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"Randolph still doted on Laura Sue, pretending as if they were still man and wife in every way. I think in his own way he still loved her very much, but he and Laura Sue had stopped sleeping together soon after his father had raped her," he said.
"Stopped sleeping together." I let the sherry warm my chest, and then I sat up. "But that can't be," I said, realizing the chain of events. "Clara Sue . . ."
"Is my child," he confessed.
Bronson sat back, exhausted from his revelations. His face was flushed from that and from the glasses of sherry he had drunk, one after the other, to fortify his courage. His story had left my mind in a turmoil. My heart was racing. I felt as if I were drowning in a sea of conflicting emotions. I hated my mother and I pitied her; I pitied Randolph but hated his weaknesses. I thought less of Bronson for permit-ting Mother to torment him so and keep him on a string all these years, yet I admired him for the loyalty and love he gave to his sister.
Most importantly and most tragically, I saw that there was always something keeping people from doing the right things, the things their hearts told them to do. Ironically, if Mother had been less self-centered, she might have married Bronson and had a wonderful life. She would have avoided the horror of living under the thumb of Grandmother Cutler.
"I'm tired," I said, breaking the deep silence that had fallen between us. "I'd better go home."
"Of course," he said, jumping up. "Let me have my driver bring up the car."
While he was gone, Bronson's confession reverberated in my mind. Clara Sue was his. Now I knew why there was something familiar in his mother's face in the portrait. I had seen resemblances to Clara Sue. Since we had different fathers and her father was not a Cutler, the cords of blood that tied us together weren't as thick as I had once thought. I found myself feeling grateful about that. She and I had such different personalities. I didn't think I was capable of being as hateful or as vicious and cruel, not that Bronson struck me as a father from whom she could have inherited such qualities.
Another irony that didn't slip past me involved Clara Sue and me. She would end up living with her real parents, but not knowing it; and I, because of the turn of events, had lived with people who were not my parents, and I didn't know it for most of my life. For both of us, family had been built on deception.
That was why I was so silent when Bronson, escorting me out of his house and to the car, turned to me to say, "I hope that now we can all be more like a family." I stared at him bleakly, as if he spoke of pipe dreams made of smoke. To me the concept of family had become mythical. It was like a fairy tale. What was it like having parents and brothers and sisters whom you loved and who loved you? What was it like caring about one another, remembering one another's birthdays and celebrating each achievement, each wonderful new thing each of you did? What was it like being in a home on a holiday like Thanksgiving and having a family gathered around a full table with everyone laughing and smiling and being thankful all were here?
"Dawn," he said, seizing my arm as I started to get into the limousine. I turned to him, and he riveted his pleading eyes on mine. "I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive us all our weaknesses and sins."
"It's not for me to forgive anyone for anything," I said. I lowered my eyes and then lifted them to meet his agonized gaze again. "Thank you," I said, "for trusting me with your story and caring enough to want my understanding."
He smiled, his blue eyes now gleaming.
"Good night," he said.
"Good night. The dinner was wonderful," I added. The driver started the engine and took me away. When I looked back, Bronson was still standing in front of his house, watching me go.
As we careened around the turns going down the hill from Bronson's beautiful home I could see the lighted windows in houses below. Inside, perhaps, families were gathered in their living rooms, talking or watching television or listening to music. The children had no doubts that they were with their parents. Again ironically, many of them probably wished they owned a glamorous and famous resort like Cutler's Cove. They thought their lives were boring and uneventful, and they longed for the excitement we had.
Yes, we lived in castles, but the moats that surrounded us were filled with lies and tears. The rich and the famous lived behind billboards; their houses were like movie sets, facades, glittering but empty. What person living what he considered a mediocre life would want to trade places with Bronson Alcott once he knew the truth about how the man had suffered?
Suddenly, looking out over the ocean and seeing the quarter moon peek through two soft white clouds, I became melancholy. I wished I could fall back through time and be a little girl again, the little girl who thought she was running home to her real mother when she cut her finger and needed love and attention. I wanted to burst through the front door of whatever poor and shabby cottage or apartment we were living in at the time and throw my arms around Momma Longchamp and feel her arms around me and her kisses on my hair and face. I wanted all the scratches and cuts and bumps to go away in seconds.
But they don't go away in seconds anymore. They linger in our hearts, I thought, because we have no one but ourselves to comfort us.
As we turned into the driveway and climbed toward the hotel I felt some of the gloom lift from my heart, for I knew inside that Jimmy and Christie were there for me. It was important—more important than ever, I thought—that we hold on to one another and love and cherish one another dearly.
The hotel was quiet. Most of the guests had gone to their rooms. Some lingered in the lobby, talking softly, and a few sat outside. I hurried up to our suite, stopping first to look in on Christie. She was fast asleep, her face turned. She still embraced her teddy bear. I fixed her blanket and kissed her cheek and then went in to tell Jimmy everything Bronson had revealed.
He listened attentively, shaking his head in amazement every once in a while. When I was finished I made him hold me tightly.
"Oh, it was terrible, Jimmy, terrible to sit there and listen to him describe how cruel and mean the people who were supposed to love one another had been to one another," I cried.
"Our lives won't be like that," he promised.
"Maybe there's a curse here, Jimmy. Maybe we won't be able to help ourselves," I said fearfully.
"The only curses here are the curses people make for themselves," he said.
"Jimmy," I said, pulling back from him, "I want us to have our baby right away."
He didn't answer, and I saw that darkness around his eyes that always suggested something sad.
"What is it; jimmy? Why doesn't that make you happy?" I asked.
"It makes me happy. It's just"—he stared at me a moment—"I got a letter from Daddy yesterday."
