Twisted Roots (26 page)

I
stared at him.
"'Why are you looking so unhappy? We'll be okay. It didn't cost half as much as I feared it would. and Chubs is going to get it all done for us. We'll pay him, but it won't cost a quarter of what it would if we had to go to garage."
"I don't care about the money."
"So? What then?"
I looked down.
"'What?"
"Last night." I said, slowly raising my head. "I saw Rosemary. She was here."
"What? The daughter? Are you saying she is alive?"
"No. It was like her spirit. She was angry, angry at me far encouraging Bess to fantasize and refuse to believe Rosemary is dead. She said she wanted to be mourned. She wanted to be loved in death, too, and she wanted to be free. She wanted to let go."
He smiled.
"I'm serious. Heyden."
"It was just all in your imagination. A place like this with kooky people like this can do that to you. That's why we want to get out of here as soon as possible.'
"I don't think that was it."
"Oh. c'mon. Hannah. A ghost? A spirit? You feel guilty about what you did so you dream up something like that. That's all.
I'm
not even a student of psychology, and I can figure that out. Forget about it. Get dressed."
"I can't forget about it," I protested. "I want to do something to help."
"What could you do?" he practically screamed, raising his arms. "We have enough problems helping ourselves. Your uncle could do something strange any moment. Hannah. He's talking about setting up his easel out there and painting. You've got to come downstairs and occupy him until we're ready to leave. Now, that's what you can do." he said sharply.
"That's very selfish. Heyden. You just don't use people like this, take their hospitality, and rush off," I said.
"What are we supposed to do, leave a tip? Get real. Hannah Eaton," he snapped.
I
felt the tears come into my eyes.
"I have all these problems to worry about, and now you're talking about a ghost complaining to you." he mumbled.
"I'm
going out to help Chubs. I hope you will do what I asked." he said and stormed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
It
wasn't exactly the way I had hoped Heyden would react to all that I had told him.
I
was
disappointed, but told myself he was probably very nervous and afraid that what he had done. What we had done, was a terrible mistake. He was anxious to make it all right and make it all happen.
I rose to dress and go down. He was right about Uncle Linden. I had to look after him. too.
Just before I left the room. I gazed out the window that faced the east field and saw him. He had done what Heyden said he wanted to do: He had set up his easel, but what startled me mare was Bess. From where I was looking, it appeared he was organizing to do a picture of her, and she appeared to be a willing subject!
What would he paint? Whom would he paint?
Maybe the ghosts were in us all. I thought.
I
caught my breath and hurried out, knowing fa well that the revelations and surprises were far from over.
They waited for us, oh, too eagerly,

13
Rosemary's Portrait
.
"He said it would be his way of repaying us for

our hospitality," Mrs. Stanton said when
I
asked her about Uncle Linden and Bess. "It was his idea entirely. He looked out and saw her walking and turned to me and said. 'I think I'll do a picture of your granddaughter. She's a very beautiful young woman.

"Then he jumped up and went out to get his things. before
I
could say anything. I'm more surprised than you are, not that I don't think Bess is beautiful. She is, but what surprises me the mast is that Bess is willing to do such a thing. She's always been a rather shy girl, and after the tragedy, you couldn't open her heart to anything that would bring her pleasure.
I
must say your father does have a very charming way about him. He's a very gentle, kind man."

"Yes, he is."
I
said, smiling. Why was it that strangers could see Uncle Linden for what he really was quicker than people who knew him for years. especially Daddy?

"I'm not that hungry, thank you. I'll just have some juice," I said, anxious to get out to Uncle Linden, Now, mare than ever, despite his charm. I was as afraid as Heyden was that he might do or say something strange. Adding any more tension or disappointment to Mrs, Stanton's life, and especially to Bess's fragile world at this particular moment, would be horrible.
I
thought.

"Oh, that's no way for a girl your age to live, I know y'all are just rushing about, skipping this and that. You just sit yourself down there and let Grandma Stanton prepare one of her best breakfasts. Go on now or I'll order Chubs to stop working on your vehicle," she threatened playfully.

I had no choice, and besides. I could see the happiness my permitting her to dote over me brought to her. For too long her world had been overcast with dark gray clouds of sorrow. For one brief day or so, the clouds had parted, and there was enough sunshine to bring her back to happier times. If
I
was at least partly responsible for it. I was happy, too.

Mrs. Stanton rattled on and on about earlier days when her husband was alive and when her daughter was alive. Just talking about it flushed her face with so much pleasure that she looked as revived and buoyant as she probably was back then. I sat there vaguely aware of the smile that had settled
comfortably in my own face. Her memories of happier times stirred my own. I could hear Mommy laughing again, see her and Miguel playfully teasing one another, recall our walks on the beach, our sailing trips and beach picnics, the parties and the music and the food the family took such pride in preparing and sharing with us.

Happiness like that was truly hard to hold on to. It was like a beautiful bird that perched for a while on
a
nearby branch, but the moment you got too close, would fly off and sail away, leaving you with only the memory. Cherish me as I am, it said, but never, never try to put me in a cage or tie me down. My picture can be pressed into scrapbooks, my voice can be recorded singing melodically. You can make a video of me and look at me repeatedly, but don't ask me to stay. I have other places to visit, other people to whom I must bring joy. I am happiness, a bird, fleeting and oh, so very precious.

How
I
knew that now. I thought.
You haven't told me anything about your mother. dear." Mrs. Stanton said after she had served me my eggs and grits and slices of homemade bread. She sat with me at the kitchen table hovering like a mother hen making sure her chicks took in their nourishment.
"My mother is a psychotherapist," I began. "She is very successful, very well respected."
"In Palm Beach?"
"Her office is in West Palm Beach, but we live in Palm Beach.' "Isn't it very, very expensive to live there?"
"We inherited the property."
"I see. I'm sure it's hard for you not being able to be with both your parents.
I
feel so sorry for all those children from broken homes. sharing
Thanksgiving and Christmas and even their own birthdays, I imagine. Is that what you do?"
"Sometimes, but you are right. It is hard, although my mother remarried and her new husband is a very nice man. He's a college teacher, and I get along very well with everyone in his family."
"I see. But so many personalities, so many people crowding into one small room and competing for your attention and love. It can't be easy."
"It isn't." I admitted. "Jealousy has its own room in my house," I said. "Sometimes. I feel like I have to dole out my feelings in teaspoons."
"My husband and I were married for fifty-one years. People were always asking how we did it, like it was something magical or supernatural."
"There has to be something special." I said "You had to have some secret."
She laughed. "No secret, no magic. It was simply living up to the same vows everyone recites. Maybe more and more people recite them these days without thinking or understanding the words.
"I had a younger sister." she continued, tracing a line in the tablecloth with her thin right forefinger as she spoke. "who was always jealous of me. I knew it. but
I
pretended she wasn't. I did all I could to make her happy. She never married, and she died alone in her own bed. Once, when she went on and on about how lucky I had been to find a man so devoted to me. I looked her in the eyes and said. 'Mattie, you know as well as I do that you're just too self-centered to love someone else.
Every man you meet realizes that, some sooner than others, and bids you a fond farewell.
"'You know what love really is?' I lectured her. It's recognizing that the person you lave isn't perfect and forgiving them for that. And then its hoping that he or she will forgive you for not being perfect. too. It's tolerance and compromise and that takes a lot of selflessness, not selfishness. In the end we all have to realize that we are never going to be happy unless the person we love is happy, too. If that's not important to you, you are not in love, and it will come to some bad ending sooner than later.'"
"What did your sister say?" I asked. While she had spoken. I could think only of Mommy and myself and our need to forgive each other. The air around us was so still. too. I felt like an abrupt word, even a heavy breath, would shatter the special moment.
"Mattie?" She laughed and waved her hand at the memory of her sister. "She just looked at me like I belonged in some institution for the socially retarded and shook her head. 'That's all nonsense, romantic slop, 'she said. 'If I want that. I'll watch my soap opera.' she added. and I thought, that's all you will ever do. Mattie. watch."
She pressed the tips of her fingers an the table a moment and looked deeply thoughtful.
"At best." she said, still looking down, "life is a balancing act between happiness and unhappiness." She sighed deeply and then she looked up at me and smiled.
"You like those nits? Made 'em with
a
secret ingredient my mother taught me."
"They're delicious." I said, scooping up the last spoonful. "Let me help with the dishes," I offered.
"Oh, no. darlin'. You go out and enjoy the beautiful day with your family. There's not much here to do, and it keeps my mind occupied."
I stood up and then paused just before turning to start away.
"My cousin told me you said Bess forgot about yesterday and last night," I said.
"Yes. Just as I suggested, she didn't do anything different from what she ordinarily does these days, so she might not think of you as Rosemary this morning.
I
really don't know if she even remembers you are here. Needless to say, there haven't been many opportunities for such
a
thing as what happened last night to happen. None of Rosemary's school friends ever came here. They rarely came when Rosemary was alive. You're the youngest visitor since the tragedy."
"Do you have her in some sort of therapy program or did you ever?"
She shook her head. "Time is the only therapy program she's in now. It's not easy to share your troubles with strangers."
She turned away, her shoulders slumping. How different this was from the world I knew. I thought. There, most parents wouldn't think twice about putting their children into some formal therapy. In fact, they don't think twice about putting themselves into it. Many of my friends at school talked about their parents being in some form of counseling or another.
It
was almost a sign of accomplishment, prestigious, and certainly never something about which someone would be ashamed.
"It's getting more and more difficult for people to find a sense of themselves, have an identity with which they can be comfortable. settle in their own bodies," Mommy once told Miguel. "How many people out there look into a mirror and see
a
stranger or at least someone they would rather not see?"
"Don't knock it. It's your gold mine." he quipped.
"I don't know. Miguel. I don't know how long I can do this. I wonder more and more every day how my father was able to do it all of his adult life and enjoy it without it destroying him. He had a way of leaving it all outside his door when he came home from work. I'm not as strong as that"
"So, stop trying to be him. Be yourself," Miguel advised, and I remember wondering was that what Mommy was trying to do, and was that something I would try to do: be her? I was old enough to understand the implications. Would I be like the people she saw? Would I be struggling forever to find out who I am?
Wasn't that really what I was doing now with Heyden and Uncle Linden: running off to find another Hannah Eaton out there, a new one who could be happier and more contented with herself? Maybe that was just as big an illusion as the one Bess lived in. I thought.
I stepped out of the house and saw Chubs and Heyden working in front of the big barn. With their sleeyes rolled up and the streaks of dirt on their cheeks and chins, they both looked like they were bathing in grease. But I could see they were chatting away happily, neither looking frustrated or disgusted with the work. Heyden waved when he saw me and then nodded toward the field on my right, There Uncle Linden stood before his easel. I saw Bess sitting on a large rock facing him. As I started toward them, my heart began to pound. Whom would she see when she saw me?
"Rosemary!" she called, answering my question when I was less than a dozen yards from them, Uncle Linden turned to me and smiled.
"Here she is." he declared. "Now I won't need this picture anymore."
He put a photograph aside.
^-
Hurry, Rosemary!" Bess cried. "Mr. Montgomery is working on putting you in the picture. too. He's been using the most recent picture of us, the one I always carry in my pocket."
So there
^-
was a picture of them that hadn't been hidden away.
I
thought. How could she look at it and look at me and still think
I
was her daughter, returning?
Bess was still wearing a robe and her hair was down, unbrushed, the breeze lifting and turning strands every which way. She looked wild, but yet very beautiful, natural and unspoiled.
"Come here," she said, patting the space beside her. "It's not hard to be a model, and you can move whenever you want. right. Linden?" she asked.
I
raised my eyebrows, Linden? How did they get so close and familiar with each other so quickly?
Uncle Linden nodded, "Of course." he said. "All I have to do is take glimpses, little snapshots of my subject. They get locked in here," he said, pointing to his right temple. "I don't mean you should dance on the rock, but don't think you have to be as still as a statue."
"Hurry." Bess said. "We're getting our picture done by a very famous modern artist."
"Oh, not that famous. Bessie," he said. "I've sold a few pictures, that's all."
"You're the most famous artist who has ever stepped foot on this farm." she insisted, and they both laughed.
How well they are getting along, I thought, Some cynical person might say It takes one to know one." They bath have emotional and psychological problems. But perhaps it was just that they both instinctively understood how each craved some affection, some attention, and concern for their inner feelings. In that way they weren't so different from the rest of us after all.
I stepped up to the rock.
"Did Grandma make you a nice breakfast?"
"Yes," I said.
She loves making you a nice breakfast. She loves doing everything for you. Rosemary. You are her favorite, even more so than I am, you know, but I'm not jealous. It's natural for a great-grandmother to love her great-grandchild more, especially when she is still a little girl. When I was a little girl, she loved me more than she loved my mother. 'You're spoiling her.' my mother would complain. 'I spoiled you, too.' she would say. 'It's her turn.
^--
She laughed and looked around, "Isn't it a beautiful day, Rosemary?"
"Yes." I said.
It was, The sky was cobalt blue with just a patch of cloud here and there, all of them looking dabbed on one of Uncle Linden's canvases.
"We have had so many wonderful days like this together, haven't we. Rosemary? I was telling Mr. Montgomery about our beautiful lake. He wants to see it. Maybe he should be painting it After lunch we are all going for a nice walk to the lake, aren't we. Linden?"
"If you're up to it. Bessie. I would love to see it."
"Of course I'll be up to it. Why shouldn't I be? Isn't he the sweetest, most considerate man you have ever met. Rosemary? A perfect southern gentleman. too."
"Well, I'm from Palm Beach. Is that considered Southern?" he jokingly asked. "I have my doubts because most of the people I know there don't consider themselves Southerners. They are
Sophisticates. They come from Sophistica, a separate county, even a separate world."
"Oh, that's so silly. Isn't he silly? Palm Beach isn't another county."
"Tell that to the citizens of Palm Beach," Uncle Linden muttered and peered over his easel at me. "They even speak
a
different language and say things like 'How ticky-tacky.' and 'shampoo' instead
of
'champagne.'"
Bess laughed, her laugh light and airy and caught in the breeze that lifted her beautiful hair and made it dance over her forehead. How long has it been since she laughed like this? I wondered. How long since she had a small respite from her continuous grieving?
"Oh, what a delight you are. What a silly delight," she told Uncle Linden, who beamed with pleasure.
"I've been called a lot worse." he said. He shook his brush at Bess. "You can call me whatever you like, but don't call me late for dinner."
She laughed again and then, without much warning, threw her arm around my shoulders and pulled me closer to her, kissing my forehead.
"Isn't she a beautiful child. Linden?"
"I wouldn't be painting her otherwise," he replied. "nor would
I
be painting you if you weren't a beautiful woman. Bessie. It's against my religion to paint anything ugly or unpleasant," he said. Her embarrassed laughter followed the blush that came quickly into her cheeks.
I
couldn't help but be impressed with how charming Uncle
Linden
was being. Was he doing
a
good thing, or was it something that just prolonged the tragedy, and now, as
I
thought about what had happened last night and was still happening, made us a part of it?
"Just turn your head slightly to the right far me. Bessie." he told her, and she released me and did what he asked. "Yes," he said. "Perfect. You must have done this before."
"Me? I haven't."
"You've never worked as an artist's model? That's difficult to believe," he said and worked an.
Nothing I had seen him paint had given him as much pleasure, I thought, and then I remembered how nervous and troubled Mommy had been when he first had asked me to pose. This was different. though. I told myself. He wasn't painting me. He was painting Bess and Bess's Rosemary. I was just a stand-in for her. It was surely not the same thing.
Or was it? Was all of this the same thing: a fanning of the world of madness and illusion, strengthening the illness that had so gripped his mind most of his life, and was I now the one solely responsible for that?
We had taken too much on ourselves. Heyden. I thought, looking his way, far too much.
Nevertheless. Uncle Linden was more talkative and amusing than
I
had ever seen him. He rattled on and on, telling one funny Palm Beach story after another. Bess's laughter became our background music, and the more she laughed, the more he talked. He told her stories I had never heard, and he was very entertaining. How frustrated he must have been in the residency not having people to talk to who would stimulate his mind or encourage his creativity. I thought, comforting myself. Even if this wasn't forever, it was a wonderful interlude for him, too, wasn't it? It couldn't be all bad, Eventually Mommy would have to admit to that.
We paused to drink some fresh lemonade Mrs. Stanton brought out to us, and while we rested. Uncle Linden talked about his youth, living on a beach property, dreaming of sailing off to wonderful foreign lands.
'The truth is I never went more than a dozen or so miles from home, but sometimes, sometimes dreams are enough," he concluded.
"Yes." Bess said. nodding. "Sometimes they are."
I
didn't say a word. I was more like an observer now It was as if they had forgotten I was there. and I didn't want to spoil the magic for them.
We returned to modeling and creating the picture. Finally, literally hours after I had first joined them, we heard the tinkling of a bell.
"Oh. Grandma's calling us to lunch," Bess said.
"Wonderful. I'm absolutely famished. It's been a while since I've had so much fresh air. It stirs one's appetite," Uncle Linden said and then, looking at Bess. added, "All of one's appetites."