“What was that for?” he asked, wiping his cheek.
“You’re really growing up,” she said. “That was a very grownup thing to say. Mike will be so happy to hear that you’re at least willing to talk to him.”
“Well, maybe he won’t be too bad.”
Mike showed up a short time later, and Sandy made the excuse that she had to run to town to pick up a few things. Ethan turned the TV up louder than necessary and feigned interest in a rerun of Petticoat Junction, laughing a little too loudly at the jokes. Mike turned the TV off when a commercial came on.
“Hey, I was watching that,” said Ethan.
“I know,” said Mike. “You can turn it back on in a minute, if you want. I would kind of like to talk, though. I think we need to.”
“I don’t feel much like talking today, maybe later.”
“Very well then, if you ever decide you’re ready to talk, give me a call, and I’ll drop everything and run right over.” He turned the TV back on and started towards the front door.
“Wait!” said Ethan.
“Yes?”
“I don’t really want to talk right now, but if you don’t mind, I’d kind of like a few pointers on lifting weights and working out. You seem to be in pretty good shape.”
“Now that I can do,” said Mike.
When Sandy returned home, she smiled to herself at the site of Ethan sitting on his workout bench having a serious conversation with Mike about the best high-protein foods for building muscle mass. And she knew things were going to be okay when the two shifted their conversation to classic cars, Ethan’s face lighting up at an invitation to view Mike’s collection.
Chapter 21
With all the events of the last day, Ethan nearly forgot about his appointment with Clara Satterfield. He rode his bike as fast as he could go without losing control of it, but he was still ten minutes late. He knocked several times on the kitchen door before Clara finally opened it.
“You’re late,” she said, looking at him disdainfully through the screen door.
“Only ten minutes,” said Ethan timidly.
“So that’s it, no apology, just an excuse? I’ve got better things to do today anyway.” She started to close the door.
“No, wait,” said Ethan, pleadingly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude. It’s my fault I’m late.”
“Of all the disrespect in this world, I set aside precious time to talk to you, and you show up late with a pitiful excuse.”
“I’m terrible sorry,” said Ethan.
“Oh, just forget it,” said Clara, opening the screen door. “Come on in, if you must. I’m sorry for being my usual grouchy old self again. I want to be a nicer person—I really do, but old habits are hard to break. Besides, my nerves are a mess today.”
Ethan walked inside the house like a timid hungry cat.
“I made some coffee,” she said.
“I’d love some,” said Ethan, surprised by her hospitality.
She poured the coffee into cups, and the two sat down across from each other at the small kitchen table.
“I would offer you cream,” said Clara, “but there’s none left.”
“That’s okay,” said Ethan. “I’m fine with just a few of these sugar cubes.”
“I suppose you’re not used to me being cordial.”
Ethan wasn’t sure of the right response to that, so he said nothing and sipped his coffee.
“Well,” she began, “where did I leave off yesterday? Let me think.”
Ethan sat his coffee cup on the table and said, “I know why Miss Green stole Horace from you and married him. She did it to save you. I went to the cemetery yesterday and found out something that shocked me pretty good.”
Clara visibly jerked at this revelation and said, “My, Zelma must have told you a great deal. And you called him by his first name, Horace. He hated that name. Zelma always called him Horace, but I could never bring myself to do it, not even now. If you know that much, I think you know where this is going. Maybe you know what, no who, is down in the cellar.”
“I think I’ve figured it out,” said Ethan, feeling his heart thumping in his chest. “But please, I want you to finish telling me everything. I’d really appreciate it.”
“Very well then, we’ve gone this far. I might as well finish. Yes, Zelma threw herself into the fire to protect me, but I didn’t know that until years later. She knew I would interfere if I really knew who he was. You see, she not only married him to save me, but she did it to stop him from victimizing any other girl who might be fooled in taking him as a husband. She sacrificed her own happiness for others. I see that now, though for years I wished that she had stayed out of it, felt that I could have handled him for all the money I would have gotten out of it. He was very rich, very much so.
“I seethed inside when Granville and Zelma began actively courting, cried myself to sleep nearly every night. Yes, I had emotions once. But through it all I somehow managed to do my job, having nowhere else to go. The final straw came when they formally announced their engagement. I didn’t understand it at all at the time. Zelma didn’t love him, none whatsoever. I could see it in her face, in her body movements. Was she really so jealous of my potential happiness that she’d marry a man she didn’t love, in fact had contempt for? It was the most perplexing thing in the world to me.
“About a week before the wedding, deciding I could tolerate the situation no further, I pack my few belongings and gave my verbal resignation to Zelma. It occurred to me that I really should give her some notice, so I told her I would stay until the day after the wedding.
“Zelma seemed shock, though should she have, really? Did she expect that I would go on working under such deplorable circumstances?
“‘I really don’t want you to leave,’ she said. ‘What would it take to persuade you to stay?’
“‘Nothing can persuade me,’ I said. ‘You know why I’m leaving. I can assure you I am extremely disheartened and disappointed in you, but there’s nothing I can do but get away from it all. If you wish to marry a man you don’t love just to keep me in my place, best of luck to you.’
“She suddenly grabbed me by my arm, causing me to flinch in fright. ‘You’re right,’ she said, ‘I absolutely don’t love him. If you think I’m marrying him for love, then you have never been more wrong.’
“‘Then what is it?’ I demanded of her, wrenching my arm away, quite shaken. ‘Money, is that why? You’re not rich enough already; you need millions more to rot in the bank?’
“‘Money has nothing to do with it. I think you know that,’ she said.
“‘I don’t know anything anymore,’ I said. ‘I once thought you were a friend, but now I know differently.’
“Tears came to her eyes, and she said, ‘I really wish I could tell you why I’m marrying him, but I can’t. I can only tell you that I’m doing it for your benefit and the benefit of others.’
“‘If he’s that bad,’ I said, ‘why should either of us marry him? We could just send him on his way and not be bothered. You’re really not making any sense. I do question your motives.’
“She grabbed my arm again and looked me in the eyes. I pulled my arm loose again, my heart pounding. ‘Listen to me,’ she said. ‘I feel I have to marry him now. If I don’t marry him, someone else will, someone who doesn’t know him like I do. I know his heart, his cold and rotten heart. I won’t let him marry anyone else. I’d send him to his grave before I’d let that happen.’
“‘I’ll be gone in a week,’ I said, quite shaken to the core. ‘I’ll stay and help you prepare for that sham wedding, but when it’s done, you will see me no more.’ I turned to storm out of the kitchen, but then Zelma latched a shackle around my ankle; I say that metaphorically.
“‘One hundred dollars a month,’ she said. ‘That is your new salary if you will stay. I really don’t want to lose you, and maybe someday we can be friends again.’
“Though it may not sound like much toda
y, that was an astonishing amount of money to pay a housekeeper at the time. I stopped in the kitchen doorway, my back to her, and said, ‘Very well then, under one condition...’
“‘Yes, anything,’ she said.
“‘I will agree to stay, but you will no longer consider me a friend or confidant. I will be just a housekeeper, though I prefer to be called secretary. I will stay for the money, nothing else. And for such a generous salary, I promise to be very good and proficient, the best in fact.’
“‘Very well then,’ she said, ‘it’s a deal, though I hope one day we will be friends again. Your new title is secretary and your salary is one hundred dollars a month.’
“‘Thank you, Madam,’ I said. ‘You’re very generous.’
“‘Please don’t call me Madam,’ she said.
“‘Yes, Zelma,’ I said and walked out of the kitchen. I went to my room and unpacked my bags.”
“Why did you want to be called secretary?’ asked Ethan.
“As a girl I had this dream of one day being a secretary. Having that title fulfilled my dream in some silly way, I suppose.”
“That makes sense,” said Ethan.
“I guess in some ways I have been a secretary as well as a housekeeper. I have always handled the finances, making sure the bills are paid and needed repairs are done.”
“So did you become friends again?”
“I’m not sure how to answer that. I think inseparable may be a better way to describe it. As events unfolded over the years, I reluctantly began to appreciate what she had done for me by marrying Granville, especially so on that horrible last night of his life. She had taken a bullet for me, so to speak, though my pride never allowed me to thank her for it. But as to friendship, I never really knew how to be a friend. My heart had grown too cold over my loveless life to have any true feeling of affection for others. As for Zelma, she came to depend upon me to handle anything that wasn’t of art or leisure, such as bills or repairs, as I stated. In Zelma’s mind we were friends, I’m sure, so I’ll offer that as the best answer to your question. I will say this: if Zelma could somehow come back today, I would be a friend to her like no other.
“I know you must be wondering why I haven’t done anything about the paint on the exterior, to change the subject. It’s really embarrassing to me.”
“It really could use a new paint job,” said Ethan.
“George Britt, Zelma’s fourth husband, painted this house, painted it himself. He could have easily of hired it done, but he was a hands-on type of man. He hadn’t been born into money and was used to hard work. Zelma felt very sentimental about the fading and chipping paint on this old house. George had been very proud of it. He died a few days after its completion.”
“I had wondered why someone with Zelma’s money would let the paint get so worn,” said Ethan.
“The funny thing is, only a few days ago Zelma asked me to find someone to paint it.”
“Wonder what brought that on?”
“I think it was you,” said Clara, standing up and refilling her coffee cup, before sitting back down. “For her, you brought new life into this old tomb. Maybe you reminded her of her lost son, though you are older now than he ever lived to be.”
Ethan thought about this, and it occurred to him that maybe he had been as helpful to Miss Green as she had been to him. He looked over Miss Satterfield with empathy and wished that he could do something to help her, wished he could somehow send her back to her youth to start over again and live a better life. She seemed to be someone who had missed every opportunity for happiness. There were very few wrinkles on her face, though she by no means looked young. She had the smooth complexion of someone who had rarely laughed or smiled or cried, of someone who had lived a long life but had never known what it feels like to be alive.
“So anyway,” she continued, “that farce of a wedding moved forward. I can’t express to you enough how uncomfortable and stressful a job this was during that dreadful period of their marriage. Those two fought constantly. Granville would often come home late at night very drunk. I would be awakened by the sound of them screaming at each other, saying words to each other that could wilt flowers. I became extremely concerned one morning when Zelma came down to breakfast with a black eye, but when Granville came downstairs with two black eyes, I knew that Zelma could handle herself just fine, surprising for such a delicate flower as she.
“To make matters far worse, on days when Zelma wasn’t home, Granville would often attempt to resume a relationship with me. I can’t tell you how disgusted that made me feel. It turns my stomach to this very day to think about it. I won’t horrify you with the gory details of it all. When he finally realized that I truly wanted nothing to do with him, he tried many times to have me fired, but Zelma wouldn’t hear of it. Her will was as strong, if not stronger, than his.
“As time went by, as I increasingly realized what a horrible man Granville was, I became protective of Zelma. In fact, I considered it my duty to defend her. But Zelma insisted that I stay out of the way, that Granville would harm me if I interfered.
“Then one night it all came to a head. Granville came home later and even drunker than usual. He brazenly beat on my door, which I always kept locked at night, awakening me from a deep sleep.
“‘Open the door,’ he screamed. ‘Zelma won’t have me, so I’ll get it from you. It’s time you earned some of that fortune we’re paying you.’
“‘Stay away from her,’ I heard Zelma yell. ‘Meet me upstairs if you must. Just leave her alone.’
“With that I heard him walk away. I cried in my pillow, horrified by what Zelma must be going through. Finally, unable to sleep, I went to the kitchen and percolated some coffee. Spilling coffee as I nervously poured it into my cup, I was not aware yet that it was only the beginning of the worst night of my life. No, the night was destined to get much worse. But for a time all was quiet. Finally, assured that the storm had passed, that Granville had likely passed out in his drunken state, I stood up to return to my room. I had nearly made it to the door when the yelling and cursing began, the likes of which I won’t repeat to your delicate ears.
“‘Let me out of this bed, Witch,’ Granville screamed. “I’ll add that I substituted the word witch.
“Unable to stand it any further, I ran upstairs to defend Zelma, ignoring that it was not my place to do so. I swung their bedroom door open and found Zelma beating Granville with a cane, that horse’s head cane she always carried later in life, strangely enough. It was Granville’s cane during the time of these events. I saw that Granville was defenseless; Zelma had sewn the bedclothes tight to the bed.
“‘Please leave!’ she yelled to me. ‘I’ve got this under control. He’s needed a good beating for many years now. Tonight he will get it.’
“I stood frozen, horrified, wanting desperately to do something.
“‘Leave now,’ she yelled again, ‘or you will be fired.’
“This broke my spell, and I walked away crying uncontrollably. I returned to the kitchen, poured myself another cup of coffee, and sat down at the table. I trembled all over like a wet mouse. Then I heard a gunshot and a scream, Zelma’s scream. I dropped my coffee cup, and it shattered onto the floor.
“‘He’s loose, and he’s got a gun,’ Zelma shouted desperately as she fled the scene. I entered the hallway in time to see her running down the staircase. She ran into the kitchen in a sheer panic. ‘He’s going to kill me, maybe us both,’ she pleaded
“I don’t know for sure why it happened, but all my fear left me at that moment. ‘No he won’t,’ I told her. ‘Just sit down and let me handle this.’ At about the same moment, Granville entered the kitchen. Ignoring my suggestion, Zelma attempted vainly to vacate the house, struggling with the troublesome kitchen door lock. The door to the dining room was also closed. We were essentially trapped.
“Granville walked into the kitchen, a sneer on his face. He pointed a large handgun directly at Zelma’s head. ‘So you
’ve thought all this time that George’s hunting accident was really an accident,’ he said, laughing sarcastically. ‘His other partner had something come up that day, so I was only too happy to take his place.’
“Zelma seemed utterly taken aback by this revelation. ‘You killed George,” she simply stated, ‘and you killed my friend Mittie. I had a revelation that you pushed her down the steps. In my mind I saw you do it, that day of the funeral.’
“‘You are amazing,’ Granville said, grinning. ‘I’ll give you that much. That’s exactly how I killed her. And as for George, I never liked him. You should be ashamed of yourself for marrying someone so beneath you.’
“Zelma was extremely pale, breathing heavily, and clutching her chest, on the verge of passing out, I’m sure.
“That’s when I did it.”
“Did what?” asked Ethan, his hands clasped tightly, his palms slightly sweaty with anticipation.
“I reached into the pocket of my dress and pulled out a tiny pistol I’d recently purchased. With all the violence in the house, I had felt a need to own one. Granville was looking away from me towards Zelma, ready to shoot her at any moment. Cool as a cucumber, I raised the pistol, pointed it towards him, and fired. The bullet hit him in the shoulder. He screamed in his shock at what had happened and dropped his gun. I immediately kicked it out into the hallway, dropping mine to the floor also, as I had used its only bullet on him. He staggered towards me with his arms outreached, as though to choke me, but I grabbed an iron skillet off of the stove and hit him over the head with it. My nerves having fled me by this point, I didn’t hit him hard enough the first time and dropped the skillet to the floor. The blow simply startled him. Retrieving the skillet, I knock him in the head a little harder. He stumbled about rubbing his head. Seizing the opportunity, Zelma and I ran out into the hallway. He unexpectedly followed after us.
“I could hardly believe what happened next.”
“What happened?” asked Ethan, raising his clinched hands to his chin.
“Zelma yelled his name, ‘Horace!’ He turned and stumbled towards her, his arms reaching up to grab her. Like the wind, she flung open the cellar door and moved out of his way. Horace tried to stop himself but lost his balance and tumbled down the steps, all the way to the bottom. She slammed and locked the door behind him.
A Million Doorways Page 22