"It"s not like him. We"re very close," I explained. "Did you know we were born on the very same day?"
"Really? How extraordinary!"
Luke"s and my birthday was such a major touchstone in my life that it seemed incredible Tony would know nothing about the coincidence. How completely my father and mother had shut him out of their lives, I thought. I wondered if he knew that Luke and I were really half brother and half sister.
"Yes. And since then our relationship has been sort of what my mother"s was like with her brother Tom, the one who died tragically in that circus accident."
"Oh yes." He gazed at me with the same intensity again, staring so hard I could almost feel his eyes drilling into my soul. "Your mother had a very hard time of it, but she was a very strong woman, as I am sure you will be. "What doesn"t destroy me, makes me stronger," as my father used to tell me. He"d borrowed the expression from some German philosopher, I can"t remember which one.
"Anthony, he"d say," Tony recalled, pulling himself up stiffly into what he must have remembered as his father"s posture, "you"ve got to learn something from every defeat in life or life will defeat you." He relaxed and smiled. "Of course, I was barely five or six when he was giving me all this advice, but oddly enough, it stuck with me."
"The Tattertons are a fascinating family, Tony." "Oh, I"m sure some of my relatives are quite boring. I"ve never spoken to half my cousins. Dreary people. And Jillian"s side of the family wasn"t much better. Both of her sisters and her brother pa.s.sed away some time ago. Actually, I only found out by reading the obituaries. Once Jillian died . ." His eyes became somewhat gla.s.sy as he got lost in a memory.
"Tell me about your brother, Tony. Please," I added quickly, seeing his face begin to harden and his eyes say no.
"I should really let you rest."
"Just a little. Tell me just a little." Perhaps because he was no longer here, or perhaps because I had learned only a tidbit here and a tidbit there, Troy lingered in my mind as someone mysterious. "Please."
His eyes warmed and his smile trembled through his lips. Then he leaned over and surprised me by stroking my hair just the way Mommy often had.
"When you plead like that, you remind me so much of Leigh as a young girl, pleading with me to take her here or there, to show her this or that. She would burst into my office, interrupting anything I was doing, no matter how important, and ask me to take her on the sailboat or horseback riding. And no matter how busy I was, just like now, I would relent. Tatterton men spoil their women, but," he added, his eyes twinkling, "they enjoy doing it."
"About Troy?" Did he purposely drift of so much or was it something he couldn"t help?
"Troy. Well, as I told you, he was much younger than I. When he was a little boy, he was sick so much of the time, I"m afraid I considered him a millstone around my neck. You see, our mother died when he was very small, and soon after that our father. Troy grew up thinking of me as his father and not just his older brother.
"He was a very bright young man, however, and graduated from college when he was only eighteen."
"Only eighteen!" I exclaimed in astonishment. "And then what did he do?"
"He worked in the business. He was a talented artisan and designed many of our most famous toys. So, there you are," he said, intending to end his tale of Troy.
"But why did he commit suicide, Tony?"
His soft blue eyes hardened as if they had instantly turned to ice.
"He didn"t commit suicide; it was an accident, a tragic accident. Who said it was suicide? Did your mother tell you that?"
"No. She never mentioned him," I replied, swallowing hard. He looked so angry. His lips grew so tight and thin that a white line developed around them. This chase in his face frightened me, and I think he saw that because he quickly softened his look. In fact, he looked very sad, very distraught.
"Troy was a melancholy man, very sensitive, deep, convinced that he wasn"t going to live long. He was very fatalistic about life. No matter what I did, couldn"t change him. I don"t like talking about him because . . because I feel somewhat responsible, you see. I couldn"t help him, no matter what I did."
"I"m sorry, Tony. I didn"t mean to make you feel bad." I saw that he couldn"t face up to the idea that his brother killed himself. It was cruel of me to try to make him do so.
"I know you wouldn"t do anything to hurt me; you"re too sweet, too pure." He broke out into a wide, warmer smile. "Let"s not talk about sad things. Please. For a while, anyway, let"s just concentrate on the beautiful, the pleasant, the hopeful, and the miraculous. Okay?"
"Okay," I said.
"Now, if you feel up to it, I"ve made a list of books you should read, and have them brought up to your room. Also, I"m having a television set brought in here tomorrow. I"ll go through the television guide and underline some of the better programs for you," he added.
How odd, I thought. How did he think I was brought up? I knew what books to read and what programs to watch. My mother often praised my taste in literature. Tony acted as if he thought I was some hillbilly who needed direction and instruction. But I didn"t want to complain and hurt his feelings. He looked sa happy to be doing all this.
"And I"ve got to make that list of things for Drake to bring from Winnerrow," I reminded him.
"Right. He"ll be here in the afternoon. Let"s see, is there anything else?"
I shook my head.
"All right, then. I have to do some work. I"ll see you in the morning. Have a good night"s rest, Heaven." "Heaven?"
"Oh, I"m sorry. It"s just you had me thinking about your mother then and I--"
"That"s all right, Tony. I don"t mind if once in a while you make a mistake and call me Heaven. I loved my mother very much." My tears came so fast, it was as though they had been just waiting for an opportunity to show themselves.
"There, now I"ve gone and made you sad again." "No, it"s not your fault."
"Poor Annie." He leaned over and kissed me softly on the cheek, his lips lingering. He inhaled deeply, as if he wanted to drink in the scent of my hair. Then he pulled himself back abruptly, realizing how long he was taking to kiss me good night. "Good night," he said, and left the room.
I rested my head on the pillow and thought about some of the things I had learned. How right Rye was. This house had had more than its share of tragedy. Was this the way it was with all great families; rich, powerful families who had so much and yet suffered so much?
Was there a curse on the Tattertons and all who came into close contact with them? Perhaps Rye Whiskey wasn"t so wrong about spirits wandering about. Perhaps that man I had seen in the distance visiting my parents" tomb was one of them.
Maybe Drake was right; maybe I should leave the sad things alone. I knew that I couldn"t, though. There were things I just had to know. They itched, and just like a persistent itch, they had to be scratched.
At the moment one of the things that bothered me was Luke"s silence. It just wasn"t like him to keep away this long. It was so frustrating not being able to call him, not even to know which dorm he was in.
Millie came in to get my supper tray, and I thought of something.
"Millie, would you look in the desk drawer there to see if there is a pen, a sheet of stationery, and an envelope, please."
"Yes, Annie." She did so and found the stationery and a pen. "It"s perfumed stationery," she said, bringing the sheet to her nose and inhaling. "Still smells very nice."
"I don"t care. I just want to write a quick letter. Please come back in fifteen minutes to get it and have it mailed out for me."
"I will."
She left with the tray, and I used the bed table to write my letter to Luke.
Dear Luke, I know you have spoken to Tony since graduation, and I was happy to hear about the reception you received for your speech. You deserved it. I wish only that I could have been there, that my mother and our father could have been there.
Drake has visited me at Farthy and told me of your arrival at Harvard. The doctors want me to continue my quiet rest and recuperation, so I have no phone yet, otherwise I would try to call you rather than send this letter. I"ll ask that it be sent special delivery, so you should get it quickly.
I can"t wait to hear from you and to see you. I"m already planning just how to go about our explorations of Farthy.
Please call or come as soon as you can. Love, Annie .
I addressed the letter to Luke Toby Casteel, Dormitories, Harvard College, and wrote "Special Delivery" on the bottom of the envelope. When Millie returned, I called her to the side of my bed to give her special instructions, "Take this to Mr. Tatterton, please, and ask him if he would put the rest of the Harvard address on here for me and send this right out in the morning."
"Right away, Annie," she said.
I watched her go, and thought Luke would surely respond immediately when he received that. Confident that he would be with me in a day or so, I lowered my head to the pillow and closed my eyes. I opened them slightly when I, heard Mrs. Broadfield come in. She took my blood pressure and checked my pulse, fixed my blanket and then put out the light.
With the sun down and the sky overcast again, darkness fell around me like a heavy curtain. It was my second night at Farthy, but unlike the first, I had something to listen for: Rye Whiskey"s spirits. Maybe I dreamt it because he had been so dramatic when he spoke, but sometime during the middle of the night, I thought I heard the soft tinkle of a piano playing a Chopin waltz.
Was it only my desperate need to remember, to envision my mother"s soft smile as she gazed at me while she brushed my hair? Or was Rye Whiskey right? Was there a spirit that wandered through the house searching and searching?
Maybe he was searching for me. Maybe I had always been expected.
THIRTEEN.
Mystery Man.
Mrs. Broadfield yanked open the curtains so abruptly the morning light burst upon me like a bomb blast. She looked as though she had been up for hours, but I thought she always looked that way.
"You should want to get up early, Annie," she said without really looking at me. She talked as she moved about the room setting things up--unfolding my wheelchair, getting a robe from the closet, finding my slippers. "It takes you longer to do everything now, and you will need the extra time.
"After a while you will be able to get yourself up and out of that bed and into the wheelchair to do your bathroom business and have your breakfast, but you"re going to have to build up to it, just like an athlete builds up to a task. Understand?" she asked, finally pausing to look at me.
I pulled myself up and sat back against my pillow and nodded.
"All right, then, let"s get you out of bed, washed, and into a clean nightgown."
Still groggy from what had turned out to be a very deep night"s sleep, I simply nodded. Quietly, almost as if the two of us were performing a mime show, she a.s.sisted me out of the bed and into the chair. She wheeled me into the bathroom and took off my nightgown. I washed my own face and she brought in the new nightgown. Then she brought me back into the room and left me by the window.
"I"ll get your breakfast now," she said, starting out.
"Why isn"t Millie bringing it up?" I was anxious to find out if she had given my letter to Tony to mail. Mrs. Broadfield paused at the doorway and turned back.
"Millie was discharged last night," she said, and left before I could respond.
Discharged? But why? I had liked her and even thought she would be good company. She was so pleasant and kind. What could she have done to get herself fired so soon? The moment Tony looked in on me, I demanded to know.
"Tony, Mrs. Broadfield just told me you fired Millie. Why?"
He shook his head and pressed his lower lip up and under his upper.
"Incompetent. Made a mess of things from the day she arrived. I was hoping she would improve, but she just seemed to get worse and worse. Jillian wouldn"t have countenanced her more than a day. You should have seen the fine help we used to have here, their professionalism, their--"
"But Tony, she was so nice," I said.
"Oh, she was nice enough, but nice isn"t enough. I found out that her references weren"t accurate, anyway. She couldn"t get a position for some time and worked as a waitress, not as a maid. But don"t fret, one of my people is already looking for someone new."
Mrs. Broadfield arrived with my tray and set it down.
"Well, I"m off," Tony said. "I"ll let you have breakfast."
"Tony, wait! I gave her a letter to give to you last night to mail to Luke."
He smiled quizzically.
"Letter? She gave me no letter."
"But Tony--"
"I called her in around seven-thirty and gave her two weeks" severance pay, but she mentioned no letter."
"I don"t understand."
"Why not? It"s just as I said: she was incompetent. She probably had it in her ap.r.o.n and forgot it. Honestly, I don"t know what it is with young people today; they seem so distracted all the time. No wonder it"s so hard to get decent help."
"It was a letter to Luke!" I cried.
"Your eggs are getting cold," Mrs. Broadfield pointed out.
"I"m sorry," Tony replied. "Write another letter today, and I"ll see to it myself this time, okay? I"ll return this afternoon to take you on a short tour of this floor. That is, if Mrs. Broadfield approves," he added, looking her way. She didn"t reply.
He left before I could say another word on the subject of my letter, and when I looked at Mrs. Broadfield, she wore her mask of annoyance.
"We have to get to your morning therapy, Annie, and then you have to rest or I can"t see you taking any tour. Now, please eat your breakfast."
"I"m not hungry."
"You"ve got to eat to gain strength. Your therapy is just like a workout would be for an athlete, and just as he or she wouldn"t be able to do well without food energy, neither will you. Only," she said, raising her shoulders and straightening her posture to emphasize her point, "instead of simply losing a tennis match or a football game, you will remain an invalid."
I lifted my fork and began to eat. Thank G.o.d for Rye Whiskey, I thought as I chewed and swallowed. He had a way of making the simplest foods extra tasty.
My morning therapy session began just like the one I had the day before, but there was something different this time. I was positive I felt Mrs. Broadfield"s fingers on my thighs. There was a stinging sensation, like pins being poked through my skin, and I screamed.
"What?" she demanded, looking up impatiently. "I felt something . . . it stung."
"That"s just your imagination," she said, and started again. Again I felt the sting.
"I do feel something . . I do!" I protested. She paused and stood up.
"It"s what we call hysterical pain. You"re in a worse mental state than I thought. Even this is happening to you now."
"But the doctor said--"