Chapter 6 insert-B

RAINY DAY HOPES

"Give me of your flowers one leaf,
Give me of your smiles one smile,
Backward roll this tide of grief,
Just a moment, though, the while,
I should feel and almost know-
You are trifling with my woe." - Alice Cary, Make Believe

In the few days Malcolm stayed in New London, it was in some ways as if time had been turned back to the weeks of our engagement. He was unusually generous, assiduously attentive to my wishes.

We did accomplish quite a lot, clearing most of the downstairs rooms at the house.

We ate most of our meals out, and went for evening walks. Had there been more time, I'd have liked to go sailing. The weather was mild, and it lifted my spirits to be out in the spring air.

We revisited the places where we'd spent those early days, now that there was more time to spend, without a rushed wedding to plan for.

"Malcolm," I said impulsively one evening, "I'd like to see one of those moving-picture shows. I was reading about a new one, just today." I didn't name its title, afraid Malcolm would pronounce it mawkishly sentimental. "I'd like to see what all the fuss is about."

"All right," he said slowly, skeptical, no doubt, of its being a valuable use of time, but then he added, with unexpected enthusiasm, "I suppose we could motor to New Haven tomorrow. I can show you where I lived while I was at Yale, and the places where I spent the better part of four years."

It was something he'd talked of doing during our brief courtship, and I was delighted that he seemed open to sharing memories from a time in his life of which I knew little. I was very curious about those mystery years which had gone before.

"It's strange to think that we lived so near to each other for years, and that we might have met sooner." I mused.

"Yes, but it's best that it didn't happen that way. It would have been too much of a distraction, I should think."

"A distraction?"

"A distraction in every sense. A distraction from focusing on the purpose at hand-getting an education. I had definite plans for myself."

"Do you think I would have been a hindrance to your plans?"

"I didn't say that. But can you imagine enduring a long engagement?"

How different men's and women's feelings can be. I wouldn't have minded a long engagement period. It might even have opened my eyes to the truth about Malcolm.

Malcolm was undoubtedly eager to return home and to his offices, but he did not bring this up. Indeed, his impatience seemed to have temporarily abated, and for that I was grateful.

Everywhere we went, I was reminded of what had so fascinated me about Malcolm. Never was there a man more sure of himself, of the correctness of his opinions and his position, than my husband. He was a remarkable man, if not an admirable one. I was considerably less charmed than I had been four Aprils before, but daily, familiar places and the clean spring days brought my better memories back to me.

The morning Malcolm and I had gone to pick out rings-a mere four days after we met-it had been sunny. My heart had been as light as my step along the narrow sidewalk where we walked briskly, even then, with purpose. I liked the way Malcolm had taken my hand briefly, firmly, as if he'd done it always, confident that his choice was right. The small gesture was dear to me, starved for affection as I was. To feel his large fingers tighten around my own made me feel that, at last, I belonged, rather like coming home after a lonely journey, only my journey was just beginning.

If I'd had an inkling of doubt, I'd allowed it to be swept away by Malcolm's assurance, and by the yearning I felt when my eyes met those fathomless, cerulean eyes that seemed to absorb and know me. If I had only known as much!

I had pinned my hopes on so little. But I had been blessedly unaware of all of that, on the April day when everyone seemed to be smiling, and the wind that fanned my hair back from my face carried the scent of cinnamon bread from the bakery a block over, where we stopped to buy a pastry before going on to the business of choosing jewelry that would symbolize permanence.

My engagement ring was a simple white-gold affair with five modest round-cut diamonds. A pair of small diamonds flanked an art deco design of concentric squares, in the center of which sparkled the single, larger diamond.

"We want that one." Malcolm had said to the jeweler, and then turned to me. "I think that one will do; it suits you perfectly. Do you approve, Olivia?"

Of course I did. The ring was lovely, though not the most costly or flashy one in the display case. It was Malcolm's choice for me, how could I be anything but pleased? I've since been given many rings, beautiful rings, all far more valuable, but none have meant quite as much as that first one, given me when I was unreservedly happy.

I liked the way Malcolm seemed to know what he was looking for, and how there was no indecision. I was glad I hadn't chosen my own ring. I'd heard that some women selected theirs, and I wondered how there could be any meaning in that. A ring one chose for oneself wasn't a gift.

Now, on the third day after Malcolm's appearance, we spent the morning negotiating the sale of my father's company. The men, in dark business suits and vests, seemed relieved to see my husband in attendance, assuming he would finalize the deal, but Malcolm merely put in a remark now and then, and looked on in silence the rest of the time. At first, the men smiled indulgently my way, but that quickly turned to a curious tension, once they realized I would handle the transaction, myself.

"I have to tell you that I was beginning to think it was a lost cause, and that it was a waste of effort and time, but you did well." said Malcolm, as we walked along the beach that evening. It was high praise coming from one so precise and such a perfectionist.

"What do you think?" he asked. I was sure his mind was still on business, but mine was not. After the shared experience of working and planning together, and after the triumph when we knew the sale would close as I had hoped, I felt comfortable enough to speak freely.

"I was remembering that I used to spend hours on this beach. If there was a free day, I wanted nothing more than to be by the sea, with only the sky for company." Many times, the gulls and the waves were the only sounds. "It is my most vivid memory of childhood. It was as though I was the only one on earth. I reveled in that emptiness. It made me feel... so free."

"And lonely."

"Sometimes, yes. But I was so accustomed to being alone-to playing alone and amusing myself. You know how it is, as an only child. There is no choice but to make the best of it, and to learn to enjoy solitude."

"I never did enjoy it when I was young. I didn't want that for my boys." said Malcolm.

I nodded.

"I didn't mind. I used to run away from everyone. I'd run out over the sand and lie down in the hollow of the dunes so that I could see people, but I couldn't be seen. I liked the feeling of being with them, yet invisible. This beach was my sanctuary, you see, just as my room was at home-the two places where nothing could touch me. Did you have a place like that?"

Evening's shadows began to lengthen. I watched Malcolm's face, which, like the sea, was so calm, but might turn restless in an instant.

"A place?" he asked, as if he did not understand, and then: "I did. Do you know the lake, south of our house?"

"Oh, yes."

"It was my haven, as your beach was for you."

"I'd have thought it would be some hidden-away place in Foxworth Hall."

"No." he said shortly. "I would often go out at night to swim, or just lie on the edge of that lake and watch the sky. It was so infinite, I thought I could lose myself in it. And that is what I wanted-to be lost. To forget."

"To forget what, Malcolm?"

There was a lengthy pause, and knowing how ruthlessly private he was, I didn't expect an answer.

"My father." he said brusquely.

"What about your father?"

"His anger and punishments. I needed to escape him, the people he would invite to stay, the women he would bring home. So I'd go to that lake."

Tentatively, I took Malcolm's hand. He allowed the contact, but he did not look at me.

"I can see you doing that, too." I said softly.

I could easily imagine the vast inky blue reaches of the Virginia sky. It did make one's troubles seem small. It had the power to make one forget immediate concerns, an effect similar to that of this entire week. I shouldn't have forgotten to look beyond Malcolm's words to his motivations. He only troubled himself to be kind when he could gain by doing so.

"Why did you need an escape? From what you've told me, I had the impression that your home was a happy one." he said suddenly, with a hint of suspicion, as if he thought I may be fabricating, or reinventing my past.

"It was happy," I stopped myself from saying "compared to yours."

"How do you know?"

I considered the strange question for a moment, and dismissed it.

"I've always been solitary. And with the rheumatism, my mother was bedridden so much of the time in her last year-" I trailed off, unable to sum up the memories of two decades, in a single sentence.

"Life wasn't untroubled, for you, either."

"No." I said simply. "And later, I came here, when being at home was too much-when Father couldn't hold a conversation which didn't include talking about Mother's last few days. He was like that for a long time, and I just wanted to forget. There were so many better memories of her. She taught me to garden, to grow beauty in flowers, and also, the more practical-vegetables and herbs. She taught me to cook and to organize and run a home efficiently. She prepared me to live either with or without money."

"But she must have known you would never lack, in that way."

"Surely, she must have." I averred. "She taught me to be a proper lady. Father challenged my mind and encouraged me to educate myself beyond school requirements, although it wasn't necessary... for a girl. If Mother had lived, she would not have wished me to attend college."

I glanced at Malcolm. He was still listening.

"I wasn't born until my parents were forty, but I never felt as if I was an afterthought to their life. However, they were first with each other-that's as it should be-I was second. I didn't lack for attention, but I always believed my life would be happier, once I was grown. I thought all of my questions-the ambiguity about my identity, my place in the world-would be solved then. I hoped to find the same stability I had with them, only improved."

"And haven't you?"

I stopped walking, caught off guard. Stability, I had said. Not happiness.

"I suppose." I admitted. "But sometimes I wish... Malcolm, I think we married because we were both lonely." He didn't respond. "And because we needed to create some order."

"There's nothing wrong with that." he said, a bit defensively. "We aren't like your parents, or mine, thank God."

I considered that. There were no comparisons to make. Perhaps that was freeing, in a way.

Sometimes when I looked at Malcolm, I saw a stranger. Sometimes I saw a stranger in myself as well. Who were we together, and who were we separately? I had been measuring us by the standards I saw around me, in others and in books. I measured us by the example my own parents had provided, but perhaps that was a mistake. My expectations would never fit my marriage as it was, or as it would be, no matter what changes came about.

Although I had taken comfort from the memory of my mother's views, they did not always apply to my situation. She was of a mind that married people should never criticize one another in the presence of children or in company, and with this I completely agreed. She would say that one had to be careful of a man's feelings; men were as fragile as children, in some ways. But my mother had never imagined anyone like Malcolm, and as much as I respected her, I was not like my gay, lighthearted mother.

We walked on for some time without speaking, then another man greeted us, and Malcolm stopped to talk.

Although I knew I was being foolishly sentimental, I allowed myself a glimmer of hope that all could be set right, even now. I'd longed for just the smallest nuance of connection-the particular "knowing" inflection in Malcolm's voice that meant the two of us were joined in ways no one could intrude upon. No one could break that connection, imperfect as it was. All this I heard in the altered inflection Malcolm used when speaking to the stranger; it was slightly different from the tone with which he spoke to me.

As he continued talking, I watched Malcolm. My mind drifted. I lost the thread of the desultory conversation, so I contributed little. They had a difference of opinion, and I was fascinated by the way Malcolm eventually swayed the man to his point of view. It was an art Malcolm had perfected; it was why he was so successful in business. He had an energy that one was drawn to, almost unknowingly. This was even true of me, although I knew how calculating he could be.

I wanted very much for the other man to move on, so we could resume our conversation; I wanted Malcolm to want this. I imagined us walking on, and then stopping in the shelter of the falling twilight, in one of the places I'd told him about. He would kiss me then, slowly, sweetly. I knew just how the kiss would feel and taste, and I wanted it more than anything else, at that moment-that, and no more.

The brilliant light of afternoon faded as I walked on ahead, waiting for Malcolm to finish his conversation. The wind turned chilly. The mist I had delighted in walking in earlier had turned to rain, and I'd left my raincloak back at the house, draped over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs.

"It's so gloomy, suddenly." I said, tightening a shawl about my shoulders as we walked back to the house in the rain.

"Only if you choose to see it that way. Rain isn't an ill omen." Malcolm replied, unlatching the front gate. "You'll undoubtedly get better than a fair price on this house; it's been well maintained."

"That's because Father believed that I-unmarried-would live on here, even after he..." I took a deep breath, trying to keep my composure. "He made all sorts of improvements. I remember when we got the electric lights; Margaret-our housekeeper-kept saying how it would have gone very much against Mother's wishes."

"Well," he decided, "we may as well get started packing up what you want to take with you. Where shall we begin?"

"Upstairs. But not until we've had dinner. There are the contents of four rooms to sort out."

"A far cry from Foxworth Hall, eh?"

I looked at him, frowning. What was his point? I was growing so accustomed to his invectives that I did not know if this was mere idle talk, or something else. No Italian marble floor or expensive art was to be found here. Of course this house did not compare with Foxworth Hall, which had-save for the north wing-eight rooms in each of its upstairs wings, alone.

There was no guest bedroom in my father's house. When I was twelve, a connecting archway was added from what had been a spare room, adjoining it to mine. That left the nursery and sewing room-really an enlarged closet off the nursery-and my father's bedroom. Not many rooms in all, perhaps, but I was overwhelmed by the job ahead.

"It's mostly a catch-all storage space now. I never went through it; there wasn't a need to." I said an hour later, opening the squeaky door. The shades were drawn, and the chamber had a claustrophobic feel, which was the true reason I'd resisted going into it.

In a far corner, partially blocked from view by a folded screen and rug that had once graced the sitting room, was what remained of the nursery furniture, with high-relief carvings in the wood-elaborately old-fashioned pieces which I wouldn't have chosen for a nursery. The crib had stood folded against the wall for over twenty years, though I do remember stealing in-I had been strictly forbidden to-and peeking through the bars, then climbing onto a chair to peer down at my sleeping cousin, whose mother was downstairs visiting. I'd wondered what all the fuss was over such an unlovely, sallow-faced baby.

A rocking chair was piled with quilts and other linens in disarray, so unlike the bright, airy modern room I'd created for Mal and Joel. Everything here was dust-laden, the room cluttered with the odds and ends of a family that had lived in the same house for thirty years. It was not unlike the Foxworth attic, only on a much smaller scale, and it left me with the same thought: that there is a pathos, something inexorably sad about the evidence of time that has passed.

I moved a croquet set and a box of dime novels and sheet music, stacked the pieces of a broken maple chair to one side, and made my way to what looked like the best starting point. Opening a bureau drawer, I found it still packed with dozens of now-unfashionable, tiny dresses, and shook one out with a moment's indecision before beginning to discard what my mother had cherished.

"It's hard to believe I ever wore such things." I said holding up a small high-buttoning leather shoe. I tossed it into an empty box and turned back to the bureau.

"All this," Malcolm gestured, taking in the contents of the room disdainfully, "For a girl."

"An only child." I reminded him. "As the only Foxworth son, you must have had as much."

"I suppose. But you were loved." he said, as he turned his back. I simply couldn't have heard him correctly. I looked up, surprised by his indirect admission that love mattered. Tentatively, I touched his sleeve.

"Never mind, Olivia." he said, brushing off my gesture, lifting an armful of books into a second empty box.

I wanted to suggest that he not repeat his father's mistakes with Mal and Joel, perhaps, but the proper words did not present themselves, and so I continued to work, thinking that, as I'd said earlier, it was our aloneness-our wounds that drew us together.

"Through there is the sewing room. Pack up what looks useful; I'll trust your judgment."

He made some sound of assent-Malcolm had countless ways of communicating without using actual words-and went into the adjoining room. I heard him shoving objects about, and the rustle of papers.

The light was poor, so I went across the hall to my own bedroom, carrying the first of the boxes, which I put down on the loveseat. There were many more boxes, unmarked and some heavier than the first, and I wasn't looking forward to this tedious job. I did not know what I would do with old furniture I did not want, including a treadle sewing machine I knew I'd probably never use, or a dozen bisque dolls and other play-things which were of no use to my sons.

When I lifted the lid, the box contained half a dozen old tintypes and postcards, a silk parasol-I would keep that-pieces of a jigsaw, lesson books and sloppily-rendered drawings done by my own six-year-old hand, hair ribbons, painted shells and a loose amethyst my father had given me when I was eight.
I had carried that stone in my skirt pocket for luck for the longest time. When had I stopped? When had I lost my own kind of innocent magic-the belief in the childish superstition I had invented? It had been transferred to adolescent daydreams. Remembering, missing an innocence I could scarcely recall now, I stared at the dollhouse, awash in the sky blue, spring green, purple and brown from the Magnolia window.

"Ah, there you are. How do you propose to finish this by standing there, woolgathering?" asked Malcolm. "What are you doing?"

"Thinking."

"Of what?"

"The dollhouse."

"You'll want to keep it, I suppose."

"It was a gift. It was specially made in England, and Mother talked about it so much before it was ever sent, building up my expectation. I looked forward to having it so. I dreamt of it for months-a lifetime to a child, you know, and... then, after all of that waiting, it was only meant to be looked at.
I wasn't to touch it-ever. Not even the case. It was such a disappointment."

He glanced at the dollhouse, uninterested, and back at me.

"I suppose I've thought it a symbol for-for my life. I didn't want to be on the outside anymore."

"Outside of what?"

"Life. Happiness. I don't know, precisely. I wished for that family." I went on, trying to explain in as few, unsentimental words as I could what the dollhouse represented. Later, I wondered how I'd dared to reveal so much, and why I let that evening have such significance.

"Olivia," he said, forcing me to look at him, though his face and voice remained unreadable. "you don't need to wish; it is yours. You already have that home. If not for you, there would be no family."

"It sounds so simple, the way you put it." I said, looking away.

"It seems to me that you have two options. You can choose to be content, or-"

He stopped, perhaps seeing some evidence of the resentment that sliced through me. I had sudden visions of taking a hammer to the glass and smashing through it, smashing what caused me to be discontented, the naive wishes I had once built my expectations upon.

"Shall I?" he asked. "Which way do you feel about it?"

"I-I'm not certain."

He knelt to examine the back and underside of the glass case, sliding it to one side. I hadn't known a key existed; I had never seen one before, and I didn't think to ask where he found the one he produced.

There was a small click; the tiny key was a perfect match, but it didn't seem possible that, after all, the glass case should open so easily.

Malcolm, keeping his eyes on me, reached carelessly into the dollhouse and withdrew something.

"You'll feel better once you are home again." he said. He would soon grow impatient with my untidy grief.

"I just feel so... alone, sometimes."

I hadn't meant to say it. I looked at what he'd placed in my hands, and saw that it was the small wooden cradle.

"Alone?" I could see that he did not understand. "You have the boys, and you have... you aren't alone."

He brought his lips to mine, so gently at first that I could have believed this was one of my daydreams. The kiss deepened.

"Come home." he said quietly. "I'll take care of everything. You won't need to concern yourself with-" he gestured expansively, taking in the dollhouse,
the room and the rest of the house beyond it.

I envisioned strangers going through this house, removing what I valued. I envisioned my father's one remaining business and my inheritance being adequately managed, but forever out of my hands, and the Winfield name forgotten. I recoiled. Of course, that had been Malcolm's motive all along.

"It can be simple, if you let it be-if you would just agree."

I didn't want to be forced into making major decisions. Then, as if he read my thoughts, he drew me nearer, and kissed me again, carefully, as softly as the spring mist that clung, but seemed to have no substance.

I wanted to think that my suspicions were groundless. I'd almost convinced myself this was the case, had just tentatively laid my hand on Malcolm's sleeve,
when the telephone began to ring. I started, as if I'd been caught in an indiscretion.

"Let it go." said Malcolm.

"It may be from home. No one else would phone so late." I reminded him. He swore, and went from the room. I turned the little cradle over in my hands, and waited. When he didn't return right away, I started toward the hall, where, from the top of the stairs, I would be able to overhear his side of the conversation.
But something he'd brought into the room with him caught my eye. It was an old rosewood lap-desk with brass escutcheon and corner pieces in need of polishing.
I ran my fingertips over its satin-smooth surface, and tried to open it.

"It isn't locked." said Malcolm, startling me. I hadn't heard his approaching footsteps. He took the desk, and wrenched the lid open. It was filled with letters.

"Oh," I breathed, wonderingly. "Why have I never found this before?"

"It was hidden under bolts of fabric. I thought you'd want it." He pulled a slim book from beneath the letters, and held it out to me.

I opened the cover gingerly; it felt fragile in my hands.

"It is your mother's, isn't it?"

The desk was hers. The letters were from others, written to her. The slim book had also belonged to my mother. Her name was neatly written in old-fashioned copperplate script across the first page: Constance Honor Trowbridge Winfield. She'd written the important dates of her life in this book, her wedding date, February 29, 1872-which was also her twentieth birthday.

Father had given away most of her belongings, so I hadn't expected to find anything I hadn't already been given. I wasn't one for visiting graves, and possessions were meaningless objects that did not lessen sorrow. What meant most were the memories I carried-fragments of my life, my parents' lives. Father and I had spent most of our waking hours with her, trying to say all that needed to be said, hoping that we would carry no regrets later, when it was too late to tell her how much she had meant to us. I remembered bringing flowers from the garden she and I had once tended together. I hoped to brighten her room with their scent and with the memories the flowers would evoke of long summer afternoons when she had taught me what mattered to her.

I extracted a single folded sheet tucked between the pages, an incomplete letter with my name on it.

"March 5, 1908

Olivia,

There is so much I wish to say that cannot be contained in a letter, or in a bundle of letters. I have very little time left, and I want that time to be happy; I hope your last memories of me will be good ones. Life brings us enough sadness, without our intentionally inviting it in.

Dr. Harris thinks he is being kind by telling me I will recover, but I know better. Honesty would be kinder. It would be wisest if I were permitted to say my good-byes now. I am ready to go, I must choose to be ready. I want this season of sadness for you and your father to pass. Don't grieve over long.

To be happy, to be truly rich is to have peace. Your name, Olivia, means peace. I hope it will be your mainstay. I hope that someday you may have children who love you as well as I have been loved-children who are blessings to you, and a man who will be kind to you when it matters."

She hadn't said anything about love, I noted, and that encouraged me. Perhaps I had not made such a grave mistake after all. I comforted myself with this small self deception, and tucked the letter back into the diary to read later.

"Who was on the telephone?"

"John." answered Malcolm, annoyed. "He sounded surprised that I should be here. Says he'll come around to see you in a few days. You do see what I'm saying?
They waste no time."

My aunt Margaret had come for tea the previous afternoon, and spent a good deal of the evening with me. She remained in perpetual mourning, unchanged in appearance since the last time I'd seen her, even wearing the same gray percale dress and cotton gloves. She was corseted into unnatural thinness (a practice I myself had only considered using during the beginning of my first pregnancy.) It was certainly unnecessary for Margaret; she had never gained the extra pounds middle age brings to some women. Her somber expressions of sympathy made me feel even worse. I felt guilty, I admitted to Malcolm, but I'd been relieved when she finally left to catch the ferry back to Long Island.

"It's peculiar, but I always have the impression that she doesn't see me as myself, but as some substitute for,
or a pale copy of my mother."

"You look like her, from what I can tell." he said, glancing at a picture of my parents from the 'eighties when they were young, Father in a white linen suit and summer boater, Mother in a tight-sleeved dress and small hat tilted forward on her elaborately coifed hair.

"But I'm not anything like Mother, in temperament or speech."

Perhaps I was equally guilty of being drawn to Margaret Jackson only because of the resemblances to my mother. I have very few memories of my aunt that don't involve my mother as well. The sisters-though there was a ten-year difference in their ages-had in common a distinctive, delicate bone structure and auburn hair. My mother's narrow eyes were a clear gray, while Margaret's were a soft hazel that rarely registered joy.

Margaret was the younger sister, but to me, she had always seemed much older. Her life had been fraught with sadness. She had suffered many stillbirths,
and her one living daughter, Vivian (a year younger than me) died by age four.

During an Easter visit to our maternal grandparents, the child had fallen into an old dry well on an adjacent property. It was two long days before she was found.

I have a memory-perhaps less a true memory than a memory of a child's assumption of what death looks like-of Vivian, of her face, as pale as our grandmother's old wax doll with which we had often been given to play. I had nightmares about my cousin for months afterward. In sleep, I would hear her thready voice.

Doubtless, this was prompted by some invidious child's story read to me by my father, and I would wake, screaming until my mother carried me down to the warm kitchen and a cup of chamomile tea half filled with milk. When I was calm, she would scold, saying that reading to a little girl too often only encouraged an overactive imagination, and if I would say my prayers more sincerely, I would not be so frightened. Then she would bundle me off to bed again, pinch out the candle, leaving me in darkness.

All of this was before John Amos came into the picture. Understandably, Margaret feared losing him too, but she remained emotionally distant to her only living son. John Amos' parents called each other "Mother" and "Father," rather than by their Christian names, but then, they had been parents for most of their married years, whereas my own parents had enjoyed a full life together before I was born.

"Margaret seems to live in the past more than in the present day." I sighed. "I worry for her."

"She has a son, Olivia. Let him worry about her. You have your own life with which to concern yourself. I wouldn't think it a wise idea to get too involved with those people."

"Those people, as you call them, happen to be my only remaining relatives!"

"You have a family." he replied caustically. "You don't need them."

How could he know what I needed when he never asked? As usual, Malcolm only cared for what was convenient for himself.

"And those people are all descending like vultures now." he continued, as if there were dozens of aunts and cousins. "They don't care about you, Olivia,
they want a share of your inheritance."

"Oh, no, Malcolm." I objected immediately, but perhaps my uncertainty showed. Margaret had made such a point of telling me how proud my mother would be if she could see how well I'd done for myself, meaning my marriage.

"That man-your cousin-has no ambition; even his mother admits it. "He may not know where he's going, but at least he's on his way."" he quoted Margaret.
"Whatever THAT means."

"Malcolm, please-"

"They've been waiting for this. How did they even know of your father's...passing?"

"I can't think of it now." I was distressed and close to tears. "I just want to go home." I said miserably.

"We can go tomorrow, if you wish." he said quickly.

"No, I meant... this is home. I was happy here. I wish I could stay."

"What? You can't do that, Olivia."

In June of 1908, a few months after Mother died, I was invited to spend the summer in New Hampshire with Elaine at her grandparents home. Father thought it would do me good to get away. The first night, as I opened my suitcase, I found an envelope my father had tucked in without my knowing. It contained a short note: "If for any reason you want to come home, send word, and I'll be there. -Daddy."

I had not called him "Daddy" for some time, and I was then sixteen-old enough not to feel a child's homesickness, but the little note made me cry. If only he was here now. Would he have come to take me and the boys home if I'd wanted him to during the last three years? Probably not, (nor would Malcolm have allowed his sons to be taken from him)-but this house, and the memory of the man whom had made it a haven comforted me now, as much as the idea that Father would have taken us in, had I asked.

"I only meant-" I cast about, trying to think how to explain. "I always thought I could go home again, but I can't. It isn't easy to come to terms with that. A part of my life is over, and there's no way back to it."

"I wouldn't want to be a child again. I don't have attacks of nostalgia about childhood." said Malcolm, offering no sympathy. "Olivia, put this behind you.
Sell this house. Forget it."

"I've lost my father!"

Malcolm was unmoved, his expression remained fixed.

"You can't understand that because you still have yours, even if he is away, even if the two of you don't see eye to eye. You still have the luxury of knowing you'll see him again. You can talk to him."

"My father!" he said harshly. "I wouldn't miss him if I never heard from him again. I've done well without his support. I'm all right."

"No, you are not all right." I said, pulling away. "Because your relationship with Garland isn't a good one, you assume that I should as easily dismiss my feelings about my father, too. I'm sorry you can't understand why that is impossible for me to do. Sometimes, I believe you are the most insensitive,
unkind person I know."

I brushed at my eyes which had begun to fill with tears.

"Give me time to grieve as I need to, alone, so I won't offend you. Go home, Malcolm."

"You will be on that train with me!"

"Don't shout at me, Malcolm. Of course I'll go-in a day or two. The boys-"

"Oh, the boys! Yes, I know how you love the boys." he said this as if loving was a crime. "If they weren't here, you-"

"But they ARE here; you wanted them. They are a fact of our lives. I don't see a point in speculating about life any other way."

Rapidly, I descended the stairs, wanting to put distance between us. Let him wonder. I'd certainly done my share of that. Let him brood; it was probably the first time he'd confronted doubt. I didn't care to reassure him.