Christopher's Diary: Echoes of Dollanganger

“Did he send you to see me?” he asked.

“No, sir,” I said. “This doesn’t have to do with the house construction.”

He nodded and indicated his inner office door. We both rose and followed him.

He closed the door behind us and gestured at the more comfortable-looking, real leather auburn sofa on our right. He put his briefcase down on his dark cherrywood desk, which had everything neatly arranged on it, and then pulled a matching cherrywood rocking chair closer to us.

I had never met a psychiatrist, and Kane had never mentioned either him or anyone in his family ever being treated by any. I was sure his father must know many doctors, including psychiatrists. They all needed good deals on cars. Dr. West leaned back in his chair. If he had any concerns or apprehensions, he didn’t show them. He looked relaxed and ready to talk about anything. And yet I had the sense that he wasn’t surprised I was here.

“So, what’s this about?” he asked, intertwining his long fingers and placing his palms against his flat stomach. He struck me as someone who either jogged regularly or played tennis.

I began at the beginning, describing how my father and Todd had come upon the metal box and the diary. I told him who had written it and in general terms described what it had revealed. The expression on his face changed ever so slightly as I highlighted the most important parts, especially the poisoning of Cory and the deception Corrine and her mother had created to keep the children locked in the small bedroom and attic for so many years.

When I finished, he rocked a little, and then, with his eyes suddenly steely, he looked at me and said, “Why bring this to me? Why don’t you bring it to the police?”

“We think someone else should do that, if he wants to,” I said.

“To repeat, why bring this to me?”

“You treated Corrine Foxworth sometime after 1972,” I said without hesitation.

“How do you know that?”

“I know it. What’s the difference how?” I said defiantly. I was gambling on being right. I didn’t want him to think my father had told me, but then it suddenly occurred to me that maybe my father really had known and just didn’t want me to know for sure.

There was a pause as he rocked and looked at Kane and then at me. “There was a great deal of misery and unhappiness in that grand old house. Maybe it’s time to bury it all and let it go. Including that diary,” he added, nodding at it still clutched in my hands.

“It’s not ours to do,” I said.

“Corrine Foxworth died some years ago under tragic circumstances,” he said. “I know about it only because some follow-ups were ended, but I know nothing else about her or what happened to her children.”

I knew it was quite arrogant of me, a high school senior, even a valedictorian candidate, to look at a psychiatrist and accuse him of lying, but my instincts told me I was right.

“I’d like to hand this back to Christopher Jr., her son,” I said, as if he had said nothing. “I think you can help me do that.”

He shook his head. “I have no idea where he is. I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry, but I have a patient coming in fifteen minutes. I have some work to prepare.” He stood up and put his rocking chair back where it had been.

I looked at Kane. It was written in his face. We had failed. We should go home. We stood up. Dr. West went behind his desk, and Kane went to the door. Just as he opened it, I turned back to Dr. West.

“I’d like to give this to William Anderson, then,” I said. “You and I know he would want it. Once I give it to him, as you say, all the misery and unhappiness will be buried, if that is what he wants. Otherwise, all that these children went through will be for nothing.”

Dr. West stared at me a moment. I held my breath. “Does your father know you’re here?”

“No, sir.”

“This was something we did together,” Kane said quickly. “It means a lot to us now.”

He nodded slowly. “Close the door,” he said.

* * *

Neither of us said a word until we were in Kane’s car and on our way. What we said to each other only had to do with directions to the address. Neither of us was prepared to hear the sort of details Dr. West decided to relate. He understood we had something special in our hands, and I thought that weakened any reluctance he had to share what he knew. He saw how important it was to put it all in perspective. We had only Christopher’s viewpoint of events. We knew nothing of Corrine after the first fire. I never intended to feel a bit sorry for her, but learning how her mother tormented her, hated her in a sense, truly upset me.

The doctor had described how her mother had gotten a replica of a child’s skeleton and put it in a trunk, suggesting that it was her poisoned child. Dr. West said it was one of the things that sent her over the edge of sanity. Now it made more sense to us.

When we pulled up to the curb, Kane turned off the engine, and we sat there looking at the house. There was a ramp in front for wheelchair access. From my father’s work and my own study of houses, I knew this was a classic Colonial Revival, with its gabled roof, entry porch with slender columns and double-hung sash windows with multipane glass. It had a stone veneer. This particular home wasn’t the largest on the residential street, but it wasn’t the smallest, either. It had a lawn that looked too small for the house, however. There was a dark green van in the driveway. All the curtains in all the windows in the house were drawn open, obviously to gather in the remaining afternoon sunshine.

I knew why Kane was full of hesitation. Dr. West had made it clear to us that William Anderson didn’t know ninety percent of what we knew.