Suffer the Children (16 page)

“Don’t you think it’s time you got back into therapy?” she asked softly, trying another tack.

“I don’t want to go into it,” Jack said sourly.

“The subject or the therapy?”

“Take your pick,” he said. “Is there a difference?”

“That depends,” Rose said, deliberately keeping the poison out of her voice. “I know you don’t get off on therapy—”

“I don’t get off at all,” Jack finished for her. “You’re getting predictable.”

“And you aren’t?” Rose snapped, no longer bothering to hide the hostility she was feeling. “Listen to me,” she hissed as he began turning away, as if his back might shield him from her words.

“It’s no good, Jack, it’s just no good. I’m a normal woman, with normal desires, and I deserve some kind of normal satisfaction. Although God knows why I should expect that in a home that’s anything but normal. Maybe there’s nothing we can do for Sarah, but I should think that you, at least, would want to do what you can before you get just like her.”

“It’s not that easy—” Jack began, but she didn’t give him time to defend himself.

“What is easy? Is it easy to live with a man like you? Easy to live with a child like Sarah? Easy to keep on acting as if nothing is the matter? Business as usual? How long do you think I can keep it up? God knows, every woman that’s ever married into this family has had her hands full just being the latest Mrs. Conger for this godforsaken village. But that’s not enough, not any more. Not only do I have to be Mrs. Conger, but I have to be a loving mother to a traumatized child, a loving wife to an impotent husband, and push real estate on the side.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Jack put in, grabbing at the only available straw.

“Don’t I?” Rose demanded. “Don’t I? Well, let me
tell you one more thing. Pushing real estate is the easy part It’s the only fun I get out of life any more, and besides, it gives us enough money to keep Sarah at White Oaks. So don’t talk to me about what’s easy. For Christ’s sake, all I’m asking you to do is go and
talk
to somebody!”

Talk to somebody. Talk to somebody
. The words echoed in his mind, bouncing back and forth off the inside of his skull It sounded so easy.

Just go talk to somebody.

But about what? About what he’d done to Sarah? About why he’d done it? He wasn’t even sure what he’d done, and if he wasn’t sure what he’d done, how could he begin to be sure why he’d done it? And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried. He’d spent months with Dr, Belter. The psychiatrist had spent hours with him, hours with Sarah, hours with the two of them together, watching them interact, trying to discover from some clue in the way they related to each other what had happened. He’d beaten her—Jack knew that now. But he couldn’t remember starting to beat her; he couldn’t remember administering the blows. All he could remember was being in the woods, then carrying Sarah out of the woods. And her face. For some reason he could remember her face, the tiny, dark, great-eyed face, peering desperately up at him, the frightened eyes not understanding what was happening, pleading with him to help her.

If he could remember, he could deal with it. But it was as if it had all happened to somebody else and he had been a witness to it. A witness who didn’t want to see.

They had even tried hypnosis. But that too had failed. Dr. Belter had warned him that some people simply cannot be hypnotized, and he had proved to be one of them. Deep inside he harbored the distinct feeling that he could have been hypnotized, but simply didn’t want to be; that whatever was inside him was too
fearsome to bring out, that he was protecting himself from a weakness too ugly to face. And it had formed a vicious circle, the guilt feeding on the doubt, the doubt growing as the guilt increased. Finally, when he could no longer face those awful silent hours with the doctor, sipping coffee and wishing desperately that he could bring himself to talk, if not about the incident with Sarah then at least about the impotence that had resulted, he had given up. He had come to terms with himself, and they were not easy terms. He would live with the guilt, and he would live with the impotence, and he would live with the questions about what had really happened. But he would not have to know. And he had come to believe that to know what had happened would be the worst thing of all.

He stared silently across the table at Rose, wondering if there was any way to convey all of this to her, trying to think of what he could possibly say, when he was rescued from having to say anything at all. Mrs. Goodrich’s voice was pouring forth from the kitchen.

“Miss Sarah, you stop that, do you hear me?”

There was a crash, the sound of pots and pans falling to the floor, followed by the sound of Sarah’s voice rising into the wordless wail that for a year had been her only means of communicating her pain to the world.

“Dear God,” Rose breathed, letting her head sink into her hands. “How much more?” Then she pulled herself together and started toward the kitchen, wondering what it would be this time. She didn’t see Elizabeth enter the dining room from the other door.

Elizabeth paused as her mother left the room and waited a moment, listening to the chaos from the kitchen. As it subsided, she relaxed and moved to the table. Still in his chair, Jack stared vacantly at the door leading through the butler’s pantry to the kitchen, his face pale. Elizabeth reached out a hand to touch him.

“It’s all right, Daddy,” she said softly. “It’s over now.”

At the touch, Jack started. His mind registered the fact that he hadn’t been aware of Elizabeth’s presence, and he felt the fear sweep over him again. He tried to cover it with a smile.

“Hello, Princess,” he said, fighting to control the shakiness in his voice. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I wonder what she was doing,” Elizabeth said, standing close to her father. “I hope she didn’t hurt herself.”

“I’m sure she didn’t,” Jack said, though he was far from sure. “Have a seat, and I’ll pour you some juice.”

Elizabeth grinned at him crookedly. “How about if I sit on your lap?” she said.

“My lap? Aren’t you getting a little big for that?”

“Sometimes I like to feel small again,” Elizabeth replied. “Do you ever feel like that?”

“Everyone feels like that,” Jack said, opening his arms. “Climb on up and be small for a while.”

The girl sat on his knee, and Jack put an affectionate arm around her waist And then the door opened once more, and Rose stood staring stonily at him.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, her voice icy and her eyes accusing him. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

“You’re not—” Elizabeth started to say, but she wasn’t allowed to finish.

“Take your chair, Elizabeth,” her mother snapped. Obediently Elizabeth left her father’s lap and sat down in her chair. She reached for the orange juice and poured herself a glass.

Jack started to rebuke his wife, then changed his mind. “Is everything all right out there?” he said instead.

“Mrs. Goodrich has it under control, and Sarah seems to have settled down, but the kitchen’s a mess.

Mrs. Goodrich thinks she was trying to get at the knife case for some reason.”

“The knife case?” Jack repeated. Elizabeth began buttering a piece of danish.

“Well, of course, she’s not sure,” Rose continued. “I can’t imagine what she’d want to do with a knife.”

“No,” Jack said briefly, “I can’t either.” Then he searched his mind for another subject, something that would take all their minds off what had just happened. Suddenly he brightened and turned to Elizabeth.

“Did you ever find Cecil?” he said.

Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t know what happened to him. He must’ve run off somewhere. He’ll be back. Cats are like that, I guess. I’d rather have a dog, anyway. They pay more attention to you.”

“I asked Mrs. Goodrich to look for him the other day,” Rose said, her foot moving to the button on the floor that would summon the housekeeper. “But I forgot all about it till this minute.” Rose, too, was glad for the distraction from the unpleasantness that had clouded an otherwise beautiful morning. Outside the sun was shining brightly. The door to the butler’s pantry opened, and Mrs. Goodrich’s stocky frame appeared.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Goodrich, I know it hasn’t been the best morning. But I was just wondering, did you ever find Cecil the other day?”

“I got better things to do than search for an Independent cat,” the housekeeper said shortly. Then she relented. “No, I didn’t And I searched this place from top to bottom.” She seemed to think a moment, then spoke again. “Which reminds me. Somebody around here not satisfied with my work?”

“Not satisfied?” Rose said blankly. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Mrs. Goodrich said, shifting her weight from
one leg to the other, “someone’s been up in the attic, cleaning. If you’d wanted the attic cleaned, you might have told me. I’m getting along, but I can still keep this house.”

Rose glanced at her husband and her daughter; they both shrugged their innocence. “I’m sure I don’t know who cleaned it,” Rose said, trying her best to suggest that it probably hadn’t been cleaned at all. “And you didn’t see any traces of Cecil?”

“Cats don’t leave traces,” Mrs. Goodrich said bluntly. She turned, then stepped aside. “Scuse me,” she said, and edged around the small form of Sarah, who had been standing, hidden behind the housekeeper’s bulky form, through the whole conversation about the cat Her eyes were filled with tears, and she was shaking.

Elizabeth moved quickly to her sister and put her arms around her, stilling Sarah’s sobs with her embrace.

“It’s all right, Sarah,” she said softly. “If Cecil doesn’t show up, we can get another cat Or maybe even a dog,” she added wistfully. Sarah’s trembling increased, and she seemed about to scream. Then she relaxed under Elizabeth’s loving smile.

Rose watched Elizabeth dry Sarah’s eyes and lead her to the table, and wished once more that she had the compassion for Sarah that her older daughter clearly had. She banished the twinge of guilt she felt pass through her and poured more coffee, first for herself, then for Jack. It was in the way of calling a truce, at least for a while.

Port Arbello basked in the unusual warmth of the fall afternoon, and the sun warmed not only the air but also the atmosphere within the house at the end of the Point. By noon, a feeling of peace had overtaken the house, a peace all the Congers felt. The strain of the morning dissipated, and the undeclared truce between Jack and Rose seemed to be blossoming into an armistice. Within themselves, they wondered how long it would last, but each of them was determined to enjoy it while it was there.

“I love Indian summer,” Rose commented over lunch. “Let’s do something this afternoon.”

“Can’t,” Jack said apologetically. “I already promised Ray Norton a round of golf.”

Rose felt a caustic phrase concerning neglect of family rise to her throat. She fought it down before it had the chance to ruin their lunch.

“I’ve got some work to do anyway,” she said, and there was nothing in her voice to suggest disappointment, hostility, or anything else that might destroy the good mood she could feel in the room. Jack, who had been expecting some sort of dart, looked up in surprise.

“I could cancel it,” he offered, and Rose knew it was a genuine offer.

“No, you go ahead,” she said, the intention being sufficient for the fact. They finished lunch in the comfortable silence that often occurs between people who love each other, but which had been absent from their
lives for so long. They greeted it with appreciation, and did nothing to disturb it.

Jack left for his golf game, and the children disappeared upstairs. Rose wandered to her office in the small room at the front of the house and shuffled some papers around. She found she couldn’t concentrate. She left the office and rambled down the hall to the study at the rear. She entered the study, and something caught her eye. It was so fast, she wasn’t sure it had happened—one of those instants when one is sure one saw something, but has no idea what She glanced around the room, but nothing was amiss. She closed the door behind her and sat down. It was a pleasant room, and the sun streamed through the window. It flashed off an ancient brass spittoon that had been converted to a standing ashtray, and it occurred to Rose that that must have been what caught her eye as she entered. Then she glanced up at the old portrait above the mantel.

It had to be an ancestor, she knew. The resemblance to Elizabeth was too remarkable for the girl in the picture not to be a Conger. But which one?

They had found the picture up in the attic more than a year ago. But then the trouble with Sarah—as Rose liked to phrase it—had started, and it had not been until a month ago that she had remembered the portrait and brought it downstairs. It was odd, she reflected, not for the first time, how the painting had been tucked away in a corner. The Congers, who had apparently been much given to ancestor worship, had a large rack in the attic upon which those ancestors not currently on display in the lower portion of the house could be neatly stored. At the moment, the group in storage included nearly everybody; only Jack’s mother still enjoyed the light of day over the fireplace in the living room. Even with all the ancestors in residence, there had still been plenty of room in the rack for the
picture of the young girl. But she hadn’t been there. Instead, she had been hidden away in a corner.

The other odd thing was that the girl was not identified. The frames of all the other portraits bore neat brass plates giving the name, date of birth, and date of death of their subjects. Except this one. This one had once borne such a plate, as evidenced by the two tiny nail holes in the bottom rail of the frame, but it had been removed.

Rose stared at the portrait and wondered what had banished the little girl from the family gallery. Her imagination ran wild, and she entertained herself for some time creating scenarios to account for the girl’s fall from grace.

And then it hit her. It had not been the sunlight on the spittoon that had caught her eye. It had been something in the portrait. She studied it carefully, trying to force her mind to make the connection again, to tell her what it was that she had recognized. Then it came to her.