I described our sightseeing and then the performance and what we did and ate afterward. When I told her how I had suffered a stomachache, she smiled and nodded.
"Heather was like that when it came to eating new things," she said and then she bit down on her lower lip so hard, it made the skin around it turn white. It was as if something forbidden had escaped her lips.
"Heather?" I said, stepping back. I knew who she meant because of what Grandmother Hudson had told me, but I didn't want her to know how much I had been told.
She shook her head, her eyes widening.
"I'm not supposed to mention her name," she whispered. "Don't you say a word."
"Who is Heather?" I asked.
"She was our daughter," she replied. Her eyes looked glazed over for a moment and then she batted her eyelids quickly as if she was clearing away mist and fog. "The Endfields suffered a horrible tragedy," she began like she was telling a story about some other people. "Heather was only seven when her little heart cracked and shattered as if it was some old glass window in the cathedral of her chest. She was a very sweet, precious little girl, full of smiles and love for her daddy. How her eyes would brighten when he appeared, two tiny lights flickering with her holiday laugh of joy as if every day was Christmas. Every day was special for her because she was given so few.
"Richard made every day festive for her. He never came home without a present in his briefcase or in his arms. He brought her dolls and doll's clothing, almost another doll every other day, and toy dishes and teacups, little furniture and clothes and jewelry. Whatever pretty thing crossed his eyes when he walked along the streets, he bought for her. She was never far from his thoughts no matter how big the case or important the client at the time.
"The morning she didn't wake up, he sat in her room and stared at her until it was nearly twilight. He refused to drink or eat a thing. He threw the doctor out, cursing the medical world for permitting it to happen. Nothing had helped, operations, medicines, nothing.
"Finally, his partners came from the firm and talked him into sending for the undertakers, but he would have nothing to do with it. Our solicitor made all the arrangements and when he went to the funeral, he moved and spoke like a man in a daze, hoping that any moment the nightmare would end. He looked at people and heard them, but he didn't believe they were there or they were really speaking.
"He's never once gone with me to her grave, you know. Heather's room is always kept locked. Mary Margaret is the only-one who is permitted in it once a week to dust and clean. I don't see the point in that, do you, dear? If the door is always kept locked, why bother?
"You mustn't utter a word of any of this in front of him," she added quickly. "You mustn't. He can't even stand to hear someone mention her name now."
"Why don't you have any pictures of her anywhere in the house?" I asked.
"Richard won't permit it. Years and years ago, he removed any reminder of her that was in the house, anything that would force us to dwell on the sorrow."
"But don't you want to remember her?"
"Richard thinks it's better if we pretend we imagined her. He's right," she declared with a maddening smile. "It makes it so much less painful. When I think about her now, it's as if I'm dreaming about someone whom I wish I had as a daughter, but never did,"
"You never tried to have any more children?" I asked.
She glanced up at me and stared so long, I thought she wasn't going to answer and I should just turn and walk out quickly for daring to ask such a personal question. Then she spoke.
"We were terrified that if we had another, the same sort of thing would happen. It was heredity, th
e heart problem. Richard's mother died when she was only in her thirties, you see.
"Oh, I know not having children has made us selfish," she continued with a slight nodding, "but there was nothing I could do. Richard wouldn't hear of adopting. A child wouldn't be loved properly in this house if he or she didn't have any Endfield blood, he told me, and I didn't argue. I suppose I was somewhat selfish too, and afraid.
"I'm not at all like Frances, you see. I pretend to be critical of her. It's a game we've always played, but I truly admire her for her strength. Sometimes, I think she wouldn't be rattled if the Queen herself came to visit. When our mother died, Frances was like a mother to me. She was even like a mother to her own husband sometimes," she added with a small laugh.
"Oh, but look at the time," she declared, gazing at the small marble-encased clock on her dresser. "You'll be late for school if I keep you here listening to my drivel?'
"It's not drivel," I said.
She didn't seem to hear me. She sipped her tea and rocked herself slightly in the bed.
I started out of the room and then, gazing to my left, saw the rocker she had been sitting in the morning I had come up to speak with her. There was a blanket on it, but visible, just beneath it, was the tiny hand and arm of what looked like a doll.
It put a shiver in me and sped up my exit from her room and the house afterward when I had finished with my morning duties and could leave for school.
All during the week I went to my lessons and attended my classes with much more enthusiasm because of the play I had attended. Randall said I was inspired and I didn't deny it. When I sat and
daydreamed, I did see myself on the stage. At the end of all my imaginary performances, the applause was deafening and someone always rushed up with an armful of roses for me. I envisioned my name in lights and saw myself featured in magazines. Back in Washington, D.C., those who had known me as just another poor black girl living in the projects were shocked to open. newspapers and see my picture in the arts sections. I'm sure everyone around me in my classes wondered why I was sitting there with such a silly smile on my face, but they couldn't see into my fantasies.
Late in the week, my speech teacher pulled me aside to tell me I was making good progress improving my pronunciation and enunciation. On Thursday, I read for a dramatics presentation and as a result was awarded a role, the role Sarah Broadhurst had coveted. She was absolutely furious when she saw my name next to Ophelia from Hamlet on the assignment list the next day. Randall made such a big deal of it, I had to ask him to quiet down because he was embarrassing me in front of the others. He saw how Sarah was looking at me, her eyes green with envy.