Garden of Shadows (25 page)

"The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away."
On the day we buried Mal it seemed the whole world was mourning with us. The sky was dark and angry, distant thunder rolling, as if God were punctuating his sentence to remind us his wrath was all-powerful, and he could crush us antlike mortals here below with one exhalation. There were hundreds of mourners at the funeral--friends of Mal and Joel and Corinne, Malcolm's many business and social acquaintances. Only one mourner was there on my side--John Amos, my last living relative, who had taken a train down from Connecticut as soon as he got my telegram. We had kept up a letter correspondence over the years, and I had seen young John Amos progress into a full-fledged man of God, a one-horse preacher as we called them, a minister without a congregation. On this day he had a congregation, for he was delivering the funeral service for my beloved Mal.
The silent scream that had resounded in my head for three days was not calmed by John Amos's words.
"Our beloved Mal has gone to a better place. His true Father has called him in the bloom of youth, to his breast, and there this innocent soul shall rest in peace eternally His Father has truly claimed him " Malcolm looked over at me, his cold blue eyes trying to pierce my black veil. We stood at the side of the grave, Corinne and Joel between us. Joel clung to my hand, Corinne to her father's. In the two long days since the horrible accident, Malcolm had not spoken a word to me, but I could see in his glare he was trying to blame me for Mal's death, silently telling me that if I hadn't disobeyed his orders and allowed the motorcycle, my dear son would be with me still. Oh, it was so unfair that Mal had been taken from me. I wanted to cut off my hair, my hands, my legs, I begged God to take me and give Mal back. The world was out of joint, and truly I did blame myself. Was Malcolm so all-powerful that he could enlist God's aid to punish those who defied him? I had stayed sequestered in my room, Corinne and Joel would come in to try to comfort me, but they were suffering, too, really suffering. But how could I comfort them? Mal was dead. Mal dead? My favorite, dead? In my mind's eye I saw him standing in the nursery looking up at me with those inquisitive eyes, his face serious, his posture erect.
"Will Father be taking us for a motor trip?" he asked. "He promised he would."
"I don't know, Mal. He makes promises and then forgets them."
"Why doesn't he write them down then?" he asked. Such a logical mind he had, even then. And now he was dead.
As the raindrops began to fall, and the thunder, growing closer, began to boom, my darling Mal was lowered into his grave, and one by one, Malcolm, myself, Joel, and Corinne picked up a handful of earth and threw it on his coffin My veil hid my tears, but I was so weak I could barely walk. How I wanted to jump into that grave with him, to be covered with dirt, to have the world blocked out from me. But I had to go on, I had to stay strong, as John Amos had told me, for Corinne, for Joel. Malcolm had remained distant even from Corinne, and she was baffled, confused. Both of them wondered if his love had died along with Mal.
Joel was the most heartbroken. He said almost nothing, but remained constantly at my side tuned in to my every word, my every gesture, as if he thought that somehow I could change events and bring his brother back. They had been so close to each other despite the difference in ages and temperament. I knew that Joel depended upon and looked up to Mal. Mal was the buffer between him and his father, a father he was still quite terrified of. It was easy to see it; he said nothing to him during the entire period, gave him no comforting words or gestures.
Corinne was beside herself with grief, blaming herself as I blamed myself, wishing she could turn back the clock and bring Mal back again. It was John Amos, not Malcolm, who tried to comfort her, calm her guilt, soothe her grief. Of all the Foxworths, only Malcolm stood tall, dignified, and alone in his grief.
The next day, Malcolm returned to his business. John Amos stayed on, reading with us from the Bible, holding Corinne's hands as she cried, stroking her, acting like the loving father Malcolm had always been to her. John Amos had grown into a tall, lanky man with dark brown hair so thin he was actually balding prematurely. It added dignity and maturity to him. He had a minister's stern, pale face with pecan-brown eyes and a hard mouth, his lips so straight they looked drawn on by an artist. He seemed much older than his thirty-one years, and much much wiser.
From my letters, he knew how important my boys were to me, and he had some idea about my relationship, and Malcolm's, with Corinne. He knew exactly how I felt about Malcolm.
It seemed he understood me in some deep blood way; he understood that .I was blaming myself, as Malcolm blamed me, and he would not let me shoulder the blame alone. "Olivia," he said, his warm, calm voice a balm to my spirit, "it is the Lord who calls us, the Lord who metes out His justice. He has taken away the son Malcolm could not appreciate; perhaps His message was for Malcolm, to learn to love what is his rather than trying to control it. For you see where control ends. Do not blame yourself, Olivia. God's plans are often mysterious, but they are always just."
Malcolm did not like John Amos, but that was of little consequence to me. In fact, Malcolm's not liking him confirmed his value and importance to me. It was why, after the funeral when John Amos took such a firm hold of things--helping me with the servants, preparing for the visiting mourners, comforting members of the family--I decided I wanted him to stay with us at Foxworth Hall. Already Corinne was due to go back to school. And I could tell she was ready to leave this dark, gloomy house of mourning. She loved Mal as much as any young girl loves her brother, but for one so full of life and love and hope, death's shadow does not linger as it does for those of us with fewer hopes and dreams before us. The day we saw Corinne off, I proposed to John Amos that he stay on. John seemed genuinely flattered by the idea. He wasn't happy with the work he was presently doing. I called him into the salon.
"I would like you to stay on," I began, "at Foxworth Hall and become something of an assistant to me. Officially, you will be considered our butler, but you and I will always know that you will be more to me," I said. Grief, so deeply felt, had a way of weakening me. I felt as if I had been cast in a new form and I wore my body like a suit of armor hiding a heart and will gone slack and impotent. Truly, I couldn't bear to live here any longer alone with Malcolm. I couldn't bear having to fight him and his megalomanic plans day after day. I needed an ally, someone to give me strength, to help me, to take my side. I needed John Amos. And he was a man of God, a godly, godfearing man who would deflect and thwart Malcolm's evil intentions. I would not let him drive another of my sons to death, nor would I let him take over Corinne's life as he planned to do.
"Please, John Amos, won't you stay? You are such a comfort to me. I feel you are truly my family-- the only family I have left, and I need your strong Christian hand to guide me."
John nodded thoughtfully.
"I have always admired you, Olivia," he said, "admired you for your strength of purpose, your sense of determination; but most of all, for your faith in God and His ways. Even now, in your mourning, you do not blame God for being unmerciful. You are an inspiration. More women should want to be like you," he said, nodding as though he had just arrived at a significant conclusion.
I understood why Malcolm didn't like him. He had Malcolm's way of making statements with an air of certainty, but whereas Malcolm arrived at his conclusions from an arrogant faith in himself, John Amos arrived at his from a strong faith in God and God's will.
"Thank you, John. But contrary to what you think, I am a woman with weaknesses too. I will need someone beside me to help me with my children and to help me maintain this house in the proper manner and spirit," I added.
"I understand, and I can think of no greater purpose. Long ago, I understood that my calling lay in directions others were afraid or unwilling to take. The Lord has His way of soliciting His soldiers," he said, smiling.
"I think," I said, looking at him intently, "you saw today some of what I have been describing to you in my letters. You should understand why I sometimes feel alone here," I added.
"Yes. And you have more than my
understanding. You have my sympathy and my dedication." Those brown eyes of his, although not bright and warm, grew quite fixed. He stepped forward. "I pledge to you, Olivia," he said, "that as long as I am here at your side, you shall never feel alone."
I smiled slightly and lifted my hand. He took it and in that handshake made a covenant with me and with God Almighty. It was the most reassuring thing that had happened to me in years.
When I brought the news to Malcolm, he had his characteristic reaction. He had retreated to the library. The pall of silence that had fallen over Foxworth Hall lingered like the heavy humid air right before a summer rain. The lights were dim, the sky outside starless and cloudy. Unmerciful winds clawed at the windows. To me it was like the grinding teeth of some vicious, vengeful beast.
Malcolm was standing with his back to the doorway, his hands clasped behind his back, looking up at the books on a high shelf. He didn't turn when I entered, even though I knew he had heard my footsteps. I waited a moment.
"I have made a decision," I said finally, "to hire my cousin, John Amos, to be our butler."
Malcolm spun around. The expression on his face was almost hideous, a mixture of grief and anger that distorted his features. Never had his mouth looked as twisted, his eyes as cold.
"What butler? We have a manservant." He made ordinary words sound like profanity.
"A man who serves as driver as well. It's not proper and it is a foolish economy, undignified for a family and a house as important as ours," I replied sternly.
"At this time you think about servants?" He seemed both amazed and upset.
"You didn't go to work today and receive business calls? You didn't give your subordinates orders to carry out? Your mind was solely on Mal?" I asked in the tone of accusation. He shook his head, but not to deny what I said, only to dramatize his disgust.
"I don't like this man. He's too . . . too slylooking for my taste."
"Nevertheless, I have hired him. The running of the house has always been and will always be my responsibility. It's necessary for us to have a servant solely to perform the responsibilities of a butler, and John Amos has the background for such
responsibility. He is a decent, religious man, who understands the needs of people of our class. He has agreed to take on the position and he will begin immediately."
"He will be your butler, not mine," Malcolm said defiantly.
"Suit yourself. In time I am sure you will grow to appreciate the man," I added calmly.
He turned his back on me and stared up at the books again.
"Joel is leaving in the morning," I said. He didn't turn around.
"That is good. He is better off returning to school and occupying himself with his studies than moping about here. He will only add to the
depression," he said, and waved to the side as though he were dismissing me. I straightened my posture.
"He is not returning to school," I said. That turned Malcolm around again.
"What? Not returning to school? What do you mean? Where is he going?"
"Before Mal's death, he auditioned for an orchestra and they were impressed with his talents. They have offered him a position for their current tour of Europe. He will go directly to Switzerland."
Malcolm fumed.
"Tour! Orchestra! Switzerland!" he said, waving his arms with every word. "A Foxworth, a professional musician, earning coolie wages and traveling with a bunch of spineless . . . effeminate . . . artsy types . . . I won't hear of it! I won't hear of it, do you understand?"
"Nevertheless, it is what he wants," I said, again fanning his fury by speaking so calmly. "I will not force another of my sons to extremes to prove that he can live his own life rather than the one you dictate."
Malcolm's eyes narrowed, and he was silent for many moments. "Let him understand," he said, pronouncing each word with a hateful, vicious tone, "that if he leaves this house to begin such a venture, he will never be welcomed back to it."
"I understand that, Father."
We both spun around to see Joel in the library doorway. He was standing there with a suitcase in each hand. I did not know he had intended to leave that very night.
"I was coming down here to tell you this myself," he said.
"And I meant what I just said," Malcolm said, pointing his finger at him. "If you throw away your formal education to go tooting a horn throughout Europe, I'll write you out of my will."
For a long moment Joel and Malcolm contemplated each other. It was as though father and son saw each other for the first time and really understood who the other was. If Joel had any fears, his gentle face and soft blue eyes did not reveal them. If anything, he looked like a martyr forgiving the violent and hateful tyrant who was sentencing him to death. I saw a smile around his lips.
"You never understood me, Father; nor did you ever understand Mal," he said with no anger in his voice. "Neither of us were so driven by your pursuit of the almighty dollar."
"That's because you always had so many of them," Malcolm retorted. "If you were poor, you wouldn't be standing there so cocky and defiant."
"Maybe not," Joel said. "But I wasn't poor and I am what I am." He looked at me. "Good-bye, Mother. I shall miss you very much. Please walk with me to the door. There is a car waiting for me outside."
"You are going to permit this?" Malcolm asked.
When I looked at Joel, I saw so much of myself in his face. It was as if I were leaving, as if I were escaping, escaping the sorrow and the torment, escaping the cold shadows that seemed to reside permanently in Foxworth Hall.
"It is what he wants," I said softly, staring at him "He is old enough to be able to make his own decision. He has a right to his own decision."
"This is madness and your doing," Malcolm said, pointing the accusing finger at me. "It will add to your already heavy burden of guilt."
"What?" I took a few steps toward him, feeling my face burn with rage. "You stand there and try to place the guilt on my head? You, who have brought sin into this house, invited it in as though it were a welcomed guest? You have eaten beside it, walked beside it, and slept with it," I added. "You have brought the wrath of Goa down on the House of Foxworth, not I. If anyone stands bearing the guilt, it is you," I responded, pointing my accusing finger at him.