"Just a little. Tell me just a little." Perhaps because he was no longer here, or perhaps because I had learned only a tidbit here and a tidbit there, Troy lingered in my mind as someone mysterious. "Please."
His eyes warmed and his smile trembled through his lips. Then he leaned over and surprised me by stroking my hair just the way Mommy often had.
"When you plead like that, you remind me so much of Leigh as a young girl, pleading with me to take her here or there, to show her this or that. She would burst into my office, interrupting anything I was doing, no matter how important, and ask me to take her on the sailboat or horseback riding. And no matter how busy I was, just like now, I would relent. Tatterton men spoil their women, but," he added, his eyes twinkling, "they enjoy doing it."
"About Troy?" Did he purposely drift of so much or was it something he couldn't help?
"Troy. Well, as I told you, he was much younger than I. When he was a little boy, he was sick so much of the time, I'm afraid I considered him a millstone around my neck. You see, our mother died when he was very small, and soon after that our father. Troy grew up thinking of me as his father and not just his older brother.
"He was a very bright young man, however, and graduated from college when he was only eighteen."
"Only eighteen!" I exclaimed in astonishment. "And then what did he do?"
"He worked in the business. He was a talented artisan and designed many of our most famous toys. So, there you are," he said, intending to end his tale of Troy.
"But why did he commit suicide, Tony?"
His soft blue eyes hardened as if they had instantly turned to ice.
"He didn't commit suicide; it was an accident, a tragic accident. Who said it was suicide? Did your mother tell you that?"
"No. She never mentioned him," I replied, swallowing hard. He looked so angry. His lips grew so tight and thin that a white line developed around them. This chase in his face frightened me, and I think he saw that because he quickly softened his look. In fact, he looked very sad, very distraught.
"Troy was a melancholy man, very sensitive, deep, convinced that he wasn't going to live long. He was very fatalistic about life. No matter what I did, couldn't change him. I don't like talking about him because . . because I feel somewhat responsible, you see. I couldn't help him, no matter what I did."
"I'm sorry, Tony. I didn't mean to make you feel bad." I saw that he couldn't face up to the idea that his brother killed himself. It was cruel of me to try to make him do so.
"I know you wouldn't do anything to hurt me; you're too sweet, too pure." He broke out into a wide, warmer smile. "Let's not talk about sad things. Please. For a while, anyway, let's just concentrate on the beautiful, the pleasant, the hopeful, and the miraculous. Okay?"
"Okay," I said.
"Now, if you feel up to it, I've made a list of books you should read, and have them brought up to your room. Also, I'm having a television set brought in here tomorrow. I'll go through the television guide and underline some of the better programs for you," he added.
How odd, I thought. How did he think I was brought up? I knew what books to read and what programs to watch. My mother often praised my taste in literature. Tony acted as if he thought I was some hillbilly who needed direction and instruction. But I didn't want to complain and hurt his feelings. He looked sa happy to be doing all this.
"And I've got to make that list of things for Drake to bring from Winnerrow," I reminded him.
"Right. He'll be here in the afternoon. Let's see, is there anything else?"
I shook my head.
"All right, then. I have to do some work. I'll see you in the morning. Have a good night's rest, Heaven." "Heaven?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. It's just you had me thinking about your mother then and I--"
"That's all right, Tony. I don't mind if once in a while you make a mistake and call me Heaven. I loved my mother very much." My tears came so fast, it was as though they had been just waiting for an opportunity to show themselves.
"There, now I've gone and made you sad again." "No, it's not your fault."
"Poor Annie." He leaned over and kissed me softly on the cheek, his lips lingering. He inhaled deeply, as if he wanted to drink in the scent of my hair. Then he pulled himself back abruptly, realizing how long he was taking to kiss me good night. "Good night," he said, and left the room.
I rested my head on the pillow an
d thought about some of the things I had learned. How right Rye was. This house had had more than its share of tragedy. Was this the way it was with all great families; rich, powerful families who had so much and yet suffered so much?
Was there a curse on the Tattertons and all who came into close contact with them? Perhaps Rye Whiskey wasn't so wrong about spirits wandering about. Perhaps that man I had seen in the distance visiting my parents' tomb was one of them.
Maybe Drake was right; maybe I should leave the sad things alone. I knew that I couldn't, though. There were things I just had to know. They itched, and just like a persistent itch, they had to be scratched.