Wicked Forest (DeBeers 2)

I almost felt like crawling into his madness and pulling it around me like a warm blanket of security.

It was quite evident on the faces of our maids, Mary and Joan, that Jennings was correct in telling me they had endured all they would at Joya del Mar. After dinner, they informed me of their intention to leave right after my mother's funeral.

"We'll stay to help you with greeting people, but not much longer," Mary said.

I thanked them for that and went to my room, intending to try to get some sleep. Just before I crawled into bed, the phone rang. It was Miguel. Now that he had insisted I call him by his Christian name. I could no longer think of him as Professor Fuentes.

"I hope I'm not calling you too late."

"No, it's fine," I said "I don't expect to get much sleep tonight anyway."

"Perhaps you should take something to help." "No. I don't want to be groggy in the morning."

"I understand. I've been thinking about you there in that big house without much family. I'm so used to a houseful of relatives, especially on occasions such as this. I just wanted you to know that I will be there tomorrow at the church and afterward, and I will gladly stand beside you." he said. If you wish, that is,"

"Thank you. I do wish."

"Then it will be," he said. "Good night. Willow,'

"Good night, and thank you for thinking of me. Miguel."

What a strange mix of feelings was being stirred in my heart, I thought as I lay back against the big, fluffy pillow, phone call had done more than comfort me. It gave me some new hope, some new fantasies and delights, but this came at so sad a time. It was almost like putting candy in a bowl of castor oil. The sweetness was welcome, but for the moment it felt out of place, even awkward, especially as I lay alone in this large suite where my very thoughts seemed to echo.

Now that my mother was gone, this house seemed empty already. How many times had I come upon her unawares and seen her touch a vase or a statue, gaze at a chair or stand by a window looking out, her lips caught in that small smile that comes only with a gentle, wonderful memory. I was sure she heard the click of her mother's footsteps over the tiles, looked up quickly in a mirror or in the reflection off a window and saw her standing there. Memories make ghosts of us all. And Mother's memories surely brought back so many images, so many moments from the past that she felt ethereal, a body of mist and dreams herself. That restoration of the past at least gave the house some character, some sense of identity; and now, with her gone forever, all the good memories were gone with her. What Linden remembered here. I did not care to know, and what I knew from so short a stay was not enough to give me a sense of place. I certainly was not in the mood to think of it as Thatcher's and my home.

Could I make this a home without Mother? How much would I bury with her tomorrow? I wondered,

.

Linden put up a quiet resistance to attending Mother's funeral, I had to wake him and urge him to get dressed. I made sure to put out his dark suit. He took so long getting dressed. I thought we would be late ourselves. The limousine arrived and I went up to move him along. He would have no breakfast. I felt sorrier for him than I did for myself. He looked like a frightened young boy.

Whenever we think of funerals, we think of gray days, rainy days, dark and cold: but as if Palm Beach would not permit such feelings, the sky was bright blue and cloudless, the breeze gentle and soothing. Everything glittered with life and freshness. Nature refused to acknowledge death and decay. The only darkness that existed, existed in me and certainly in Linden.

There were just a dozen or so people

at the church. Besides Manon and the others, there was Mr. Ross and his wife, some of my friends from school. Miguel waiting for me at the door, and, to my surprise, the infamous Carriage sisters. Bunny Eaton's friends. I had no doubt they were there in the role of social reporters, to fill the coffers of gossip with every detail of the funeral, who attended, what they wore, what was said.

The service itself was relatively short, the minister offering little in the way of a personal touch. It was almost as if he was afraid to say anything real about Mother. He cloaked himself in hymns and biblical readings. Throughout it all. Miguel stood at my side. I held Linden's arm. He was so stiff and terrified-looking, I was sure he provided a great subject for the tittle-tattle the chin-wagging Carriage sisters would pour into the eager ears of the Palm Springs socialites,

Toward the end, my throat closed as I choked back a sob. Miguel seized my hand and held it tightly. Then, when they rolled the coffin out the side door to the waiting hearse that would bring it to the cemetery, we turned. Linden following my lead closely, and walked up the aisle and out to the limousine.

I'll be right behind you." Miguel said as Linden and I reentered the automobile. Looking out, I saw Manon and the others clump together, all looking somber. I was sure they would rush off to some bistro and have wine or champagne as quickly as they could to wash the mournful sounds of the organ and the scent of funeral flowers from their consciousness. Actually, I couldn't blame them. I even envied them.

I hadn't realized that Jennings was at the church. Besides Miguel and us, he was the only other person at the gravesite. He kept his head lowered throughout the minister's final prayers, then wiped his eyes and left before the coffin was to be lowered.

I watched Linden closely as the coffin descended. Finally, he moaned. For the last twenty years, Mother had been really the only other person in his life. Now every dark and desperate thought he had put into his art surely seemed justified to him. From the way he looked down into that grave. I knew he was wishing he could throw himself over the coffin and be buried with Mother.

Weakened by his sorrow, he began to lose strength rapidly, his legs melting. I wasn't just holding his arm anymore: I was holding him up. Miguel saw this immediately and took a firm grasp on his other arm.

"Better go," he whispered. I nodded, and we turned Linden and guided him to the limousine.

Once inside, he let himself fall to the side, his eyes closed, his body sinking into the seat.

"I'll come along to help you," Miguel said.

He was right behind us all the way back to Jaya del Mar. Linden slept during the drive and I had a chance to cry. When we arrived. Jennings came out to help, and between him and Miguel, they were able to get Linden up to his room. They put him to bed. I waited downstairs, pouring myself a good shot of whiskey. Joan and Mary lingered, expecting people to arrive to pay their last respects, but no one did.

When Miguel came down, he asked about the windows in Linden's bedroom.