The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer

by Joyce Reardon

  Sukeena took my hand, stepped around the one in front of us and led me down the alley to our waiting driver. As I looked back, the men were still groaning miserably.

  Sukeena has not spoken of the incident, and I, for one, am glad of that fact, for I’d know not what to say. But I am less concerned about travel deep into these foreign streets now. I feel protected, defended against the dark side by my African friend. I am more intrigued by her unspeakable powers. Where such powers come from, and whether or not a person can learn them, can adopt them for her own, I have yet to discover. But with Sukeena to teach me, I suddenly feel that anything is possible. Anything my heart desires.

  4 JULY 1908—CRETE, GREECE

  Our nation’s birthday was met by much drinking on John’s part. He began his celebrations before noon, partaking in the clear liquor these fishermen drink by the shot, said to be a variation on grain alcohol. The Greeks, of course, have little if any idea of our Independence Day, and must find John’s display of patriotism somewhat confounding.

  Sukeena and I toured a ruin, an old port city now inland by a quarter mile, rocked above sea level in a seismic shift two thousand years earlier. We visited a row of stone tubs used for washing laundry, so well preserved that all they lacked was a stopper and some soap to be put back into service. This is the land of raw olive oil, squid and goats that climb trees (I saw this with my own eyes!). A quiet, peace-loving peasant people with a rich appetite for café discussion, drinking and coffee so strong and bitter that it turns my stomach.

  It was here, this morning, in a spectacular suite of rooms overlooking the rich blue depths of the Mediterranean that my will surrendered to John for the first time since this past April. The morning broke incredibly hot and I slipped out of bed to stand by the ocean breeze at the window when my husband took hold of me from behind, his massive hands beneath my gown before my voice could rise to protest. I grabbed for either side of the open French doors and braced myself, casting myself forward and clearly inviting his ardor, the hem of my nightgown riding on my hips, his brazen intentions driving me to my toes, my knees quivering, my heart racing. My God, I must admit here to the thrill of it all. Our passions mutually heightened by my months of refusal, John’s aggressiveness, so masculine and forceful, yet careful and kind to me. I could not maintain my footing, and therefore slowly sank to my knees, my husband keeping us joined and fervently pursuing his climax, to where, in a dizzying moment of unbridled sensation I tried to call out to him, only to hear my voice moan through indistinguishable syllables that he clearly took as a signal. We collapsed in a gasp of satisfaction, he on my back, me with my face pressed to the tile floor. “This is hardly a situation becoming of a lady,” I said weakly, winning a spontaneous eruption of laughter from the both of us.

  “Our morning ride,” he said, and we laughed again.

  When we were apart he rolled me over and we lay together again, half in, half out of our bedroom, half in, half out of consciousness, basking in the morning sunshine, basking in our union. I wrapped my legs tightly around his waist and heard myself say, “It’s all behind us, yes?”

  “I have hope it is.”

  “Never again.”

  “Never,” he said, gently touching my cheek. “I was a fool, Ellen.” And then the words I had prayed to hear. “Forgive me.”

  “We will not speak of it. Not now. Not ever.” From where this capitulation arose, I know not. Perhaps I wanted a marriage back. A life. Perhaps my confidence in Sukeena’s enormous powers made John Rimbauer less of an obstacle and more of a game to me. I felt more the cat than the mouse. I had what he wanted: ability to deliver his heir. He had what I had quickly grown accustomed to: position, power and tremendous wealth.

  As we lay there, this forty-year-old man grew ardent yet again, and again I capitulated. And for the first time since our marriage, I directed him as to the choreography of my pleasure. With each instruction I gave, I witnessed arousal in my husband, excitement. He would answer each touch I gave to him with a hearty, throaty, “Yes!” and do exactly as I wished. I tell you, Dear Diary: I never knew … I never knew. But under my careful instruction, both of the hips and the hands, he did pleasure me, carrying me to new sensations that both alarmed me (for my surrender to them) and overcame me with pure and perfect delight (my every muscle on fire at once!). My legs still gripped around him, I eased my damp head of hair back to resting, my chest a florid pink, my husband panting like a long-distance runner. “Good boy, Johnny,” I said, using a nickname I had never dared use before, adopting an attitude—as much a test as a conviction.

  He placed his head on my chest, and briefly was that little boy I had complimented. I cannot explain in these pages, but in that moment the tide of our relating husband to wife did shift, wife to husband. I gained the strength and courage to express my physical desires, and in doing so somehow also gained the upper hand over my formerly defiant husband. I didn’t want to think about the past, I wanted to command the future.

  As we dressed and took coffee on the balcony, I felt another stirring in my loins, and nearly requested my husband’s favors yet again. But this stirring was something altogether different from a woman’s urges. At first I blamed this awful coffee and then, later, the excitement pent up from my morning discoveries and the accomplishment of one part of my dream.

  But then I blamed the act itself (or the acts, if one is counting!). For though I’d never experienced the condition firsthand, could only speculate on the sensation surging through my soul (not my body, but my soul), I sensed the presence of another life. A life within me. I was pregnant.

  I knew this absolutely and with all conviction. The first fledgling moments of a human being were growing inside me.

  When Sukeena saw me it was all but confirmed. She met me in our rooms, looked deeply into my eyes and smiled widely. “So,” she said in her pidgin English, “it has begun.”

  Indeed, it has.

  9 SEPTEMBER 1908—PARIS, FRANCE

  I am cursed. Ever since our engagement to marry and the tragic murder at the site of the grand house, Harry Corbin’s insanity, events so strange and peculiar as to foreshadow a life so different than a young girl dreams—I should have known! Earlier to-day I lost my child. It issued from me, Sukeena nursing me through it (she says all women lose the children not made for this earth, but that hardly helps). This, following a social calendar here in this beloved city that I begged John to constrain. We have been active every night for nearly two weeks—opera, dinner parties, business dinners. I felt myself weakening under the fatigue, straining to keep awake at times, eating food I found utterly too rich and unappealing. Wearing corsets too tight. I cautioned John, who knows so little of women and their needs. I warned him that if he wanted this child, he could not make requirements of me after this fashion. And now we suffer the agony of this loss.

  Such complete devastation I have never known. I spent two hours in Sukeena’s arms in hysterics, sobbing and incoherent. My little child that warmed in my belly is gone. A doctor has been brought in. I am to take bed rest for a week to ten days. As if the torture of my loss is not enough, my infirmity now frees my husband for the first time in months to roam this city alone in search of his favorite flower—and don’t think I don’t know it. He began drinking heavily this morning, the moment he was informed. I can picture her: fifteen or sixteen. Blond. Blue eyes. So much my opposite. My husband lavishing gifts upon her. And she, spreading her honey, a sweetness he cannot resist.

  I am sick to my stomach with the thought. Sukeena believes my nausea is related to my loss, but I know better. I am livid with anger and resentment. Again I brood and consult the dark side on how to punish John for never listening to me. Always ordering me around like one of his foremen or ship captains. Again I know that the power I lord over him is the presentation of an heir. Without me he has only bastards. I offer him legitimacy. Immortality.

  Sukeena has eyes that smile as I explain this to her. “As long as you angry, Miss El
len, I know you to live.” She wants me to have a raison d’être, afraid that my loss will throw me into a slump (for I am certain she has seen this before in her tribal friends). So I focus on punishing John, on denying him my womanhood, denying him his child. Let him roam the streets for his girls, he will never know love. He will never know family.

  I conspire in my mind to hurt him, while at the same time worshiping him. At times I hate myself for my devoted love of my husband—is it the age that separates us? his success and strength?—I treasure him, even while disliking him so fully, so absolutely. If anything drives me insane, it will be these two women who live inside me: one that loves, one that wants to hate; one that prays to God to celebrate life, one that prays to Darkness to punish my husband. How can I ever reconcile these two in the same body, the same woman? I loathe him, I love him. I want his attention, and yet I now grieve because he wouldn’t leave me to rest; I want independence, separation, and yet I long for our life together at the grand house—a family. I want to punish him, I want to serve him. Who am I, Dear Diary, that I can be so vexed?

  And so, for the next ten days, I shall mourn the passing of this almost-child. I shall beg to be given back the gift of God’s gracious blessing. I shall resent my husband, so very much, if he takes my infirmity as opportunity.

  I cannot find peace. I cannot sleep. I am not hungry. My body purges. Sukeena nurses me like a sister. My belief builds that if God has allowed me to lose this child, there is some hidden reason behind it. Why else would He put me through such loss and agony, anxiety and pain? Is it perhaps not yet time for John’s heir? Are there more tests upon us to come? Or am I deficient in some way, unable to deliver what every other woman delivers so naturally?

  How, if ever, will I now find internal peace? How, if ever, will I recover my soul? For I fear it has fled with this almost-child—his little heir running from his father before even entering his world. And as I read back what I’ve written, I know that the answer to these questions is itself a dichotomy: motherhood. That which I seek to deny him is itself the solution to my grief and anxieties. I am so confused. Tired now, I must rest. I must close my eyes, even if sleep won’t come. I will listen to Sukeena humming by my side, those tribal melodies and rhythms. I will fall under her spell, this enchanting woman who loves me and cares for me like a sister. Where would I be without my dear Sukeena? We are bonded now, the two of us. And it shall remain so, forever.

  9 DECEMBER 1908—SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  After nearly a year away, John and I returned to Seattle to-day by train. Met at the station by my mother and my former governess (who now works as my mother’s secretary), I threw myself into Mother’s arms like a schoolgirl returning from summer camp. I had written home at least a letter a week, and so it is that my mother is quite aware of both the pregnancy and the miscarriage. She greeted Sukeena, not like a Negro kitchen maid, as I feared she might, but as a member of the family, with kisses and the warmest of welcomes. This, above all else, meant so much to me.

  My mother took Sukeena to her home. We are to live apart for a short time, until John and I are moved into the grand house, an event that is expected to take place within a matter of days but may stretch out a few weeks due to the holiday season. Oh, how grand it is to see this city I love so. Muddy roads and all. Gray, wet skies and all. The lush green is a welcome relief to eyes that have looked out train windows for days as we crossed the wheat fields of Kansas and Colorado and the barren reaches of Idaho and eastern Washington. These endless rains are not without their lush rewards.

  John and I took to his rooms. Sukeena met me later in the day and together we began the arduous task of unpacking my twelve steamers. Added to our burden is the job of overseeing the inventorying of the goods shipped home over the past year. They have been assembled in a downtown warehouse—crate upon crate upon crate. Some are to be unpacked, some will wait for relocation to the grand house, but all are to be counted and accounted for. It is a task that will occupy both Sukeena and me for weeks to come, as by my count no fewer than ninety-five shipments should have arrived. Rugs, furs, John’s African shooting trophies, urns, vases, lights—the list is nearly endless. Christmas indeed. I have never been so excited as to unwrap these treasures. I am like a little girl under the tree.

  The long train trip afforded me the opportunity to refuse John’s advances time and time again. I gloated in the pleasure of it. Confined as we were, he had no opportunity to take to the streets. Instead, day by day, he became both more frustrated with me and more subservient. I had him serving my every need, calling for porters, for dining service, acting as manservant to me. What a sensation! I cannot explain it here, it is the first time I’ve felt so since the loss of the child. He wilted under my glare. He trembled when at night we took to bed and I pressed my warm body against him, only to deny him the ultimate prize. I will surrender, of course. It is hard for me to deny myself his pleasures as well (though I never indicate this!). And now that we return to a place he can find such satisfactions without me, it is time I give in, hoping to stem that tide. I prepare myself for that eventuality.

  John and I spent much of the train trip writing a list of guests to be invited to the opening of the grand house. We have scheduled a party for January the fifteenth, allowing several extra weeks in case of a holiday slowdown. (John will devote himself to the house fully when not engaged in his oil business. He has already left for a meeting with Douglas Posey, his oil partner, to discuss the events of the past week, during which time we were isolated on the train.) A packet of photographs awaited us at the Ritz in New York upon our arrival there by steamer. Oh, such grandeur! The facade is brick, the house contained behind a wrought-iron fence and a twin set of stone pillars over which hangs the Rimbauer crest. The driveway hosts an island, home to one of the many statuettes we purchased in Italy. There must be thirty windows or more on the front of the house, a half dozen chimneys rising from its myriad of rooftops. The interior pictures, of the Grand Stair and the Entry Hall, leave me breathless. Oh, to think of this magnificent place as my home! I can’t imagine! (But I shall soon enough!) In the Parlor, I saw that the suit of armor (from England), the brown bear (shot by John in the Swiss Alps) and the pipe organ (from Bavaria) are already installed! How impressive a sight it is—these souvenirs and treasures from our year abroad. I thrill at the thought of taking tea in my Parlor!

  The party—our homecoming and the dedication of the house—is to be a lavish affair: local politicians, entertainers, friends and businessmen, perhaps three hundred in all. My mother has been overseeing much of the preparation in advance of our arrival. John sent nearly fifty cases of champagne from France and another several hundred cases of wine, many of which will go to the celebration, the rest to be housed in our Wine Cellar (John wants to boast the largest private wine cellar on the West Coast). Beef has been shipped from Chicago and Kansas City. Pork from Nebraska. Fresh fish is to be delivered from dockside on the day of the grand affair. Chocolate from Switzerland. Tea from England. Cigars from Cuba. John is leaving nothing to chance. This is a party no one in Seattle will ever forget.

  And if I have my way—and indeed I will—it is a party we shall repeat annually. A party to dwarf any New Year’s Eve event. The Rimbauer Party. It shall go down in the society pages for years to come. The biggest party in the biggest house.

  I feel myself on track again. I am glad our long journey is over.

  Another is just beginning.

  CHRISTMAS EVE, 1908—SEATTLE

  For two painful weeks, John has denied me a visit to our grand home as workers complete the final touches. We shall formally move into our home on January the fifteenth, the day of our homecoming party (John has scheduled our “arrival” with a greeting by the staff on that day). After repeated requests on my part to tour our new home, so that I might orchestrate the delivery of our personal items well in advance of our formal arrival, John drove me up Spring Street in his new Cadillac this afternoon, a trip I remember wel
l from my first journey here so many months ago.

  The city is still in the grips of various stages of the regrade, accounting for some very silly sights. Some families have elected to challenge in court the city’s right to lower certain streets by as much as seventy feet, while filling in various gulches that make passage nearly impossible. This effort, ongoing now for nearly a decade, has been a bitter battle. Those families that have brought legal suit against the city have not been required to lower their homes, leaving some lots and the houses atop them isolated on forty- or fifty-foot “pinnacles,” earthen towers rising from the new street level (muddy as it is). The homes are completely inaccessible, leaving the families without residence. It is quite obvious that at some point these families will capitulate, but oh what a sight in the meantime! It seems as if nearly every building in this eastern part of the city is on scaffolding of some kind, and intermixed, these “pinnacles” rising over five stories into the gray, dreary sky.