’ve done. I want to go now.”
“Now? Is that wise, Mrs. Griffin? Don’t you think you ought to take it easy for a while—”
Ignoring me, Mrs. Griffin pulled herself up in bed and signaled to the nurse.
“Ellie,” she said, “this is Miss Crowell. She’s the young girl I’ve been telling you about.”
I was touched and rather surprised that Mrs. Griffin had spoken of me to the nurse. I was also amused to hear myself referred to as a “young girl,” especially since I guessed the nurse, herself, was probably several years my junior.
“Hello, Miss Crowell,” the nurse said.
“Please call me Faith.”
The nurse smiled and repeated my name, “Faith.”
“Ellie, get my wheelchair, please. Tell Deane.”
Ellie put down her knitting and walked over to the bed.
“Now, Mrs. G.,” she said, as if she were addressing a child, “your friend is right. I don’t think we want to be getting out of our bed just yet.”
“My chair, please,” Mrs. Griffin repeated more emphatically. “Now.”
The nurse shook her head disapprovingly and left the room. I could see from the expression on her face that she was resigned to giving in to the whims of the old lady, who, even in her weakened condition, was a formidable presence.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to take a few days off,” I said.
“Oh? Just now that I’m back?”
“Well, it’s some business I need to attend to. I’ve been procrastinating about it. But I can’t put it off any longer. I’m sorry.”
“How long will you be gone?” she asked.
“Not long. Just four or five days. A week at the most. I’ll be back before you know it. I promise.”
“You must hurry,” she said. “I don’t have much time left.”
She put her hands on her face, patting at it gently, exploring her features one at a time.
“My head feels as if it belongs to someone else. Do I look different to you?”
I decided to lie.
“Yes, you look better. More rested.”
“Liar,” she said without malice. “Life is very strange, Faith. You’ll see. You don’t really believe it’s happened until it’s about to be all over. And even then you think, there must be something else, some final thing to make it all make sense.”
“Perhaps the truth is the final thing,” I offered.
She turned away.
“I’m going to die soon. That’s my truth.”
There was something very poignant in the way she uttered these words, as a simple statement of fact, unencumbered by remorse or self-pity. I was genuinely sorry for her.
“No,” I said, “you’re going to live a long time. You have to. You’ve got to give another ball, after all.” I wanted to lighten up the conversation.
“You think so?”
She withdrew her hand from mine and began fidgeting with the ribbons of her bed jacket.
“I hear you’ve been exploring,” she said.
“What?”
“Deane told me. He tells me everything.”
Watching her tie a perfect bow with the ribbons, I realized how naive I’d been to think that Deane would have kept our encounter a secret.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Griffin. I shouldn’t have.”
“Oh, don’t apologize,” she said, aimlessly undoing the bow she had tied so carefully. “I know how curious you are by nature. I knew once I was gone you wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation to roam around. It’s in your character to want to know things about people. To get underneath their surfaces, if you will. I don’t mind. That’s why I like you.”
“Tell me, do you save everything, Mrs. Griffin?”
“It’s not that I save things. It’s just that I don’t dare throw anything out.”
“What do you mean? Why not?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I can’t part with anything. I wish I could, but it’s too difficult. Every time I go to get rid of something, I feel as if I’m throwing out a part of my life. You see, Faith, one day this house will stand as a record of the past. I’ve endowed it in my will, leaving money for upkeep and a staff. It will be a little museum, a little oasis of tranquility in this terrible world. People will come to visit it, and they will be able to get a sense of what life was like for people who resisted the modern disease of ugliness.”
“Really? You intend making The Haven a museum one day?”
“Oh yes. The Griffins are an important part of American cultural history, you know. I believe people will want to know how we lived. That’s why your work must be particularly brilliant, Faith, because it will be seen by thousands of people after we’re both long gone.”
So, I thought to myself, it was immortality that she was after.
“Faith, dear, you do know how fond I am of you, don’t you? It’s as if Cassa’s come back to life. I wouldn’t deny you anything.”
“That’s very kind of you,” I said.
“Now don’t misinterpret what I’m about to say. I’m not angry, dear. Please don’t think I’m angry. I’m rather fascinated. Tell me, what possessed you to take a bath in my bathroom yesterday?”
I could feel my face flush with embarrassment, though, of course, I knew that if Deane had informed her of all my movements, he would scarcely have omitted that one.
“It’s such a very odd thing to do,” she continued. “Of all the things you could have done—why a bath? I’m curious. Why? Why did you do it?”
“I . . . I suppose . . .” I began, struggling to choose my words carefully, “I suppose I felt it was somehow a way of . . . of getting closer to you.”
“And why did you want to do that?”
It was difficult to tell whether she was baiting me or whether she was asking these questions sincerely. I decided I’d better be honest with her.
“Well, the truth is, Mrs. Griffin, I think you’ve been on the verge of telling me something important and dangerous several times and have stopped yourself for some reason.”
“And what, may I ask, does that have to do with taking a bath in my bathroom?”
“I’m not really sure. At the time, I thought it might give me an insight into you, that’s all.”
“And did it?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Either it did or it didn’t.”<
br />
“Well,” I said, feeling uncomfortable, “I think the insight it gave me might be wrong.”
“And what insight was that?”
“That you’re someone who cares more about possessions than about people.”
“That’s it?” she said, raising her eyebrows.
“Yes.”
“It’s true, I’ve found possessions a lot easier to get along with in the long run,” she said. “But that’s not the real conclusion it led you to, is it?”
“Yes, it is,” I demurred. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean you think I know who killed my daughter.”
I looked at her, deciding it was not the time to be tactful or squeamish.
“I do, Mrs. Griffin. Yes, I do.”
“Well . . . Why wouldn’t I have come forward?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
She began pulling nervously at stray wisps of hair on her wig.
“Perhaps you think I did it. Perhaps that was your real conclusion.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“The thought did cross your mind,” she insisted.
“Yes,” I whispered, after a time.
“Well, you’re right in a way.”
I held my breath. She was silent for another long moment. Finally she said: “I did do it.”
I gazed down at her, this strange, wizened little creature who looked as if she barely had the strength to open her eyes, and wondered if my theory was correct, or if she was playing yet another game with me.
“Not literally, of course,” she continued, looking up at me with very large eyes.
“Who did, then?”
She blinked several times. “I can’t tell you that,” she said. “But I will tell you that I share the blame, so, in a sense, I am responsible.”
She shook her head from side to side, repeating, “I am responsible, I am responsible.”
I stroked her forehead. Her skin felt hot. She reached up, took hold of my hand and kissed it.
“You understand,” she said. “I know you do.”
“Oh, Mrs. Griffin, please tell me what really happened, please. Please, you must. You must tell someone. You want to tell me, I know you do.”
“No, you don’t understand. I can’t . . . I can never tell anyone. But you must know that I do feel for people, not just for possessions. I’m not an evil woman. Yes, I’ve done many things I regret, and I hold myself responsible for my daughter’s death—and not a day goes by when I don’t think of her and miss her and want her and feel so guilty about what happened—but still, I’m not evil, and I am capable of feeling, I am! I want you to understand that, Faith. You must understand that. Promise me you will?”
Before I could answer her, I was aware of someone hovering over me. It was the nurse. She was back. Deane was standing next to her with the wheelchair. They looked like a grim pair of figurines, stiff and proper in their respective black-and-white uniforms.
“Here is Madam’s chair,” Deane said.
“She can only be out a short time,” the nurse said to me in a low voice.
“I don’t know if she wants to go out at all,” I replied.
“Why are you all whispering?” Mrs. Griffin demanded. “I can’t stand it when people whisper.”
“Do you feel up to seeing my work, Mrs. Griffin? Deane’s here to take you if you like.”
“No,” she said, dismissing the three of us with a wave of her hand. “I’m tired now. Another time.”
Deane and the nurse exchanged little smirks between them as if they had won a battle against me. I felt uncomfortable as Deane wheeled the chair out of the room in that controlled, deliberate manner of his. I was sorry to have lost his goodwill.
“We’ll get some sleep now,” the nurse said to Mrs. Griffin.
She brushed past me and began smoothing Mrs. Griffin’s bedcovers and fluffing up her pillows. Mrs. Griffin motioned her to go away.
“I’m going out to the ballroom now to do a little work. Then I’ll be off,” I said.
“Wait!” Mrs. Griffin cried. “When will I see you again?”
“Oh, a week. A week at the most.”
“Think about what I’ve told you, please.”
“Don’t worry. I will. Good-bye.”
The nurse closed the door behind me. If I’d ever had any doubts about going out to see Roberto Madi, they were erased by this last visit with the old woman. I suspected Harry was right, that Mrs. Griffin had not actually killed Cassandra herself. But what was so unbearable about the truth that she could not bring herself to tell it almost two decades later on her deathbed? It must be the father, I thought. The distinguished Holt Griffin. He must have done it and for some reason she was protecting him. But why? Why would a father kill his own daughter?
I went downstairs and took the photograph of Cassandra from the library. I needed it for the final stage of work on the mural. Putting it under my coat to protect it, I walked across the garden. The morning air was cold and damp, the day overcast. I could see my breath dissolving in front of me in little puffs of white mist.
Running up the steps of the pavilion, I opened the French doors and went inside. I looked around. My work was almost finished, the room nearly completed. I felt it had turned out well. This pleased me even more now that I knew Mrs. Griffin intended to make The Haven into a museum. Though I’d always prided myself on being indifferent to thoughts of posterity, I must confess her plan excited me.
I walked around the ballroom slowly, examining each of the panels, remembering the various moments in their creation. They were like my children, and I took pleasure in dwelling on the highlights of their growth and development. I began to imagine the people who might one day visit The Haven. Would some of them wonder, even fleetingly, about the artist who had painted these murals?
The ballroom was no longer the promising empty space it had been when I’d first walked into it in the springtime, all those months ago. Now it was a scene of great festivity. I had managed to capture a moment. There was an air of expectation on the faces of the celebrants straining to catch a glimpse of Cassandra as she entered the room, an enigmatic figure in a white dress, still with no face, holding a bouquet of flowers, stepping tentatively into the center of the gathering in her honor. The moment that had never happened.
I studied the framed picture of Cassandra I’d borrowed from the library, memorizing her features one by one and then together, as they formed the whole of her face. I knew it was going to be difficult, if not impossible, to do her justice from that innocuous studio photograph, so I laid it aside and decided to work from instinct as well as memory. I picked up my palette and brushes and stood at the wall, confronting the blank oval head, and began sketching Cassandra’s features as I remembered them. Soon a face emerged. However, it was as lifeless as a death mask.
I started thinking about the sort of expression I might give to this young woman whom I’d never known and who, from what I knew about her, would have hated the idea of being immortalized in this way. I wondered whether to make her looking directly at the viewer, or staring off into the distance. Laughing or talking? Should I capture a fleeting moment, or render her classically, head up, eyes blazing, arms at her sides, as imperious and graceful as a Greek goddess? Should I make her face reflect the pain she was to know later on in life? Or should I make her indifferent to her fate? What attitude, I wondered, would do her the most justice?
I sat trying to compose Cassandra’s portrait most of the morning, to no avail. In the midst of all the lively faces, hers kept arriving stillborn. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t get the portrait to live. Rubbing out the features for the fifth or sixth time, I remembered the promise I’d made to Cassandra when I’d first been hit by inspiration. It had been my plan to paint her face at the very end, when the party I’d created for her w
as ready for her to see. Now the scene was set, but how could I paint her face when I was still missing the final piece of the puzzle: who killed her and why? Until I knew that, I couldn’t do her justice. So I put away my brushes and paints and left the ballroom, more eager than ever to meet Roberto Madi.
The next day, I bought a parka on sale at a ski shop in midtown. That afternoon I packed a small bag with the warmest clothes I had, as well as cold remedies, herbal teas, and a first-aid kit. I’d never been to the West before and I imagined it a freezing place of forbidding vastness with few people and fewer comforts.
That night I cooked some chicken and finished what was left of a bottle of Chablis I’d corked and put away in the refrigerator. After supper I went upstairs and gave Brush to my neighbor, who was fond of cats. She was an older woman with two cats of her own who’d looked after Brush for me on the few occasions when my work had called me away. I kissed him good-bye. I was sad to leave him.
When I went back down to my apartment, I called Harry. There was no answer. I left a message on his machine confirming the plan we’d made to meet at the airport early the next morning. I was terrified I was going to miss the plane, or that he was, or that some calamity was going to befall us both. The logistics of travel so unnerved me that I kept studying my ticket to make sure the date and time of departure were correct and checking over my bag with the gnawing feeling I’d forgotten something.
I called Harry again and again throughout the evening. Still no answer. I left several messages on his machine, the last one of which was the simple, plaintive cry, “Where the hell are you?!” I needed Harry there to guide me. Without his reassuring presence, I had visions of botched reservations, stranded people, mechanical failures, and crashing planes, as if the world outside my own little sphere was a conspiracy of chaos designed to derail even the most vigilant and unobtrusive of travelers.
A Trick of the Eye Page 18
