The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red (28 page)

grand plan to remove my two loves and refocus my ardor upon

himself ? Had I misread him all these years—was he, in fact,

more deeply in love with me than I’d ever understood? I prayed

for composure, understanding fundamentally that these next

few minutes were to determine the fate of my maid. In truth, I

feared the fate of my child had already been decided, and that

my husband had had nothing to do with it (no matter how my

mind schemed!). My discovery in the attic, the voice in the wind

telling me of the tower—it all made so much sense to me now:

John was jealous, and so was Rose Red. I swallowed my pride

and said, “My bedroom door is always open to you, dear husband.

You will ?nd me a most needing and willing partner, in

this regard.”

“Will I?”

“Oh, yes.” I hated him for this. Me, picturing Sukeena being

beaten, or worse, while my husband negotiated his visitation

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rights—and my obligations to his depravity. Always the businessman.

John Rimbauer got what he wanted, and he played any card

necessary to that end.

“I know you’ve been with her,” he said. I lowered my head in

shame. I could not look at him. Why, I wondered, did this man—

this man in particular—possess the power to make me feel guilty?

How could such an exaggeration be allowed? I nodded, acknowledging

his accusations.

My lips quivered, my breath drew short. “Your needs are

physical,” I whispered dryly. “I need love, John.”

“And you’ve found it?”

I said nothing. I felt afraid. So terribly afraid. Not of him,

this weak excuse of a man. But afraid of losing both April and

Sukeena—afraid of being driven to a place where my only friend

might turn out to be this witch of a house, Rose Red herself. I

could see myself driven to torment over her construction—my

hands raw, my eyes ?lled with sawdust, my clothes dirty and dusty,

as I worked furiously to build her bigger and stronger. I feared

the future. I wished then—wished with all my heart—that I had

been brave enough to jump those several nights earlier. Only

death would offer silence. Sanctuary. I knew this absolutely.

I said, “I’ve found companionship. Solace. I’m at peace,

John.” I lied.

“I will taste this peace as well,” he said, stepping up to me.

He’d been drinking. Heavily, I thought. Another consideration

entered me, ?ooded me with possibility: he was tormented himself.

He’d not been sleeping. I knew this. Had been drinking too

much of late. Perhaps his past sins had ?nally caught up to this

man in the late stages of middle age. Perhaps he saw that the end

was near—at least nearer than the beginning—and that he had isolated

himself in a place where peace was only a word, not a form

of existence, a concept, not a reality. Mistakenly (as always) he

thought this peace could now be negotiated—bought, instead of

earned. “You, and this woman,” he said. He could rarely bring

himself to say her name. “I will join you in your chambers.”

The rumblings of a drunken man? I wondered. Or had he

witnessed the affection, the kindness, the pure love that transpired

between my maid and me and believed he could include

himself in this exchange?

Shaking from fear, I stepped even closer, my voice now more

like that wind I’d heard whispering in my ear. “Whatever you

want, John. It’s yours for the asking.” I felt nauseous. I wasn’t

going to make the mistake Douglas Posey had made. I said, “I am

here to serve you.”

He took his hands and placed them on my shoulders. His ?ngers

extended like antennae, they gently rained down my body,

lingering over my breasts, my waist, and hugging the curve of my

hips. He let his hands once again hang at his side. He looked

pale, and quite frightened. Later, I would realize it was excitement

at the thought of his proposal. His touch was eerily electric

—I felt it like a poison running through my veins.

“I believe I can help her,” he said.

He stormed from the room and back out the house. I heard

his car sputtering toward the gates. I fell to my knees, and I

retched.

Regardless of the price I had just paid, my Sukeena was coming

home.

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22 february 1917—rose red

John has worked tirelessly to free Sukeena and at last has brought

her home. To see her, my dear friend, in such a state as this

brought me to tears and for a time threatened to return me to

fever and the echo of my African illness, but to my credit I held

these symptoms at bay, determined to be of help. Part of the long

delay in my receiving her was John’s delivering her to the hospital

for the setting of bones and the mending of wounds. She is missing

three front teeth and has a broken left wrist and a bandaged

nose. In the privacy of her room, as Donna and I help her out of

her bloodied and torn clothes and into a nightdress, we are

painfully aware of the other atrocities that did befall her—atrocities

that a woman readily recognizes and that need no detailed

explanation here in these pages. Suf?ce it to say her black skin is

deeply bruised from ribs to loin, from her breasts to the soles of

her feet, and there is tearing and bleeding in places that make

childbirth appear tame. I weep openly at the sight of what they’ve

done to her, the uniformed men assigned to protect us. What

cowards. They should all be made to hang for these crimes.

Instead, they will return home to their wives, a bit weary, explaining

away their fatigue as just another day on the beat.

For her part, Sukeena is sanguine as usual. She stops short of

making jokes about her condition but manages to impress us with

a wincing smile, half pain, half delight, at her return to those who

care for her. Donna is eventually replaced by Carol, a nurse that

John has hired speci?cally to care for my maid in her weeks of

recovery. Carol changes dressings on Sukeena’s wounds, applies

ointments and feeds her medicines. Sukeena tolerates these

efforts but bids me to prepare her own herbal treatments, which

include the burning of ropelike grasses, teas and salves made

from a variety of herbs she keeps in a rosewood chest in her

changing room. I try to follow her instructions, requiring her to

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repeat them several times. I touch her all over, applying these

African remedies, and reel when she winces in pain. There are

clearly broken ribs and, I fear, the bruising of internal organs,

for her abdomen is quite enlarged on her right side, and she is

refusing all food.

Hours on end I pray for her, reading scripture aloud. She

seems soothed by this, and we’ve talked about how Christian

scripture can heal given devotion and faith behind the words.

Morning comes, another day passes.

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13 march 1917—rose red

There is little doubt that April (whose month approaches with

great sorrow) is not coming home. John did not hide her in some

pretense or scheme. She is gone, lost to the walls of this place.

Her residence here ensures that I shall never leave this place,

never leave my child, not for more than a luncheon or dinner in

town. (I wonder if Rose intended this fate for me, thinking back

to Sukeena’s claims that the house was jealous of my devotion to

my daughter, and knowing that a mother would never leave her

child when distant hope is held that my April may someday walk

right out of the walls that have apparently claimed her. If, indeed,

there was method to this house’s madness, it has won that battle: I

am here to stay!)

Sukeena’s recovery impresses me greatly, and I attribute that

recovery in no small part to both her herbs and my prayer. Some

of the bruising remains. Bandages have been removed from her

nose, and other areas as well, and she is able to spend some time

on her feet now and to tend to her toilet herself. Her wrist

remains in plaster, her breathing shallow and quite evidently

painful. She chants herself to sleep in that singing language of

hers, almost like humming as it resonates inside her. I brush her

hair and pat her head and rub her limbs when her legs go numb.

She smiles and climbs to her feet and struggles around the room

slightly bowlegged. I wince, unable to conceive of the awful things

they did to her during her days in captivity.

A policeman, a detective, returned to our home, ostensibly to

follow up on April’s disappearance, and upon sight of him, I

ordered him from our home. I shouted, quite undigni?ed, until

the man, paralyzed with fear, ?ed from this place, hat in hand.

No policeman shall ever set foot in this house again. Not without

proper paperwork and the order of a judge. I’ve had quite

enough of the “protection” the police provide us. If they think

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they’ll ever ?gure out Rose Red, they are fooling themselves.

There is no earthly explanation for the events of this place. I have

lived within these walls more than eight years now, day in and day

out, I have consulted Madame Lu and Madame Stravinski, and I

am wont to explain the goings-on. Young women disappearing.

Men, dead of everything from suicide to murder. My daughter

claimed. My husband now tortured with sexual inadequacy.

I shudder with this last thought, recalling my negotiations to

win Sukeena’s release, and dreading the day I must report to my

maid the price we both must pay for her freedom. Dreading even

more the moment of payment itself. When will my husband come

to my chambers? When will that demand be met?

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19 april 1917—rose red

A grim mood envelops us all as we mourn the loss of my dear

daughter on this, her day. The staff feels this loss as painfully as

John and I. (The house maids elected to forgo their white aprons

today, leaving them in all black as they mourn.) For the most part

the house is quiet and the only activities amount to the bare

necessities to keep it operating. Construction, for the ?rst day

since Christmas, has been suspended. About the only occurrence

of note was a shuddering growl heard by all sometime around 1

P.M. this afternoon. There was no mistaking the source: this

house.

This same time of day—1 P.M.—has lately been the hour of my

retiring after lunch for “rest.” In fact, I have used these two hours

to tend to my carpentry in the attic, making good headway on the

stairs that are to lead to the Tower. Only Sukeena has noticed the

splinters and callouses on my hands—and in typical fashion has

thought better than to ask me their source. I wonder now, has

this sound we all heard anything to do with my absence from the

attic on this day? Is Rose Red so “alive” that she can even sense

time and absence? If so, what is it she demands of me, and what

am I to do to appease her?

I take a late tea at four o’clock in the Parlor, at ?rst made

weary by the unexpected arrival of Tina Coleman, but then made

happier as I realized how badly I needed this distraction. Tina is

very much aware of the signi?cance of this day and comes to help

me forget. (She even brings a ?ask of alcohol, and laces my tea

with same!) As our discussion wanes, I note that she can’t take her

eyes off the large leather globe in the corner of the room, recalling

perhaps the stories of one of our ?rst disappearances here.

Do I see temptation in her eyes? Does she too want to spin this

globe and see if Rose Red will claim her? (She could try if she

liked, but the truth is I had one of the staff place a screw into the

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globe to prevent its spinning many years ago. Each and every time

Sukeena identi?es what she believes to be a portal into this house,

I order it closed or shuttered. The stall in the Carriage House,

for instance, had been nailed shut following Daniel’s brutal

stomping.)

I must admit to a sense of melancholy and distress as the afternoon

wore on. All the small talk in the world could not rid me of

memories of my sweet little girl, and I fear the alcohol only served

to increase my unease. Finally, too late, I’m afraid, Tina excused

herself and took her leave, returning home by chauffeured

motorcar.

I skipped dinner, ?lled with scones, and headed to my rooms

to write here in your pages.

2 A.M.

Do I dare write openly and honestly of the events of this evening—

the evening anniversary of the birth of my missing child? If I do

not, I fear that I shall carry this with me to my detriment, for I

experience such relief when applying my pen to your pages. But

oh, Dear Diary, so private are these words, so frightening, that I

scarcely dare repeat what has happened. Unable to sleep, unable,

barely, to sit down, I have paced my chambers for the last hour

debating whether to share here in your pages the events of the

past several hours, and now, alas, I take to your pages like the sinful

to the confessional.

It was shortly after eleven o’clock when I heard a knock on the

outer door to my chambers. I had already let the staff go and so