Blackened Spiral Down (7 page)

              They say that there are no atheists in fox holes.  I believe that now more than ever.  I never was much of a religious person (much to the distress of my mother), but after what started in July of 1925, I changed my mind.  It didn’t take long for me to seek out the help of the clergy when things started to go wrong.  With all their good intentions, even the men of the cloth weren’t able to do much more than prolong the agony a little.

I need to tell my story, as difficult as it may be, so that people know what happened to Franklin Phillip Manville.  I believe that once they are done with me, there will be nothing left.  Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust will be the literal end for this miserable thing I’ve endured called life.  I can’t blame anyone but myself for all of this.  When I’m done writing this down, I can only hope that in some way, I can prevent such a cursed thing from ever happening again.

The wind is howling outside.  Despite the fact they have the house surrounded and in their firm grasp, I can hear it nipping at the asbestos cement roof shingles, and shaking the storm shutters.  I can also hear the wood continue to creak, like it might snap at any minute and bring the entire house down upon my wretched self.  I can also hear the faint sound of fireworks in the distance.  That means that it’s the Fourth of July. 

Where my house sits, I can hear the annual fireworks from both Danbury on the Connecticut side to my east and the Brewster New York side to my west.  For most people, the 4
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of July is a time of fun in the sun, and a celebration of our nation’s independence.  Yet for me, it’s an annual date with the reason why I’m hiding in my attic, eating canned goods, and praying each night that I live to see another day.  Every Fourth of July she comes to pay me a visit.  She slithers into my house, and no matter where I manage to hide, she finds me.  I can smell the rot and decay before she shows herself.  I can hear that high pitched laugh of hers from a distance, before she comes to call.  She reminds me of what I did to cause the horrible curse that has descended upon the once great Manville family farm and estate.  I see that grotesque face in my dreams each night.  She never lets me forget.  I know that just before midnight she will be here to taunt me.  She will remind me once again what I did, and why my life has been one long, tormented curse.  Today marks 50 years since that humid night in July of 1925 when this all began, and I shudder at the thought of what she has in store for our annual get together.  I boarded up the attic access hatch, but I know it’s no use.

For now, all I can do is write as quickly as my gnarled, arthritic fingers will allow.  My body is falling apart slowly, and my mind has trouble focusing like it did in my youth.  Yet I must continue, as the wind shakes the house to the foundation, and the cracking sounds of wood breaking begin to escalate with the ticking of my clock.  It’s almost midnight.  She will be here soon.  I think I can hear that godforsaken laughing coming from downstairs. God help me.

2

I was born in 1887 in New York City to Christopher and Anna Manville.  My father was born into the Manville family fortune that revolutionized the building industry with the wonder product of the early 20
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century – asbestos.  My grandfather, CB Manville, merged with HW Johns to form Johns Manville, and they made roof shingles as well as a variety of other materials with asbestos.  These products were used in just about every building built in the early 1900’s and well into the 1970’s.  The fortune was immense.  My father was one of four boys and two girls, and all of them were born into privilege.   Not all made good choices with their riches, but my father was definitely one who did.  He decided to leave the hustle and bustle of New York City and moved as a young man to Putnam County, New York, very close to the Connecticut state line.  In the sleepy town of Brewster, New York, my father built a beautiful estate on a 250-acre patch of ground where he started a very profitable farm.  The farm was one of the largest employers in the area at the time, and he built rows of cottages where his best workers were allowed to live and raise their own families.  My father was a genius when it came to business, which was a Manville trait of course, and before long, he had the largest apple orchard in western New York, and an extremely viable livestock business where he raised and sold cows, hogs, and even stud horses for wealthy men who enjoyed racing them.
              My father also invested in highly profitable real estate in neighboring Westchester County, where many of the more affluent who worked in New York City, but who wanted to get away from the city lifestyle, would build houses.  My mother didn’t have to work, but kept herself busy with a variety of social functions.  She often entertained at the estate, and had a knack for bringing in new money to the area.  She enjoyed her time gardening and competing in the apple pie contest each June at the Putnam County Fair.  I was their firstborn in 1887, followed by my brother Ernest, sister Cicely, and the baby of the family – little Raymond.  We all did chores at the farm, because despite our tremendous wealth, my father always instilled a hard work ethic in us.  He made sure we all knew what it meant to work hard for little money, so that we would all aspire to greater things. 

Little Raymond grew up to be the biggest of the brothers and moved to upstate New York after college to start a general contracting business.  My sister Cicely was the brains of us all.  She finished college and went into teaching at a prestigious boys’ school in Wooster, Massachusetts, then married a young heart surgeon from Boston.  My brother Ernest joined the Army at the end of World War I, and got out after his enlistment to work for our grandfather, running one of the mills on the lake shore of Chicago.  He died young in a freak accident at the mill involving a falling load from a crane. 

I was the only one who decided to stay and run the family farm.  The rest of my siblings seemed very eager to leave the nest and move away.  I, however, felt an attachment to the estate and didn’t mind taking the business side over in 1910.  I graduated from the University of Connecticut the same month our father had a massive stroke.  It nearly killed him, yet despite surviving the ordeal, he was not able to return to work.  It was hard to see our father, who was always sharp and willing to work 16-hour days, reduced to sitting in his chair all day and listlessly looking out the window of his bedroom.  My mother was still very active, and faithfully stayed through the worst of it, and helped us with his care, until he died in 1919.  She died six months later from lung cancer.  Years of smoking had finally caught up to her.

              The farm was running great and business was good, as I became the sole family member at the estate.  I moved my second floor bedroom to the first floor, in the rear of the house, with a picturesque view of the valley and mountains that comprised most of Putnam County.  No matter the time of year, the view always takes my breath away when the sun comes up in the morning.  I met a wonderful young girl, Amanda, from our local Holy Family Catholic Church.  She was from nearby Pawling, and had recently moved to the area.  I mentioned earlier I was not a very religious person, but I had always been taught it was proper to go to church every Sunday, and while my mother was alive, there was no getting away with missing mass.  Our English ancestors had been devout Catholics.  Amanda and I married after dating for a year, in the fall of 1919, and she began to put her touches on the house to show off her flair for interior decorating.  She blessed me with twin boys in March of 1920.  Elijah and Christopher were born very healthy and were the apple of my eye from the start.  I enjoyed nothing more than spending time with them, as an escape from the responsibility of running the business.  Thankfully, Amanda also enjoyed playing with the babies, and together with our housekeeper, they were well maintained but highly spoiled. 

              In August of 1923, our housekeeper, Beatrice, asked if she could bring her niece along to help on days where she had a lot of heavy lifting or long shifts.  She wasn’t getting any younger, and we agreed that it was a good idea to take some of the strain off her.  Her niece was a beautiful 16-year-old girl from Carmel, named Rosemarie.  Rosemarie had long dark brown hair, bright blue eyes, and an angelic face with a surprisingly developed figure for a girl her age.  The staff kept her busy, but I always made it a point to look for her each day to say hello.  She was a bit backward, and blushed like a red rose in June, whenever I paid her a compliment. 

              It was at our annual Christmas party in early December that year, when I saw her in a nice dress that flattered her curvaceous figure.  I found myself keeping an eye out for Amanda, so she wouldn’t catch me talking to Rosemarie, even though our conversations were innocent enough.  After seeing her in that blue dress and black silk stockings, I found it hard to look at her the same way again.  The weeks that followed, when she was in her work uniform, things seemed different.  I found that Rosemarie would seek me out during her shift, instead of me looking for her.  She seemed a bit more flirtatious with me, which as a man in his mid-30’s, I found flattering.  I still loved Amanda, but with the boys now age five, she was real tired at the end of the day, and so our bedroom life wasn’t much at all.  Having a pretty girl fawn over you, despite her young age, can really boost a man’s ego.  That’s exactly what it did to me.

              I began to dream about her.  There was one instance when I woke up nearly soaked in sweat, with Amanda lying next to me, after a very inappropriate dream involving Rosemarie.  I think it was at this time, very early in 1924, that our relationship crossed the line into something forbidden.  I would find ways to meet up with the beautiful Rosemarie during lunch at a hunting cabin we had on the very south edge of our property, near Oak Grove Pond.  During times of the year where the cabin wasn’t being used, it was the perfect place to get away.  She would meet me there as often as we could, and after losing her virginity to me on an old rickety bed at the cabin, she became a teenage girl in heat over me.  Once again, my hubris got the best of me, and just thinking about being with her got my pulse racing.  Those blue eyes had blinded me to how incredibly stupid it was for me to be involved with the young girl on a variety of levels.  At that time in New York, 16 was the legal age to have sex, and even get married without parental consent.  It was wrong for me to be having an affair with anyone, but with a subordinate employee even worse.  I prayed that our long time housekeeper, Beatrice, would never find out.

              It was the morning of July 4
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, and Rosemarie insisted we meet at our usual spot.  I was busy preparing for a family cookout we usually had at the estate.  Since we were in the livestock business, family and friends would come to enjoy the best steaks around.  Not to mention, the many other wonderful dishes that Amanda put together along with other wives who spent days preparing.  Rosemarie was persistent, so I relented.  I figured if we met at 7am, we would have some fun for an hour, then I would still have enough time to get things ready.  She would also be at the cookout along with Beatrice.  I knew I would be so busy trying to entertain everyone all day, that my only time to really enjoy myself was during the fireworks.  From our estate, we could clearly see the fireworks in Brewster and Danbury.  It was the perfect spot to enjoy both displays.

              When I arrived at the cabin, Rosemarie was already there.  She was sitting on the bed in her stocking feet and sobbing uncontrollably.  I knew something was wrong, but what she told me nearly knocked me down to the hard wood planks of the cabin.  Her pretty face shook with heavy sobs and tears streamed down as she told me she was pregnant.  That alone would have been enough of a revelation, but she continued on, telling me we should run away and get married.  Of course she knew I was married, but that didn’t matter to her.  She was of an age where romantic notions were plentiful and rarely grounded in reality.  It was when I sternly told her that we would do no such thing, and that she should not continue with the pregnancy, that things took a turn for the worst.  Despite being Catholic, I knew the pregnancy could not continue.

              She began to scream and throw things about the cabin.  I tried to subdue her, and explain that it just could not be.  I told her that my stature in the community, and my responsibilities of running the family business were too great, and appearances were important.  Having a child out of wedlock was bad enough, but with a 16-year-old girl who was hired help, was simply not possible.  It would be an abomination to the world.  Rosemarie would have no part of that logic.  She continued to scream and threaten to tell my wife about the affair if I didn’t at least let her have the baby.  My mind was racing, and fully cluttered with every possible angle of the tangled web that was woven.  As she continued to yell and scream, my temper began to burn out of control.  Every venomous word she spat was like a searing hot dagger in my back.  I knew that I had to do something to keep her quiet, but no good thoughts came to mind.

              That was when I lost all control.  I could see the face of my father and my grandfather, in total disgust at what I had done.  I could also see the countenance of my humiliated wife, hurtful and crying over the illicit affair with the young and beautiful Rosemarie.  Even though our boys were far too young to understand, I knew that eventually they would, and how it would hurt them to know their father did such a dreadful thing.  It was all of these things at one time that pushed me to the breaking point. 

It seemed like everything I did after that was in slow motion.  There were no sounds.  There was only her horrified face as my hands reached up and grabbed her by the throat, and threw her down to the bed with ferocity.  Her face turned bright red as my hands clenched tighter.  The once smooth and luxurious skin of her face and neck was now oxygen-starved and turning blue – veins protruding from her neck in a desperate cry.  Her arms flailed as she tried to fight back, but to no avail.  She even tried to kick me, but it was no use.  Within a few minutes she succumbed, and took her final breath.