"What you did--about others knowing her better than we do."
"People are multi-faceted, Cathy. To us, our mother is only our mother. To others, she is a beautiful, sexy young widow who is likely to inherit a fortune. No wonder the moths all come swarming to encircle the kind of bright flame she is."
Wow! And he was taking all of this so casually, just as if it didn't matter to him one whit--when I knew it did. I thought I knew my brother very well. He must be suffering inside, just as I was, for I knew he didn't want our mother to marry again. I turned my most intuitive eyes upon him ah, he wasn't nearly as detached as he seemed, and that pleased me.
I sighed, though, for I would so much like to be the eternal optimist, like him Deep down I thought life was sure to always put me between Scylla and Charibdis, and give to me always Hobson's Choice. I had to make myself over, make myself better, and become like Chris--eternally cheerful. When I suffered, I had to learn to hide it, as he did. I had to learn to smile and never frown, and not be the genuine clairvoyant I was.
Already we had discussed between us the possibility that our mother might marry again, and neither one of us wanted that to happen. We thought of her as still belonging to our father; we wanted her to be faithful to his memory, ever constant to his first love. And if she remarried, just where would the four of us fit in? Would that Winslow man, with his handsome face and big moustache want four children who weren't his?
"Cathy," mused Chris aloud. "Do you realize this is the perfect time to explore this house? Our door is unlocked, the grandparents are downstairs. Momma is occupied--the perfect chance to find out all we can about this house."
"No!" I cried, frightened. "Suppose the
grandmother found out? She'd whip the skin off all of us!"
"Then you stay with the twins," he said with surprising firmness. "If I'm caught, which I won't be, I'll suffer the whipping and take all the blame Think of it this way, someday we may need to know how to escape this house." An amused smile curved his lips before he went on. "I'm going to disguise myself, anyway, just in case I'm seen."
Disguise? How?
But I'd forgotten the treasure trove of old clothes in the attic. He was up there only a few minutes before he came down, wearing an old-fashioned dark suit that wasn't much too large. Chris was big for his age. Over his blond head he'd fitted a ratty, dark wig he'd found in a trunk. Just possibly he might be mistaken for a small man if the lights were dim enough--a ridiculously funny-looking man?
Jauntily, he paraded back and forth in front of me. Then he leaned forward and stalked around Groucho Marx-style, holding an invisible cigar. He stopped directly in front of me, grinning self-consciously as he bowed deeply and doffed an invisble top hat in a wide and gentlemanly gesture of respect. I had to laugh, and he laughed too, and not just with his eyes, then he straightened up to say, "Now, tell me truthfully, who could recognize this dark and sinister small man as belonging to the giant Foxworth clan?"
No one! For who had ever seen a Foxworth such as he? An awkward, lean and gangling one, with clear-cut features, and dark birdnest hair, plus a smudgy pencil moustache? Not a photograph in the attic resembled what swaggered about, showing off.
"Okay, Chris, cut the act. Go on, find out what you can, but don't stay away too long, either. I don't like it here without you."
He came closer to whisper in a sly and
conspiratorial stage whisper, "I'll be back soon, my fair beauty, and when I'm back, I shall bring with me all the dark and mysterious secrets of this huge, huge, old, old house." And suddenly, he caught me by surprise, and swooped to plant a kiss on my ch
eek.
Secrets? And he said I was given to
exaggerations! What was the matter with him'? Didn't he know that we were the secrets?
I was already bathed and shampooed and dressed for bed, and, of course, on Christmas night, I couldn't go to bed in a nightgown I'd worn before--not when I had several new ones "Santa" had brought. It was a lovely gown I wore, white, with full long sleeves that ruffled at the wrists, and was beaded through with blue satin ribbon, and everything was lace-edged, with smocking across the front and back of the bodice, and dainty pink roses with a tracery of delicately embroidered green leaves. It was one lovely nightgown, exquisitely made, and it made me feel beautiful and exquisite just to have it on.
Chris swept his eyes from my hair down to my bare toes that just barely peeked from beneath my long gown, and his eyes told me something they'd never said quite as eloquently before. He stared at my face, at my hair that cascaded down past my waist, and I knew it gleamed from all the brushing I gave it every day. He seemed impressed and dazzled, just as he had when he'd gazed so long at Momma's swelling bosom above the green velvet bodice.
And no wonder he had kissed me voluntarily--I was so princess-like.
He stood in the doorway, hesitating, still looking at me in my new nightgown, and I guess he was very happy to be playing the knight gallant, protective of his lady fair, of small children, and everyone who relied upon his audacity.
"Take care until you see me again," he whispered. "Christopher," I whispered back, "all you need is a white horse and a shield."
"No," he whispered again, "a unicorn, and a lance with a green dragon's head upon its point, and back I'll gallop in my shining white armor while the blizzard blows in the month of August and the sun is mid-sky, and when I dismount you'll be looking up at someone who stands twelve feet high, so speak respectfully when you speak to me, my lady Cath-er-ine."
"Yes, my lord. Go forth and slay yonder dragon-- but take not overlong, for I could be undone by all that menaces me and mine in this stone-cold castle, where all the drawbridges are up, and the portcullises are down."
"Farewell," he whispered. "Have no fear. Soon I'll be back to care for thee and thine."
I giggled as I climbed into bed to lie down beside Carrie. Sleep was an elusive stranger that night as I thought about my mother and that man, about Chris, about all boys, about men, about romance--and love. As I slipped softly into dreams, with music playing down below, my hand lifted to touch the small ring with the garnet heart-stone that my father had put on my finger when I was only seven years old. A ring I'd outgrown so long ago. My touchstone. My talisman, worn now on a very fine gold chain.
Merry Christmas, Daddy.
Christopher's Exploration and Its Repercussions