Dawn (34 page)

"That's sweet of you, child. Funny," she said, taking my hand and looking up at me, "you're the grandchild Mrs. Cutler would want the most, and you're the one she gave away."

16

I returned to the hotel slowly, my head spinning, my whole life whirling by. Every few moments I would stop the wheel of fortune and read off something that now made sense—Momma's last words in the hospital, asking me not to hate her and Daddy, my grandmother's unhappiness at my return, my real mother's cowardice and nervous condition—all of it began to fall into place to create a picture that I didn't like, but that at least made sense.

Lunch had just ended at the hotel. Guests were meandering about the grounds, sitting on the front porch, enjoying the beautiful day. Younger guests were at the tennis courts, and many had gone to the pool. Across the way at the docks other guests were getting into and out of boats that took them for scenic coastal rides. There were smiles and laughter all around me. I was sure I stood out because of the clouds that hovered over me and cast dark shadows over my face.

But I couldn't help it. The bright sunshine, the warm ocean breezes, the happy peal of laughter coming from children, the excitement and energy of the tourists—all of it only pointed up my own sadness. Cutler's Cove was no place to be depressed, I thought, especially not today.

My grandmother was sitting in the lobby smiling and talking to guests. They laughed at something she said and then listened closely as she went on, their attention glued to her as if she were some celebrity. I saw the way other guests were drawn to her, eager to listen. She didn't see that I had entered, so I was able to look at her without her knowing it.

But suddenly she set eyes on me, and her expression frosted. I didn't turn away first. She did. Her smile returned as she continued to talk to her guests. I proceeded through the lobby. I had something to do before I would speak with her, someone else to speak with first.

Clara Sue was behind the front desk. Some of the teenage guests were standing there and talking to her. They all laughed, and then Clara Sue turned my way, her face full of curiosity and without any remorse.

But I didn't care about her right now. Right now she was insignificant to me. I ignored her and walked across the lobby. She made some snide remark about me, I'm sure, because a moment later she and her friends laughed even louder than they had been laughing. I didn't look back. I went to the old section and hurried through the corridor to the stairway.

There I paused, and then I walked up slowly, my eyes fixed ahead of me, my determination building with each step. All I could hear were Momma's last words to me in the hospital; all I could see was Daddy with his head bowed in defeat when the police had arrived.

What I was about to do I was to do for them.

I paused again at the door of my mother's suite, and then I walked in slowly and found her seated at her vanity table, brushing her golden hair and gazing admiringly at herself in the oval mirror. For a long moment she didn't realize I had entered. She was too entranced in her own image. Finally she realized I was standing there staring at her, and she spun around on her stool.

She was dressed in a light blue negligee, but as usual she had on earrings, a necklace, and bracelets. She had been making up her face and wore lipstick, rouge, and eyeliner.

"Oh, Dawn, you frightened me, sneaking in like that. Why didn't you knock? Even though I'm your mother, you've got to learn to knock," she said reproachfully. "Women my age need their privacy respected, Dawn honey," she added and put on her friendly smile that now looked more like a mask to me.

"Aren't you afraid Grandmother will hear you call me Dawn and not Eugenia?" I demanded. She looked more closely at me and saw the angry gleam in my eyes. It unnerved her quickly, and she put her brush down and turned around to get up to go to her bed.

"I'm not feeling too well this morning," she murmured as she crawled over her silk sheets. "I hope you don't have any new problems."

"Oh, no, Mother. All my problems are old ones," I announced, moving closer. She looked up at me curiously and then pulled her blanket over her body and fell back against her fluffy pillows.

"I'm so tired," she said. "It must be this new medication my doctor has prescribed. I'm going to have to have Randolph call him and tell him it's making me too tired. All I want to do is sleep, sleep, sleep. You'll have to leave and let me close my eyes."

"You weren't always like this, Mother, were you?" I asked sharply. She didn't say anything; she kept her eyes closed and her head on the pillow. "Were you, Mother? Didn't you used to be quite a lively young lady?" I asked, stepping up to the bed. She opened her eyes and blazed a wild look at me.

"What do you want? You're acting so strange. I don't have the strength. Go see your father if you have a problem. Please."

"Where shall I find my father?"

"What?"

"Where do I go to find him, my father?" I asked in a sweet, musical voice. "My
real
father."

She closed her eyes and lay back again.

"In his office, I'm sure. Or in his mother's office. You shouldn't have any problem locating him." She waved a hand dismissively.

"Really? I would have thought it would be very hard to find my father. Wouldn't I have to go running about from hotel to hotel, nightclub to nightclub, listening to entertainers?"

"What?" She opened her eyes again. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about my real father . . . finally my
real
father. The one by the pool."

My remark had hit home. I savored the look of unease creeping into her face. For once I wasn't the one who had to answer about the past. I wasn't the one made to feel ashamed. She was.

She stared at me uncomprehendingly and then brought her hands to her bosom.

"You don't mean that Mr. Longchamp? You're not still calling him your father, are you?" I shook my head. "Well, what are you talking about? I can't take this." Her eyelids fluttered. "It's making me feel very faint."

"Don't pass out before you tell me the truth, Mother," I demanded. "I won't leave your side until you do anyway. That I promise."

"What truth? What are you babbling about? What have you been told now? Who have you been speaking to? Where's Randolph?" She gazed at the door as if he were right behind me.

"You don't want him here," I said. "Unless it's time he knew it all. How could you give me up?" I asked quickly. "How could you let someone take your baby?"

"Let . . . someone?"

I shook my head in disgust.

"Were you always this weak and self-centered? You let her force you to give me up. You made your bargain—"

"Who's been filling you with these lies?" she demanded with a surprising burst of energy.

"No one's been filling me with lies, Mother. I have just come from talking with Mrs. Dalton." Her angry scowl wilted. "Yes, Mrs. Dalton, who was my nurse, whom you said Grandmother blamed. You just wanted to shift the blame to someone else. If Grand-mother blamed her, why did she give her a year's salary? And why was she rehired to care for Clara Sue?

"There's no sense trying to think of another lie to cover that one," I added quickly when I saw her start to speak. It was better to keep her on her toes. On the defense before she could gather her wits and retaliate with more lies. "Mrs. Dalton's very sick and wants to make her peace with God. She regrets her part in the scheme, and she is willing to tell the truth to anyone now.

"Why did you do it? How could you let anyone have your own child?"

"What did Mrs. Dalton tell you? She's sick; she must be babbling madness. Why did you even go to speak to that woman? Who sent you there?" my mother demanded.

"She's sick, but she's not babbling madness, and there are others here in the hotel who can support her story. I'm the one who is sick," I snapped. "I'm sick of lies, of living a life of lies.

"You lay here in bed pretending to be weak and tired and nervous just to hide yourself from the truth," I said. "Well, I don't care. Do what you want, but don't lie to me anymore. Don't pretend to love me and to have missed me and to pity me for having been taken away to live a poor, hard life. You sent me into that life. Didn't you?
Didn't you?"
I shouted. She winced and looked as if she would burst into tears.
"I want the truth!"
I screamed and pounded my thighs with my fists.

"Oh, God!" she cried and buried her face in her hands.

"Crying and pretending to be sick won't save you this time, Mother. You did a terrible thing, and I have a right to know the truth."

She shook her head.

"Tell me," I insisted. "I won't leave until you do."

Slowly she brought her hands away from her face. It was a changed face, and not just because tears had streaked her makeup and made her eyeliner run. There was a tired, defeated look in her eyes, and her lips trembled. She nodded slowly and slowly turned to me. She looked even younger, more like a little girl who had been caught doing something naughty.

"You mustn't think badly of me," she said in a tiny child's voice. "I didn't mean to do terrible things. I didn't." She pursed her lips and tilted her head as a five-year-old would.

"Just tell me what really happened, Mother. Please."

She glanced toward the doorway and leaned closer to me, her voice in a whisper.

"Randolph doesn't know," she said. "It would break his heart. He loves me very much, almost as much as he loves his mother, but he can't help that. He can't," she said, shaking her head.

"Then you did give me away?" I asked, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Until this moment . . . this moment of truth . . . a secret part of me hadn't wanted to believe what I'd been told. "You
did
let Ormand and-Sally Jean Longchamp have me?"

"I had to," she whispered. "She made me do it." She gazed out of the corners of her eyes at the doorway. She was like a little girl trying to shift the guilt onto another little girl. My anger subsided. There was something very pathetic and sad about her. "You mustn’t blame me, Dawn.
Please!"
she begged. "You mustn't. I didn't want to do it, honest, but she told me if I didn't, she would tell Randolph things about me and have me cast out a disgrace. Where would I go? What would I do? People would hate me. Everyone respects and fears her," she added angrily. "They would believe anything she said."

"So you did make love with another man and got pregnant with me?" I asked softly this time. "Randolph was always so involved in the hotel.

He's in love with the hotel," she complained. "You don't have any idea how hard it was for me in those days," she said, her face twisting. Tears filled her eyes. "I was young and beautiful and full of energy and wanted to do things, but Randolph was always so busy or his mother was always asking him to do this and do that, and if I wanted to go somewhere or do something, he always had to check with his mother. She ruled our lives like some queen.

"I wasn't going to just sit around all the time.
He never had time for me! Never!
It wasn't fair!" she shouted indignantly. "He didn't tell me it would be that way when he courted me. I was fooled. Yes," she said, nodding and liking her theory, "I was tricked, deceived. He was one kind of a man outside the hotel and another inside. Inside, he is what his mother wants him to be, no matter what I say or do.

"So I can't be blamed," she concluded. "It's all really his fault . . . her fault." The tears streaked down her face. "Don't you see? I'm not to blame."

"She told you you would have to give me up and you agreed," I concluded, as if I were a lawyer cross-examining a witness in a trial, but I did feel like it was a trial of sorts, with me acting as attorney for Ormand and Sally Jean Longchamp, as well as myself.

"I had to agree. What else could I do?"

"You could have said no. You could have fought for me and told her I was your child. You could have told her no, no, no!" I shouted wildly, but it was like trying to tell a four-year-old how to behave like an adult. My mother smiled through her tears, nodding.

"You're right. You're right. I was bad. So very bad! But everything's all right now. You're back. Everything's all right. Let's not talk about it anymore. Let's talk about good things, happy things. Please."

She patted me on the hand and took a deep breath, her expression changing as if all that we had been discussing was instantly forgotten and not very important anyway.

"I was thinking that you should have something done with your hair, and maybe we could go shopping for some nice new clothes for you. And new shoes and some jewelry. You don't have to wear all of Clara Sue's hand-me-downs. You can have your own things now.

"Would you like that?" she asked.

I shook my head. She really was a child. Perhaps she had always been like this and that was why my grandmother had her way with her easily.

"But I'm so tired right now," she said. "I'm sure it's this new medicine. I just want to close my eyes for a while." She dropped her head back to the pillow. "And rest and rest." She opened her eyes and looked up at me. "If you see your father, please tell him to call the doctor, I have to change my medicine."

I stared down at her. She did have the face of a little girl, a face to be pitied and pampered.

"Thank you, honey," she said and closed her eyes again.

I turned away. There was no point in screaming at her anymore or making any demands on her. In a way she was an invalid, not as sick as Mrs. Dalton, but just as shut away from reality. I started for the door.

"Dawn?" she called.

"Yes, Mother."

"I'm sorry," she said and then closed her eyes again.

"So am I, Mother," I replied. "So am I."

All my life, I thought as I descended the stairway, I have been carried along by events beyond my control.

As an infant, as a child, and as a young girl, I was dependent upon adults and had to do whatever they wanted me to do or, as I had just learned, go along with whatever they wanted done with me. Their decisions, their actions, and their sins were the winds that blew me from one place to the next. Even those who really loved me could turn and go only to certain places. The same was true for Jimmy and certainly for Fern. Events that had been begun even before our births had already determined what and who we would be.

But now all the tragedy of the last few months rushed down over and around me: Momma's death, Daddy's being arrested, having what I thought was my family broken up, being spirited off in the night to this new family, Clara's continuous attempts to hurt me, Philip's raping me, Jimmy's escape and capture, and my learning the truth. I was like someone caught in the middle of a tornado and spun about. Now, like a flag that had suddenly snapped in a violent gust and pulled free of the hinges that held it, I spun on my heels and soared toward the hotel lobby, my head high, my eyes fixed ahead of me, not gazing left or right, not seeing anyone else, not hearing any voices.

My grandmother was still sitting on a settee in the lobby, the small audience of guests surrounding her and listening attentively to whatever she had to say. Their faces were filled with smiles of admiration. Whomever my grandmother singled out for a special word, a touch, beamed like someone blessed by a clergyman.

Something in my face drew the audience back in a wave, made them part and step away as I approached. Slowly, with her soft, angelic smile still firmly settled on her face, my grandmother turned to see what had stolen their attention from the glow of her eyes and the warmth of her voice. The instant she saw me, her shoulders stiffened and her smile retreated, bringing dark shadows to her face, which suddenly seemed more like a hard shell.

I stopped before her, my arms folded under my breasts. My heart was pounding, but I did not want her to see how nervous and frightened I was.

"I want to talk to you," I declared.

"It's impolite to interrupt people like this," she replied and started to turn back to her guests.

"I don't care what's impolite or polite. I want to talk to you right now," I insisted, filling my voice with as much firmness as I could. I did not shift my eyes from her, so she would see just how determined I was.

Suddenly she smiled.

"Well," she said to her admiring circle of guests, "I see we have a little family matter to tend to. Will everyone please excuse me for a few minutes?"

One of the gentlemen at her side moved quickly to help her get up.

"Thank you, Thomas." She glared at me. "Go to my office," she commanded. I glared back and then headed that way while she continued to make excuses for my behavior.

When I entered her office, I looked up at the portrait of my grandfather. He had such a warm, gentle smile. I wondered what it would have been like to know him. How had he put up with Grandmother Cutler?

The door burst open behind me as my grandmother came in like a storm. Her shoes snapped against the wooden floor as she pounded past me and then whipped herself around, her eyes burning in rage, her lips pencil-line thin.

"How dare you? How dare you behave in that manner while I was speaking with my guests? Not even my poorest workers, people who come from the most depressing and lowly backgrounds, act like that. Is there not even a shred of decency in your insolent body?" she ranted. It was as if I had stepped before a coal stove just when the door was open and confronted the raging fire and all its uncovered red heat. I closed my eyes and retreated a few steps, but then I opened them and spit my words back at her.

"You can't speak to me of decency anymore. You're a hypocrite!"

"How dare you? I'll have you shut up in your room; I'll—"

"You won't do anything, Grandmother, but tell the truth . . . finally," I ordered firmly. Her eyes widened in confusion. With a bit of glee I announced my surprise. "I went to see Mrs. Dalton this morning. She's very sick and was happy to finally lift the burden of guilt from her conscience. She told me what really happened after I was born and before."