The Unloved

by John Saul

  Kevin shrugged. “Fine with me. It’s time the three of us did something together.” He started out of the room, then turned back, his grin in place again. “And when Jeff comes down, be sure to fuss over the size of his bandage. But don’t believe him when he tells you I was beating up on him.”

  “Beating up on him?” Julie repeated. “Why would he say that? You never beat up on us.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I did give him a whack,” Kevin said, his voice more serious. “Not much of one, but it startled him and he tripped. But to hear him tell it, we’re talking major child abuse.”

  Julie giggled. “I’ll tell him about the time you spanked me with the ruler after I broke your new fishing rod. He’ll think one whack is nothing.”

  “Thanks, I guess,” Kevin said darkly, then disappeared through the door.

  Two hours later, with Jeff wearing a new baseball cap to cover up the large plaster bandage over the stitches on the back of his head, the three of them set out for the movies.

  “You’re sure it’s all right?” Kevin asked Ruby as they were heading out the back door. “If Marguerite’s not feeling well—”

  “She’ll be fine,” Ruby assured them. “I’ve been taking care of her since she was a baby, and I don’t figure I can’t take care of her now. You all get along and have a good time.” She waited by the back door until they were gone, then went to the counter and began preparing a tray for Marguerite. At last, uncertain about what she would find upstairs, she picked up the tray and pushed her way out of the kitchen.

  * * *

  Marguerite sat stiffly on the bench in front of the vanity table, examining her image carefully in the mirror. Her hair, swept up in back, was arranged on top of her head in a clean, spiraling twist, held in place by a large, ornately carved tortoiseshell comb. Her eyes were heavily shadowed, the lids edged in black, the lashes themselves coated with a thick layer of mascara. Her lips were crimson, the brilliant red made even brighter by the pale powder with which she had coated her face. Just below the right corner of her mouth she had placed a single dark spot.

  Now, satisfied at last with her face, she reached for her mother’s jewelry box and began to go through the pieces one by one. She remembered them all, remembered them from her childhood, when she had stood silently by the door to this room, watching Helena get ready for one of her parties.

  Sometimes, if she’d been very, very good, her mother would let her try on some of the jewelry. Marguerite could still remember the string of jet she had loved so much, winding it three times around her neck, then staring in rapture at the glistening black beads, which seemed to catch the light and throw it back in her eyes, almost making her blink with their brilliance.

  But her mother had always made her take off the necklace.

  Now there was no one who could make her take it off.

  She found it at the bottom of the box and gently separated it from the other pieces in which it had become entangled, then held it to her throat. Finally, her fingers trembling, she wrapped it around her neck, fastening the clasp with the ease of habit, even though it had been more than forty years since the necklace had last been against her skin.

  Suddenly the door opened, and she felt a flash of anger. She glanced up in the mirror and saw Ruby standing at the door, her eyes wide as she stared back at Marguerite.

  “What are you doing here?” Marguerite demanded without turning around.

  Ruby flinched, but then stepped forward. “I brought you a tray of supper, Miss Marguerite,” she said. “I thought you might be hungry.”

  Marguerite was silent for a moment, her eyes still fixed on Ruby’s reflection. When at last she spoke, her voice held an edge of petulance that sent a chill through the old housekeeper. “Where is Julie? Why didn’t Julie bring my tray?”

  Now it was Ruby who was silent. She set the tray down on the table by the window, then turned to look at Marguerite once more. “Julie’s gone to the movies,” she said, keeping her voice level. “She went with her father and her brother.”

  Marguerite’s jaw tightened and her eyes narrowed. “She didn’t ask me if she could go—” she began, but Ruby cut her off.

  “She’s not your daughter,” she said, her voice low but firm. She took a step forward. “And what do you think you’re doing? Why are you wearing all that makeup? You tryin’ to make yourself look like your mother?”

  Marguerite said nothing, but her face grew even tighter.

  “You don’t want to do that,” Ruby went on, her voice taking on a soft, soothing tone. “You want to be yourself, Miss Marguerite. You want to be the nice woman you are. You don’t want to be Miss Helena, do you?” She was behind Marguerite now, her hands on Marguerite’s shoulders, rubbing gently. “Why don’t you just come over and sit by the window for a while and have a little supper. I made gumbo for you. You know how much you love gumbo. Just come on over and have a little somethin’ to eat, and you’ll be fine. Just fine …”

  For a second Ruby thought she felt Marguerite relax beneath her touch, but then Marguerite whirled on the stool, knocking Ruby’s hands away. Then her own hand snaked up, slapping Ruby hard across the face.

  “How dare you talk to me like that?” she hissed, her voice taking on all the venom her mother’s had once been able to command. “You mind your manners, Ruby!”

  Ruby gasped and stepped back, her right hand going to her cheek, rubbing at the stinging bruise she felt already beginning to swell. “Don’t you hit me,” she said, her voice dropping. “I’ve taken care of you for a long time, and I’m gonna go on taking care of you. But I ain’t gonna let you hit me, and I ain’t gonna let you talk to me that way. You’re not your mother, and don’t you forget it. And don’t you start thinking Julie’s your daughter either. You think I’m going to let you start in with her the way your mother started in with you? ’Cause if that’s what you think, you better think again!”

  Marguerite was on her feet now, her eyes blazing, her hip throbbing madly. But she ignored the pain as her hand closed on a heavy perfume bottle. In a single, quick motion, she lifted it off the table, hurling it at Ruby.

  Ruby dodged the bottle, and heard it crash against the wall. She stepped forward now, her own hand coming up to strike Marguerite across the face. “I told you not to do that,” she said, her voice dangerous. “What you want? You want to be locked up again? Is that what you want? Because I’ll do it.”

  “Stop it,” Marguerite hissed. “Just stop it, and leave me alone. I’m fine. I’m just fine!”

  “Fine?” Ruby echoed. “Is that why you moved in here to Miss Helena’s room? ’Cause you’re fine? That’s why you got all that makeup all over your face, just like Miss Helena used to wear when you were a little girl? And look at your hair! Just like hers! You ain’t fine, Miss Marguerite!”

  “Don’t talk that way,” Marguerite cried, her hands covering her face. “Mama loved me. Just get out of this room and leave me alone!”

  Ruby shook her head. “I can’t do that, Miss Marguerite. I can’t never do that. Who’s going to look after you? You’re going into one of your bad times, Miss Marguerite.”

  “I’m not,” Marguerite wailed, her words choking in her throat. Sobbing, she lurched across the room and fell onto the bed, burying her face in the pillows. Ruby was suddenly beside her, her hands gently stroking Marguerite.

  “That’s right,” she said. “You let it out. You know you can’t keep everything bottled up—you know what happens to you.”

  Marguerite rolled over, away from Ruby’s touch, then glared furiously at the old woman. “There’s nothing wrong with me,” she spat. “Nothing wrong with me except you. Staring at me all the time, looking at me like you think I’m crazy! But I’m not!”

  “Now you calm down,” Ruby replied. “You just get hold of yourself before I have to tell your brother what’s happening to you. He don’t know nothing about your bad times. But you think he’ll stay here with those kids if I tell him about you?”

>   Marguerite cowered on the bed. “He—He won’t believe you—” she began, but Ruby shook her head.

  “He’ll believe me,” she said, her voice like ice. “Maybe nobody would have believed me twenty years ago, but times have changed, Miss Marguerite. I couldn’t stop your mother from doin’ what she did, but I can stop you from bein’ just like her. And I’ll tell Mr. Kevin if things get bad with you. I’ll tell him, and he’ll believe me if I show him the room downstairs where Miss Helena locked you up. You see if he doesn’t believe me! You see how long he stays here!”

  “No,” Marguerite sobbed, her voice breaking now. “I’ll be good, Ruby, I promise. Don’t tell him—please don’t. I—I couldn’t stand it if you told him and he went away.” Her eyes suddenly darted around the room, as if she were searching for something. “Why do they always go away?” she sobbed. “Mother went away, and Mary-Beth. Even Anne wanted to go away.” She fell back against the pillows, her body heaving.

  Suddenly, with numbing clarity, Ruby understood. “You killed them, didn’t you?” she breathed. “You killed Anne, and you killed Mary-Beth Fletcher too.”

  “They were going to leave me,” Marguerite sobbed. “They were going to leave me. I couldn’t let them, Ruby. Don’t you understand? I just couldn’t let them leave.…”

  Ruby backed away from the bed, stunned. So it was true. She’d thought of it before—just a fleeting thought that she’d instantly rejected, unwilling to face the possibility that Marguerite could have done such a thing. But she’d known.

  She’d known, and had done nothing.

  But now she had to do something. She had to get help, get help for Marguerite, and for herself. If she didn’t—

  “I’ll call Dr. Adams,” she said softly. “I’ll just call the doctor, and he’ll come out. He’ll take care of you.”

  She turned away and started for the door, then heard Marguerite moving. She turned then, but it was already too late. Her eyes burning madly, Marguerite was upon her, hurtling herself toward Ruby, her hands outstretched, her fingers curled into angry claws. Ruby gasped and tried to duck aside, but Marguerite lurched into her, knocking her off balance. She stumbled and fell to the floor, feeling a sharp pain in her ankle.

  Then Marguerite was upon her, scratching at Ruby’s face, pummeling her fists against the housekeeper’s head.

  Ruby tried to defend herself, tried to use her arms to protect herself from Marguerite’s fury, but it was impossible.

  Marguerite stared unseeingly down at Ruby’s face. She had to stop her, stop her before she told Kevin, and Kevin took Julie away from her. And he would too.

  He’d take Julie away from her, just like her mother took her baby away from her, and took her dancing away from her—took everything away from her, until there was nothing left of herself except a shell.

  An empty shell.

  All those years of feeling dead inside.

  All those years of having nothing.

  Nothing except a few hours each week with her girls, who came to her for dancing lessons.

  But they left too. They grew up, and went on with their lives, and left her alone with her mother.

  And even her mother had left her.

  Taken everything she had, then left her.

  But no one else would ever leave her again. Not Ruby, or Kevin, or Julie.

  Certainly not Julie.

  Whatever happened, she’d keep Julie.

  Just as her mother had kept her.

  Except that Ruby wanted to ruin it all. But it wouldn’t happen. She wouldn’t let it happen. Her fingers sank deep into Ruby’s hair, and closed into fists.

  Her arms stiff, she began rocking back and forth, smashing Ruby’s head against the floor over and over again.

  Dimly, as if from a great distance, she could hear Ruby’s screams, but she ignored them and kept rocking.

  It was like riding a rocking horse.

  She could remember it from when she was a tiny little girl.

  You had to sit straight and hold the reins just right. And then you started rocking, and the horse’s head would go up and down, up and down.

  Up and down.

  There was a strange, compelling rhythm to it, almost like swaying to a melody—punctuated by the hollow thump of Ruby’s head striking the hardwood of the floor.

  Ruby was silent now, and her arms had dropped away from their futile struggle against Marguerite. Then, slowly, her energy beginning to drain away, Marguerite stopped rocking and let go of Ruby’s hair. She looked down once more.

  Ruby’s eyes were closed, and for a moment Marguerite was certain she was dead. But then she felt Ruby’s chest heave slightly under her weight.

  She had to do something.

  If Kevin came home and found Ruby—

  Downstairs.

  She had to get Ruby downstairs, where Kevin wouldn’t find her.

  She got up, heaving herself off Ruby’s inert body. Her hip felt almost numb now, as if the pain had finally burned itself out, and she dragged herself to the chair where one of her mother’s dressing gowns lay. She slipped into the robe, then used the belt to tie Ruby’s hands together.

  Grasping the belt with both her own hands, she hauled Ruby to the door of her room and out into the corridor. She paused for a moment, trying to catch her breath, then started slowly toward the head of the stairs, moving Ruby a few feet at a time. Once, she thought she heard Ruby moan, but decided it must have been something else, for as she stared down into the unconscious face, she saw no sign of movement. Indeed, she thought Ruby looked almost peaceful.…

  She came to the head of the stairs and worked Ruby around so that she was sitting up, her back resting against the wall next to the chair lift that hadn’t been used since her mother had died. She bent over then, slipping her hands under Ruby’s armpits. Taking a deep breath, she heaved upward and to the right, and then Ruby’s bulk shifted onto the chair.

  Using the free end of the belt, she tied Ruby to the chair, then turned the power switch on. Below her, in the closet, she could hear the faint hum of the lift’s machinery. She pressed the button, and a metallic clanking sound echoed in the entry hall. There was a rattle, and the chair slowly began to descend the wide staircase.

  Marguerite moved stiffly beside it until it came to the bottom, automatically shifted itself into neutral, and fell silent. Untying the belt from the chair, she let Ruby slip back to the floor, her eyes still closed.

  She grasped the belt around Ruby’s wrists once more and dragged her toward the stairs to the basement. It was easier now, for the floor of the entry hall was polished hardwood and there was less resistance than there had been on the carpeting upstairs. She came to the narrow door to the basement, opened it, poised Ruby at the top of the stairs, then pushed.

  Ruby rolled down, her body tumbling grotesquely, then sprawling out on its back at the bottom.

  Her breath coming in gasps now, Marguerite made her way to the foot of the basement stairs, stepped over Ruby, and pulled the string on the overhead light fixture.

  A harsh white light from an unshaded bulb filled the basement, momentarily blinding Marguerite. But then her eyes adjusted to the light and she gazed around until she saw what she was looking for.

  A small door, almost invisible, in the far corner of the basement.

  Dragging Ruby behind her, she started toward the door. When she was in front of it, she stopped.

  It had been years since she had been down here.

  Years since the weeks—or had it been months?—after the accident, when her mother had kept her locked up down here, locked up in the dark, locked up until she understood that she had been sick and that without her mother she would never have gotten well at all.

  She could still hear her mother’s voice coming through the door, hanging in the darkness.

  “I could have sent you away. I could have sent you away forever. But I didn’t. I love you. I love you, and I kept you at home, where you belong.”

  Whe
re you belong … where you belong …

  The words still echoed, and as she reached for the doorknob, her fingers trembled.

  At her feet, Ruby moaned softly.

  Marguerite twisted the knob, but the door wouldn’t open.

  Then she saw the heavy padlock, hanging from its hasp.

  Her right leg half dragging now, she made her way up to the kitchen and found Ruby’s key ring hanging on the hook just inside the kitchen door. Snatching it off the hook, she hobbled back to the basement. She began fumbling with the keys, searching for the right one. And then, after what seemed an eternity, one of the keys slipped into the lock and it fell open in her hands.

  She opened the door.

  The room inside was tiny.

  A wooden bed with a thin cotton pad was against one wall, a wide shelf opposite it—the shelf where, while she’d been sick, she’d eaten the meals that Ruby brought to her twice a day.

  All she could remember of the room was the feel of that hard bed where she’d lain, hour after hour, week after week, waiting to get well, waiting for the pain to stop.

  And finally the worst of the pain had stopped, and she’d come out of the room in the basement and never gone back to it.

  But it had always been there, waiting for her.…

  Ruby moaned again, and then her eyes flicked open for a moment. “No,” she mumbled. “Oh, no, please …”

  Marguerite stared down at her, then leaned over and grasped the housekeeper’s hands once again. Pulling hard, she hauled Ruby over the threshold and, ignoring the pain in her leg, lowered herself to the floor.

  She wrapped the free end of the soft satin belt around Ruby’s neck and began to pull it tight.

  Tight, and then tighter …

  Ruby’s eyes popped open and began to swell out of their sockets. One of her hands came up, groped toward Marguerite, then fell away. Her fingers twitched for a second, then were still.

  “It’s going to be all right now,” Marguerite whispered softly as she put the lock back on its hasp and snapped it closed. “Everything’s going to be all right. I’ll have my home, and I’ll have my little girl to take care of me, and nobody will ever leave me again. Never, ever again …”