Chapter 26

OLIVIA'S STORY

"Grandmother's garden was a beautiful place, more beautiful than all the shop windows in the city; for there was a flower or grass for every color in the rainbow, with great white lilies, standing up so straight and tall, to remind you that a whole rainbow of light was needed to make them so pure and white." - Maude Lindsay

"One body split and passed along the line;
I know these bones as being mine.
Some are lean and some with grace, and some without;
All tell the story that repeats.
See his eyes and how they start with light,
Getting colder as the pictures go-
Did he carry his bad luck upon his back?-that bad luck we've all come to know.
And my question to you is: How did this come to pass?
How did this one life fall so far and fast?" - Suzanne Vega, Blood Sings

I was walking up the basement stairs when I heard Malcolm calling, urgency in his voice. I sighed, and leaned against the wall, burying my face in the bundle of freshly washed and ironed clothing. The mindless tasks of keeping the house clean and organized was soothing, though harder to keep up with, of late.

I turned, pushing the basement door open with my shoulder, and stumbled over the last step, as I emerged into the kitchen. I was reluctant to leave the cool,
quiet basement, and deal with more of Malcolm's complaints and over-reactions.

"What is the emergency, now?"

"Why in God's name does it take you so long to come upstairs?"

"Malcolm, I'm busy. If you don't stop interrupting, I'll hire a nurse, or someone else, who can wait on you."

This was an empty threat, and we both knew it.

"What is it? If you've called me all the way up here just to bring you a glass of water, or to change the channel again-"

I hated the sound of the television, and he had two of them now-one in his bedroom, and one in the sitting room. They stayed on for hours, though he rarely paid attention. Their purpose was to fill the silences that might give him too much time for thinking, I suspected.

"Someone's at the front door."

"No one's here, Malcolm. I didn't hear the bell."

"Well," he said with sarcasm, "if you didn't hear it, then it must not have rung. There are many things you don't hear. Perhaps your age is catching up with you."

"If it is, it's your nonsense that hastens the day. Living with you would age anyone, over night."\

I went through the hallway toward the front of the house. There was indeed someone waiting at the door, a short, dark-haired woman in a sunny yellow linen dress, tiny gold sand-dollars dangling from her ears.

"Yes?"

"I'm looking for Mrs. Foxworth-Olivia Foxworth?" said the young woman who stood on my porch.

I glanced beyond her, past the rhododendrons whose pure white blossoms resembled snowballs amid the greenery of late May. I looked past the lawn and empty driveway. There was no one with her.

"I am Mrs. Foxworth."

She stared at me for an interval before replying.

"Oh. Well... I hope I'm not disturbing you, but I have something to discuss. May I come in for a few minutes?"

Suspicion made me narrow my eyes, as I considered the request of this stranger.

"You want to come in?"

"It is very important, a personal matter-some family business." she said in a rush.

Family business? Despite the warmth of the afternoon, I felt a chill. Could this be about Corinne's children? Had the day I'd expected and feared finally come? Why now, when I'd finally stopped fearing every ring of the telephone, when I'd stopped listening in the silences for disaster.

When I failed to respond immediately, a blush came to her cheeks. She was obviously ill at ease. I regarded her for a moment, perplexed, but I stepped back, to allow her into the entryway. She paused there to gaze around, as if disoriented by the surroundings.

"Come into the sitting room." I said, starting briskly down the hall. She followed, her eyes examining everything as she passed by. Nothing was very remarkable in the mixture of new furniture and old Eastlake pieces, whose carvings collected dust.

When we entered the sitting room, Malcolm lowered his newspaper, raising an eyebrow questioningly at the unusual sight of a visitor. It was rare that anyone came into the house.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know you had a guest." she said, flustered.

"This is Malcolm, my husband."

My words seemed to startle her.

"Oh, I didn't realize... I read that he... I'm sorry-" she stammered, embarrassed.

"Please sit down." I said, indicating the chair across from the sofa. "Would you care for something to drink, some lemonade, perhaps? I was just about to have a glass, myself."

"Yes, thank you." she smiled, and seemed to relax somewhat, though she still perched on the edge of the chair, as if prepared to spring up and run at a moment's notice. She cast furtive glances about the room, at the silver-framed photographs atop the piano, and at Malcolm.

"I hope you prefer your lemonade more on the tart side, young lady."

"Pardon?"

"My wife never adds the proper amount of sugar."

"I'm sure it will be fine." she said uncertainly, as if she wasn't sure if he was making a joke.

I switched off the television. I went to the window and turned off the air conditioner; conversations were difficult to follow, over its hum, and our guest was unaccustomed to Malcolm's speech, which was sometimes still a challenge to understand.

Our guest drank her lemonade, though the glass was unsteady, in her hands. I pinned her with an inquisitive stare, and waited. Finally, with a timorous sigh,
she spoke.

"I don't know how to begin. What I have to say may not be welcome news to you, but I am very glad you are both here to hear it. You see, I read in the newspaper that you had died some time ago." she said, addressing Malcolm. "I am relieved to find that it was a mistake."

"For our own reasons-which are not open for discussion, we wish to keep that fact secret." I leaned forward to peer at her more closely. "I don't believe I got your name. What did you say it is?"

Instead of answering, she retrieved her leather handbag from the floor and removed something from it.

"It would be easier to let you read this. It explains everything I know." she said,
extending her small hand. I put my glass aside and reached for the unlabeled envelope with growing curiosity.

"My father died last year. I found that, while sorting through my parents' belongings, before the house was sold. What you're about to read was unknown to me until recently. I've been debating whether or not to pay you a visit."

"I am sorry for your loss, but I don't see what this has to do with us." I said as I pulled open the mysterious envelope.

"It concerns you and me first, Olivia, and then your father." she said quietly.

I was taken aback by the boldness of her use of my first name. I looked at her sharply. Her eyes held a far-away expression.

"That's what she said to me that day-my mother."

"I don't understand." I said impatiently. "Please come to the point."

"The pages you're about to read came from my mother's journal, apparently. Please, just read it, and then it will all become clear to you."

There were several yellowed news clippings in the envelope, but I didn't glance at them as I reached for my glasses, unfolded the small pages, and, still baffled, began to read.

"October, 1938

I broke the news to my mother as gently as possible, but no preparation would have softened the blow for her. I do regret that I've disappointed her. I'll never forget the look of defeat and sadness that came into her eyes when I told her I was pregnant.

"A child! Oh dear!" my mother wailed, covering her face with her hands. "I thought we brought you up better than to behave like a... a common..." she stopped the hurtful words from escaping, and straightened, suddenly practical.

"I must have time to think of what you ought to do. There's no need crying over it now. Your father must not hear a word of this. I am sure I can discreetly ask about, and see if anyone knows of a doctor who can quietly help you out of this unfortunate mishap...or a place where you can be sent until the birth,
then the child can be adopted."

I looked up, stricken with surprise.

"No, I won't do it. I won't get rid of the baby! You can't force me to, Mother. This is all I have left of him, and I'm keeping the baby." Stubbornly, my eyes filled with tears, but for once, I did not cry.

"For heaven's sake, hush!" Mother hissed, then sighed in exasperation. "What are you saying? does he know of your condition, and refuse to marry you?"

"Not exactly."

"If this young man cared at all about you, he'd come forward and face his responsibility like a man. He'd marry you."

"I'm afraid that isn't possible now, Mother." I said in a near whisper.

"Why on earth not!" Mother snapped. "You give me the boy's name. Perhaps your father should know about this after all, and pay him a visit. Is the father of this child that one you were seeing last spring? I know his family would-"

"Oh, I know who you mean, but no, not him. But he's been calling, asking me to go out again recently. He says he loves me." I replied, dejectedly. "The baby's father is someone I met while I was away for the summer, and last week I'd written, telling him I thought we ought not to continue. He just wasn't for me, but he was so sad and sweet-so...so alive." I broke off, hearing my own words, and blushed.

Mother's eyebrows rose in disapproval, and she turned away, clearing her throat, and pulled down the window shade,
blocking out the early fall sunset.

"Tell me his name, then." she demanded, looking squarely at me for the first time.

Visions of the blunt, ugly newsprint flashed in my mind-such a callous, cruel messenger of fate,
it had been, arriving on the doorstep yesterday morning. Determinedly, I brushed away the last of my tears, knowing I must reveal the truth to my mother if I expected to find any peace.

Seconds later, when the grim details had been laid out, she sat, deliberating, twisting the ring round and round on her finger.

"I think I should go to his parents. don't they have a right to know, Mother? It is their grandchild." I said, putting into words one of the things which had been troubling me.

Horrified, Mother moved swiftly closer, to look into my face. Her expression was determined, her gestures emphatic as she spoke.

"I absolutely forbid you to do any such thing! Think of what they've already suffered. I doubt they would welcome news of this sort. They are not likely to believe you, and at any rate, they are a powerful force in some circles, and the boy's father could make life unpleasant for us-for your father's business.
You know what a struggle it's been for him through the depression, these last few years. You can not cause such a scandal for those people, or us. Is that clear? You know nothing about them. You don't know how they might react. They could ruin us! Go on to bed, and we'll talk more tomorrow. Until then,
keep this to yourself."

Several weeks later, the plans for a sudden wedding-my wedding-were being finalized.

"Nora, it's time." Mother said, reverting back to my childhood nickname. It comforted and reassured me that finally, Mother had forgiven me for causing this trouble.

"Go on. It's getting late."

I wiped away a single tear, took up the flowers I must carry, and turned toward the door.
I could hear the voices of the crowd of family and friends assembled outside, and the music.

A stab of nearly physical pain shot through me as again, I wished the man waiting to put the ring on my finger was the fair-haired one I saw in my mind's eye before sleep each night, but it could not be. Time and the eternal impossibility of that union rearranged my memory of him, and my affection for him grew, as the small life within me grew. Still, I resolved to put the image of him, his musical laughter and melancholy eyes out of my mind for good.

"Go now, Nora. You've made the wisest choice by marrying him. Winston adores you, and will make a wonderful father to your child. He need not know it isn't his. You will grow to love him after a time. It is the way of most marriages."

Hugging Mother, hoping she was right, I nodded, and opened the door to a new stage of my life. The child would never be told the identity of its true father.
Under the circumstances, it would be better to fabricate a partial truth, if I chose to reveal someday that my soon-to-be husband was not the child's father.
It would not help to dwell on the truth or to burden the child with tragic facts, especially when that child may not be accepted by the family, if he or she should one day seek them out.

I was amazed at how much I already loved the child I carried, and could only imagine the suffering I'd feel if I lost the baby. In this spirit, despite Mother's warnings, I would perhaps someday write a letter to the baby's other grandmother, I thought, but until that day, I would not think of the sad business again.

In memory of him, I decided to give his child one of his family names,
a name of someone he had loved, and I knew that had been a scarce commodity in his brief life. It seemed the right thing to do, and I hope Mal Foxworth would have approved."

I dropped the papers with a gasp, my face losing all color, as my scrambled mind finally comprehended what I had just read. It read like pages from a badly-written romance novel, but it was a true story.

"Heir to Foxworth Empire Dies Yesterday In Motorcycle Accident!" screamed the headline on one of the newspaper clippings, dated September 6, 1938. Before I could crumple them, Malcolm took the contents of the envelope from me, and scanned them, quickly.

"My God!" he exclaimed, with quiet, extreme shock which mirrored my own. "If this is some sort of joke-"

There was confusion and a warning in his voice, and an anger that spoke of hurt at having long-
buried pain dredged up in this unexpected way.

"What... what is your name?" I choked out, my voice sounding thin and strained. There was a moment of heavy silence before she spoke, her words washing over me like a cold, but cleansing rain.

"I'm Olivia."

"Pardon?" I breathed, my mind swimming. The room seemed to revolve crazily as I listened to her soft voice.

"My name is Olivia Ann Gordon Logan." she repeated.

I scrutinized her face, noticing what I'd not seen before. Her diminutive stature and her hair coloring must be like her mother's, but her face was shaped like Mal's, especially around the chin and nose. She was indeed lovely, I thought, with a mixture of pride and sadness.

Malcolm wasn't as quick to accept the word of a stranger.

"None of this," he said, waving a hand at the papers he had tossed onto the table next to him, "is solid proof."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Foxworth. I can't give you solid proof because I don't have it."

They stared at each other, each taking measure of the other. She broke the eye contact and pulled a slim blue volume out of her handbag, and passed it to me .

"I don't know if this book is related to this matter at all, but It was with that envelope. Maybe it means something to you."

Malcolm's face was set in a deep scowl, and he made an effort to bite back his words. Our guest, seeing this, stood up abruptly.

"I see that coming to you has been a mistake. I'll let myself out."

"Wait!" My eyes fell to the book in my hands. It had been decades since I'd seen it, and I scarcely recognized it. "This belonged to me."

I held out the book to Malcolm, opening it to the front endpaper and the inscription in fading ink.

"With every good wish for Christmas ... I am not too well, even now. Love, Elaine."

"What is this?"

I explained briefly, about my girlhood friend, now nearly forgotten, as I turned the pages of a book of simple poems, searching. I hadn't known what I would find, but when I saw it, I recognized Mal's handwriting. In the margins of several pages were musical notes and additional lines, as if he had transformed the existing poetry into his own creation, his own music-music which I would, later, play through, just once on the piano, to bring my son close.

"I don't know how or why my mother had possession of that. There are no other messages in the pages, and no other names, so I didn't assume it was a gift of any kind meant for her." said Olivia Ann.

Yes. The words could have been meant for anyone, or for no one. We would never know.

"She has your eyes." Malcolm later commented, after she had gone. It was true. Her eyes were the same smoky gray as my own, and held the same intense, level look I sometimes saw in my mirror. This, more than anything else, convinced me that what she was claiming was the truth. She was a Foxworth!

"Why did you choose to tell us this now?" Malcolm asked. His tone was guarded, as if still unwilling to believe the incredible fact that we suddenly had a granddaughter.

"It's complicated." she began hesitantly. "I've had a great many unpleasant decisions to make recently regarding my family." she avoided eye contact, and gazed at the rug as she spoke.

"I haven't known of this very long myself, as I said. I think my mother tried to tell me the truth shortly before she died, but only told half of it. She invented the other half, and conveniently left out names." she admitted. I could see she harbored some anger about this. "Suffice it to say that I believe family is extremely important-the most important part of life,
aside from business."

Malcolm's eyes brightened.

"I have been forced to carry the burdens of my family, and of late I have felt," she paused, as if she might be revealing too much. "I've felt rather worn down by it. It was simply time to find you, and get the truth out in the open-oh, I only meant that it shall be known among ourselves. My grandmother-
-Leonora's mother-was worried about scandal, and I certainly don't intend to cause one, at this late date."

She stayed for several hours that day, answering our questions as best she could. There was an awkward moment when she asked if we remembered her mother,
Leonora. Malcolm and I exchanged a bemused look. The truth, as he later told me, was that there had been several young women Mal had spent time with; he had not steadily courted any particular one of them.

"He wouldn't have married that girl's mother-"

"Leonora." I supplied.

"Leonora. Mal wouldn't have married her, anyway." said Malcolm.

"How can you say that? How would you know?" I asked, indignant both at the thought of the impropriety of the situation, and at the thought that Malcolm knew things about our son that I had not known.

"Because there are different types of women those that you marry, and... those that you don't."

I grimaced.

"That's a piece of well thought out logic, Malcolm." I said, derisively.

"Did you want me to be crude? I'm sure you understand what I mean. It's true, Olivia. Why, my father's choices were good enough examples."

"You would have had Mal turn out just like yourself, I suppose." I said dryly.

"Better." he said, momentarily pensive. "Mal came to me for advice, and I gave it to him."

"I shudder to think what that advice might have been."

Malcolm smirked.

"I'm sure. I'm sure you would have been decently scandalized."

On subsequent visits, conversations grew easier, less intensely focused on the past. At first, Olivia Ann brought pictures of herself, both present and past, and talked about her life in Provincetown. I had copies made of some of our photographs and gave them to her, as well.

While her sudden emergence was an extraordinary gift, and we enjoyed becoming acquainted with Olivia Ann, it was difficult to think of her as a granddaughter. I could not imagine Mal a father; he had been taken from us at such a young age. Malcolm and I wondered if he had known about his child, but we concluded that it was unlikely. Leonora destroyed her original diary, so we can never know all of the answers. There is no doubt in our minds, however, that Olivia Ann is ours. Her character and her forthright mien prove our lineage.

When she brought her young sons to visit for the first time, I observed that she, like Malcolm in his youth, made much of the importance of family, but cared for hers in an aloof way, and this saddened me. She did not have warm maternal feelings, though in her own way, she was dependable, and she loved her children.

Malcolm took to Jacob right away, since the child was so serious-minded and possessed a maturity beyond his years. Malcolm's manner with the children was much less brusque than it had been when our own boys were small. Malcolm seemed to have acquired a measure of patience, and he spent hours reading with Jacob,
listening to the childish prattle as though he was interested in every word.

We abandoned all talk of moving to California. At last we felt some semblance of happiness, and, we concurred, it was long overdue. Afternoon visit by afternoon visit, life began to feel normal, as if, perhaps, our tragedies had been consigned to the past, and now, at last, was the time for our reward.

Olivia Ann also seems happy to be part of our lives. I often sense that she is lonely, notwithstanding the facts of her beautiful family and enviable social status. The Gordons are deceased, and apparently,
Olivia's husband has no living relatives who are involved. Malcolm and I are the only grandparents her children will know, or more accurately,
great grandparents!

While we immensely enjoy the visits of the children, for they are excellent at breaking the ice, we are happiest to see Olivia Ann, for she is the only link to Mal left to us. She has helped us in so many ways. Her presence in our life has given us a safe reason to talk about Mal, and slowly, we have made progress in healing hurt which two decades have dulled, but could not eliminate. At least we can talk about Mal and Joel on occasion, without the scathing blame that once accompanied any mention of the boys.

When Olivia Ann is with us, Malcolm and I focus only on the present. I marvel at this wonder that has befallen us out of the blue-this blessing. I know we are both grateful for it, but also saddened, knowing we have missed years of her life. It would have made such a difference in the year following the deaths of Mal and Joel to know we had a granddaughter. It would have, perhaps, lessened some of the bleakness we felt. The light Olivia Ann and her children bring into our life shows me how small our world had become, how it has been steadily shrinking over the years, and how closed and joyless we have been.

This newly found family, suddenly acquired, makes me even more sharply aware of my regrets about my part in what happened with Corinne and her children. I have begun to worry incessantly that somehow, Olivia Ann will learn of my secrets. Bringing up these fears again and again, and waking Malcolm at night to talk about them only annoys him, and does not expunge my fear. Sometimes the talks escalate into arguments. Other times, Malcolm wordlessly pours a glass of water, and gives me two chalky tablets from his cache of pills-medicine meant to calm a mind which is often too active for sleep, although Malcolm himself rarely takes the sedative. I swallow them,
gratefully, aware that this is becoming a nightly ritual.

"It will be that older girl, Catherine, who will destroy us, I know it."

"Let's not meet trouble half way." advised Malcolm.

"She will want revenge against Corinne. She has those memorandum books."

Once it was apparent how ill the child Cory had been, the horror of what we'd done in those three years finally had become real to me; I'd been shaken out of my state of detachment. In the end, I hadn't been able to find a way to extricate myself or Corinne, and while I failed to act, unable to see an ending to that nightmare, the children had ended it themselves. I told Malcolm about the day Cory died, and about how Catherine had screamed out her anger and judgments against her mother, the night Corinne had taken Cory away. Catherine had been right to say what she did to her mother. It had amused me to hear it, but I am haunted by that memory, sickened with trepidation for the future.

"We can't see Olivia Ann again." I decided one night, in a flash of self-hatred. "I can't face it. We can't get involved."

"We are already involved. She knows where we live and who we are. What do you propose we do? Refuse to answer the bell?"

He looked at me as if he believed I was finally losing my mind.

"I'll think of some reason to keep her away."

"You'll do no such thing! It's too late for that. You're saying this because you are afraid of losing her, as we lost the boys and-"

"This has nothing to do with them." I snapped.

"Doesn't it?"

I turned away, wishing to end the conversation.

"Did it occur to you that I might feel as you do? I understand, you know, Olivia."

"You have never understood anything that matters. You didn't really know the boys. You have never understood me."

"You're mistaken." he said, his voice tight with rapidly diminishing patience. "I know you better than anyone. I am the only one who does understand you."

"What do you understand, Malcolm? I torture and starve children!" I said contemptuously, in the grip of vicious self-loathing. "I am not kind. I am not good."

"It doesn't matter."

"So says one sinner to another." I said dryly. "I'm sure it will matter to Olivia Ann."

"So you've taken it upon yourself to punish us both, I suppose. Or is this some sick form of revenge against me?"

"We don't deserve this."

"That sounds suspiciously like the words of John Amos." Malcolm said in a most disgusted tone.

"I don't deserve to have anything that is good. I don't deserve to have another chance. Do you understand that, Malcolm?"

Sooner or later he would blame me, and not John Amos, for causing all of this unhappiness.

"You are too over-wrought to discuss this reasonably."

Ah, yes-Malcolm's way of salvaging civility, it was as predictable as time. My fault. I am emotional and unreliable; I can't mean what I say.

"You should get a good night's sleep."

"We will talk about this tomorrow." I said.

"We won't discuss this again." he said forcefully, as he put out the light.

I am convinced that if the truth is ever revealed, I will be blamed for it all. But none of those who lay the blame for all the disease in this family at my feet can really know what it is to walk in my shoes even for a day. If they did, they might understand why I've done the things I have done.

Every time I say good-bye and embrace Olivia Ann, I fear that this parting will be the last, and am slightly self-conscious. I have so long accustomed myself to doing without the closeness of family, and the easy affection inherent in it. I have separated myself, have become an island, contented to be left alone in my world of books and thoughts, only rarely admitting another person from time to time, with caution. And there is Malcolm, of course, whose presence is like the air I breathe-a fact, the years melding habit into necessity, so that now,
to have another person smile, show the smallest bit of affection is strange, and wonderful. I can't bear the thought that Corinne's children might ruin it all, and take from us the only family we have.

"Olivia, consider writing, in your own words, a permanent account of events, from your point of view. It will be thorough, and easier to do than forcing yourself to make some sort of unnecessary verbal confession."

I pondered Malcolm's suggestion, and decided it was a good one. I set to work immediately, quickly realizing I had to tell my whole story, not just the last few years of it. I began with my first meeting with Malcolm, and, in order to leave a thorough record, I had to weave together all the intricate threads which caused the outcomes with which we live, today. It has proven to be an arduous undertaking, a task which has taken six years to complete and revise, but I find I enjoy the work. It has brought to the fore many difficult feelings and memories, but writing has also freed me from the hold on me which my memories have had, for so long.

"Cruelty comes in many forms, ignorance is one of them."

When I stop to review my own words in stark black and white, I know that I am writing for myself, as much as for anyone else. I have been cruel; I have judged in ignorance, as well. I wrote these words for others to read; I had written them about those unknown readers, but they apply to myself, as well.

I had a small gateleg table and my typewriter moved into the unused dining room, and that became my office, for the project. I never show Malcolm what I've written, and the proviso I've added will ensure that Malcolm, who cannot outlive me by twenty years, will never have to read my pages. But once they are finished, I'll leave something important of myself in these chapters, and my voice can never be forgotten, or silenced again. Those who matter to me will have these chapters to prove-despite all who might speak against me-that I lived, and that I was not as inhuman as some believe.

I trust that my manuscript will be found in the right time, by someone whom will treat it well, and perhaps even find some forgiveness for, and understanding of me, and for what my life has been. There are few left in whose memory I might expect to live, and be thought of with any love, nor even positive memory.
All that will remain of my life is my words, and I hope, to someone, they will be worth reading and have a lasting impact.

-Olivia Kate Winfield Foxworth