She felt sure that most boys would have felt annoyed with the responsibility of looking after Donald. Carl and Richard had to take him everywhere they went; they were responsible for getting him situated well at school. Whatever friends they had at school, and she wasn’t sure they had any, would probably tease them about Donald. Teenagers wouldn’t want to have a baby brother around with them when they were with other teenagers. At least, that’s what she would have thought.
One day she stopped at Tillie Zorankin’s house and spoke to her about it. Tillie’s house was situated on the road on the way up from town. She had often stopped there from time to time, only this time, it turned out to be a mistake, because Alex did a terrible thing when she told him—he told the kids.
It had become an obsession with him to share just about everything with the children. Of course, she resented that. Taking them into her home was one thing, but totally giving up her privacy was another. And when she complained, he twisted it all around to make her look like the bad one.
“The worst thing, the very worst thing we could do is make these kids feel like outsiders, like boarders. And since this is a tourist house, that’s just what would happen.”
“I’m not making them feel like outsiders, but there are things that they should not know, things about us.”
“Not if we’re going to be a true family,” he said, “and that’s what these kids need the most—a true sense of family, a sense of belonging. They’ve got to believe we care about them as we would our own.”
“But Alex…they’re angry at me because of what you told them.”
“They should be. Talking about them with Tillie Zorankin. Tillie Zorankin, for Christ sakes!”
“She’s always been a kind woman, willing to listen and willing to help other people.”
“Of course, she is. She’s a busybody, and the worst kind, too. She can’t wait to get on the telephone and tell the world whatever you tell her.”
“That’s not so.”
“How do you know? Why take such a chance? Do we need any more gossip about us in this town? Do the kids, who are just getting a new start, need people gaping at them when they walk the streets?”
“People won’t gape at them.”
“They will now. They’ll want to look at the boy who won’t talk, the girl who was raped by her brother, the boys who had been in and out of a dozen foster homes because no one could control them.”
“She wouldn’t do that,” she said, but her voice revealed that she wasn’t positive about it.
Tillie Zorankin was a widow now. She had two sons and a daughter Sharon’s age. When Sharon was younger, she’d been friendly with Leona Zorankin. She’d spent a great deal of time at her house. They got their first periods about the same time, had their first love affairs in junior high school together, and double-dated to the prom. Leona was the closest thing Sharon had ever had to a best friend, and there were many times when Tillie Zorankin had treated her like her own daughter. It was only natural she would continue with their friendship.
Since Sharon had married Alex, all of Tillie’s children had moved away. Her husband, Sol, had died four years before. The reason why Sharon had made it a point to stop in to see her this time was that she expected Tillie could give her good advice about how to handle the children, having raised three of her own. Tillie listened as she described the whole situation.
“I didn’t realize you and Alex were doing all that. I can see taking in one or two maybe, but four? And one that’s so disturbed he won’t speak?”
“He’s speaking to the other children and to Alex, but he’s not speaking to me.”
“Maybe he’s just afraid of grown women,” she said. And that gave Sharon a theory. When she brought the theory back to Alex and mentioned that she had gotten the idea after talking with Tillie about the kids, he realized what she had done.
“You didn’t have to go to Tillie Zorankin to come up with that, Sharon. You could have discussed it with me.”
“But I did mention it to you.”
“And I told you to give it time.” He turned and looked out the window. “Just lately,” he said with his back to her, “little Donald’s been opening up, mostly to the kids. It seems his foster mother did abuse him terribly.”
“I knew it.”
“It’s only natural he would transfer these fears to you. In time he will see what happened to him before won’t happen to him here.”
“Of course not.”
Alex turned back to her and just stared for a moment.
“You realize,” he said, “that I’m going to have to tell the children what you’ve gone and done.”
“What do you mean?”
“They have to know you’ve discussed them and their intimate problems. Discussed them with a stranger,” he added.
“Maybe…you shouldn’t,” she said.
“I have to. They keep no secrets from me and I keep none from them. That’s why I have to tell them what you’ve done. And they’ll have to know why people are going to stare at them and whisper about them now.”
“Tillie wouldn’t do that,” she said. But in the back of her mind, she decided to speak to her about it just to be sure.
For a few days after that, the children treated her like an outcast. Donald’s silent treatment was the order of the day, but the thing that outraged her the most was the way Alex condoned it, even encouraged it. He used them to punish her.
For the most part, her questions at the dinner table went unanswered. They would grunt or nod, pretend they had a mouthful or start a conversation with one another as though she weren’t even there. That was what was hardest to take—feeling as though she were invisible. If they could have done it, they would have walked right through her.
At night she complained to Alex about it. He had been only a little less sullen than they. Every question she asked had to be repeated emphatically for him to answer it.
“They’re abusing me, Alex. They shouldn’t be permitted to abuse me. I’m not someone’s slave around here.”
“They think you abused them.”
“I didn’t! I didn’t set out to hurt them; I set out to help them.”
“After a while they’ll forgive you. It takes them a little longer because of what they’ve been through in their lives.”
“Forgive me? I’m to wait for them to forgive me?”
“You’d better take one of your sedatives,” he said. “You sound as though you’re getting hysterical.”
“I will not take a sedative. I want you to put a stop to this right away, Alex. They’ll do what you tell them to do. Either they treat me like a person or…”
“Or what? Are you going to become like all the others they’ve been with—an ogre, threatening them, punishing them for being so sensitive?”
“What about my sensitivity?” She was nearly in tears. He put the light out, crawled into bed and turned his back on her. She knew that she could talk herself blue in the face now and he wouldn’t respond. No one, not even little Donald, could close himself off as well as Alex could when he wanted to shut out the world.
In fact, now that she gave that some thought, she realized something that gave her the chills: each of the children in many ways resembled segments of Alex’s personality. Richard had his arrogance; Elizabeth had his bitter sarcasm; Carl could be as surreptitious, and Donald was as withdrawn. They moved like parts of him, and when they were together…they duplicated him. Was this what he was after?
She took the only tactic she knew—she withdrew her services. One morning she didn’t get up ahead of everyone and go down to prepare a good breakfast for the children. She remained in bed. Alex didn’t say anything. It was as if he expected it. She heard them all get up and go to the bathroom. They didn’t seem to move any faster than usual. After they had gone downstairs, she lay there in anticipation. Soon, one of them, if not Alex, would come up and ask her if she was sick. They’d want to know what to do.
No one d
id. In time she heard the sound of laughter from below. It was loud and happy laughter, stronger laughter than she had ever heard from them. She suspected it was amplified for her benefit. Alex probably made them breakfast, she thought; but she knew he hated to do that kind of work. He hated to do anything that had to do with the house, whether it be cleaning or repairing. Much of the exterior of the Echo Lake Manor was in need of repainting. There were shutters that had come loose; large portions of the cement walkway right in front of the steps were crumbling; the hedges usually went untrimmed; there was even a broken basement window that had never been replaced. She imagined all sorts of little field creatures made their way in and out of it. She never went down into the basement because of that.
So she felt certain she could outlast him when it came to this kind of work, especially when she considered the added effort needed to take care of the children as well as themselves. One more day of her “strike” and he would come to his senses. He’d bring the children around then and have them act decently toward her.
She got up quietly and put her housecoat over her nightgown, slipped into her velvet slippers and went out of the bedroom. She practically tiptoed down the stairs. She didn’t feel comfortable doing this, but she had to see how they were doing without their knowing she was watching. She wanted to see Alex up and at the stove, serving the children.
But when she peered around the hallway corner and looked into the kitchen, she saw that Elizabeth was wearing the apron. Elizabeth had cooked the eggs and made the coffee and poured the juice. Elizabeth was moving around the table just as she would do—tucking the napkin into Donald’s collar, reminding Carl to finish his toast, chiding Richard about dripping his coffee onto the tablecloth. Sharon thought she even sounded like her. Was she deliberately parodying her? Was that what was causing all the laughter?
“Now wipe the bottom of your cup, Richard. Who do you think will have to wash this tablecloth? Carl, the ends of the toast are just as nourishing as the middle. Donald, don’t poke at the egg; it’s not going to attack you. Any more coffee, Alex?”
“Yes, please,” he said. The look of contentment on his face struck Sharon like a knife. With electric ferocity, it sent a pain through her heart. She nearly gasped and gave away her position. Quietly, stealthily, she made her way back to the stairs, and this time she actually tiptoed up. When she got back into her room, she took off her housecoat and went back to bed. For a few moments she lay there staring up at the ceiling. Then, as if someone living within her had thrown a switch, she began to sob uncontrollably. She couldn’t help it, and she couldn’t contain the sounds.
The laughter below stopped, but she didn’t hear that. She didn’t hear them march out of the kitchen either; nor did she hear them all come up the stairs. She was only aware of them when they were at her door. Alex opened it slowly and stepped in, his children close behind him. She looked up from her pillow. They all wore serious but compassionate expressions.
“Poor Sharon,” Alex said, and they filed in behind him. He came to the foot of the bed and they gathered around the sides: Richard and Carl to her right, Elizabeth and little Donald to her left. Elizabeth had her arm around Donald. He looked so pathetic, so fragile. She had to stop crying. “She’s sorry now,” Alex said. “We must forgive her, children,” he added.
She looked from one to the other. They were all nodding silently, a look of pity on their faces. She didn’t want their pity; she didn’t want their forgiveness, but she didn’t know how to stop it.
First Richard came to her. He touched her hand and smiled.
“It’s all right, Sharon,” he said. “Don’t cry anymore. We’re not angry.”
“Don’t cry, Sharon,” Carl said. He was like a chorus.
“Come on,” Elizabeth said bringing Donald closer to her. “Tell Sharon you forgive her. Come on.”
Donald moved closer, his big eyes widening. She couldn’t help the look of amazement that came into her face when Donald took her hand into his.
“I forgive you, Sharon,” he said. She looked up at Alex. He was beaming. Donald’s soft, birdlike voice appeared to have changed. He was stronger. He sounded more like Alex; it was as if Alex were speaking through him. Then he kissed her hand. She couldn’t help reaching out for him; it was the motherly instinct. He let himself be pulled closer until she could embrace him.
“All right, children,” Alex said. “You’ve got to get to school. We don’t want anyone to be late.”
They all started away from the bed obediently. Donald slipped out of her grasp gratefully, like a breeze passing through her fingers. The feel of his warm little face lingered on the surface of her breast. She longed to bring it back, to press him against her securely and feel his breath against her face. He had that doll’s face, and she wanted to press her lips to it.
But the moment was over. The expression of warm feeling, as despicable as the motive for it was, had ended just when she was beginning to enjoy it, just when she was beginning to feel that she could be a part of what they were. She hated to admit it to herself, but she needed them. She needed their affection, perhaps even more than Alex did. She had tasted the death of loneliness and she longed to drink from the cup.
However, Alex had rationed the show of feeling carefully. He turned it off as easily as he turned it on. He could get them to love her or he could get them to hate her. In a few moments he had brought Donald closer to her than she could have brought him in weeks. They were like obedient puppy dogs. He clapped his hands and they moved.
“So long, Sharon,” Richard said. “See you later.”
“Have a nice day, Sharon,” Elizabeth said.
“See you later, Sharon,” Carl added.
“Bye,” little Donald called from the doorway. It touched her like a kiss.
She listened to the patter of their feet as they rushed down the hall and stairway to get their books and head for school.
“Aren’t they wonderful?” Alex said. She had to nod.
“But Alex, I didn’t mean them any harm. They shouldn’t have to forgive me.”
“Then forgive them,” he said. “Forgive them for caring, for looking to you for protection, for expecting you to love them as you would your own.”
“I want to do that, Alex. I really do.”
“Then you will,” he said. “But Sharon,” he said, coming around the bed to sit, “for a while we’ve got to be like a fortress here. We’ve got to set up even higher walls. These children are naked; their feelings have been unmasked in the most horrible of ways. They’re vulnerable to every whisper, every snide remark.”
“People aren’t like that, Alex.”
“Of course, they are. They’ve let themselves become like that, let the evil seep in.”
“All right, Alex,” she said, tired of the arguing.
“You do believe these children are special, don’t you?”
“Yes, Alex.”
“Then trust them.”
“How can I trust them? They’re only children, mixed-up children.”
“Sharon,” he said, taking her hand the way little Donald had, “didn’t you see anything magical in the moment that just passed? Didn’t you feel the wonder of it?”
“It was very moving, yes.”
“It was more than just moving, Sharon. It was something spiritual. It was something very special, and you were an important part of it.”
She looked into his face. His eyes were glassy, his look distant. At this moment he reminded her more of his father than he had for a long time. He had his father’s far-off, prophetic look. Despite what she had thought of the old man, he had had a way about him, a magic in his face that could frighten or inspire. She used to think there was only a small line between prophets that were respected, idolized, even worshipped, and those who were ridiculed and rejected. Maybe great people did have to border on insanity. Maybe they drew from the same well of ideas, and the difference was only in the presentation and the acceptance that either followed
or didn’t follow. Who was she to judge, really? It could all be beyond her.
“They were so…warm. For the first time, I think.”
“There’s a fire in them, Sharon, a fire that can light the way. It only has to be directed, to be nurtured. We’ve got to be careful; you’ve got to be cooperative.”
She sighed and leaned back against the pillow. He stood up and looked down at her.
“I’ll try, Alex.”
“Good,” he said. “Do you want me to bring you something to eat? Elizabeth made delicious scrambled eggs, just the way you make them, just the way I like them. The kids ate everything they were supposed to eat. Even little Donald cleared his plate,” he said smiling.
“No,” she said. “I’ll just rest here a while longer and then I’ll make something simple for myself…toast and jelly, I think. My stomach still feels tied in knots.”
“You’ve got to calm down, Sharon,” he said. “You’re only going to get yourself sick and leave me with all this work to do.”
She stared up at him. He had an odd expression on his face. Was it a warning? Did he wish it?
“I’ll be all right,” she said.
“Good. I’m going down to the lake to work on the boats. I promised the children we would use them again. Won’t that be nice? Maybe we’ll bring this place around, with their help, of course. It’ll be a little project…getting the place in shape, cleaning it up and all. There’s no better therapy than hard work. That’s what Pa used to say.”
“I remember,” she said.
“It’s a good idea though, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Alex, it is. I’d love to see us bring the Manor back, make it look as beautiful as it was the first day I came up here to go rowing with you.”
“Do you remember I read you the poem I had written about the two trees that fell in love, their branches entwining?”
“Yes,” she said. She smiled at the memory. It had been a beautiful day, full of sunshine and hope, the land, the water, and the old house charming her, winning her heart. She had fallen in love with all that first, and then she fell in love with Alex.
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