The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red (31 page)

was the intention of the house all along. Perhaps a bit jealous

herself, my maid believes this rambling palace is somehow in love

with me and wants me all to herself.)

The reason for this entry in your pages, the cause of my

alarm, is that to-day John issued an ultimatum that I was not to

visit the Tower any longer. He ordered it boarded up and padlocked.

Although I long to understand his reasoning—does he

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sense a change in me?—I cannot, of course, allow him to make

such impossible demands. I wonder if John himself did not stray

up to that lofty place late one night and see the face, hear the

voice himself? Perhaps it proved too much for him. Perhaps he

snapped and has slid downhill ever since. Perhaps, only now, can

he begin to come to grips with what happens in that magic place

and strive to prevent me from experiencing it myself. I have never

understood John Rimbauer, and I understand him even less now,

but we have had a conversation about this demand of his, and for

the ?rst time in our marriage, I threatened my husband with his

life.

I suggested that poison might ?nd its way into his food, a

mechanical failure might befall his motorcar, a dockside whore

might run him through with a knife. The biggest threat of all, I

saved for last. I offered to reinvite his recent houseguests—we’ve

entertained a series of prominent bankers of late as John negotiates

a pipeline deal—and to parade them down the back hallways

that afford my husband the opportunity to regard their wives in a

full state of undress and while taking their toilet. (I dare say the

loans would dry up quite quickly!) After a brief consideration,

John removed his ultimatum, but the look he gave me chilled me

to the bone.

I fear what little peace still exists in this house is now destined

as a part of our past.

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9 june 1922—rose red

My husband has taken a turn for the worse. Violence surrounds

him, follows him like a shadow. He eats alone, leaves the house

early in the morning and sometimes stays away for days at a time.

I’m told by those who should know that he has been seen gambling

(quite heavily) in the Chinese district south of the city, that

he has lost a considerable amount of money and that a certain

intemperance has left him in need of regular visits to that community,

sometimes several times a day.

To-night, he threatened our headwaiter with a carving knife,

ostensibly because the beef was prepared too rare. (I don’t see the

problem—John is hardly eating at all any longer.) He then threw a

tureen on the ?oor, shattering it, and causing the girls who work

in the Dining Room to ?ee and not return. Our headwaiter

quit—walked out. We will need to replace him to-morrow—that is,

if news of John’s temper has not reached everywhere in this city,

which I fear has resulted in a protracted dif?culty in Mr.

Tammerman securing domestics of any quality. Rose Red has

turned. She is in a season of decline. I attribute this to John’s

reduction of the construction budget—he has cut building by

half. And whereas our ?ne home now accommodates over thirty-

?ve thousand square feet of living space, can sleep forty-two and

feed several hundred in grand style, she could have been more

grand, more luxurious had John not started pinching his pennies.

To-night, Sukeena and I spoke of this at length—for even she

now acknowledges that we have seen less of April during this time

of slow growth. Rose Red must be allowed to expand. The faster

the construction, the more visits from my daughter. My husband

and I vary greatly in our opinions on this matter. I do not know if

my maid suggested it, or if perhaps it was I, but a very clear need

exists for the departure of John Rimbauer. He is in my way, in

Sukeena’s and the staff ’s way and is now in the way of the house

herself.

Something must be done. I fear it is up to me to decide exactly

what.

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AFTERWORD

my great-grandmother’s diary ended here, and were

it not for the work of joyce reardon’s recent expedition

into rose red, it might have ended here forever.

however, i was a part of that expedition and

had the good fortune to discover in the attic a

second installment to the diary, hidden in the wall

of the tower, ironically, on the other side of a

false door installed behind an old discolored

watercolor of a red rose hanging on the wall. (i

believe great-grandma may have painted that

watercolor herself.)

the entries that follow are disturbing to say the

least, but they do conFIrm some of what was discovered

during the reardon expedition, the intention

of which was to psychically awaken the slumbering

beast of rose red. as the old sage has said, “be careful

what you ask for . . .” we know now, through

this conFIrmation, the cause of at least one fatality,

and perhaps in the years to follow we shall

uncover more. much of the late diary is written in a

“code,” an encryption that has yet to be broken. my

great-grandmother had either unspoken talents or

a connection to a place that few, if any, of us will

ever access. what follows are excerpts from the

second diary.

—steven rimbauer

seattle, washington, september 2000

(joyce reardon’s FInal editorial was respectfully

moved to conclude the diary.)

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19 february 1923—rose red

4 P.M.

Winter has proved especially vexing and tiresome. I put into your

pages now what never must be revealed to any living person. I

have, for this reason, made amendments to my last will and testament,

ensuring your destruction, Dear Diary, should anything

happen to me.

For the past several months, and more so, in recent weeks,

Sukeena and I have conspired—yes, I choose my words carefully—

on some way to do away with John Rimbauer. Try as I have to

drive him from this home in recent months, my efforts have been

to no avail, in part because my husband is no longer the man he

once was. His trips to the Chinese sector are more a part of his

life than anything here. He returns disoriented and confused,

and he strikes out in terror at anyone in his way. He has become

far more than a nuisance. Last week, when he violently took liberties

with Julie, the ?fteen-year-old-daughter of Mrs. Cruthers,

our housemaid, I promised an end to it. This very evening, my

maid and I shall deliver on our promise.

8 P.M.

I am told by Sukeena that the ?rst part of our devious plan is now

in place. She visited my husband in his upstairs of?ce at teatime—

a visit she had never made once in all her years in our service—

and I’m told the conversation went something like this:

(To give you the bene?t of imagination, Dear Diary, I should

tell you that Sukeena’s full black form when clothed loosely in

white Egyptian cotton is so provocative that my husband banned

her from this dress early on in her service. I should also add that

during the days of John’s visits to my chambers with my maid “in

attendance,” he never “knew” her, in the biblical sense. He

watched. He leered. But he never knew her. As odd as this may

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sound—and it does so to me even here on your pages—I believe

this omission of the act has been out of respect to me, and I also

believe it has thrown him into internal turmoil that has, these

many months, resulted in a string of self-destructive acts.)

“Evening, sir.”

“Sukeena.”

She says he was seated behind his great English partners desk,

a ?re burning in the ?replace, a brandy held in hand. His dark

blue velvet and black satin smoking jacket. Charcoal gray trousers.

Ascot. Cigar. The snifter of brandy.

“Is there anything you are needing, sir?” Sukeena is my maid,

not his. Surely her approach—this arrival in his private chambers

—must have struck him oddly.

“Such as?”

“Anything at all.” I can just imagine her lilting tone, the shifting

from one broad hip to the other, the way she does. When

Sukeena moves, it is like a cheetah. John has always been slightly

afraid of the big cats.

“Anything?”

“Anything, sir.” She added, “Miss Ellen, she asleep, sir. Took

some bourbon with milk not an hour ago.”

I am prone to ?nding my sleep quickly when under the in?uence

of spirits. No one is more aware of this than my husband.

He looked at her with a cocked head and curious eye.

“I be wondering, sir. About things. About you. About you and

me, sir. A woman can’t help but wonder.”

“You’ve been wondering about . . . ?” Astonishment. I imagine

the laudanum must dull my husband’s good senses. (He has

not shown any such senses in many months.) Lull him. Fool him.

How else could others trick him into parting with his money so

easily? This man who amassed a fortune only to squander it away.

I wish, Dear Diary, I could summon even a modicum of sympathy

for my dear John, but reason does not allow me such luxury.

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Except for a brief period of courting, I have known him to be a

sel?sh man. I served a purpose in his life—the same way a railroad

tycoon can provide his oil transportation—I offered legitimacy of

his offspring. He poisoned my womanhood with his dalliances,

made me barren and robbed me of the one thing I could offer.

He takes women like he takes meals—often and hungrily. He lavished

no love upon his daughter and yet offered his son anything

he desired, including a way out of this house. With his good looks

and winning smile, he has cajoled many a businessman and every

woman into surrendering whatever it is they hold dearest, all the

while believing John Rimbauer was doing them a favor. The only

thing I’ve ever see frighten him is this house—my dear Rose—and

so it was to Rose I turned in my hour of need.

“I . . . I told you not to wear that clothing around this house,

woman! It’s not proper.”

“I be having a problem sleeping, sir. Thinking about . . .

Sukeena sorry if my dressing gown does not please you.”

“Please me?”

“Yes, sir.”

He rose slowly out of his chair, the ?re crackling. “Please

me?” he repeated.

“It’s not something I ever speak to the Miss about. You can see

that, sir.”

“Indeed.”

“Something I got-to know. A woman got-to know.” She paused,

then turned for the door. “Was thinking about da Tower, sir. Put

a quilt in the Tower, I did. Heavy quilt. The one from Sveden.

You know the one. Maybe Sukeena take her sleep in the Tower.”

She left his study then, fully con?dent that behind the haze of

the laudanum and the brandy, the cigar and that ruddy con?-

dence of his, my husband would follow like a puppy to its mother.

Sure enough, he did just that.

She walked luxuriously, strolling down the great wide halls of

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Rose Red as if in a processional, my husband trailing a few yards

behind. Down the hall, she turned into his own changing room,

and this must certainly have shocked him. She walked straight

into his closet, opened the secret panel at the back and entered

the narrow hallway that led directly to the attic. By now he must

have thought her possessed of black magic, for he never missed a

step, ducking through his own clothing and following that path

he had followed so many times before. Even then with lurid

thoughts occupying him.

I see it in my mind’s eye as a spectacle: Sukeena in front of

him by a few steps, my husband’s slightly drunken gait following a

few paces behind. His heart racing with anticipation—this cherished

prize that has remained out of reach all these years. In our

African camp, I got to Sukeena before John did, as she was

assigned to me as my handmaid. I can only imagine the frustration

this caused in him now that I know what was always on my

husband’s mind. Now that I know it was there in that camp that

he exposed himself to sinful disease. I have wondered many times

what our lives might be like had I taken to God the way so many

women do. Would we now be blessed? Why did I choose to pray

to the dark side, make alliances with powers beyond my understanding?

God, too, is beyond my understanding, so why not

God? How much better this might have all turned out.

Forgiveness instead of revenge, faith instead of accusation and

hardship. (Perhaps now is the time. I hear it is never too late to

turn to the Christ. Just think: all that I have imagined, all that I

have suffered through, and yet still a chance for salvation!)

Up my twisting and complaining staircase did they come,

Sukeena now leading my frightened husband by the hand. The

winds began calling behind the creaking of that lumber, “Da . . .

da. Da . . . da.” My husband’s blood ran cold; despite the

brandy, his eyes grew large with fear. He stopped his ascent,

nearly pulling Sukeena over, who had the lead.

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