The Sisters Montclair (40 page)

“Do you blame me for not confronting her?” she asked him finally.

“No. I’m sure it’s hard. Painful.” He glanced at her. “Do you blame me for interfering?”

“I’m glad you did.”

The landscape, still wet from the afternoon rains, glittered in the sunlight. Great masses of trees, heavy with Virginia creeper and wild grapevine, crowded the highway before giving way, again, to wide, rolling fields.

“Why do you think she abandoned you like that?” he said.

Stella watched the slow progress of a distant herd of cows ambling toward a feeding trough. A flock of swifts darted back and forth above the cows.
Abandoned
. A harsh, solitary word. After awhile, she stopped thinking about his question and fell into a restless sleep. She dreamed she was copulating with an unknown man, and then a series of men she knew, teachers, bank managers, fat married men, strangers who exhibited some disgusting physical deformities. Her lust was so determined and unrepentant, her attitude so cavalier and rough, her partners so completely inappropriate, (and yet she was groaning with the sweetness of release that washed over her in waves), that she could barely sustain it. She awoke exhausted and sick with shame. The sun was going down and dusk was falling. She sat upright, pushing her hair out of her face and putting her feet up on the dash.

“I lost you for awhile,” he said.

“Where are we?”

“Nearly home. I stopped and bought a couple of sandwiches but I couldn’t wake you.” He picked up a bag on the console between them, set it down again.

She was quiet, letting go of the last remaining fragments of her dream. The dream had awakened something in her, a desire to confess, a sense that it was now or never. If she hesitated, her courage would fail her. She took a deep ragged breath.

“When I was little,” she said, “I wanted so desperately to know my father. I loved my mother but I had this image of a shadowy male figure, someone who would love me for who I was. Someone who would take care of me. Someone I could love. I built my whole childhood around this fantasy of a father who would swoop down suddenly into my life and make it better. And when my mother married Moody Bates, I thought maybe he was it. But he couldn’t stand me from the beginning. Maybe he sensed how desperate I was for love and was repulsed by it. People can’t help but be repulsed by needy people.” She glanced at Luke but he continued to drive, his eyes fixed firmly on the road. “When I was fifteen, he began coming into my room at night. At first, he would just sit on my bed and rub my back. It seemed harmless, and I was so surprised, and so desperate for his attention, that I allowed it. And later, when he began touching me other places, I allowed that, too. I don’t know why. I can’t explain it. There was such shame afterwards. And it didn’t make him more affectionate toward me. If anything, I think he hated me even more then.”

The radio was playing softly and he leaned and switched it off. “Well,” she said spreading her fingers on her knees. She wouldn’t look at him. “You know the rest. It’s that age-old story. A cliché, really. A girl abused by her stepfather.” She turned her head and gave him a fierce look, as if daring him to say anything. She could feel her face warm but she forced herself to go on. Courage was what was needed. Courage and a conviction that what she was saying was true and accountable. “But here’s the thing,” she said. She hesitated, breathing quietly. “I wanted him to touch me. To love me. I let him do it because I wanted him to. I don’t blame my mother, really, for getting rid of me. He must have told her I was a willing participant.”

“If he told her, then she should have taken your side. There should have been no question about that.”

“He was her husband.”

“And you were her daughter.” His face was drawn, angry. His life had been so clean and fair that he could not imagine it any other way. “Look, you were what? Fifteen?”

“Yes.”

“You were a girl. He was a grown man. A married man and your stepfather. He knew better.”

“But so did I.”

He fell silent, reflecting on this. When he spoke again his tone was low, reasonable. “You never knew your father. It’s understandable that you would want a father figure to love you. It’s understandable that you would be feeling confusion and guilt. Doubt, desire, self-hate. It’s a classic Electra complex. I mean, you study psychology. You should know this.”

She was quiet, considering. Taking it out and looking at it from all sides. “There’s a morality issue here, too, Luke,” she said finally.

“I’m not excusing your behavior,” he said quickly. “I’m not saying it was okay that you were a willing victim. I’m just saying, given your circumstances, it’s understandable that it happened and you shouldn’t beat yourself up about it anymore. It’s impossible at twenty-one to look back at the mistakes you made when you were fifteen and feel guilt over them. Regret, yes. A desire never to make the same mistake again. But not guilt.”

The surrounding mountains rose around them, dark against the evening sky. Headlights circled the ridge like a string of pearls. Despite her nap, Stella felt exhausted. And yet filled with a curious lightness, too. A hollow sensation in her stomach, an impression of flight, like a balloon bumping along beneath her rib cage. He was right. She knew he was. She thought of Alice’s face as she gave up her secret about Laura. Did her face show the same expression of regret and deliverance? Would she be able to tell Alice the story in its entirety, or only in bits and pieces, holding back out of fear and shame?

“Is there anything you would have liked to say to your mother?” In the glow of the dashboard his face was young and earnest. “Anything I didn’t say?”

She smiled, shook her head. “I think you said it all.”

“No really.” He glanced at her and then back at the road. “Say it to me.”

“Have you been talking to Professor Dillard?”

“Say it, Stella.”

She crossed her arms over her knees. She put her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. “I’d say, you shouldn’t bring a child into the world just to keep you company in your loneliness.”

“Anything else?”

“I’d say a woman shouldn’t be dependent on a man for happiness. Every woman needs her own life, her own dreams.”

“Virginia Woolf couldn’t have said it better,” he said.

She snuggled down in the corner with her head resting against the glass. She knew now why she had told Alice she was an orphan. All her life, she had felt parentless, discarded. Alice had showed her what it was like to have a real mother. A sister. Stella had a sudden desire to confess as Alice had done, to lay her head on Alice’s heart and tell her the truth. To admit to the aching loneliness she had carried all her life.

She would tell Alice when she saw her again on Wednesday. She would tell her everything.

A
lice died in her sleep on Tuesday night. Charlotte called Stella while she was getting ready for work on Wednesday morning and told her not to come in.

Stella didn’t go to the funeral. She couldn’t bear the thought of it and she was sure Alice understood. The papers were filled with tributes and accolades; Alice Montclair Whittington had been even wealthier than anyone imagined and she had left multi-million dollar endowments to various arts organizations and charities. Her children, too, were handsomely provided for, as were her grandchildren, great-grandchildren and various nieces, nephews, and distant cousins. Each of her caregivers received a fifteen hundred dollar check. Stella, who had never had so much money in her life, promptly opened a savings account.

A few days later Charlotte called and said she had something to give her. Stella secretly hoped that Alice had left something private for her, a letter or a note, and she felt a stir of anticipation as she watched Charlotte climb the stairs to her apartment. They went inside and Stella made a pot of tea and Charlotte talked about the funeral and what a kind, generous woman Alice had been.

“The last time I saw her, she said she wanted me to give you this,” Charlotte said, reaching for her purse. But it was only the well-worn copy of
Anna Karenina
with its familiar inscription.

“She said she wanted you to have it,” Charlotte said, laying it down on the counter between them. “She said it belonged to you.”

Professor Dillard got her a job in the psychology lab and as the fall semester wore on, Stella began to feel like she was back where she belonged. Her grades came up, although not enough to get her into grad school, but with any luck she’d be able to land a social services job after college and eventually (hopefully) earn enough real-life experience to make graduate school possible in the future.

Luke went back to New York to edit his movie but they talked nearly every day. He was planning on returning to Chattanooga in the spring to shoot his footage of Larry and his mother.

Not a day went by when Stella didn’t think of Alice. She could still hear Alice’s voice in her head, its charming inflection, heavy irony, subtle overtones of humor, and she often found herself gathering observations that she could share with Alice later.
Oh, I have to tell Alice about that,
she would think before remembering, with a clutch of grief and loss, that there would be no more shared secrets with Alice.

It occurred to her that she would always carry Alice’s story in her heart, she would always hear Alice’s voice in her head. She would remember Alice’s anguish as she told her tale, picturing Laura sprawled on the tracks, Brendan Burke going blithely on with his life.

Perhaps that was how immortality was gained after all; by sharing our stories, by living on in each other’s hearts and imaginations.

In the late spring Stella was called into Dr. Dillard’s office for a meeting with Katherine Arcenaux, the head of Financial Aid. Dean Keller was there, too. Stella assumed it had something to do with a small grant she had applied for although she was surprised to see the Dean. Dr. Dillard was quiet, letting the others do most of the talking. She sat staring out the opened window, a slight smile on her face.

Dean Keller was a short, badly-dressed man with a florid complexion. He spoke to Stella in a bright, slightly pompous tone. “As you may or may not know, the late Mrs. Alice Whittington was a staunch benefactress of the University. She left a number of endowments, including one to the psychology department. She named it in honor of a deceased sister. It’s a full-ride scholarship for graduate school to be given to a female student who shows a commitment to the study of clinical psychology. A three-year degree awarded at the Ph. D. level. Full tuition, health insurance while the recipient is enrolled full-time, as well as a stipend in the form of either a teaching assistantship or a laboratory assistantship.” He paused and cleared his throat, looking at Stella.

“That sounds like something Alice would do,” she said.

Dr. Keller continued to stare at her. “She was a very generous woman,” he said. Katherine Arceneux played with a pencil, twirling it between her fingers like a baton.

Dean Keller said pointedly, “So what do you think?”

“Of the scholarship?” Stella pursed her lips. Dr. Dillard gave her a mild, encouraging smile. “I think it’s wonderful. But don’t you have to get a masters degree first?”

“It’s an accelerated program, combining both the masters and the Ph.D.”

Stella played with the hem of her jeans. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of qualified applicants,” she said.

“Stella,” Dr. Dillard said softly.

Katherine Arecenaux stopped flipping the pencil and began to scribble notes on a yellow legal pad.

Dean Keller blinked. “You don’t seem to understand,” he said.

“If you’re suggesting I apply, you obviously haven’t checked my GPA.” She said this without bitterness, shrugging her shoulders carelessly.

“Stella, listen to what he has to say,” Dr. Dillard said.

Dean Keller cleared his throat again and went on. “There are stipulations to the Montclair Scholarship.”

“There always are,” Stella said benignly.

“The most important being that the first Montclair Scholar will be you, Ms. Nightingale. The endowment instructions are clear on that. You can refuse it, if you wish, and we will choose someone else.”

No one said anything. An errant breeze fluttered the papers on Dr. Dillard’s desk. The three of them sat watching Stella who stared blankly at Dean Keller.

“What are you saying?” she said finally.

“What we’re trying to say,” the dean began reasonably. “What we’re trying to tell you is that the scholarship is yours. If you want it.”

In the quiet that followed, Dr. Dillard said softly, “Alice obviously wanted you to go to graduate school.”

Stella stared at Dr. Dillard, feeling a slow swelling beneath her breastbone, a strange sensation of release and purpose. In her head, she could hear Alice laughing.

Outside the window, the leaves of the pear tree rustled in the breeze. A distant freight train passed, echoing through the valley, its horn sharp, insistent, like the cry of a great, flapping bird.