Garden of Shadows

THE DAYS, THE MONTHS, THE YEARS PASSED, TRICKLING like grains of sand through an infinite hourglass. I found relief only in prayer and work. Cruthers had made two more appearances at Foxworth Hall, the first to announce the birth of a healthy girl named Cathy; the second, eight years later, to make an even more startling announcement—the birth of twins, a boy and a girl, once again healthy and perfect. It seemed Christopher and Corinne’s family were all bright and beautiful; in fact, Mr. Cruthers reported, they were known in their town as the Dresden dolls, because of their beautiful blond hair, their blue eyes, their flawless complexions.

I never told Malcolm about Mr. Cruthers’s visits. His stroke had aged him quickly, although he seemed to have reached a point from which he would degenerate no further.

Of course, his temperament changed. In the beginning, when he first had his stroke and his heart attack, there was still some fight left in him; he hadn’t accepted his condition as permanent then. But when he sat in his wheelchair now, there wasn’t that impatience, that stiff, demanding posture that revealed the battle continuing within him. The defiance that had once resided in his blue eyes gradually departed. His eyes dimmed like candles in the night, their once bright flames growing smaller and smaller as they lost the energy that had once fueled them.

And the shadows began to move in around him. Often I would find him content to sit in the darkest corner of his room or of the foyer. This man, who had once moved with such energy and power that he appeared to manufacture his own light, now sat draped in darkness. Slowly, with painstaking determination, the shadows of Foxworth Hall were claiming him.

Although his speech had improved to the point where he was easily understood by anyone, he began to refrain from conversation. His nurses, and he had nearly a dozen different ones over the years, learned to read his gestures and knew what he wanted when he waved his hand or jerked his head. The only times his voice rose was when he joined John Amos and me in our daily prayers.

I knew that his effort to survive and bear the pain and indignity of age and sickness came from his great desire to see and believe in his own redemption. We asked God to make good use of us, and we pleaded for His forgiveness.

I moved back and forth from the religious world to the business world, each time fully submerging myself in the work and the demands each required, for as long as I was occupied, I was comfortable and secure. I grew to despise those quiet moments when I was afforded some relaxation. Relaxation meant confronting my memories. Those memories hovered about me, buzzing in the back of my mind like a circle of mad insects, looking for an opportunity to pierce my fortress of relative peace. Old voices echoed; shadows and ghosts slipped along corridors, resurrected by the sight of one of Mal’s or Joel’s old toys, of the piano, now forever silenced in the parlor, of Corinne’s old room.

I tried to avoid whole sections of the house, staying away from the north wing. I kept the door to the Swan Room closed and I kept the door to Malcolm’s trophy room closed. I had pieces of furniture, trunks, pictures, and articles of clothing taken up to the attic. I did all that I could to hold back the past, to dam it up behind a protective wall of distance and time; but it had its ways of slipping through.

Memories and time took their toll on me as well. Once again my life was painted gray, as it had been before I came to Foxworth Hall, as I had feared it always would be. But I no longer feared gray, I had become one with it. It was the only color I wore, it was the color of my hair, the color of my eyes, the color of my hopes, the color of my life.

This was who I was; this was who I had become. Prayer and work had hardened me until I was a statue of myself. But I was convinced that this was what God wanted; this was what God had designed.

• • •

A letter, a pink, perfumed letter, changed all that. One afternoon, as I was sorting through my mail, I came upon a pale rose envelope so startling among the white formal business letters. It was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm Neal Foxworth. I recognized the handwriting immediately. It still had the girlish swirls, but now the letters were oddly shaky. I sat for minutes, staring at the unopened envelope. What could Corinne want from us now? Hadn’t she done enough? And yet, and yet my heart jumped for joy when I recognized that girlish handwriting. How I missed the life and love she had brought to Foxworth Hall. The only warmth in my life had fled along with Corinne and Christopher. Did she miss us as much as we missed her? I had to find out. With trembling fingers I opened the envelope.

In my hand the letter felt as soft and warm as if it were made of her very flesh. My own pounding pulse drummed through my veins until I felt it at the tips of my fingers. As I began to read, I heard her voice and saw her blue eyes pleading.

Dear Father and Mother,

I know how strange it must be for you to receive a letter from me after all these years. Unfortunately, the first letter I write to you must be one filled with tragic news. My Christopher, our Christopher, beautiful, gentle Christopher, who I know you loved despite everything, is dead.

Yes, dead. He was killed by a drunken driver. And on his thirty-fifth birthday!

But there is good news too. We have been blessed with four beautiful children, all with golden hair and blue eyes, with wonderfully perfect features, bright and lovely children, children you would be proud to call your grandchildren. We have a son, Christopher, fourteen; a daughter, Cathy, twelve; and twins, Cory and Carrie, four. How Christopher loved them so, and how they loved him.

And Christopher was doing so well. He couldn’t go on to become a doctor. It was a terrible sacrifice, but one he was willing to make in the name of love. It was painful to watch him put aside his medical studies and take up another profession so that we could live and raise our family in comfort and security. But I blame no one, no one; and neither did he. He never stopped loving you and talking about all that you did for him. You must believe I am saying that because it is true. Please, please, believe me. You surely remember him and how he was and know that he would be that way even to the day he died.

I am writing to you now because Christopher’s death has left us on the verge of destitution. I am selling everything of value just to keep us alive, fed, and clothed. I know that it was my own fault that I was never serious enough to develop any skills which could be put to practical use now. I take full responsibility for that. Mother certainly provided me with enough of a model, but I could never hope to have her strength and fortitude.

I beg you now to consider our plight and look upon us with forgiving eyes. I know much has to be done to win back your love, but I am willing to do anything, anything, to win that love back. Please think about permitting us to return to Foxworth Hall so that my children can grow up knowing the good things and the happy things. Please rescue us.

I promise we will be perfect; we will obey your every command. My children are well-mannered and intelligent and will understand anything that is required of them. We ask only for the chance to try.

Please have mercy on us and remind yourselves that my children are Foxworths, even though we thought it best to take on the name Dollanganger, a Foxworth ancestor.

I wait eagerly for your reply. I am a woman broken and lost and terribly afraid.

Love,

Corinne

There actually were teardrops at the bottom of the sheet. I didn’t know if they were mine or hers. Christopher dead! No matter how much I felt they had been wrong, that their love was sinful, I never would have wished this upon them. God, indeed, was vengeful. I tried to stand, but the room seemed to be whirling around me, shadows and ghosts weaving in and out, their terrible maws laughing, mocking me. What had I done? What had I done? Had God misunderstood my prayers? I couldn’t bear to think that. There had to be some other explanation. My mind frantically searched until it found John Amos. He would know, he would know what to do.

“God has delivered a message,” he intoned, crumpling the delicate pink letter in his bony hand.

“A message, John Amos? What kind of a god would do this to Christopher?”

“A god who abhors sin. And it was you, Olivia, who confessed how vile the sin actually was. God is restoring order to His universe. And He has now presented you with an opportunity to help Him. Those children are the devil’s spawn, born of an unholy union abominable in the eyes of God.”

“What do you mean, John Amos? What does God expect of me now?”

He gazed heavenward, as if silently communicating with the Lord. His arms stretched out. He seemed to embrace an invisible power. Then, clenching his hands into fists, he grasped that power and struck his chest. “Let Corinne and her children come,” he declared. “But hide those children away from the world forever. End the lineage of sin now. Do not let them remain in the world to infect others.”

• • •

I left John Amos and spent the rest of the day alone in my room, praying to God for guidance. For though I understood John Amos’s interpretation, I could not accept it. God forgive me, I still loved Corinne; but what had she done to me? She had forced me to become the captor of her children. She had forced me to be a vengeful instrument of the Lord. Forced me to be that cold gray woman I so longed not to be. I wanted to be a grandmother, I wanted children to love and dote on, who would look up to me with love in their eyes. And what had she presented me with? The devil’s spawn. Now every time their faces gazed into mine, I would see the devil; every time their hands touched me, I would be touched by the devil; every time their voices called me, I would be called by the devil. I envisioned their sweet faces, their silky blond hair, their bright blue eyes. Oh, I would have to steel myself not to love them. For the devil always favored those he sent to do his work with charms and beguilements. I would have to turn myself into a gray stone fortress lest those charms pierce my heart and claim me for the devil’s work.

That night, the last drops of love drained from my heart, and I became only the instrument of the Lord. I dreamt that night of a dollhouse, a dollhouse filled with such sin that it emanated its own hellfires. The voice of God spoke to me. Olivia, it boomed, I have put you on earth to end that fire. I poured water over that fire, but still it burned. I tried to blow out that fire with my own breath, but it still burned. Then I built a glass enclosure around it, and slowly, slowly that fire was stifled until it was burning only embers.

The next morning I resolved to carry out John Amos’s plan. I knew then and there I must confront Malcolm. He was sitting in his wheelchair gazing out the parlor window at the bright summer flowers that mocked the perpetual winter that lived in Foxworth Hall.

“Corinne is coming home,” I announced.

“Corinne?” he whispered. “Corinne?”

“Yes, Malcolm, yesterday I received a letter from her. Christopher was killed in a car accident, and Corinne begged us to take her back. And we shall.” I had struggled many hours with the decision about what to tell Malcolm, and had decided that he must never know of the existence of Corinne’s children. Malcolm loved Corinne so, as he had loved his mother before her, as he had loved Alicia, I knew that once he knew there were children, especially girls, his heart would be captured once again. No, I must take matters into my own hands this time; John Amos was the only one whom I could trust. It would be easy to hide the children from Malcolm. I would hide them in the north wing, just as he had hidden Alicia, their true grandmother. He was so frail, and I knew he would be so taken with Corinne’s return, he’d never suspect anything.

“I am going to go now and write Corinne a letter, welcoming her back to Foxworth Hall.”

Malcolm still had not turned his face from the window. I walked over and rested a hand on his thin, stooped shoulder. I felt him trembling, and peered around to see the tears coursing down his cheeks.

Dear Corinne,

You are welcome to return to Foxworth Hall. However, I have not shown your father your letter. If he knew you had children with Christopher, nothing, nothing would persuade him to take you back. With the help of John Amos, he has found in the Lord a refuge from his pain, and he could never accept children born of an unholy, incestuous union.

You don’t know that your father suffered a severe stroke and heart attack on the day you left. Your actions reduced this strong and vibrant man to a frail shell of his former self.

However, I have considered your plight, and prayed for guidance. This is my decision: You may bring your children to Foxworth Hall, but your father must never know of their existence. The doctors tell me Malcolm does not have much longer to live. Until the Lord calls him to His bosom, your children will stay up in the north wing, shut away from his view and his knowledge. I will see to it that they are clothed and fed.

I will expect you to redeem yourself and try to make compensation for the pain you have caused me and your father.

You must understand that it is up to you to prepare your children, and to make certain they remain hidden and under control. If they are disobedient, or in any way reveal themselves, you will have to leave Foxworth Hall as penniless as you arrived.

Inform me immediately of your decision.

Trusting in God,

Your Mother