One night Emma woke up from a nightmare. Always when she had a bad dream she ran to Bahama’s room for comfort, but Bahama was not there. Emma sat up in bed, shivering with terror, then slipped out of bed and walked quietly down the hall to David and Edith’s room. From within she heard strange sounds that sounded like pain, Edith’s voice rising and rising until it seemed to break; her father letting out a groan of what Emma thought was anguish. This was worse than the nightmare. She backed away and ran to her bed, where she lay awake for hours. In the morning she was surprised to see her father and Edith sitting at the breakfast table, reading the papers.
Emma determined to protect Inez from the ugly sounds she had heard; that was the only thing she could do. Edith was not affectionate with Emma, but neither was she affectionate with the baby, Inez. She did not like being drooled on, and she seldom picked the baby up except when she was showing her off to guests, and then she held her clumsily. When Edith entertained, or when she and David were out, which was frequently, Emma had dinner on a tray in her room.
One day, when Edith was expecting guests, both the cook and the nurse came down with an intestinal virus and Edith was beside herself. Emma retreated to her room to do her homework. The baby began to cry. Emma, carrying the three-ring notebook she was greatly proud of, walked toward the nursery, intending to pick Inez up and see if she needed changing. Edith, frantic, rushed in and slapped Emma. Emma, startled, dropped her notebook. Edith bent over the crib so that she was on a level with Emma, and Emma returned the slap.
Edith gasped and put her hand to her cheek. ‘You hit me!’
‘You hit me first,’ Emma said.
Inez howled.
No one noticed that Adair, who was now a student at Columbia, had let himself into the apartment, until he stood in the doorway, asking, ‘What’s going on?’
‘She hit me!’ Edith began to cry.
‘The nurse and the cook are sick,’ Emma explained to Adair, ‘and she’s having company for dinner.’ She picked up the baby, held her over one shoulder, and patted her bottom. ‘She’s soaking. I’ll take care of it. You go see about your dinner,’ she told Edith. ‘The maid’s okay. She can help.’ Edith, weeping, left the nursery. Emma set about changing the baby.
Adair picked up her notebook and smoothed out the crumpled pages. ‘Did you really hit Edith?’
‘She slapped me, so I slapped her.’
Adair laughed. ‘Good for you.’ Then, ‘But, Em, love, hitting people back isn’t the best thing to do.’
Emma sat in the rocking chair by the crib and rocked, patting Inez gently between the shoulder blades, and the child slid into a contented sleep. ‘Sure.’ She kissed Inez on the fuzz on top of her head and put her back in the crib.
‘I came to see if you wanted to go for a walk.’
‘I have a lot of homework to do, and I think I’d better stay with Inez. Edith isn’t used to getting dinner.’
‘There are a lot of things Edith isn’t used to,’ Adair said. ‘Emma, you do not have to stay here with Edith, you know.’
Emma looked at him in surprise. That she had any choice in the matter had not occurred to her.
‘Think it over,’ Adair said. ‘Okay, pet, see you soon.’
Evidently Adair called his father, because David came into Emma’s room that night and sat on the edge of her bed. She could hear the voices of the guests in the living room. ‘Emma, is Edith in the habit of slapping you?’
‘No, Papa, only a couple of times. And this time I slapped her back.’
‘She is never to slap you again.’ He took Emma in his arms, rocking her. ‘I’m going into rehearsal for a new play. We’ll get into a better routine. I know it hasn’t been easy.’
‘Papa.’ Emma pressed her cheek against the tweed of his jacket. Her voice came out muffled. ‘I don’t want to stay here with Edith.’
‘But, my darling—’
‘I want to go to my mother.’ Now that Adair had given her a choice, she was firm. Adair had probably been thinking that Emma should go to Marical. But Emma wanted a mother, not a stepmother.
There was a long silence. Then David said, ‘I thought you might ask to go to Bahama.’
‘I think it’s time I went to my mother.’ Her voice was flat, adamant. David’s arms tightened about her and he kissed the top of her head, gently, over and over, until at last he moved away from her, saying, ‘All right, I’ll work on it.’
A dancer friend of Harriet’s was going to Hollywood and was willing to let Emma travel with her. David had long conversations on the phone with Elizabeth.
‘Darling.’ He looked at Emma gravely. ‘Your mother says of course, come. But I did not hear great enthusiasm in her voice.’
‘She doesn’t know me,’ Emma said. All she knew was that she could not stay in the house with Edith and that she needed to know her mother.
The trip to the West Coast was tiring but uneventful. Harriet’s friend delivered Emma in a taxi to Elizabeth’s house in Beverly Hills. It was not one of the great mansions, but it was, to Emma, elaborate enough, with a swimming pool and a small guest house.
Elizabeth looked at Emma, who was pale with exhaustion. Held out her hand, awkwardly, to shake Emma’s. ‘Come in. Sit down, and we’ll talk for a few minutes. Do you want anything to eat?’
‘I’m thirsty.’
Elizabeth rang a bell and a Filipino servant came into the room, making no sound on the thick carpet. ‘She’s thirsty, Harro,’ Elizabeth said. The servant nodded, disappeared. Elizabeth looked at her daughter with somewhat the same critical gaze with which Edith had regarded her. ‘You don’t resemble me. Or your father, as far as I can tell. He says you’re going to be an actress.’
Emma sat next to her mother on the couch, trembling with fatigue.
Elizabeth laughed with embarrassment. ‘Emma, I don’t know how to be a mother. I don’t think it’s one of my talents. I never had a mother of my own. She died when I was four.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Emma said.
Harro came in with a glass of lemonade for Emma, smiled at her, and left.
Elizabeth looked at her daughter. ‘This isn’t going to be easy for either of us. I have a very busy life.’
‘Papa said you’re not making a movie right now.’
‘I’m seeing people. Looking into things. I’m out a great deal. What about school?’
‘I don’t need to go to school. At least, not for a while. I can catch up whenever I need to. Shall I call you Mother or Mama?’
Elizabeth put her hand to her mouth. Took it down. ‘Elizabeth. Call me Elizabeth.’
‘Can I see my room?’
Elizabeth said, ‘I think you’ll be happier in the guest house. You don’t mind being alone, do you?’
Emma felt as though a fist had clenched in her stomach.
Elizabeth continued, ‘There’s a bell. One of the servants will come immediately if you need anything. Rudy—one of my friends—bought you some books and some dolls. You do play with dolls?’
‘I think I’d like to see my room,’ Emma said.
It was large and pleasant, with pale peach walls and bright chintz. A small bookcase was filled with picture books. There were stuffed animals on the bed, and several dolls in little chairs.
‘Am I going to eat with you?’ Emma asked.
‘Of course. Whenever I’m home. I have a dinner party tonight.’ There was no rebuff, but there was no warmth, no welcome. When Elizabeth left her, Emma sat down on a chintz-covered stool, too numb even to weep.
She’d had dreams, built from seeing Marical with her children, dreams of Elizabeth bright as a butterfly and loving as the mother in Little Lord Fauntleroy or Peter Pan. She sat with her shattered dreams.
Emma stood it for two weeks, seeing Elizabeth only in glimpses, cared for by Harro, who was solicitous, who made her feel that she mattered to someone. From the main house at night, bright lights streamed onto the lawn, and so did people, laughing in high voices, glasses in han
d. One night a man in a tuxedo came to the guest house and knocked. Emma opened the door. The man was pleasant, curious, and at least a little concerned about the waif who was Elizabeth’s daughter.
He sat down on the foot of Emma’s bed, a glass in his hand. ‘If you looked like Shirley Temple, she’d be showing you off to all her guests,’ he said, his voice slightly slurred. ‘She’s making a mistake about you, you know. You might be an actress, after all, a real one. You have that kind of face that’s nothing until the camera—or the stage lights—hit it. Would you like me to talk to somebody?’
‘No, thank you,’ Emma said.
‘You have something special, little one,’ the man said, and reached out to pull Emma to him. She wriggled out of his grasp.
‘No. Please.’
Suddenly Harro stood beside her.
The man took a sip of his drink and laughed. ‘No harm meant, little one. I thought you were lonely.’ He left the guest house, walking a little unsteadily.
The next day Harro helped her call home. David said, ‘Oh, my darling, we’ll get you out of this. Bahama’s away with friends, but Grandpa Bowman—you’ll go to Grandpa Bowman.’
Then she wept.
When she got to Georgia, Grandpa Bowman held her in his strong arms, tickled her with his beard, fed her, tucked her in bed, waited with her until she fell asleep.
They did not speak of Elizabeth for two days. Then, one evening after dinner, which Emma had helped Grandpa cook, he took her into his dusty library, sat in a cracked leather chair, drew her into his lap.
‘You haven’t had enough lap-sitting.’ He put his arm comfortingly around her, and she leaned against him. ‘Child, I’m sorry,’ he said.
She did not move, hearing the steady thud-thud of his heart.
‘How far people can move apart.’ The gustiness of his sigh shook her. ‘Your mother was a beautiful child, curly hair. A mouth like yours.’
‘She said I didn’t look like her.’
‘You don’t. But the mouth is the same. People adored her and she was cute, too cute.’
‘Like Shirley Temple?’ Emma remembered the slightly drunk man in the tuxedo.
‘Maybe. She was a natural-born actress, your mother, and one day when she was no more than a mite of a thing, she came up to the pulpit and started to speak, and the congregation was quieter than a winter’s night and I let her go on talking about how Jesus loved her. God help me, I encouraged her, simple-minded that I was, not heeding that it was the applause that excited her, not Jesus’ love. She had heard me, she had learned the words, but they were empty for her except for the responses, the “Yes, Lord!” the “Amen! Hallelujah!” I should have known that she fed on the thrill. Her mother, my beloved wife, was dead. She would have seen the terrible hollow at the heart of our child’s preaching. I did not.’
Emma continued to lie against him, listening to his heart beat, half hearing his words.
‘When she went to school the preaching stopped, but she was queen of whatever they were queen of in those days, and when she was in high school there was a scout from Hollywood and I lost her. But I blame myself. I should have seen, I should have—’
She wriggled against his chest. ‘No, Grandpa. She didn’t want me. She didn’t love me—’ She began to cry and the words were lost.
‘Or anybody,’ he said. ‘There’s the tragedy. Not anybody. There are women who cannot—should not—be mothers. My daughter is one of them.’
‘Do you love her, Grandpa?’
He rocked her. ‘Yes. I love Lizzie.’
‘Lizzie?’
‘That’s what we called her. I am anguished, child, anguished, by her inability to be a mother for you. But yes. I love her.’
‘Do you love me, Grandpa?’
Again he rocked her, rocked, rocked. His heart beat, thud-thud. ‘You are the child of my heart. You are the blessing God has given me in my old age.’
Leaning against his solid chest, she relaxed in the firmness of his love.
The days flowed past, warm, gentle. One morning at breakfast he looked at her, a long, thoughtful gaze. ‘Emma, child.’ They were sitting out on the porch, basking in the morning sun.
Emma put down her glass of milk. ‘What, Grandpa?’
‘Edith has left.’
‘Left Papa?’
‘Yes. Edith is a lawyer, and has clever lawyer friends. She has managed to stick your Papa for a ferocious amount of alimony.’
‘What’s that?’
‘He has to pay her an inordinate—a great deal of money—until she marries again. Let’s hope that’s soon.’
‘Does Papa have an inor—a lot of money?’
‘A reasonable amount, but not a lot. He’s going to have to take any job he can get, in New York, in Hollywood, on the road. It’s not going to be easy.’
‘Bahama?’
‘Bahama’s back in New York. As soon as she heard what happened, she left the friends she was traveling with and came back to your father. But he’s going on tour for several weeks, and we all agree that it might be best if you stay with me until things get pulled together.’
‘Is that okay with you, Grandpa?’
‘Very.’
‘It’s okay with me, too.’
‘But we’re going to have to do something about school.’
‘No, please, Grandpa, no—’ She did not know why she suddenly felt panic. School had never been a problem in New York.
He took a drink of his coffee. ‘I will teach you. Not what you might learn in school, but I think that at this point in your education that doesn’t matter too much.’
Visibly, she relaxed. ‘Grandpa. Thank you.’
Bahama sent her long, chatty letters. ‘We’re playing three nights in Buffalo—your father is playing, that is. He’s quite depressed, so it’s best if I travel with him. Tomorrow we have some free time, so we’re going to Niagara Falls.’
David sent her funny postcards, with lots of naughts and crosses.
She was happy. Grandpa’s schooling was fun and very different from ordinary schooling. Grandpa had decided to give her instruction in the world of the Old Testament, especially the period of King David, who was the old man’s favorite character. Grandpa Bowman had been the first to suggest to David Wheaton that King David was a role he ought to play.
‘So, child, when did David, the sweet singer of Israel, when did he live?’ They sat at the round library table in the cluttered room filled with thousands of books.
‘Nearly three thousand years ago, I think.’
‘That is a reasonable answer. Who was David?’
Emma replied dutifully, as she might have done in school. ‘David was the second king.’
‘The second king of what?’
‘Israel and Judah.’
‘Who was the first?’
‘Saul. But Saul had evil spirits inside him and he wasn’t very nice. Anyhow, having a king was—’
‘Go on.’
‘The Jews hadn’t ever had a king. They had patriarchs—Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. And then there was Joseph, and Moses leaving Egypt and going to the Promised Land.’
‘You learn well, child. You retain. Go on.’
‘Well, the Jews wanted a king. God was all they needed, but they wanted to have a king like other peoples, and they asked Samuel, who was their prophet, to go to God and find them a king.’
Never should there have been a king in Israel,’ Wesley Bowman thundered. ‘When the people demanded a king, they were showing that they had lost faith in the Lord.’
Wesley Bowman’s voice rolled across the filled pews. Emma sat in the front row, where she had been firmly placed, looking at her grandfather with his white beard blowing as though in a strong wind from the force of his words. ‘“Now also when I am old and grey-headed, O God, forsake me not; until I have shewed thy strength unto this generation, and thy power to every one that is to come.” God’s powah. God’s forgotten powah.’ Grandpa Bowman’s Georgia accent was str
ong when he was vehement.
‘Remember, O my people, it was the Lord who brought your fathers to this place and gave it to you for a dwelling, and your fathers forgot the Lord, yea, they forgot, forgot! And God sold them into the hands of the Greycoats and the turncoats and the carpetbaggers. Beware, my people, lest you forget! Repent! Repent! For you, too, have turned from the Lord, and have forsaken him, and worshipped instead at the place of the corner drugstore, and the disembodied voices coming through the radio, and singers crooning into their microphone as though they held the body of the beloved. You, too, ask for someone outside to save you when it is the Lord, the Lord only, who is king.’
And Wesley Bowman looked like the prophet Samuel, and he dropped his voice to a whisper, and the people slowed the waving of their palm-leaf fans.
‘There shall be a sign.’ Wesley Bowman paused, sniffing the heavy, humid air. It was summer, and it was hot, but the people had jammed the pews to hear him and their palm-leaf fans swished back and forth with a sound like many wings, but Wesley Bowman’s voice could be heard above them. ‘Now therefoah see this great thing, which the Lord shall do befoah your eyes. I will call unto the Lord, and he shall send thunder and rain; that ye may perceive and see that your wickedness is great, which ye have done in the sight of the Lord.’
Brilliant light struck through the windows and was followed by a booming of thunder. Outside the church the wind lifted suddenly and whipped around the frame building, and thunder came again, even louder than the preacher’s voice, and Emma Wheaton and all the people cringed in their pews.
How did he do it?
While they were eating their evening meal, rice with red beans and chopped onions, Emma asked him. Through his beard she saw his wolfish smile.
‘I listen to the weather forecast. I smell the air.’ Then, waving those words away with a dismissive gesture: ‘I listen to the Lord.’
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