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"As far as Mother goes . . . she'll recuperate from her sorrow as rapidly as she sees fit. My presence won't change that. Of course," Philip continued, "if there are some business reasons why you think I should remain . . ."
"No, no. Mr. Updike and Mr. Dorfman have things pretty much under control. We'll reopen the hotel for the weekend," I said. "It's better that everyone gets back to work."
I hated to admit it, but Grandmother Cutler's philosophy was probably correct when it came to that. I was glad, however, that we had shown some respect for Randolph's memory by closing the hotel a little while.
"Right," Philip said. "That's why I want to get back to the books myself." Philip played with his food for a moment and then gazed up at both of us. "I want to apologize again about the things Clara Sue said at the cemetery. She really has become a nuisance. I'll try to keep her from bothering everyone," he promised.
Jimmy nodded. I wanted to say more, but I didn't. I wanted to say Clara Sue wasn't much different from the first time I had met her. She was self-centered and vicious then, too. She probably always would be. But I didn't want to add any more unpleasantness to an already disagreeable time. It was better to put it all to rest.
Afterward, Jimmy and I went up to check on Christie and then retire for the evening. As we walked down the corridor we heard Mother's laughter coming from behind the closed doors of her suite.
"Mother's already begun her spectacular recovery from sadness," I muttered. Jimmy nodded and smiled.
Later, though, when we lay together in bed, I felt very sad, and I snuggled up inside his arm and rested my head on his shoulder. We could gaze out the window and up at the sky. The heavy overcast that had hovered above us all day, adding to the mood of depression and sorrow, now began to break up. We could see a star or two twinkling between the misty clouds.
"I can't help remembering the day Momma died," Jimmy said. "I thought my heart had shrunk so small in my chest it wouldn't have the power to pump my blood, and I would just die from sadness."
"I remember how you ran all the way home from the hospital," I said.
"I just wanted to pound the earth with my feet, strike out at something, someone. I just can't imagine burying your father and going off with your friends like Clara Sue did. I don't even understand how Philip can return to college so fast and get back into things so quickly," he said. "This has never been much of a family, has it, Dawn?"
"No, Jimmy."
"You think something like this is going to happen to us if we stay here and bring up our kids in the hotel?" he asked.
"I hope not, Jimmy. I think we care about each other too much for that to happen anyway," I added quickly. He nodded, but even in the darkness, with just a twinkle of starlight coming through the window, I could see the anxiety in his eyes. It made my heart do flip-flops and brought a lump to my throat. How I wanted to assure him, to promise him, to guarantee him that for us, happiness and love were as certain as the seasons.
But I couldn't shake off the memory of Grandmother Cutler's steel-gray eyes. Would they haunt me forever? Would she do something more to hurt us?
I tightened my embrace around Jimmy, and he kissed my hair and stroked my hand.
Across the grounds and up the street Randolph lay beside his mother. Was he finally at peace? And if he was, why did he have to pay so dearly for it?
6
AN EVENING AT BEULLA WOODS
DURING THE DAYS IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING RANDOLPH'S DEATH I noticed a rather dramatic change in my mother. She had barely begun a period of bereavement when suddenly she no longer wanted to be shut up in her suite all the time. In fact, she burst out of her state of mourning with an explosion of startling new energy. But her attention and interests were not directed toward anything to do with the hotel. On the contrary, she seemed to avoid every aspect of it. She had no desire to meet guests or become involved in the hotel's activities. I knew she hated walking through the lobby even to get to the hotel limousine. She didn't want to see the critical eyes of the staff and others focused on her, so she began leaving via a side entrance, almost as though her exits and entrances were clande
stine. Sometimes I thought they were, even though she claimed she was only going shopping or to have lunch or dinner with old friends.
Yes, suddenly Mother had old friends again. I could count on my fingers how many times anyone she knew in the vicinity had come to visit her socially since I had been brought back to the hotel, and I couldn't recall a single time she had gone to visit anyone else. But all that quickly changed.
One day I met her in the hallway as she was leaving for one of these engagements. She had been digging into the depths of her closets to come up with some little-worn but quite stylish outfits. It was as if her having to wear the black gown of mourning, even one she had had designed especially for herself and even for so short a time, had left her craving colors and brightness. Her pinks and blues and greens were almost luminous. This particular day she also wore a matching blue bonnet. With her hair primped and curled, her face made up and her jewelry sparkling, she practically bounced down the stairs. I even thought she was humming.
"Oh, Dawn," she said when I surprised her in the hall. A guilty look flashed momentarily through her blue eyes. Then she smiled and spun around. "How do I look?"
I had to admit she looked years younger. Her face had a lightness to it, a rosy radiance that made her sparkle with exuberance. It was as if some dark shadow implanted in her soul had been lifted.
"Very nice, Mother. Where are you going today?" I asked.
"Oh, I'm meeting some old finishing-school girlfriends for lunch, and then maybe we'll go to a fashion show," she recited as if she had memorized the reply for anyone who would have the nerve to ask. She saw the look of confusion and skepticism on my face and continued, more forcefully.
"Well, why shouldn't I get out? I've grown tired of my suite. It's become more like a prison to me. I spent so much time shut up in there, recuperating from one illness or another, that now I can't bear to stay in there a moment longer than I have to. Besides," she added, the corners of her mouth drooping, "there are too many sad reminders of poor Randolph. I must get rid of his things, give some to Philip and some to the Salvation Army so poor souls can at least benefit from the tragedy," she said.
"Yes, that would be nice, Mother," I said dryly.
"And have you ever noticed how little sunlight comes into my suite?" she moaned. "It's just the way it's situated, I'm sure, but it can get so dismal and dreary in there. No wonder Grandmother Cutler gave it to Randolph and me and kept the one across the way for herself. That one gets sunshine most of the day," she added.
