Chapter 24
TO EVEN THE SCORE
"A worthless person, a wicked man, is the one who walks with a perverse mouth, who with perversity in his heart, continually devises evil, who spreads strife.
Therefore, his calamity will come suddenly;
instantly he will be broken and there will be no healing." Proverbs 6:12-15
Malcolm wheeled himself to the divan, and settled onto it in one careful movement. The sound decreased by degrees, then went silent, as he switched off the radio, closing the mahogany cabinet which housed it and a seldom used gramophone. He'd already heard the highlights of the news-had been listening to it all day, having tired of the nonsensical programming on the television. He retrieved the novel he had been reading, and was so quickly absorbed by an intricate espionage plot, that he failed to hear the sound of footsteps in the leaves.
The skulking intruder progressed slowly through the grove of mountain laurel separating the Winfield property from the adjacent one, and circled the house twice, noting with satisfaction the cracked flagstones near the front gate. A dark form peered into windows and tested for unlocked doors. The frosted, diamond-pattern window-pane in the back door made it impossible to see whether anyone was in the kitchen, but the absence of light convinced the intruder that his entry would be unnoticed.
The house was quiet, the depth of the silence unsettling. Malcolm doubted if he'd ever spent a single night completely alone. From his childhood on, there had been servants, if no one else, and in later years, his wife and children; when away from home, there were fellow travelers and strangers.
Presently, a scraping sound, which Malcolm couldn't identify, arrested his attention. What he had heard, Malcolm decided, was the house settling; old houses made mysterious noises; these were sounds with which he was accustomed.
He envisioned Olivia arriving unexpectedly, as she had done, weeks before, in her customary Quaker plain dress, the scent of lavender and of home on her clothes. Even hearing nothing, if she walked through any of the downstairs rooms, he could have immediately identified her step and location through particular vibrations of the sitting room floor. It wasn't possible that she could be back in New England so soon, however.
Malcolm reached for his book. He'd reread the same paragraph twice, but hadn't retained what he'd read. Putting the book aside, he closed his eyes for a few minutes. He would rest, then find something to eat. Being alone for a good part of the day, he seemed to do a lot of eating and sleeping. It passed the time.
Had he been alert, Malcolm would have become aware of a man's stealthy footsteps moving through the kitchen, and the creak of the door adjoining the dining room as it was pushed open. But he didn't, nor did he see the shadow moving across that room and into the entryway, past the coat closet and the stairway. He didn't see it pause as, laying a hand on the square newel post, the man considered going up to the second floor rooms. Instead, the intruder passed the front door and stopped, lurking just around the corner, waiting.
Aware of the sensation of being watched, Malcolm was startled awake. When his eyes focused, in the late evening light, his heart faltered. There was a figure in the doorway, and Malcolm recognized the intruder as evil itself-John Amos Jackson.
The sight of Malcolm was so unexpected, that at first, the deep shock rendered John speechless. The man was supposed to be underground!
John was taken aback by the presence of one other than the person he expected to find, and by less important differences in the parlor, as well. The red and blue carpet he remembered lay in a different position. The old blue damask chairs had been replaced by new chairs, and the lamps' dangling prisms sent opaline refracted light to play off unfamiliar objects that had never inspired his ire or envy, but which did so now. Confusion held him in indecision for a moment, then he altered his plan.
Malcolm gasped, at first disbelieving what he saw, but it was no mistake, no specter from a bad dream. John Amos was real, and he came forward with a fixed, malevolent stare.
"Well, what have we here?" said John, showing an almost toothless, gleeful grin. "The great Malcolm Foxworth without his keeper and protectress-without his very right-hand-"
"My God! How did you get in?" Malcolm's anger flared, then receded as he saw a strange malicious light in John's dark eyes.
"Through the basement. Securing the house is apparently not one of your highest priorities."
"What do you want?" Malcolm heard his own voice as thin, and aggravatingly shaky-the voice of an old man.
"I want to know why you both lied. I can only guess that it was HER scheme? All women lie and deceive, while pretending to be victims. It is a way of ensnaring men, who don't know women are in league with the devil."
The man is undeniably mad, thought Malcolm.
"Do you know how I found you?" John continued with relish. "It was fairly easy. There aren't many places she'd be likely to go-Olivia isn't very imaginative. I thought this house had been sold years ago. There isn't a Foxworth or Winfield listed in the directory, but there is a Trowbridge. If not for that, I wouldn't have known she'd come back here. She isn't half as clever as she thinks she is. You should tell her so, if you ever see her again."
Malcolm's panic grew, as John spoke. He could see the man's mind was unhinged. He hoped there would soon be some distraction, something to divert John's attention. Why didn't the doorbell ring? Malcolm willed the telephone to ring. When it didn't, a horrible possibility occurred to him.
"Where is Olivia? What have you done?"
"Yes, where IS Olivia?" asked John, as he looked about, though he now felt sure she wasn't in the house.
The very thought of Olivia kindled the heat of John's rage anew, each time he remembered the afternoon of the reading of Malcolm's will, the shock he had received, and the stifled amusement of all who had been present. His cousin had lowered her head, but not quickly enough to hide her smirk when it was revealed that John's sole inheritance from Malcolm was to be an old, tattered Bible! John hadn't the courage to raise the subject with her, but despite the brief glimpse he'd had of her surprised expression, he could not believe that she hadn't known of this humiliating joke. Now the Foxworths would pay; they must be punished severely.
Malcolm reached for his cane, but John got to it first, then stepped forward and pushed the wheelchair out of reach. The chair rolled into a small table, and its contents spilled onto the floor. Mail-order catalogs scattered, a lamp swayed precariously, and a heavy silver candlestick toppled from the corner of a nearby bookcase.
Malcolm's apprehension escalated to fear, as he realized he was virtually trapped.
"How does it feel to be helpless, when you once had everything?" mused John Amos, as if reading Malcolm's mind. "But then, you were never as strong as you presumed yourself to be. If you were, you wouldn't have failed in your God-given duty to keep your wife under strict control. Instead, you are thoroughly under her thumb."
"Get out of my house."
"YOUR house?" John Amos sneered. "You are in charge of nothing; you are a helpless cripple, a burden, and Olivia hates you, you know. She used to confide everything to me, and she despised you from the start. She only married you for your wealth." continued John Amos, smiling, as he saw Malcolm's hands clinch into fists. The old man was not so invincible, after all, and John wondered what quality in him provoked such admiration and respect from everyone, even from John himself.
Emulating Malcolm's attitudes and habits had given John a sense of power. Now he tapped into that power.
It was so easy to manipulate Malcolm into a rage. John wondered if this would cause another heart attack. He imagined the man writhing in agony on the floor, and he imagined himself spitting on him, and walking away, as he had been unable to do on the day of Malcolm's first heart attack.
Since the beginning of the time in the mid 1930's when Olivia had begun to correspond regularly with him, John had attempted to undermine the Foxworths' dependence on each other. He thought shifting Olivia's capacity for devotion to religion might accomplish this, and he delighted in the fact that he caused tension between Malcolm and Olivia by introducing faith in God into her life. He knew of Malcolm's impatience with his wife's eagerness to learn, but John's encouragements paid off. She began to look to him for advice and guidance. A sweet turn of events, it was, but he never let go of his watchful wariness.
"That is the way of all nonbelievers, Olivia. The devil will try many tactics to turn you from the true path, but you must resist him." he advised her. "You must be strong. You must pray that God will enlighten Malcolm, before it is too late."
"Yes." she had written in response. "You are right. I am thankful God has sent you to me."
When Olivia invited John Amos to remain at the mansion permanently, offering him two rooms in the servants' quarters to use as his own apartment, he'd believed he was making real progress. With few exceptions, she took his claims of divine knowledge, and most of his opinions quite seriously. Power emanated from the Foxworths, yet they were surprisingly easy to influence. This had not been true of their daughter, however.
How John wished he had been the one to whom Corinne had turned her eyes upon and given herself. Because he had told her these untruths, Corinne believed he was younger than was his actual age, and that he was only a third cousin to Olivia.
He had watched Corinne for three years, waiting for a chance to influence her, to mold her into the compliant partner he wished her to be, in his scheme to become part of the Foxworth empire.
John's resentment of the Foxworths deepened into hatred the day Malcolm forced Corinne to leave forever with Christopher, although John soon saw this in the light of an advantage to himself.
But as Olivia learned to oversee Malcolm's investments and businesses, and because of Malcolm's illness, it became necessary for them to spend more time together. Their growing faith became a common passion, rather than a dividing point, just at the time when they had no remaining heir, and John's plans might have-so easily-fallen into place.
Clearly, while she lived, Olivia would never give him the kind of financial freedom he aspired to; the kind of privileged life she took for granted would never be his. He loathed having to be subservient to his cousin and her husband, a man immanently consumed with his own self-importance. The tone of confidence with which Malcolm Foxworth spoke was meant to remind his listener of the greater merit of his words.
"Olivia enumerated to me what occurred, and the nature of the threats you made, on the morning she left Virginia. You'll say anything... This is all about money." stated Malcolm, as he watched John's greedy gaze slide around the room. "Keep your lives free from the love of money, and be content with what you have. Is that not what it says in Hebrews?" taunted Malcolm.
Ignoring this blasphemy, John shoved open the double doors to the den, letting in the chill from that unheated room, as he strode to the desk in the den and returned with three oval-framed pictures. His mocking tones drowned out Malcolm's voice.
"How touching that you still keep these." John's scornful voice rasped. "Sentiment is usually characteristic of women."
One picture was of the three Foxworth children, on the occasion of Corinne's fifth birthday. Another was of Olivia, in Sunday dress, posed with her parents. Even as a young girl, his cousin was unsmiling, composed, and so sure of her right to her privileged world-not unlike her daughter, thought John. There had always been money, so much of it that it had ceased to have any value. They had always had whatever they desired, simply for the asking.
"That meddlesome woman has ruined my plans, and she'll have to pay."
"What are you planning?"
"I told my son all about the whole selfish lot of you," John continued, in a deranged, monotonous way.
"You married, then?" inquired Malcolm, though he was not much interested, only hoped to keep John talking long enough to forestall further action.
"I avoided that state of bondage." said John. "But I have a son. You didn't know that, did you? He is as blond and blue-eyed as any Foxworth. That was fortunate. I've told him all about your family. He will get revenge if I cannot. He will get the share of the money I deserve."
"There will be no money for you." Malcolm reminded him, but John seemed not to hear.
"In time, my son will go to Foxworth Hall, and claim to be your son, Joel." John explained, delighted with the brilliance of his own plan.
"I don't believe you have a son."
"He is four years younger than Joel. My son was born during the years when my dear cousin could not be bothered to write a letter." John insisted, but Malcolm shook his head.
"I don't care whether this story of yours is true or not. You're wasting your time. You'll get nothing from either of us, that hasn't changed. I want an end to this madness. You took advantage of Olivia at every turn, and you will not do it again."
"I did nothing more than you'd already done yourself." John interjected.
"From the first day I met you, I recognized you for the unprincipled wastrel that you are. It was a mistake to let Olivia convince me to trust you."
"You're not the genius you've convinced most people you are, letting that old bitch make decisions for you. I told you the truth, and still-"
"Truth?" Malcolm scoffed. The mendacious fiend had the nerve to speak of truth! He thought of using some of John's own tools of manipulation against the man, namely, God's imminent vengeance, but he was afraid it might make matters worse. He wasn't sure if John's theomaniacal beliefs were genuine, but if so, that was all the more frightening, for it would mean John felt vindicated in all he had done. "To what "truth" do you refer?"
"Corinne's children. I told you they were keeping them upstairs. Olivia lied to you, and still, you trust her!"
"She is my family." Malcolm said simply.
John glared. There was a pause as they both remembered the September of Corinne's marriage to Bartholomew Winslow. It had been a turning point in all of their lives.
For Malcolm, the memory was a vague one. Had it been late summer-August? Or was it September? The last half of 1959 had drifted by in a blur of medicated half-consciousness, remembered only for the discomfort of the probing by doctors with loud voices and cold instruments, and his own longing to escape it all, to be taken home and left in peace. But there was no peace, for Malcolm had made a rather miraculous recovery, after having been perilously close to death, that autumn.
Shortly after the Winslows left Virginia for their honeymoon trip, Malcolm was rushed to the hospital following a collapse which had sent shards of china and the contents of his meal in every direction. He remembered lying there on the dining room rug, silently cursing his traitorous, weak body, and simultaneously wishing that this might finally be the end. Anything would be preferable to enduring what he knew would come next.
"The Lord has pronounced His judgment this day. He will purge the evil that plagues this house, the perfidious and the wicked." intoned John Amos to no one in particular.
Ignoring him, Olivia had dialed for the ambulance. Her face registered alarm, before she lapsed into an innate calm efficiency that made it possible to attend to gravely critical matters, while everyone else, including John, stood about, gaping, inept, witless fools that they were.
It occurred to Malcolm that the day of his passing would be very much the same, with no one grieving, his daughter anticipating the freedom her inheritance would mean, and his wife quiet, stone-faced and glassy-eyed, letting John's litany of verses and prayers act as a barricade against the world that might offer false sympathy, or question her too closely.
Eventually, Malcolm knew, they would all be at his bedside in the hospital. He wanted no one, for, even though he knew her to be too timid to dare,
he half expected Corinne to confront him, if she believed there was little time left. He wasn't ready to hear confessions or make any of his own, and he still believed in the wisdom of his choices.
Olivia's visits were just as unwelcomed, for Olivia would never rid herself of her shadow-her odious cousin. John inevitably trailed along, feeling it necessary to deliver some timely lecture on sin, and the state of souls-though never his own, of course. Malcolm was never sure whether these sermons were directed at himself, at Olivia, or to them both. Closing his eyes, pretending sleep and trying to tune him out was Malcolm's only recourse-not that such a ploy ever stopped John. Malcolm tired of the lectures, and the fanaticism with which John Amos imparted his brand of doom and dire warnings.
For a long time, Malcolm had believed some of what John promoted as God's truth. Malcolm's own guilt, and John's relentless assurances made him want to believe and to find solace in that belief. John Amos seemed always to be lurking nearby when Corinne and Olivia were out of earshot, doing his best to make Malcolm "see the light about deceitful women." John was determined to persuade Malcolm that he should not trust anyone...only he, John, could be trusted.
By causing all of them to doubt each other, John gained more control, and in turn, greater influence. That must have been his motive for finally telling Malcolm about Corinne's children, as he lay in the hospital.
The man was a hypocrite; Corinne had tried to make him see this. Malcolm, although he had ignored the truth of this, finally had to admit to himself that he had uncovered proof of this in various forms, over the years. His initial impressions had been proven accurate. As a result of John's attentions, how many servant girls had been dismissed, or needed to be paid for their discretion and silence? And, though money might be the root of evil, John Amos suffered no attacks of conscience as he enjoyed the sizable income Olivia saw fit to bestow upon him,
against Malcolm's wishes. John indulged his every whim, as only a man who has spent most of his life skirting the periphery of, and envying privilege,
can indulge himself. John Amos was a greedy, dishonest man-perfidious and wicked indeed!-but Olivia refused to see that. She had even begun,
increasingly, to sound like him. If she spoke at any length, she invariably repeated the drivel that was John's version of religion. But as ever, it was Olivia's quick response and clear-headed reaction which had spared Malcolm's life.
"She is my family." said Malcolm, considering it an adequate explanation.
The gilt mantel clock chimed the half hour with a single, soft bell.
"And that's all?" questioned John, incredulous.
"If you prefer, I'll repeat to you some of the verses with which you counseled me; you see, I did pay attention."
John's eyes flashed, his expression livid, but Malcolm was unable to resist needling him. He thought for a moment, then said with a smirk, "She is more profitable than silver and yields better returns than gold."
"Corrupt!" screamed John. "She has corrupted you; she has made your soul derelict, and you are bound for hell, all because of a sinful alliance with a woman-a daughter of Eve!"
John ranted, fury contorting his face as he began destroying the room-this prim, pretty parlor that symbolized all he envied but had never owned. Doubtless,
his cousin thought she lived modestly in this smaller house, but even her idea of limitation was, by the standards of most people, luxury! The room was full of things cherished by Olivia, or things she took for granted, and he just as carelessly swept surfaces clean in a fruitless attempt to vent the rage of decades. How he hated her, the rustle of her taffeta skirts, her voice which was so at ease issuing commands, reminding him of his beggarly place.
John Amos glared at the third oval frame which he still held, a small picture immortalizing Mal and Joel from an early Christmas. Although he hadn't really known them, John hated these two the most, the legitimate heirs, effortless inheritors of power and status. Deliberately, the glass was smashed, and shattered slivers fell to the rug. The picture of Malcolm's sons-a picture which could not be replaced-was torn into fragments which floated down to the floor.
"You were going to leave the entirety of not one, but two fortunes to Joel and Mel."
Malcolm didn't correct the mistake. In the unlikely event that a son of John's existed, not knowing a fact as basic as the correct name of Malcolm's son would expose him as a fraud.
Abruptly, John Amos stopped, an idea forming in his twisted mind.
"You think you owe me nothing. Your daughter thinks she's too good for me,"
John Amos found he couldn't even say Corinne's name again. She had rejected his offer of help when he'd come to her before her marriage to Bart Winslow.
John had suggested a way to eliminate the children (and Olivia-though he didn't reveal that part of his plan.) He had been so certain that Corinne would seize upon the chance, that the promise of freedom would finally win her over, but she was as contemptuous of him as she had been at the tender age of fifteen. He'd had nothing to offer her back then, and now, twenty years later, she was still too stupid to realize that circumstances had changed. She had listened to John's plan of the poisoned doughnuts, but beyond that, she had no use for him.
John walked to the fireplace and back, swinging the iron poker in a high, threatening arc. He swung it in circles, gathering force for the impact, convulsed with mirth, as Malcolm tried to shield his face, though this was a futile gesture.
John had wanted, for years, to see Malcolm Foxworth cower. To find him still living, was extraordinarily good luck. The arrogant, smug, rich bastard...
he'd kill him! All of John's waiting and scheming was worth his time just to see the terror in Malcolm's eyes, to see the man's confidence collapse, and to know that very soon, the end to the pair of them would be his doing.
John could wait for Olivia. He'd come to Connecticut to finish the murderous plan she had thwarted by leaving Foxworth Hall. But the opportunity at hand now was so much better! It was too bad she wasn't here to watch every second of the torture he intended to inflict upon her faithless husband. But Olivia must surely return soon, and then he would relish their fear as he tortured them until they lost that look of superiority he loathed. Imagine the both of them together here, hiding, mocking him for all the years he'd spent as their servant!
"Side by side they shall lie, in the dust." muttered John, and, still holding the iron implement, let his arm drop, and he turned his back.
Relief flooded through Malcolm, and he began to breathe again, until he understood John's intention. He watched helplessly as John Amos prodded a burning log, nudging it closer and closer to the edge, nearer to the rug. Panic seized Malcolm at the thought that he might die in a fire set by this madman.
Malcolm slid to the floor. It was covered with unavoidable debris, consisting mostly of shards from those damnable crystal figurines Olivia liked-at least the jade ones could not be broken. He endured the sting of the small cuts he received as he painstakingly made his way toward the fireplace. He could do only one thing; it would take too long for him to reach the telephone. Not for the first time, Malcolm inwardly cursed his disabilities, but at least he had the advantage of a sane mind.
John continued his maniacal cackling. Because he was staring with glazed eyes into the flames, he did not see Malcolm, and was caught off guard when the blow came, and he lost his balance. John fell heavily onto the rug, hitting his head. He fell at an odd angle, twisting a knee painfully, babbling a string of profanity.
They struggled violently. It was not behavior Malcolm had stooped to often, but he knew his life was in danger. John Amos was himself slowed by age, though he had the advantage that he could walk away, could deliver breath-stopping kicks. But out of necessity, Malcolm's arms were stronger, and he saw his way out; it was something shiny that he could see out of the corner of one eye. With no time to spare for thought, he took it.
The candlestick slipped in his grip. Blood from his injured forearm soaked his shirt and hands, making what he had to do difficult. Swiftly, Malcolm's other arm swung back, and brought the candlestick down on the back of John's head with a sickening crack. John Amos finally lay still. With the sound resounding in his mind, Malcolm was sure John Amos Jackson had breathed his last. But Malcolm's anger hadn't subsided, and with a force that seemed not to be his own, he struck John twice more before collapsing in exhaustion, stricken aghast by what he'd done.
Malcolm made his way, aching and bleeding, into the den. His wounds left a trail to stain the rug. His breath was labored, and he began to feel excruciating agony in his ribs.
In his own determination to live, Malcolm felt no regret for what he'd done. His voice sounded, to his own ears, hollow and unrecognizable as he requested an ambulance.