"Yes."
"She was very beautiful."
"Yes, she was," he said wistfully.
There were no pictures of his father or any pictures of his father and mother together. The only other paintings on the walls were of river scenes. There were no photographs in frames on the dresser either. Had he had all pictures of his father removed?
I gazed at the closed door that connected his room with the room I knew must have been his parents' bedroom, the room in which I had seen him curl up in emotional agony that night.
"What do you think of my self-imposed cell?" he asked.
"It's a nice room. The furniture looks brandnew. You're a very neat person."
He laughed.
And then he turned serious, letting go of my arm and moving to his bed. He ran his hand over the footboard and the post. "I've slept in this bed since I was three years old. This door," he said, turning around, "opens to my parents' bedroom. My
grandmother keeps it as clean and polished as any of the bedroom is still in use."
"This must have been a nice place to grow up in," I said. My heart had begun to pitter-patter, as if it sensed something my eyes had missed.
"It was and it wasn't," he said. His lips twisted as he struggled with his memories. He moved to the door and pressed his palm against it. "For years and years, this door was never locked," he said. "My mother and I. . we were always very close."
He continued to face the door and speak as if he could see through it into the past. "Often in the morning, after my father had gotten up to get to work, she would come in and crawl up beside me in my bed and hold me close so I could wake up in her arms. And if anything ever frightened me . . no matter how late or early, she would come to me or let me come to her." He turned slowly. "She was the only woman I have ever laid beside. Isn't that sad?"
"You're not very old, Louis. You'll find someone to love,' I said.
He laughed a strange, thin ugh.
"Who would love me? tt not only blind . .I'm twisted, as twisted and ugly as the Hunchback of Notre Dame?"
"Oh, but you're not. You're good-looking and you're very talented."
"And rich, don't forget that."
He walked back to the bed and took hold of the post. Then he ran his hand over the blanket softly.
"I used to lie here, hoping she would come to me, and if she didn't come on own, I would pretend to have been frightened by a bad dream just to bring her here," he confessed. "Is that so terrible?"
"Of course not."
"My father thought it was," he said angrily. "He was always bawling her out for spoiling me and for lavishing too much attention on me."
Having been someone who never knew her mother, I couldn't imagine being spoiled by one, but it sounded like a nice fault.
"He was jealous of us," Louis continued.
"A mother and her child? Really?"
He turned away and faced the portrait as if he could see it. "He thought I was too old for such motherly attention.
She was still coming to me and I was still going to her when I was eight. . nine ten. Even after I had turned thirteen," he added. "Was that wrong?" he demanded, spinning on me My hesitation put pain in his face. "You think so too, don't you?"
"No," I said softly.
"Yes you do." He sat on the bed. "I thought I could tell you about it. I thought you would understand."
"I do understand. Louis. I don't think badly of you. I'm sorry your father did," I added.