The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red (24 page)

She would not answer me.

“And what of the men who have died?” I inquired.

“That between you and the house, miss.”

“Me and the house,” I echoed, feeling a chill. A window

open? I wondered.

“The house protecting you.”

“Mr. Corbin was not protecting me,” I objected. “We had

never met.”

“That man done shot the one man running the construction,

Miss Ellen. That man Corbin—he been sent by the gods to stop

this house being built, stop her before she ever started.” She

added, “He done his best.”

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It was true: Corbin had shot Williamson on the day the ?rst

stones had been laid. Coincidence? It added fuel to Sukeena’s

theories. “Maybe that was the Indians,” I suggested, knowing full

well Sukeena remained suspicious of the Indians’ involvement in

the goings-on.

She did not look pleased. “It sucking the ?re out a them

young girls, ma’am. The bigger she grow . . . the more girls be

disappearing. Sukeena know this . . . in here.” She placed a wide

hand across her bosom.

I experienced another spike of cold—like a draft. Sukeena

rarely committed to her convictions with such words. She had

done so when she had been convinced I was pregnant, and again

when convinced young Laura would never be found. And now

this.

I fear I have grown susceptible to such suggestions, and I wonder

at the woman I have become. Would the girl of nineteen have

believed a house could be alive? Could she have envisioned her

closest friend being an African high priestess capable of divining

truths where no others could? A mother of two: one mute, with a

withered arm, one admiring and emulating a man of questionable

convictions? In just seven short years my life has so drastically

changed to where even I do not recognize it. I cannot discuss

such matters with my mother, for she is certain to misunderstand

—to label me intemperate and harebrained. It leaves me in

the care of my dearest Sukeena and her keen observations, her

frequent connections with the “other side.” It leaves me wanting.

I want my April back. I want her arm to be right. I want

Douglas Posey to die someplace else, to leave this poor house and

all of us in it alone.

What if that model of Rose Red is growing? What if my daughter’s

voice has been lost to its greed? What if April is trapped, half

in, half out of these walls that surround us? What is to be done

about that? How do I return her to her mother, her family?

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I feel the need to shower even more love and attention upon

the poor girl. I have ordered that she is to sleep in my bed alongside

of me. I want her to ?nd her mother’s warmth when she

seeks it. To hear her mother’s voice when she awakes. If I am

made to ?ght for her, I will. (If you are reading these words, Rose

Red, mark my word on that!)

I want to leave, but I know that is not possible. You will never

let me go. Any of us, for that matter. We are your captives here.

Immortal captives, but captives nonetheless. Whatsoever does it

all mean? How long can I tolerate being under this roof with

John Rimbauer? As powerful as he is, as rich as he is, I feel none

of his love anymore. Adam has replaced me in his eyes. He brings

presents for Adam. Builds rooms for Adam’s train. Takes Adam

on his business trips (along with the prettiest nanny! This does

not escape a wife’s eye!). I am condemned. Rose Red owns me,

not the other way around. I am a prisoner here. I must get April

out at all costs. Her grandparents, perhaps. Ah . . . why had I

not thought of this?

What have I waited for?

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13 march 1915—rose red

The cruelty of marriage! It has been several weeks now since I

mentioned to my husband my desire to get April out of this

house. This morning I intercepted a letter delivered by a most

unusual postman: well over six feet tall, a bum right leg that

caused him to limp and the thickest of glasses! He came to the

front door, mumbling something about a town in Italy . . .

Florence, was it? No, Pisa. That was it! He said something like,

“Pisa for Rimbauer.” I have no idea where the postal of?ce

obtains its deliverymen! (I hope our regular man, Floyd, returns

to our service.) The letter was posted three days hence from the

Cheshire Academy, Portland, Oregon. I opened it immediately

(with steam, so that I might reseal it) and saw it to be a letter of

acceptance—for Adam. It appears John is far more interested in

protecting his precious lineage, his heir, than his daughter with

the withered arm and silent tongue. (He believes April’s “dif?-

culty with the language” to be a re?ection upon her intelligence,

and probably her gender, if truth be known; John suffers behind

a single-minded, simpleton view of a woman’s purpose on this

earth—to provide men certain unspeakable pleasures and to bear

children. Nothing more.) I am a tangle of anger and grief, for I

know my arguments will be lost on his ears. April will remain.

Adam will leave us to attend the ?rst grade. April is condemned

with the rest of us; Adam is to be saved.

I prepare myself to defend my precious daughter, but I know

in advance it is not an argument I shall win. Nonetheless it is a

?ght I shall give him. And if he ever returns to my bed with other

matters in mind—which he’s bound to do at some point—he shall

?nd young April under the covers with me. So it shall remain,

until he entertains a change of heart.

Two can play this game. Three, if one counts Rose Red. And

woe be to him who discounts her. Woe, indeed.

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9 september 1915—rose red

It is with heavy heart that to-day I said good-bye to little Adam as

he and his father left to deliver him to the Cheshire Academy. A

mother’s heart cannot bear such loss, especially in the face of my

increased (and failed) efforts to evoke some manner of speech

from my daughter, who remains in her nearly comatose state.

To my horror, any attempt we have made to photograph the

model of Rose Red has failed, as the images that are developed

show a glowing white light where the model should be. It is as if

the model itself were emanating some energy, some light, that

spoils the photographs. (In one, dear April was captured as well—

these same white clouds extended from her hands and fully surrounded

her head. If a trick of the people developing these

photographs, it is no laughing matter, and I pray for them to

stop. John blames it on “dodging” the images while they are being

developed and claims they are nothing but a practical joke.

April’s “condition” is known all over town.)

The European war is all anyone can talk about. John travels

incessantly: Denver, Portland, San Francisco—even Cleveland

and New York, his exports growing rapidly. The more he is away,

the easier life is at Rose Red. (So much of the tension here arises

out of John’s presence and the staff ’s fear of the man.) The newspaper’s

front page is covered in worldly events: Germany offers

not to sink ocean liners, a little too late for the Lusitania; another

city in Poland falls to the Austro-German army; Haiti is in rebellion;

Switzerland hosts a meeting of the European Socialists. Our

lives here at home seem to have such little purpose any longer.

There is war everywhere. The German submarines sink dozens of

ships every week. President Wilson is under pressure to join the

?ght. I know not where any of this might lead, but none of it

looks promising. In terms of our lives, there are fewer social

events, as so many of our husbands seem overworked by the run-

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up to war. Although the heads of staff and I have had our ?rst

meeting concerning the annual January Ball, there is less excitement

this year. The guest list is much larger, as John has added

dozens of business contacts to the list. I have used my friendship

with the Mastersons in order to arrange the invitation of a

famous opera singer, Elizabeth Paige, who will be in the city at

that time. Miss Paige, along with the ?lm star Charlie Chaplin,

should make it an interesting evening. John says William

Randolph Hearst may attend. But he is most excited about some

general he plans on inviting (this general has business with Mr.

Boeing, and John, being a major investor with Boeing, is

attempting to connect the two men socially prior to any discussion

of business).

My larger concern is Rose Red herself. She has been “quiet”

for many months now, content, I suppose, to use her energies to

grow with the construction. ( Just listen to me! How foolish this

sounds!) This construction, however, is scheduled to slow substantially,

though not stop completely, this winter, as John

believes the winter will be particularly severe (he reads the

almanac and believes every word!) and sees no reason “to ?ght

old man Winter.” What, if any, effect this may have on Rose Red I

cannot be sure, but my instincts tell me that a woman in want of

attention will attention receive, and after all this frantic building

these many months, how will she react to her workers leaving her,

her men deserting her?

How will her mood affect our annual inaugural? Will she leave

well enough alone, or will she seek some company? With John

gone so much, a part of me says that Rose Red has nothing to

?ght for, that her dormancy results from the lack of a need to

protect me; but if Sukeena is right—and who am I to challenge

her understanding of such matters?—then it seems possible our

house may ?nd herself in need of substance, the subsiding construction

no longer stealing her attentions. If so, to whom will

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she turn, and when? I am reluctant to invite a soul into this

house. I am of a mind to call off the party altogether for fear of

guests disappearing. But never mind, Dear Diary, my attentions,

my energies remain focused on my sweet child April and my

attempts to win her back from wherever she has gone since

Douglas Posey’s cruel departure from this earth.

Why has it taken me until this very moment to realize what

must be done? How could I be so blind? Why must I write my

heart to these pages in order to see clearly the way of it all?

Sukeena would never suggest it, for she doubts the powers so, but

where have I been that I did not see this sooner? I must call Tina

at once! For I now understand the course of action required to

free my dear daughter from the slavery of her silence: Madame

Lu! Madame Lu! If anyone can unlock this mystery, it is the

Great Lady herself.

We must go at once!

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12 september 1915—rose red

With John still in Portland getting Adam settled at Cheshire, I

took advantage of my independence, and telling the staff we were

headed to Sunday church, we were off. Sukeena snuck through

the back forest and out to the road where, with me driving a twohorse,

the three of us squeezed onto the carriage and headed off

for Chinatown! Sukeena, God bless her, had made the arrangements

in advance, delivering a letter for me that was posted to

Madame Lu. This morning, by return post, I welcomed con?rmation

that we would be received by the Great Lady at our earliest

convenience. The wording of Madame Lu’s note, and the steady

hand that did write it, implied a translation, for the English was

most correct and sound. (I am under the assumption that one of

her young, lithe attendants is also quite versed in the English language

and came to her assistance in this matter. This, in turn,

warned me that the conversations taken between Tina and me in

this woman’s presence were probably better understood than we

believed possible or likely. I made note to myself not to say anything

to Sukeena that I didn’t want overheard.)

I must say that fear is entirely connected to familiarity. That

is, when I ?rst arrived at the door of Madame Lu’s establishment,

I can remember nearly shaking from vexation, given the condition

of the place, and feeling intimidated and more than a little

afraid. On this, my third visit, I felt no such apprehension whatsoever.

To the contrary, I found myself excited, enthralled even,

at the prospect of seeing the Great Lady again. Now it is that I can

understand Tina’s calm that day, the almost perverse peace she

demonstrated upon our arrival.

For her part, April demonstrated no enthusiasm for the

change of environment (something I’d secretly hoped for!). I

suspect the condition of Chinatown must have registered in her

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to some degree, but this failed to manifest itself in any facial

expression or noticeable change. Sukeena, April and I (hand in

hand) climbed the dimly lighted stairs to the pungent odors of

incense, ginger and tea. The Great Lady occupied her throne like

a monarch and bid us to take rest upon her woven straw mat. As

before, Sukeena remained standing, slightly behind the two of us.

A level of formality had developed between her and Madame Lu,