Our Father (3 page)

Something happened. No one will tell me.

They despise me, why do they despise me?

She tossed in the bed.

They don’t want me here, I won’t stay, I’ll go home as soon as I can. She turned onto her other side, burrowed into the mattress, tried to sleep. It must have been the starlight that bothered her, that seemed to penetrate her closed lids. It was not moonlight, the moon was gone, sunk on the other side of the house. The insides of her eyelids were punctured by tiny brilliant lights.

Elizabeth removed her contact lenses by feel, not looking in the mirror. She laid them in a tiny box, and poured liquid over them. Then she undressed systematically, carefully avoiding the mirror. Does Ronnie know something? Is it possible he left everything to her mother? Noradia could have worked on him these last years, he was totally dependent on her. She had to hate us, she must have wanted to see her daughter taken care of. She could have got him to change the will and told Ronnie. Her face when she said that. Triumphant.

She stripped slowly, peeling away the layers that disguised the thinness of her body—jacket, sweater, belt, silk blouse, chemise, skirt, pantyhose, underpants—and stepped into the hot shower.

Never, she decided, as the hot needles hit her flesh. He was an Upton, Uptons value blood. Only blood and the name. For generations. Stephen Upton: the name passed from father to son. We were not sons. She paused in her washing, then decided: no. He never even acknowledged her. She has his eyes, like me, but she has his mouth too, the only one of us with his mouth, his eyes and mouth in a round brownskinned peasant-face stocky-body
chicana
. Shameful. He had to see, had to know everyone could see, treated her like the servant’s daughter she was while looking into his own eyes. Did he care?

She slid into a terry robe, put a towel around her head and padded barefoot into the bedroom, her bedroom, kept for her all these years. She lighted a cigarette. She had not slept in it in what … two years. His eightieth birthday. Maybe he was lonely, hard to imagine, he who never needed anyone. He was only in his fifties when Noradia first came to work here, still in the cabinet, he could easily have married again, then or even later, lots of men do, marry women twenty thirty years younger. God knows he dated every eligible society broad going, his name always in the columns linked with some glamorous Washington hostess or other. But he said he hated women. Spat the words, said he’d had it with marriage after Amelia. Wonder why he left her. Alex doesn’t know either. Bothers her. Well that’s one problem I don’t have.

She rubbed her head vigorously with the towel, then combed out her thin hair, still without looking into a mirror. Probably got worn down by desire hate need revenge, god the passions marriage generates, Mother so bitter still, forty years later is it forty, it’s 1984, no, fifty, Jesus! And still gets that look on her face when she talks about him, hatred unto death even after death, she’ll never be reconciled, well who can blame her after all. I’m lucky I never got into that morass, just as well.

Still even if you don’t get married, if you have affairs, any relationship, one way or another you get worn down. Her eyes smarted, she wiped her hand across them and caught sight of her face in the mirror, her father’s face, long narrow nose of a hawk. If he had married again, he might have had another child, another legitimate sibling. Estate split four ways instead of three. If it had been a boy we’d be disinherited, we’d get a nice little annuity. For sure. Better this way. But his eyes in that little thug: shameful.

By-blow, that’s what they call them. As if a man did something with his left hand, swatted a fly, by-blow, meaningless. Does she think she’s entitled to make decisions with us, be part of the family council? Why is she here? Of course, she came for her mother: Noradia dies, Father has a stroke or whatever he had. Maybe he loved her. He was dependent on her. Same thing. Her eyes burned again and this time she did not touch them, lying back against the pillow of the still made-up bed. A single tear ran down her left cheek.

Have to search his study, his papers, the will must be around somewhere, in the safe maybe, do I know the combination? Did I ever know it? Where would he keep it? Too tired to look tonight: got home so late last night, then had to pack, of course an eight-thirty meeting this morning. Seeing Mary again. … Always exhausting seeing her having to listen to her. And that Alex, my god, she’s even worse than Mary: incredible.

Tomorrow I’ll do a thorough search.

I would have liked to talk this over with Clare. He’d have said, “All these bits and pieces, darling, how can I sort them out? Love and desire and hate and jealousy and need and dependency, just words. They tear into a fabric that’s like spiderweb in delicacy and strength—you know the African proverb—a spider’s web can halt a lion—well, it halts me, darling.” He would have laughed and made us fresh martinis and kissed me on the forehead and said “Let’s talk about what we’re going to say at the Council tomorrow,” and we would have gotten off on that, both excited, laying down a game plan, and then,
then
he could talk about manipulation and dependency and psychological tactics. Then he could talk about power. And when he left I would feel high on all of it sailing on it tactics and strategies plugging into other people’s weaknesses vulnerabilities got to keep your own hidden and by the time I got into bed I would have forgotten my own. Kept me high. Clare.

Mary folded her silk blouse slowly, over and over, until it was a tube, then let go and a swathe of white silk shot with gold fell across her knees. Hard to be in this room, in this house. Hard to be with Elizabeth. That stupid gushing Alex. Unbearable. And the little bastard. Does she expect us to treat her as an equal? With her manners? Feet up on the cushion with her shoes on,
sneakers
, for heaven’s sake, drinking Coke out of a
can
. Walks like a boy, dresses like a boy, that might be forgivable but she looks like a
poor
boy, dirty jeans, ragged sweatshirt. If she came to the dinner table dressed like that, no wonder Father didn’t speak to her. Surprised he didn’t lay down the law. That morning I ran downstairs in my pajamas, ran to Mama, something had happened, what was it? I must have cut or banged myself, I was crying. Father stormed: Uptons do not appear downstairs in their nightwear or bathrobes! He was so stern I cried harder and Mama had Nanny carry me back upstairs. Which nanny was that? Nanny Annie, I loved her, I called her Annie Nanny, how I cried when she left. … Got married. “Annie is going to get married and have a little girl just like Mary!” she said. Another Mary supplanting me! I was horrified, I just screamed louder. No, it must have been Nanny Gudge because she scolded “
Pas en déshabillé!
” Nanny Gudge always spoke French, why Mama liked her even though she used to slap me.

The house will have to be sold, none of us can afford to keep it up, it’s from another age, needs a regiment of servants to maintain it, half closed up as it is, only our bedrooms open. Who’d buy it though, who’d want it? stuck out here in Lincoln, miles from anywhere. Suppose we can’t sell! Everything shabby, the dining room chandelier is filthy, Noradia really wasn’t doing her job, maybe she’d been sick longer than they knew, well she could have said something, should have, he could have gotten someone else, I suppose that’s what she was afraid of, being tossed out sick on her ear in her old age, the tennis court cracked and grassy, the pool a scummy bog. Maybe someone will want it because it’s the house of a great man. But he could hang on for months. Years.

She rose and finished undressing. She did not look in the mirror until she had slipped the satin nightgown over her head. Then she moved in close, studied her image, moved back, lifted her chin. She took her beauty for granted, examining her face as a workman might his tools. She slipped her feet into high-heeled satin mules, teetered into the bathroom and began her nightly regimen. Brush, floss, Water Pik, face makeup remover, eye makeup remover, cleansing cream, toner, night cream, neck cream, eye cream, hand cream. She brushed her hair, still dark and glossy with a little help from Antoine. The face is still good, she thought, unconsciously raising her neck to view it again. Even without makeup. Still beautiful. That little eye job had helped enormously. Only the body … Still, men like voluptuous women, whatever the fashions.

She walked totteringly back to the bedroom, surveyed it, sighed. All white: the only way she could really rest. Hotels she’d stay at often had kept a room like that for her through all her husbands,
vôtre chambre
, Mme Burnside, Mme di Cenci, Mme Armonk. Didn’t travel much with Don. At home, her bed and chaise were heaped with lace-covered pillows, the lace bedcover, the cloth on the little table, everything white. White furniture. Handmade lace curtains like the ones here, no machine-made abortions for her.

The sheets were not pulled down.

New housekeeper, not properly trained, Ronnie would not know how to train her of course but the maid wasn’t new Ronnie said she’d been here for years,
she
should know better. Mary peeled the coverlet off the bed and dropped it on the floor. Let the maid—what was her name?—pick it up off the floor in the morning, maybe she’ll get the message. She folded the sheet back and slid her body in between the clean cool sheets and sighed as her skin opened up, each pore drank in the coolness, sighed in pleasure, cool white satin on her body, cool white cotton around it, if it was, yes, she felt the sheet between her fingers, he still had percale sheets, that woman hadn’t converted him to polyester even if she preferred not to iron.

Her face felt hot and her heart banged loudly as the recollection hit her, horrible, horrible, ironing her own blouse before she came. Horrible. Had to get some money. Immediately.

2

“I
REFUSE TO GO
to the hospital with her,” Mary whispered hotly to Elizabeth in the upstairs hall. “I definitely will not!”

But at quarter to eleven on Saturday morning, all four women piled together into Stephen’s limousine for the short trip to the hospital and trooped together to intensive care. They were met by the neurologist, who was so impressed by them, he nearly bowed as he introduced himself, shook hands (dropped Elizabeth’s cold hand as if it were an ice cube), Dr. Stamp, Arlen Stamp, he was breathless meeting them, especially Mary. (The face holds, she thought.) His eyes simply passed over Ronnie; he ignored her utterly. Had he heard rumors?

He was slick, deferential, but could offer no prognosis. No way of knowing, he said. Stephen had suffered a hemorrhagic stroke, a hypertensive brain hemorrhage in the left frontal lobe, not unusual in a man his age with high blood pressure, an extravasation of blood from a ruptured artery that had totally destroyed part of his brain, how much they could not tell. The brain was still full of blood, once it subsided they’d have a better idea of the damage. They had given him intravenous steroids, were keeping him in the ICU and giving him medication to bring the pressure down, monitoring his blood and heart rate.

“We will of course deal appropriately with any swings in either of those parameters,” he concluded. Glancing at their faces to see if they were properly impressed, he was uneasy: unreadable women these were. He moved to diplomacy: of course they were doing everything they could, such a great man, wasn’t he? Focusing mainly on Mary, the doctor proclaimed pompously, as if he were telling her something she did not know, that Stephen Upton had been a distinguished adviser to every Republican president and to the party since Hoover left office. The whole town of Lincoln was proud he lived there, they must be desolate about the illness of such a father, such a wise good man. He would do everything he could to restore him to them.

“We’re sure you will, but we’d like a second opinion, if you don’t mind,” Elizabeth said in a tone of voice that made it clear she would do it whether he minded or not.

“Of course! Of course! Dr. Roper, chief at the General—which is
the
Harvard hospital, you know—is the big name in this field. Shall I call him for you or will you do it yourself?”

“We’ll call him, thank you.” After checking first, Elizabeth thought. “What about his personal physician, Dr. Biddle?”

“Yes, the young lady”—he glanced at Ronnie for the first time—“suggested we call him yesterday, and he came down and looked at your father. He took care of your mother, is that right?” he asked Ronnie, who nodded.

So everybody knew, Mary thought.

“Yes, surely we’re happy to have all the cooperation we can get,” he said in a strained voice, and led them to the old man’s room. Stephen lay, a white distorted lump in the bed, his face askew, a mask over his nose, an IV attached to his forearm, another inserted in his neck above the collarbone, a catheter attached to his nether parts and dripping into a bag hanging on the side of the bed. Mary gasped when she saw him, tears filled those great brown eyes, the doctor was moved, he edged closer to her, he put his hand on her arm. But she ignored him, grabbing the old man’s hand, “Father! Oh, Daddy! It’s your little Mary! Mary Mary quite contrary!” she cried, but the hand did not respond, the eye did not open. Elizabeth too looked distraught, but she did not touch him. Alex’s voice dwindled as she spoke, ending in a whisper, murmured, “Hello, Father, it’s Alex. …” Ronnie said nothing.

They stood beside him as over a corpse for some minutes, then the doctor led them out. Elizabeth asked a few detailed questions about medication and nursing, then they left. They piled back into the limo. They did not speak.

Elizabeth stared out the limo window. Horrible:
him
so helpless. How he would have hated us standing there looking down on him, he never let anyone look down on him if he could help it, always stood when he spoke. He was taller than we of course, taller than lots of men too, but he always liked to stand when he spoke to someone. If he had to sit, he looked for a chair with a high seat, he sat high anyway, long from the waist up. The quiet forceful voice, the stillness of his body, no superfluous gestures, for years I copied him not to be like Mother, always with a hand on her hair or fiddling with her rings or waving her hands around. I wanted to command attention the way he did, learned how to do it too, Clare said I had it down, but not the same, they don’t listen to me the same way, it’s different. They
liked
listening, looking up to him, elder statesman. They don’t like listening to me.