Mother Shadow

by Melodie Johnson Howe

  As I began to type, Valcovich turned and looked out the arched window. “Must cost a lot of money to keep up a garden like that,” he said.

  “Unnecessary things are very expensive,” Kenilworth said sadly.

  “Who’s the kid?”

  “Excuse me.” Kenilworth went out the French doors to the garden.

  Valcovich repeated his question to me. I looked out the window. Kenilworth was picking up a red ball as a small male form, arms akimbo, lumbered toward him.

  “He’s not a kid,” I said. “He’s probably in his late twenties. Suffers from Down’s syndrome. I think his name is Jerry.”

  “Kenilworth’s?”

  “No.”

  “How did he get into the garden?”

  “I don’t know. You see, it’s none of my business,” I said pointedly. Actually, it had never occurred to me to ask. In the last three months I had seen the young man in the garden maybe six times. He would appear, then disappear. Sometimes Kenilworth would play ball with him. Sometimes he would just stare at him from the window.

  Valcovich leaned over my shoulder. “You’ve made three errors. Type it over.”

  “You know, you’re much looser in person than you are on television.”

  “Thank—” He stopped; the small eyes narrowed. He was trying to figure out if he’d been complimented or put down. I gave him a sweet smile.

  There was a quick knock and the office door opened. “Where’s Ellis? We’re going to be late,” Judith demanded, looking around the room.

  “In the garden.”

  She shut the door behind her. Her honey-blond hair was tied back with a black ribbon. Her thick hair was her only good quality. She had Ellis’s aquiline features, which should have given her an angular strength and beauty; but because she was so uptight they made her look pinched and strict. Her mouth was fixed, as usual, in a straight line. Folding her arms across her bony chest, she peered at Valcovich. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

  “Probably saw me on TV.”

  “Oh. You’re an actor.” Unimpressed, she moved toward the French doors. Then it dawned on her. “What’s an actor doing here?” she demanded.

  “I’m a lawyer. I advertise on television,” he said proudly.

  “You have business with my brother?”

  “Me,” I heard myself saying. “I mean…he’s my lawyer. I had an accident with the car and he’s helping me out,” I babbled, trying not to look at the paper in the typewriter.

  “Just like Ellis to let you do it on our time,” she said, going out to the garden.

  Valcovich smiled at me. He had small teeth. They were the best feature of his smile. The worst feature was a calculated intimacy, as if he and I had just shared a sexy moment.

  I took the paper out of the typewriter and put in a fresh one.

  “You better tear that draft up. We wouldn’t want sister to know she’s not getting any of the ancient jingle-jangle.” Again the intimate smile. “By the way, do you always lie so easily?”

  “You seemed so enthralled with your TV persona I was a little worried about your ability to remain confidential.” I tore the draft into shreds.

  “‘TV persona.’” He repeated the words softly, lovingly.

  Judith followed Ellis back into the office. “I have been working months on this symposium,” she said. “You promised you would go!” Her bluish-white skin flushed red with anger.

  “I said no.”

  “Brian Waingrove is expecting you.”

  “I am conducting business. And you know you’re not supposed to be in here while I’m working.”

  Judith’s mouth trembled. “Waingrove could help us.”

  “You are not supposed to be in this office. Please leave.”

  I had never seen the Kenilworths argue. It was disturbing to see Ellis treat Judith like a little girl. It was even more disturbing to see Judith act like one. Her lower lip pushed out into a pout. Hazel eyes filled with tears. I guessed Judith to be in her forties, but right now she looked like a middle-aged child. How could she give up those hard-earned years so easily? Her whole life reduced to a pout. I looked away. It’s not easy to see another woman reduced to a child—maybe because we all live on the edge of a pout.

  There was a knock. The office door opened. This time it was Sutton. “Are we all ready to go?” he asked cheerfully.

  “Ellis isn’t coming.” Judith’s voice quivered.

  “You promised her,” Sutton said, looking steadily into Ellis’s eyes. “You really must stop breaking promises.”

  It was strange, but of the three it was Ellis who looked the most betrayed. Sutton extended his hand to Judith. I waited for the door to slam, but it closed quietly behind them. In my family the door would have slammed so hard the framed family photos would’ve fallen from the walls.

  I put a fresh sheet of paper in the typewriter and began again. Ellis slumped back in his chair, his faraway eyes staring at a spot on the wall just over my head. Valcovich kept a steady watch on my typing, which made me nervous. I could hear Sutton’s car backing slowly out of the narrow drive. When I finally got a clean copy, Kenilworth decided there was a problem with some of the wording. After much talk they revised the codicil. An hour later I sat down to re-type it. Valcovich looked out the window. Kenilworth burned the other drafts in an ashtray, then dumped the ashes into the wastepaper basket.

  I handed him the clean draft. Both men read it. Kenilworth signed, then asked me to sign. I did.

  “Pay him, Miss Hill.” His voice was heavy with fatigue. “I went to the bank yesterday. The three thousand dollars is in the safe.”

  I unlocked the safe and took out three neatly wrapped bundles of money and handed them to Valcovich. He counted through the money with the quickness of a Las Vegas dealer. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Kenilworth,” he said, trying to look professional instead of devious.

  “Show the gentleman out, Miss Hill.”

  We crossed the foyer to the sound of my shoes beating out their tippity-taps. Valcovich’s all-knowing smile was firmly in place, the greedy eyes on my lips. Slowly, they moved down my body to my feet. By the time we reached the front door his eyes were back on my lips. Even after liberation and the sexual revolution there are still men who can make me feel cheap. Valcovich was one of them. I opened the front door. He swaggered outside, turned quickly around, and gave me another once-over. I squared my padded shoulders, readying myself for the sexual pass. My hand firmly gripped the door handle. I was going to let him throw his remark, then I was going to block it by slamming the door in his face.

  “Funny a man like Kenilworth would hire a lawyer like me,” he said. I hadn’t anticipated the truth, but my reaction was already prepared. I slammed the door in his face.

  I went back to the office. An envelope, dove-gray with my name written on it in blue ink, lay on my desk.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “The codicil.”

  “It has my name on it. What’s going on here, Mr. Kenilworth?”

  His eyes slowly focused on my face. “You have spunk.”

  “Okay, I have spunk. Why is my name on this envelope?”

  “Actually, you have guts—a quality I lack.”

  “Mr. Kenilworth…”

  “Do you know how much my coin collection is worth?”

  “No.”

  “A little over four million dollars.”

  “You mean all those names I’ve been entering into the computer—Livincius Regulus, 42 B.C.—are worth…”

  “Yes, Miss Hill. My father willed me his coin collection. At the time it was probably worth ten thousand dollars. Mother was given everything else. Nobody cared about his old coins. But I did. It was one of the few things in life for which I had an ability and a passion.” Pale lips formed a sad smile. “Now, the family is very interested in my collection. They need my money.”

  “You don’t want them to have it. Fine with me. But why is my name written
on this envelope?”

  Kenilworth moved from behind his desk and picked up my purse. “I want you to keep it for me while I’m at lunch.”

  “Oh, no. Put it in the safe.”

  “The combination is well known in this household.”

  “Nobody’s here.”

  “Mother is.”

  “I can’t take the responsibility.”

  “Whether you like it or not, Miss Hill, you are a responsible woman. I’ll just slip it in this sack you carry. I have a feeling it will be very safe in here…You’re reading Madame Bovary.” He pronounced it with a French accent. “I always felt very deeply for her. I suppose that’s Flaubert’s triumph. But in my case I think it was just one bourgeoisie identifying with another.”

  “Mr. Kenilworth, listen to me. I do not want to be responsible. Please, take it back.”

  “After lunch. I will make arrangements then.”

  “But what if something should happen?”

  He looked sharply at me. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know…anything…”

  “Whatever happens, Miss Hill, I do not want my family to get their hands on this. Now, will you keep it till I return?”

  I took a deep breath. I always do before I give in. “Yes.”

  He gave my hand a fatherly pat. And I felt like the good daughter. A disturbing feeling: I learned very early that daughters can never be good enough.

  “It’s none of my business, but do you love her?” I asked, feeling a little foolish.

  “Love? Who?”

  “Claire Conrad.”

  “I’ve never met her.”

  He moved toward the office door, paused, then turned and faced me. “I do know her by reputation. I probably should have made it clear that the coin collection is a form of payment to her. Payment for the truth—a truth I am unable to deal with. If anything should happen, Miss Hill, tell her that.”

  “But nothing’s going to, right?”

  “Right. I will see you after lunch.” He left the office.

  Feeling totally confused and wondering what kind of truth could be worth four million dollars, I began to compute, with a new respect, old inventories and list new ones. The hall clock prudently chimed one, and like Pavlov’s dog I automatically looked out the window to see Aiko, the houseman, setting up my lunch tray in the garden. He waved. I waved back. Commanding the computer to save, I headed toward the French doors. I stopped, turned, and stared at my bag. I usually left it by my desk while I ate lunch, but today I picked it up and lugged it outside.

  Aiko always placed me at a large table on the stone veranda overlooking the garden. The table was shaded by a fringed umbrella. This afternoon I was having an onion tart with a small mixed-green salad lightly flavored with mustard dressing. A glass of Chardonnay, so he informed me, glistened in the sunlight. I leaned back in my chair and sipped the wine, which tasted like green olives, and thought about Kenilworth’s sad eyes…Valcovich’s greedy eyes. Why did I lie to Judith about Valcovich? Why didn’t I just keep my mouth shut? Why did I always get so involved? What was this need I had to protect people? Rescue people? What business was it of mine? In other words, why did I have Ellis Kenilworth’s codicil in my purse?

  But the sun was warm, the wine was making me lazy, and all the green little animals had been trimmed to perfection. A fish arched. A rabbit crouched. A seal balanced a ball. There was the smell of freshly cut grass, and there was a bird, a real one, perched on the rim of the umbrella, tugging at a cord of twisted fringe. This bird was going to have a very well decorated nest, I thought, shutting my eyes.

  A gun exploded the silence. The bird screamed. I stood up, knocking over the wine. And then I was running. Down the veranda. Through the French doors. Into the office. Silence. Out into the foyer. Aiko and the maid stood frozen, looking toward the top of the stairs. I ran up the stairway. Stopped. Listened. Only my breathing. I walked slowly down the wide hallway. All doors closed. Both sides. The smell of gun. One door. Open. White tiles. White rug. Lysol clean. Blue cashmere blazer. Gray slacks. Blue button-down shirt. Striped tie. Neatly folded. The shower. Glass door open. He was there. Sitting. Naked. Shotgun between his legs. Pieces of his head. Blood. Bone. Ash-blond hair. Skin. Splattered on white tile. Not one piece of him on the white rug. I turned away and leaned against the bathroom wall. I was going to vomit. I was going to faint.

  “What was that noise? That noise? Ellis? Sutton?” the mother’s frightened voice called from the hall.

  I groped my way toward the door, swallowing my saliva, blinking away bright yellow dots lined in black. I tripped over his clothes. An ebony fountain pen rolled on top of a white note card. His writing.

  “Ellis? Ellis!” She was almost to the door.

  “It’s me, Mrs. Kenilworth. Maggie.” I grabbed for the note and lunged out into the hallway, shutting the bathroom door behind me. As I looked at Eleanor Kenilworth, I realized all I had in my hand was the pen.

  Tall and frail, she leaned against the hallway wall. Aquamarine eyes searched my face. She clutched at a pale green bed jacket slipping from her shoulder.

  “That noise…what was it?” Her skin was as white as her hair.

  “It was nothing…a car backfiring.” I took her thin hand—a circle of diamonds turned loosely on her wedding-ring finger—and guided her back to her room.

  “I used to hunt pheasant. I was a very good shot. We had grand hunting parties. Our land went for miles and miles then. Pheasants flew up from the bush. Their beautiful feathers caught in the sun.”

  Her sitting room was pale green. I helped her to a green chaise lounge by the fireplace. The flames cracked.

  “So you see, I know that sound,” she said, leaning back, studying me. Her eyes narrowed. “What are you doing up here? You don’t belong up here.”

  The room was hot and smelled of perfume, roses, and face powder. I backed away from the fire, feeling dizzy.

  “I came up to get Mr. Kenilworth’s pen.” I held out my hand to show her. She shut her eyes.

  “Oh, God…oh, God…You must get me tea now. I need to be soothed. That noise…I need to be soothed.”

  “I’ll tell Aiko,” I said, backing out of the room.

  “See that you do.” She dismissed me with a wave of her hand.

  I hurried down the stairs. Aiko and the maid, their eyes waiting for an answer, looked very small standing in the large foyer.

  “Mr. Kenilworth is dead.”

  The maid’s hand flew to her mouth. Aiko put his arm around her, repeating, “No, no, no.”

  “Aiko, I want you to call the emergency number, the police, and I guess the family physician. Maria, I want you to go in and fix tea for Mrs. Kenilworth. Take it up to her and stay with her.” I was amazed how calm and assured my voice sounded.

  As they hurried off, I slowly went back up the stairs. I looked down the long corridor. It ended in a small glassed-in rotunda. A Victorian table centered in the rotunda held red garden roses. In the dim lines of sun the roses looked black. I walked down the hall. Taking deep breaths, I opened the bathroom door. Everything was exactly the same. Ellis Kenilworth was still there, head smeared over the shower walls. His clothes…I stared down at his clothes. The suicide note was gone. I searched his jacket and trousers. There was no note. And then I felt it. Fear. Inexplicably, I was afraid for my own life. I whirled around to face the door. It was just as I had left it. Closed. I looked at another closed door. I opened it and peered into Kenilworth’s bedroom. I shut my eyes. Get hold of yourself, Maggie. I walked out of the bathroom and down the hallway and stood by Mrs. Kenilworth’s room. Her door was closed. Just as I had left it. There was the smell of perfume mixed with the smell of roses in the corridor. But there would be—she had been in the hallway with me.

  “Excuse me.”

  I spun around. The maid stepped nervously back, almost spilling the tea.

  “Maria, you frightened me.”

  Opening the door for her, I looked into the room.
Eleanor Kenilworth was just as I had left her. She was on the chaise with her eyes closed.

  As I went back down the stairs, I could hear the sound of sirens in the distance. I crossed the foyer. My heels clicked tippity-tap, tippity-tap. The hall clock discreetly chimed two times. I made my way through the office and out into the garden. My purse was right where I had left it. I grabbed it and started back into the house. In the foyer I stopped and opened my bag. The dove-gray envelope with my name written on it was there.

  Just as I reached for it, the front door flew open. Sutton stood there with a large bouquet of pink and yellow flowers. “Happy birthday!” he said, thrusting the flowers into my arms. “I know it’s a surprise, but a simple ‘thank you’ would do.”

  The paramedics, fire trucks, and police cars turned onto the street and began lining up in front of the house. Sutton stared out at them.

  “Good God, what’s going on? It’s not Mother?” He was halfway up the stairs.

  “Ellis. Suicide!” I yelled.

  He looked over the banister at me. “Ellis?! Does mother know?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  It was eight o’clock when I finally drove into the underground parking lot of my building. The smell of Mexican food wafted through the garage from one of the apartments. I had spent the rest of the day and the evening repeating my story over and over to the police, the plainclothes detectives, the firemen, Dr. Granger, the family physician, Sutton, and Judith. My story started with the sipping of my wine and ended with my accepting Sutton’s flowers. Like a good daughter, I never mentioned the amendment to Ellis Kenilworth’s will. I thought of telling the police, but I was afraid they’d turn it over to the family. Instead, I talked about what I thought was a missing suicide note. But it was finally decided with the doctor’s help that I had been in a state of shock. It seems I had wanted an answer, an explanation to Ellis Kenilworth’s actions; therefore I had imagined a letter. But it wasn’t a letter. It wasn’t paper. And when pressed, I could not honestly describe what I had seen, except it was white, and looked like the back of a photograph, and I knew I had seen it. Ellis Kenilworth had written something on the back of a photograph. Sutton was the only one who seemed to believe me.