Chapter 14 insert-C

DANCING WITH SMOKE

"For love must have the flavor of its circumstances, and these continually change." - Amelia E. Barr

Alicia's presence had been such a trial to me, and Garland's presence had been a trial to Malcolm, but their influence on our lives was not the sole cause of what remained wrong between us. I half believed that the blame lay fully with me, as Malcolm implied. He would also have me accept the blame for his encounter with Alicia. If he could, Malcolm would undoubtedly have me own the blame for every single disappointment in his world.

Malcolm's hurtful words-so many throughout the years-left indelible scars. Such things were only spoken from within his anger. If I could convince myself this was true, his judgments would lose some of their power to wound, but I'd been locked in my prison of doubt for so long that shifts in my perspective were slow to evolve.

"Do something he won't be expecting."

Two years had passed since that conversation. I had not forgotten Frances Hudson's advice, nor had I taken it seriously. Idly, I began to think of it one summer afternoon.

In my garden, surrounded by all that was healthy and serene, it seemed impossible that everything else in life didn't follow suit, that I couldn't alter events to make it so, as I could in this, my realm. Here, where I was mistress and keeper of all that flourished under my care, I had no insecurities;
I knew my own power. Like the earth's seasons and cycles that brought renewal, why could I not begin a new one in my marriage?

"Try, Olivia." Frances had urged, and why couldn't I? But try what? I had no reason to think anything would change, that neglect could breed passion or simple interest, but perhaps that was my choice.

Thirty-four years of my life had passed, yielding little joy. I had grown accustomed to the existence I led. I had become cynical, no longer believing in fairy tale love. It had been naive to have expected such a love from a person like Malcolm, and indeed, if I was honest, from myself.

Frances was right: I must make the most of what I did have; no one's life was ideal. Why had I expected mine to be? Frances and I never again discussed our marriages, but I spun out the conversation in my mind, for I imagined I knew just what she would say.

I was not one to have my spirit crushed as easily as I'd been allowing. Malcolm married me, and I must remind him that he had chosen well. He couldn't have married me if there had been no attraction, and when I thought about what he had actually said, free of my own insecurities, I knew that it was only my unresponsiveness with which he found fault.

I might have realized this sooner, if I hadn't been so blinded by self-pity and the disillusionment that set in, stealthily, I guessed, during the final year of Garland's life. I knew, intermittently, the emotional numbness, mistaken for boredom, that led Frances into trouble.

That afternoon, I'd visited Alberta (Bertie to her friends) Millerson. We were little more than acquaintances at that point, yet, once a week she asked me over for games of tennis, or invited me to tea. I rather enjoyed it, and our boys got along famously. Now, home again, I wanted some time to myself, and Malcolm, returning from work a bit earlier than anticipated on that Friday, crossed the wide green lawn toward the side yard, where I was planting blueberry and raspberry bushes.

"I see you're doing Olsen's job again. You're a sight."

Malcolm, of course, never understood the sustenance I took from the quiet life of my garden.

"Where is Olsen, anyway?"

"He's building a treehouse for the boys." I said.

"You approved this?"

"Why not?"

"Why not, indeed." he said after a few seconds' thought.

I straightened, removed my gloves, and brushed soil away. I expected our conversation to be brief.

"Well, what is it?" he would ask, impatiently waiting for me to finish with him so he could continue on into the house. But he seemed to be in a decently good mood. On this day, he was to have closed the deal on buying a chain of east coast hotels, by far his most ambitious venture to date, and his triumphant look indicated it had gone well.

If he had arrived home ill-tempered, or on the heels of a disappointing day, I should not have been able to act as I did. It was only by virtue of the favorable circumstances that the events I relate were possible.

"I've been waiting for you."

"Oh? Then perhaps you'll be pleased to hear that we now own Langridge Hotels," He enumerated the particulars of the acquisition.

Malcolm always dressed well, and that day he wore a new three-piece suit and Windsor-knotted tie, his gold watch chain draped across his vest. He was, as ever, handsome and alluring in his aura of confidence.

Before I had time to feel timid, I went to him, free of illusions. I hoped my eyes and lingering congratulatory kiss was redolent of what I had not learned to express in words. I moved my hands under his buttoned-up jacket and vest with a boldness that was new to me. I wanted to feel, smell and taste the summer on his skin and in his hair. Malcolm took my arm, and together we walked to the house, and up the narrow back stairs.

Malcolm's was a large, manly room. Its oak furniture and paneling swallowed up most of the light that came through the heavy draperies of the three south-facing windows, but a bar of orange sunlight slanted across one corner, lighting the edge of the bureau, the gleaming hardwood floor and the glass-paneled front of a bookcase which stood near the double doors to the adjoining sitting-room.

We stopped in the doorway alcove, facing each other.

"What do you want, Olivia?"

I looked up, held his gaze and forced myself to speak.

"You."

Swiftly, he closed the space separating us.

"Let me hear you say that, again."

I removed the pocket watch from his vest, glanced at it, and let it fall onto a small table behind me. There was time, if I was allowed time.

Often, I felt repelled by Malcolm's intensity, repelled by the feel of his seed inside me, the day after-a reminder that my body was not my own.
Now, inviting the attention I usually preferred to avoid, I felt a flutter of apprehension. But desire has its own way of erasing unpleasant memories, and I was giving in to myself more than I was giving in to Malcolm.

"You want me." he stated, as if cementing the truth of it in his mind.

"I thought that was fairly obvious. Please, if you could... help me-" I began, all traces of prim tones suddenly gone from my voice, although my confidence was a pretense.

"Yes?"

"Malcolm, I-I want you to make me-" I broke off; the shock of hearing myself make such a daring request aloud was great. But I felt that I must say it now, or never would I have the courage, again. "Help me to want it as much as I should-as much as you want it."

I must not show desperation. I had his attention, and that was quite a feat, but I thought I read doubt in his face.

"You can," I went on, emphasizing "you," hoping that he wouldn't, in some future irrational moment, wonder if this was inspired by anyone other than himself. He must not think me the kind of woman that Alicia or Frances was! "and you... you have. You can, again. A little of your time is all I shall ask of you."

From far down the hall, the voices of Minnie and Mrs. Stratton could be heard. We stood motionless, waiting. I half expected Malcolm to come to his senses and rush away to see Corinne. He did not, but the tension was broken, the fragile intimacy of the moment lost.

My mind cleared. What was I doing?

Malcolm did not welcome physical contact which he himself did not initiate. This I knew from observing him with the children. He did not often hug them-not even little Corinne-but rather, he relied on more curt, masculine forms of affection, particularly with the boys. He did not like to be touched; he craved space, both physical and mental, and a great deal of solitude. Why had I assumed, even for a moment, that he would be receptive?

"I'll go." I said quietly, feeling very self-conscious.

I had tried, I thought-tried and failed. It might have happened this way, but it couldn't, for I hadn't the courage to transform my thoughts into action.

It would only ever be me, alone, bringing these scenes alive in my mind, as I lay in my hammock, on a summer day, or in my own room, my eyes lit with desire that my husband would not see. Reverie was often superior to reality, and it would be all, for me.

"No second thoughts, Olivia." Malcolm said.

I walked to a window, and looked out through the trees, across the driveway and the grounds in front of the house. The shade was raised a few inches, and evening light streamed in beneath it. The setting sun washed the clouds in a pink tint.

"Where are the boys?" Malcolm asked, joining me by the window.

"Spending the day at the Millersons'. Lucas will fetch them home, after dinner."

"Good."

His arms went around me. He massaged my shoulders and upper arms. I willed myself to relax, to enjoy the sensation of touch, the contrast of the coarse texture of the material against my skin, and the soft silk of my undergarments, (my one self-indulgence, concealed by the modest dresses which were the mainstay of my wardrobe.)

Earlier in the day, before my foray into the garden, I'd dressed in a long skirt and colorful blouse with square neckline, and I regretted Malcolm's having arrived home unexpectedly, to find me so unpresentable... as if it truly mattered or made any difference!

Now I was clad in an old, worn shirt of Malcolm's, and slacks I only put on when gardening, for women did not wear them commonly in those days. These unfeminine clothes should have made me feel unattractive, but I forgot all that under the onslaught of his attentions.

"And this... is very good." he breathed. His hands moved down and around my ribcage to settle just below my bosom.

I felt as though he touched my bare skin, but it was only through the cotton of my shirt-his shirt. I drew in my breath at the sharp desire that caught at me, as he cupped my breasts, which could not be encompassed by his hands. I was accustomed to having such feelings only when alone. Only in the absence of his attentions did I want them so intensely.

Loving Malcolm was like dancing with smoke; it was Malcolm's passionless kisses that made me want to follow the desire that I sensed, but had never known fully, when we were together.

I did not know if I could enjoy this, no matter how promising the beginning, or if my responses would become strictured. I never understood why I could only accommodate, but not share the need which compelled Malcolm. It should be easy: all I need do was not resist. But there was more to it-I wanted more. I was afraid of how vulnerable I felt, but it was time I let go of my youthful notions of what love should be.

He was unhurried, and I was glad, for my nerve had begun to ebb.

"Where was your hat?" he asked, touching my cheek, trailing his fingertips across my collarbone where a necklace would lie. "You've caught too much sun."

I pushed the window open further, leaning away from him in the process. The room was stifling; the windows upstairs had been shut all day because the children and I had been elsewhere. The advent of room coolers at Foxworth Hall was still five years in the future.

"It's so-I'm so hot." I said, pushing my damp hair off my forehead.

"Are you?"

The way Malcolm said that, barely more than a whisper, left me quite breathless.

"No second thoughts." he repeated, not unkindly, perhaps sensing my faltering nerve. "You can resume hating me again tomorrow."

Malcolm removed the combs, placing them on the windowsill, and my hair fell around my shoulders. He lifted it from my neck and let it fall again.

Days spent under the August sun did not put color in my fair complexion, but did highlight the rich red in my hair-the only feature of my appearance I believe to be pretty, and of which I could be proud.

Catching sight of my reflection in the glass of the bookcase, I was momentarily discomfited. How indecent I looked, with my hair down, in garments which clearly defined my shape, without the fullness of a proper skirt. Thoroughly unremarkable, I looked nothing like the women who induced in me such wistful envy. I looked nothing like them, and after ten years of familiarity, Malcolm still wanted me-and more surprisingly, I still cared that he did.

"You're quite certain?"

Malcolm had never before asked this, and might never care to ask it again. He was being uncharacteristically careful, and in return I must be careful not to be too grateful, not to make of this more than it was.

"Yes, God help me."

He turned me from the window, and began gently, deliberately, to work loose my buttons.

It occurred to me that this was the first time I'd come to his room of my own volition.

On our first afternoon, in the Swan Room, I'd wondered at that as yet unknown sensuality, beyond anything I could have dreamt, I'd thought. How could things have gone so wrong? How could a marriage consummated in the light of day-in the light of reality in such luxury as that room, be anything but sensual?

I had long been waiting to discover that suppressed sensuality, to learn the luxury of my body and of Malcolm's. I offered no resistance as I allowed myself to be taken by my partner, my enemy, co-creator of this shared life. If nothing was forbidden between us, as Malcolm had once said-not pain, then certainly not pleasure, either, and we had much to learn. This was a beginning, of sorts.

Circumstances formed me into one capable of many contradictions, capable of loving and hating in equal, violent measures. Finally, I was willing to accept that the lack of a declaration of love did not preclude pleasure. I must read all I was meant to know in Malcolm's mesmerizing eyes. I would never hear lavish, sweet words and compliments such as I read in books, but that must cease to matter. I learned that I could be seduced, not by rosy, girlish fantasies, but by the powerful, mercenary man I had married.

"I want to see you." he said, when I asked him to pull the shade to block out the light.

In direct contrast to the hungry look in his eyes, his speech was controlled, calming me, as he began to speak of the day, his plans and his successes. He talked on, as if what he was presently doing wasn't happening, and it was very effective.

His kiss parted my lips, seeking, yielding. Beneath the layers of clothing I felt him grow hard, and a reciprocal quickening in myself. I sat, arms at my sides, scarcely breathing or moving, on the edge of the bed. Malcolm trailed his fingers along the scalloped edges of my camisole, over my shoulder and the swell of my bosom, tantalizingly, making an effort not to rush.

"Tomorrow, when we go to dinner at the Bromleys," he began. "will you wear this under your dress?"

I nodded.

"Show me," he whispered, tugging suggestively at the ribbon-thin strap.

"Oh, I-" I demurred, flustered, sure that I could not face further deviation from familiar patterns, just yet. "You always do this."

"So I do." he said with the hint of a smile.

With less patience, his fingertips skimmed the silk of my undergarment, exploring the fitted edges, releasing the tiny buttons at my waist. Only when he had removed everything but my rings, did he begin to shed his own clothes. I closed my eyes and waited, listening to the sounds of cuff links, keys and coins falling onto the bureau.

"You're skin is so clean, so perfect."

The statement of fact was more comfortable to both of us than soft, palavering love words would have been.

I kissed his ear, ran my tongue over and into its curve, which made him gasp. I pulled him closer. My hands roamed, exploring his body, loving the smell of his hair and the softness of the flaxen strands, the smoothness of supple skin, the strength and power of him, kissing all the places the sunlight warmed.

I felt grateful to be allowed such liberties, grateful not to be criticized. Encouraged, I allowed myself to dare more, for after ten years, I knew what he liked.

"That's it." he whispered.

Watching for my reaction, he smoothed a hand from my ankle to my knee and further, slowly, to my hip where his fingertips traced circles.

Oh, but he was beautiful, and when he chose, he knew how to make me feel as though I was,as well. I began to know a newfound pride in my body, even my height-all that made me unique, and my unfashionably pale skin. It would last as long as this moment endured.

"What do you most want?" it was my turn to inquire, not expecting a serious answer.

"I want you to be present, as present as you are when you tend your plants, when you're in the garden on your knees. I want to hear you tell me what you were doing... and what you will do now." he said, the inflection in his voice insinuating some illicit talk. This wasn't the time to be literal-minded, but what could I say? "Tell me what you want."

"I-I don't think I can."

"I don't think you can have what you can't even ask for." he said, amused.

I picked at a loose thread in the velvet bedspread, wishing, suddenly, to draw it up and shield myself from his direct gaze.

Maybe what Malcolm had said of me was true; maybe it was not in my nature to give him what he needed, for I felt that all amatory activity, even when by chance I enjoyed it, was degrading.

"I'll tell you." said Malcolm, unconcerned with my attack of shyness. His lips closed over my breast, caressing the nipple with increasing sureness, as he prodded my legs apart, opening me, making me ready. "I'll tell you what you want me to do to you."

The warmth grew into an ache to be touched, to be joined, to please. This yearning toward oneness came as a revelation, for although I imagined it many times, I hadn't understood how easily one can lose the sense of separateness, of self, that I can forget that my natural inclination is to be straight-laced and reserved.

"Malcolm," It was a plea, an invitation, a command. "I want... to please you." I finally confessed, pressing my kiss to his neck, to his ear as I spoke. His breathing was labored as he held off the moment of union. "I want to take care of you. I want to let you have-have your way. Now. Please, Malcolm. Now."

As though I'd bestowed some gift with my words, he looked into my half-closed eyes searchingly, before giving in to his own uncompromising need. His weight bore me back as he pressed inside me, urgently, and he moved his hands beneath me to bring us closer. I clung to him, and we fell into a rhythm, becoming sure of each other.

The warm resonance of his voice seemed to flow through me, as he whispered sweet obscenities and promises into my ear.

I could not summon intelligible words. But Malcolm spoke, demanding more. As if it were a private wish or thought, he said my name, "Liv," the diminutive form he never used when I was fully clothed, but it was right for this interlude.

I strained all of my senses, willing him to reach some unknown chasm in my body... my soul-a well that longed to be filled. Finally, I surrendered to pleasure. This fusion of skin, of our desire was blissful. There was no magic or mystery about it, and I did not have to fear it any longer.

I thought these frantic moments could stand as recompense for love's absence. I hoped they would banish Malcolm's feelings of restlessness. To Malcolm, this possession was love. And so we used each other. It was an effective temporary solace.

Whatever it took to keep him out of the clutches of other women, I would do. I would try whatever was required to keep my peace of mind. Malcolm had spoken truthfully; anger and desire were closely entwined, for I knew my new determination to be driven by the indignity with which I'd been living. It had little to do with love, rather, it was a desire for mastery. For I'd come to believe that Malcolm understood love only in terms of control, and I vowed that it would be mine, from this day on. It was what he wanted, somewhere in the recesses of his tangled reasoning. It was part of our unspoken contract that I would keep his house... and keep him in line.

I put aside the self-loathing which might poison me, if I thought too much. This is what it was to be Mrs. Malcolm Neal Foxworth, mistress of Foxworth Hall.

Afterward, we lay together, recovering, not speaking.

"Are you happy?" he asked, some minutes later, the question taking me by surprise.

"Well-" I considered how I should answer.

"It's not a complicated question." There was a slight impatient, hard-edged quality to his voice. He was asking about this moment, and so I answered truthfully that I was.

"And-and you? Are you happy?"

"I am quite satisfied."

"I am going to be what you need." I vowed, determined that he should understand, without another unpleasant scene, that I hoped for some sort of lasting change.

"You are."

I wanted to believe that, but I could not-not when my trust was irrevocably damaged. Not when, at times, I almost hated him for his coldness toward me and toward the boys.

We were not speaking the same language, but I tried not to mind, as he guided my hand. He brought my fingers to his lips. Such sweet, strange new sensations,
these, my fingers in his mouth, his mouth on my skin, such kisses as I'd not known before, for the crook of my elbow, the nape of my neck. I smiled and closed my eyes for the precious few minutes until I was needed elsewhere.

If events unfolded just as I've described, I shall not say. I certainly daydreamed. It would be a betrayal to write down every word spoken, and to record every detail of what is meant to be private. If daydreams echoed reality, that reality is mine alone to remember.

Such heightened sensation cannot be sustained, of course, cannot regularly be repeated, and, I found over time that though Malcolm had accused me of lacking "affection," it was he who had infrequent interest in lovemaking. It was a point which wasn't to be acknowledged; it was a dangerous subject.

Malcolm never made any allusion to our relations during the day-a discretion for which I was grateful, for otherwise, humiliation would have prevented me from letting go of my inhibitions. In the deep of night when he held me, I could sink into a complete dissociation from myself, forgetting who and where I was.

I could almost have believed it was all a dream. In a way, not speaking of it made it more exciting. At any rate, not talking was what was familiar.
I wasn't sure that I even wanted to change that. Did I really need or want to know all of his thoughts? Wasn't it better that Malcolm remain, at least in part, a mystery?

Perhaps there was nothing to withhold, and it was I who imagined some other part of himself that he would not give. It was an astonishing possibility when this occurred to me, and yet, my passing thoughts did not alter the established pattern of daily interaction, nor was it protection against the next tiff or cool glance.

While there was no other drastic change between us, on this one level we had begun a new chapter. If Malcolm ever wondered about it, I never knew. He wasn't an analytic person, except in matters of business and politics. I had his grudging respect, but he did not choose to be generous, and from him, kindness was incidental. I could not imagine Malcolm otherwise.

Would I be as drawn to him if he was kind? Once, it would never have occurred to me even to ask such a question of myself. Once, I would have known the answer to that question.

For a time, the disparity between us was less noticeable, or perhaps it was merely that these new compensations made it easier to live with.

The summer and fall passed.

Corinne, nearly three years old, continued to be the center of attention. By now, everyone had adjusted to this fact, although it continued to upset me, and Malcolm went to extremes in his indulgence of an infant daughter. (Why, We must have been the only family in Virginia whose child had an English nanny!) But I had more time to spend with Corinne when Mal and Joel returned to school.

That autumn, Mal-nine years old and somewhat more settled-made a few new friends, and seemed, finally, to be enjoying school. He applied himself to his studies with a determination with which his teachers and his father could not find fault. He was, of my three, the most spirited and the brightest. Even at an early age, Mal's speech was clear, and he had learned to read before most of his peers. Oh, I was so proud of him! Pride, as John Amos cautioned me in later years, would be my downfall.

Joel, on the other hand, was too sensitive; he would say such peculiar things. When he was very young, he insisted that certain inanimate objects-an umbrella,
a window sash-were sad, though I tried to explain to him that they were not alive, and therefore could not have feelings. He cried when a puppy in one of his storybooks was lost. He assigned colors to days of the week, names, shapes-just another of Joel's incomprehensible ideas. That summer, when he turned seven, he took to hiding inside cabinets, behind draperies, and sometimes in our closets, so that if one wanted Joel, it required a twenty-minute search. Usually, Mal was sent to find his brother, but after a few months, Mal began to refuse. I was forever finding pocket-sized toys inside the bottom of the grandfather clock, in the felt-lined recesses of the china cabinet, and beneath sofa cushions.

Joel did not make friends easily as he grew older, and this caused me some concern. I understood that only too well; I did not want my son to be as isolated among his peers as I, as a child, had been. Joel sought his identity in music, as time went on. Unlike his brother, whose musical interest and aptitude was solely confined to the piano, Joel took up one instrument then another, (flute, clarinet-my particular favorite) until he settled permanently upon the trumpet. Apparently, he had considerable talent, but I was no judge of musical ability, for I never liked the brash sound of the instrument, though of course Joel never knew that.

When they were away in their schools, I received letters from the three of them, funny, childish letters, endearing letters. Mal implored us to visit. "Please tell Father to motor here THIS WEEKEND." he would write. Or, "You said you would like a letter from me, so here it is. Breakfast is awful here. They don't put raspberries in the oatmeal, so I want to go home. Plus some fellows have stolen Joel's box of cookies."

Corinne's letters arrived more frequently, and were longer. She always remembered my birthday, and her father's.

In this way, the years went by, quickly, it seemed. When they were old enough, the boys were enrolled in the Phillips Academy in Andover Massachusetts,
and Corinne would attend the Abbot School for girls. Such a distance made most holidays, save Christmas, childless ones. Often in the later years of the 'thirties, I felt that, since they were away at school so much of the time, I scarcely knew my children.