by John Jakes
Eleanor never wanted to be like her mother. But she found the imaginary door useful for blocking out a part of the past she didn’t want to remember because the memories produced overpowering feelings of guilt and self-hate. She learned to control those emotions by picturing the memories as being safely locked behind the imaginary door.
Yet the influence of those memories remained profound. They were responsible for her reluctance to agree to marry Leo, despite her love for him. They were responsible for feelings of apprehension that were with her almost constantly now that a wedding date had been chosen.
For although Eleanor would come to her marriage bed never having made love to any man, she was not a virgin.
ii
Gideon Kent’s New York City mansion had been invaded in 1877, just a few months before Eleanor’s departure with the Tom show troupe. Enemies of her father had hired hoodlums to wreck his property and injure his family. The men had done their work well. During the attack, two of them had cornered her, and she had been raped. She was fifteen years old at the time.
The experience had left an emotional wound that had never healed. It had left a feeling that she had been permanently soiled by the experience, and could never cleanse herself, no matter how she tried. For years afterward, it was necessary to prepare herself mentally before she could let a man touch her, even a man she liked. A sudden, unexpected contact would thrust her back to the night of terror. To the feel of the hard floor beneath her naked hips, and all the raw, punishing pain.
She never told anyone of the experience, of course. What woman would willingly announce to the world that she had been raped? Eleanor’s mother had had a strongly Puritanical view of sex, particularly toward the end of her life. She considered it a filthy act, and those who indulged in it equally filthy. Eleanor would not consciously go that far; she wanted a healthy relationship with a husband— someday. But there was no question that the rape had sullied her permanently. Hence she never mentioned the despicable event to Julia, and certainly not to her father or her younger brother. It was her secret, and would always remain so.
But it still had the power to bring cold sweat to her palms and dryness to her throat when she recalled it. The reaction was far worse than stage fright, which she could control. This she could not. And so she created the imaginary door, and pictured herself gliding toward it along a corridor of vast space. She pictured herself checking the door to be certain it was securely closed—pictured herself turning the filigreed key, and listening to the bolt tick over in place, and dropping the key into the pocket of her skirt.
Thus she tamed and contained her bête noire, black beast as it was called in translations of the novels of Zola. She enjoyed his writing because it was realistic, just like the best of the new plays. But realism, while commendable in literature, was ruinous in her personal life. Thank God for the imaginary door.
She hoped it would enable her to do what she wanted to do so badly: Be a good wife to the handsome young actor she had come to love, and had now decided to marry, whatever the risks.
iii
“So we rang down the curtain at the end of the second act,” Eleanor said at the dinner table on her third night home. “It was either that or get hit by all the things the audience was throwing.”
Julia shook her head. “I know how you must have felt. I’ve been in similar situations.”
Eleanor laughed. “The difference is, we deserved every last cabbage and tomato.”
“Why?” her father asked.
“The script was perfectly dreadful, Papa. Mr. Todd, the company manager, wrote it himself. It couldn’t have taken him longer than three hours. There hasn’t been a first-rate Indian play since Forrest did Metamora over fifty years ago. But Arrow of the Heart by J. Pulsifer Todd established a new low for bad dialogue. Just before the second-act curtain, I was actually required to rush onstage and make a tearful inquiry about”—she pressed her fisted hand to her bosom and lowered her voice—“my brave Algonquin brave.”
That made Will laugh for the first time since the meal had started. He was such a sad, sober child, Eleanor thought. Was that Margaret’s legacy? Sometimes it seemed to her that all the Kents were encumbered with invisible shackles put on them in the past and forever preventing them from living in peace and happiness.
Gideon chuckled as he hunted through his pockets for a cigar and matches.
“I’m afraid even your considerable abilities can’t redeem a line like that. I can see why your troupe had problems.”
Seated across the dinner table, Will continued to smile at his sister, admiration at last bringing some animation to his face. Outside the window, fat snowflakes drifted down. Eleanor nodded in reply to her father’s remark.
“Mr. Todd thought audiences in the hinterlands wouldn’t be overly critical, but he was very wrong. Even in Fort Wayne, they recognize a turkey.”
“A what, dear?” Julia asked.
“Turkey. It’s slang for colossal failure.”
“How on earth did they come up with a name like that?” Gideon asked through a cloud of smoke.
“The Union’s theater critic could tell you, Papa. Turkey actors are hopeful performers—generally a lot more optimistic than they are talented. They get together, hire a hall, and perform a play on Thanksgiving Day.”
“I still don’t see—”
“Audiences are always in a good mood on Thanksgiving, stuffed with turkey and chestnuts and easy to please. The actors in these shows were usually so bad, though, that turkey became synonymous with a flop—such as the late, unlamented wilderness drama by J. Pulsifer Todd, Esquire. In Fort Wayne, Mr. Todd rushed out onstage to control the crowd and got hit with a melon. A very large, rotten melon. I think that’s when he realized there was no hope. He canceled the rest of the tour, paid us off, and disbanded the company.”
“Well, I’ve never gotten used to seeing missiles fly out of the audience,” Julia said. “I’m sure your experience must have been terribly unsettling.”
Eleanor smiled. “Oh, I’ve been through it with four or five other shows. And it could have been worse. We could have been performing one of those Ibsen dramas all the bluenoses consider so filthy. We could have been pelted with garbage and put in jail.”
“I don’t think Mr. Ibsen’s work is filthy,” Julia declared. “In fact, I read a translation of A Doll’s House and found it quite moving. To my way of thinking, it’s a suffragist play.”
“I agree. I intend to do the leading role one day.” It was an ambition she and Leo talked about often. “Anyway, being let go in Fort Wayne really wasn’t that bad.”
“Is that when Leo asked you to set a date?” Gideon wanted to know.
It was no more than a casual question, yet it set her nerves on edge and destroyed the mood of good cheer which had been with her during the meal. Gideon’s inquiry reminded her of how long she’d held Leo off—and why. For the space of a second or two, she concentrated on an image of the closed door. Soon she felt calmer. But the earlier mood was indeed broken.
“That’s right,” she said. Calling on all her acting skill, she leaned back in her chair, and forced a smile and a sigh of contentment. “And it’s wonderful to be home again, even for a little while.”
“It’s wonderful to have you here,” Gideon said, though she noticed uneasily that he was watching her more closely than he had a few minutes ago. He gestured with his cigar, tracing a blue line in the air. “You’ve hardly touched your sherbet, though.”
Julia leaned forward. “You ate very little of anything. Are you feeling all right?”
She smiled as best she could. “Perfect. I guess I’m too excited to eat, that’s all.”
“Understandable,” Julia said. “You must be very happy to be marrying such a handsome young man.”
I’m terrified, she thought as she nervously pushed aside the plate holding the silver sherbet dish. She laced her fingers together in front of her, thinking of the door with desperate concentration
. The door was closed. Closed and locked—
“Leo’s a dear, kind person,” she forced herself to say finally. “I love him very much.”
And then she noticed her father scrutinizing her again, his good eye like a bright blue light that somehow seemed to transfix her and melt away her artifice, until he saw the unhappy truth. Was that why his expression had become more sober, and why he sat straighter than before? His scrutiny made her uncomfortable. She wanted to break off the dinner conversation and leave.
Gideon, unfortunately, had different ideas.
CHAPTER XII
A FATHER’S FEAR
i
“LEO’S A DEAR, KIND PERSON. I love him very much.”
For several minutes after Eleanor said that, Gideon turned the response over and over in his mind. Julia had asked about happiness. And Eleanor hadn’t said she was happy. Glad to be home, yes. But not happy to be marrying Leo.
He’d noticed a definite hesitation before she had given her reply. He thought he also noticed something else. A marked change in her mood when Julia asked the question. Before that point in the conversation, Eleanor had seemed to be talking cheerfully. A less charitable person might even have said she was running on, breathlessly cramming every moment full of ideas and anecdotes as if, by means of that distraction, she could avoid—
What?
He didn’t know. The whole notion was probably silly. Yet he continued to study his daughter through a veil of smoke. Her evasive answer disturbed him.
He and Julia had long suspected Eleanor of harboring some deep inner hurt which she refused to discuss. The origin of the hurt was hidden in the past, but the two agreed that the incident had probably taken place during the ransacking of the New York mansion. A female servant had been raped that night, and it was logical to assume Eleanor had been threatened with a similar fate, if not actually subjected to it.
He thought that might explain why his daughter sometimes reacted with shock and alarm when a man touched her unexpectedly. Once, during some horseplay connected with a family game of croquet, Gideon had seen that kind of shock, and the man had been Leo Goldman. In the split second before Eleanor recognized him, there was fright in her eyes—as if the sudden hand on her forearm triggered memories of someone else who had taken hold of her for a less friendly purpose.
Several times, Julia had tried to question her stepdaughter in a tactful way. She’d learned exactly nothing, but the failure was not surprising. Sexual assaults took place in Victorian society, but they were never discussed afterward. A girl who went through such an ordeal was thought to be soiled for life. Beyond that, it was to be expected that Eleanor might not confide in a woman who was not her real mother.
It was also important to remember the time at which the destruction of the mansion had taken place. It was toward the end of a long period in which Eleanor had been dominated, not to say manipulated, by poor Margaret—and without fully realizing that her mother was unbalanced. In Margaret’s last years, her ideas about romance and marital love had become negative and warped, to say the least. Could that too have a bearing on Eleanor’s odd response to Julia’s question? Or was he—typical father!—fearing all sorts of imaginary troubles just because he so very much wanted his daughter’s life to be free of them?
Hard to say. Harder still to unravel the mystery of that night in 1877—at least the part that pertained to Eleanor. He should stop bothering with questions that could never be resolved, and deal with those which could. One such question—and a rather delicate one—remained to be discussed. Perhaps this was as good a time as any to get it out of the way. For whatever the reason, the jolly mood which had persisted for most of the meal had completely dissipated.
ii
“Do you think Carter will be able to come to the wedding, Papa?”
Eleanor’s question interrupted his thoughts. He tried to laugh. It was more of a snort. “If we ever see him again, we’ll certainly ask him.”
Will exclaimed, “He’s only been gone two days, Papa!”
“Oh, yes—a mere two days. Nothing unusual in that.”
Julia looked troubled. “Must you be so caustic, dear? It isn’t the least bit funny.”
“Of course it isn’t. I’m sorry.” He meant it. Carter’s prolonged absences upset Julia terribly. The boy usually dragged home looking much the worse for wear.
With a frown, Eleanor asked, “He’s working again tonight, isn’t he?”
“No,” Gideon said. “On Sunday, he said he would have tonight off. We expected him for dinner.”
Julia flashed him another sorrowing look. Eleanor asked, “What does he do when he stays away so long?”
Gideon shrugged. “God only knows.” He didn’t dare reveal what he’d learned about his stepson’s fondness for waterfront dens.
Will sat with downcast eyes and fidgeted on his chair. His expression showed that he didn’t like to hear his stepbrother being picked apart. Julia reached out to tap his arm.
“Come, young man. Not so glum. No one’s insulting Carter. But we do worry about him.”
“Carter can take care of himself! He’s old enough to stay away as long as he wants—and he can talk his way out of any mess he gets into.”
Let’s hope your confidence is warranted, Gideon thought. What he said was. “Quite right. I only wish he wouldn’t test our faith so frequently.”
So saying, he smiled at his son. That mollified Will a little. “Now, young man, we have wedding details to discuss. I’m sure you’d find that very boring.” Will nodded in an emphatic way.
“Then you may be excused,” his father said. The boy hurried out.
A frown creased Eleanor’s forehead. “What details, Papa? I thought we’d covered most everything.”
“Yes, we’ve taken care of all the arrangements for the ceremony and reception,” Julia said with a nod. “But there’s one point your father and I felt we would be remiss not to mention.”
Silence. Eleanor’s frown deepened. The window glass whined under the thrust of the December wind. From the floor below rose the sweet smell of pine logs and branches. Some of the servants were readying the Yuletide house decorations.
“There really isn’t much preparation required for a civil ceremony—” Eleanor began.
Watching her closely, Gideon said, “It isn’t what happens before the wedding that we want to discuss. It’s what might happen afterward.”
She stiffened. It was almost as though a mask had been clapped onto her lovely face. “Papa, I find that a rather personal subject—and an inappropriate one, I might add— for this occasion or any other.”
The tone and tenor of her words disturbed him. She sounded angry and inflexible to the point of shrillness. For a moment, he’d heard an eerie echo of Margaret in her voice. It was the very first time he’d ever noticed such a thing.
Julia intervened to lessen the tension. “He isn’t referring to matters that are solely the province of a husband and wife. He’s referring to what’s involved when you marry someone of Leo’s faith.”
“Oh.” The moment Eleanor understood, she relaxed and was herself again. “You mean the kind of bullying he sometimes gets because of his name? Or the other ways people show how much they dislike Jews?”
“Exactly,” Julia said.
“Something poisonous is happening in this country,” Gideon said. “A hundred years ago, Jewish families such as the Rothmans were welcome here, and easily assimilated. About ten years ago, things began to change. An important New York banker like Joseph Seligman could be turned away from the Grand Union Hotel in Saratoga Springs, and now that sort of incident is repeated a thousand times a month. Just last week, Theo Payne told me one Saratoga hotel has put up a sign that says: ‘No Jews and no dogs admitted.’ ”
Eleanor gave a sad little shake of her head. “You forget, Papa—Leo and I have been on the road seven years. I’m familiar with that sort of thing.”
“You may have encountered it,” Julia agreed.
“But have you actually felt that kind of viciousness directed against yourself?”
“Of course. I’ve usually been right there at Leo’s side. He takes it in stride. Well—most of the time.” She gave a small sigh. “I can’t understand why people harbor such an intense dislike of the Jews. In school we were taught that any man is welcome in this country, no matter who he is or where he comes from.”
“That’s the theory,” Gideon agreed. “And it’s a splendid one. Sometimes, though, reality falls far short. Some human beings can’t explain their own failures except by finding scapegoats. And some are threatened by the economic competition a minority usually represents. That’s why the Irish were the favorite scapegoats for so long. These days the Italians and all the Jews arriving from Eastern Europe are the fancied threat to people who’ve been here for couple of generations.”
“Your father and I want you to marry a man you love,” Julia added. “But we also want you to do so with your eyes open. You’ll almost certainly encounter a great deal of ugliness when you’re Leo’s wife. Can you deal with it?”
Eleanor smiled a radiant smile. “Easily. Together Leo and I can do anything.”
The answer bothered Gideon. He suspected that youth and romance had colored Eleanor’s perceptions. He felt she was being highly unrealistic. He hoped she wouldn’t receive a sudden and disillusioning jolt one of these days— which was precisely why he’d raised the whole question. Paradoxically, though, he found himself envying the cheerful optimism of what she’d just said—and wondering whether he had completely misinterpreted her earlier response to Julia’s question about happiness.
“Besides, Papa,” she went on, “I think you’re painting too gloomy a picture. People in this country are basically quite decent. And if things do get nasty once in a while, Leo and I can always escape.”
“Escape?” Gideon repeated, jolted again. Her word unexpectedly conjured an image of Margaret’s room: Margaret’s locked door, the fearful barrier behind which she’d hidden her madness, and her pain—