Chapter Seven

Margaret set the vase of freshly cut April daffodils on Mother Browne’s nightstand, hoping for at least a smile from her mother-in-law. “I know you might not believe it, but I grew them myself,” Margaret said.

Mother Browne didn’t answer or even smile; but then, smiles were rare these last eight years. A stroke had left the entire right side of her body paralyzed and her whole face slack. Most days she simply stared into space, as if suspended somewhere between life and death.

The estate’s gardens had taken on a similar countenance. With his mother bedridden, Devin fired the groundskeeper and diverted maintenance funds to his own use. Since then, as his gambling debts mounted, the mansion’s interior also fell into disrepair.

Margaret had protested his selling off their home’s fixtures and furniture, but as he always reminded her, it was his family’s home and he was his parents’ only heir. And his father was already dead. Why wait when he could have it all now? Most of it anyway. In the meantime, he didn’t want to hear Margaret’s mouth about it.

Fortunately, he hadn’t objected when she rescued a patch of the land to plant and tend her own garden. After all, whether he admitted it or not, it was a good portion of her harvest that kept them all fed. Whatever produce was left over, she bartered for dairy and bakery goods.

The flowers were a new project she was trying. The Waterford vase she’d put them in was the only piece of Mother Browne’s crystal collection she’d managed to hide from Devin.

Margaret crossed Mother Browne’s room to open the

drapes. As she flung back the maroon velvet panels, a flood of morning light quickly lifted her spirits. She unlatched the French doors and pushed them open, stepping out onto the balcony.

The air was clear and crisp. She stretched her arms and gazed into the distance with wonder. “Ahhhh,” she sighed to herself, as much for Mother Browne’s sake as for her own. “Mother Browne, just look at those beautiful snow-capped peaks. Have you ever seen anything so stunning?”

As if she expected a response, Margaret stood aside to give her mother-in-law a clear view from the bed. “Why,” Margaret continued, “I think it’s even possible to see all the way to Golden today.”

Mother Browne turned her face against the pillow and remained mute. Still, for her mother-in-law to move at all was progress. It seemed to Margaret that Mother Browne had at least begun to try to communicate these last few months, however, even if just to express her displeasure about something.

Margaret was convinced that her mother-in-law was trying to tell her something, something important. So far, Margaret hadn’t been able to interpret her mother-in-law’s moans and grunts, nevertheless she would keep trying. Perhaps there was something in the room that Mother Browne wanted closer to her or that she wanted to hold.

Unfortunately, there were so many knickknacks, books, and photographs in the room that Margaret had no idea of what to single out. She would just have to continue to wait patiently until Mother Browne made it clear to her. For now, though, it didn’t matter. Mother Browne was asleep again.

Margaret stepped back inside the room, but left the French doors open. It was a perfect opportunity to get her dusting done. She pulled an old piece of flannel from her pocket and went about the room.

She handled every object with respect, aware that each one represented a significant time or place in her mother-in-law’s once glamorous and passionately lived life.

She was especially careful as she picked up the silver framed photograph of her deceased father-in-law, as it was the last one taken before his crippling polo accident.

As Margaret wiped the frame’s glass she thought once again how fate had so cruelly altered her husband’s life and ultimately her own life as well. A truth it had taken her years to piece together. All versions of the Browne’s family history she’d been told had been riddled with lies.

As always, before setting the photo back, she recounted the truth to herself to keep it straight in her own mind, and to tell Kyle, whenever it was the right time.

In the year following his father’s misfortune, Devin had gone from being a spoiled little rich boy to a child grieving his father’s suicide. Apparently, however, the greater tragedy had been the loss of the family fortune due to Father Browne’s swindling business partners.

It was the foresight of Father Browne’s own father that the family estate was owned and maintained by a trust fund.

“The truth is merely a matter of perception, my dear,” Mother Browne instructed Margaret shortly after Devin had brought her home as his bride.

“So true, Mother Browne, so true,” Margaret said, mostly to herself, as she placed the photograph back in its place on the bureau top, continuing to stare at it. It was amazing, she noticed, how much Devin had come to resemble his father.

Margaret allowed herself a wistful thought. What if, under other circumstances, her husband might have been a different kind of man? A hard worker like her father. Not some con artist willing to do whatever it took to get money. Still what was done, was done, including, soon, her marriage.

She moved to the bookshelves, making quick work of them, then arrived at the painting over the fireplace, a large oil portrait of Mother Browne when she was a debutante. She stood back to admire it for a moment.

For the thousandth time, Margaret wondered if there really was a wall safe behind the painting, and if there was, if it really held the gold nuggets Devin swore it did. Lately, he’d been threatening to break into the safe, but Margaret hoped he had at least some shred of decency left. Stealing from his own mother had to be too far even for him to go.

She dragged a chair close to the fireplace and stood on it to reach the painting. Just as she swept a cobweb from the painting, she heard Mother Browne moan.

She turned to look at her mother-in-law and even from across the room could see that the woman was trying desperately to say something.

Margaret hastily got down from the chair and rushed to Mother Browne’s bedside. Sitting on the bed, Margaret clasped the woman’s hands between her own.

For the first time ever, the two women looked directly into each other’s eyes. Margaret didn’t need an interpreter for what she saw. Mother Browne’s eyes were full of fear. What Margaret had to strain to understand was the meaning of her mother-in-law’s moans. Margaret felt certain that she was asking for something, only what?

Margaret looked around the room for clues. Was it something from a shelf? In a drawer? A favorite piece of jewelry or one of the figurines brought back from mother’s travels? Perhaps it was the bronze statuette of the Eiffel Tower on her bureau or the ivory bust of an African child on her desk.

Margaret let go of her mother-in-law’s hands and walked around the room, gently touching one thing then another. As Margaret neared a corner table that held only a large open Bible, one of Mother Browne’s hands began to tremble.

“Is this what you want,” Margaret asked. “The Bible?”

Tears began to run down Mother Browne’s cheeks. Relieved, Margaret lifted the heavy leather covered book and brought it to her mother-in-law’s bedside. She held it so that Mother Browne could look directly at its pages, which were time yellowed and musty.

It was printed in English and German, with the English text in the left-hand column, and the German text in the righthand column. Between the “Old Testament” and the “New Testament” were pages that folded out to reveal a family tree. All the names were German.

Mother Browne reached toward the Bible. Margaret held the book closer, and set Mother Browne’s hand on top of the pages. Mother Browne pushed at one of the pages as if trying to turn it.

“All right,” Margaret said, and began turning the pages, leafing back through the “Old Testament.” She had not the least idea of what they were looking for. Then, there it was, between the Psalms; a daguerreotype pushed into the fold.

Margaret had never seen Mother Browne look so happy, even the atrophied muscles in her face appeared to regain their elasticity. Margaret removed the decades-old photograph and held it up for Mother Browne to see. Mother Browne began to weep. “Mama, Mama,” she moaned.

The people in the photograph seemed to be a family. A smiling little girl about five years old with dark, waist-length hair held back by a ribbon was wearing a long gingham dress with a peek-a-boo crinoline. The little girl was leaning into the lap of a stoic-looking Indian woman whose hair was also dark, but straighter and longer, parted into two braids.

The woman’s buckskin dress and moccasins might have been ceremonial. Her posture in the high-backed chair was positively regal.

Behind the girl and the woman stood a tall, pale, white man with a head of abundant, light-colored curly hair. He was dressed in a tweed jacket and lederhosen, and had a hand resting on the woman’s shoulder. His gaze, straight at the camera, bespoke the pride of possession.

On the back of the photograph were two lines of writing in brown ink too faded to read.

Margaret put the photograph into Mother Browne’s palm, and held her hand under Mother Browne’s so that the woman didn’t have to use her strength to hold the picture close enough to see. Mother Browne was decidedly smiling.

The bedroom door was closed, but Margaret could still hear the muted chimes of the grandfather clock at the bottom of the stairs. The church social committee would be arriving soon, but right now this was more important.

Margaret leaned over and kissed the old woman on her forehead. “I know, I know,” Margaret said as she gently smoothed a strand of Mother Browne’s hair back into place. It was impossible not to notice how her mother-in-law’s widow’s peak and high cheekbones matched those of the woman’s in the photograph or how Mother Browne had the same upturned nose and piercing stare as the man in the photograph.

Then, Margaret realized something even more incredible. The little girl in the photograph was Mother Browne. The telltale proof was the mole at the corner of Mother Browne’s mouth, which was in exactly the same place as a mole on the little girl.

A strong knock at the bedroom door caught Margaret by surprise. She quickly put the photograph back between the pages of the Bible, carefully closing the book. “Come in,” she finally called.

Walter entered the room with a luncheon tray. “I took the liberty of bringing this up a little early since you mentioned that you have a committee meeting this afternoon. I hope I wasn’t out of place.”

“Not at all, Walter,” Margaret said, praying that he couldn’t see the blush she felt rising on her face. “That was most thoughtful of you. Thank you.”

Margaret watched Walter closely as he arranged Mother Browne’s plate of food and her eating utensils on a small table. She sucked her breath in when she noticed Walter had a widow’s peak identical to that of Mother Browne’s and the woman’s in the picture. He also had the same strong jaw line of the man, and the straight, dark hair of the woman. Margaret’s mind raced to try to understand.

She was probably just letting her imagination run away from her, she quickly decided. Walter was a Negro. How could there possibly be any resemblance between him and Mother Browne? And the people in the photograph, who were they?

As Walter finished setting the table, Margaret opened the Bible just enough to sneak a second look at the picture. Yes, the similarity between Walter and Mother Browne and the people in the photograph was clearly evident. But what did it all mean?

She looked at Walter, again, and then back at the photograph. A startling awareness came to her; Walter and Devin had remarkably similar profiles.

Granted, Walter was an inch or two taller than Devin, and also, Walter had dark brown skin, especially compared to Devin’s ruddy complexion. Still there was no mistaking their familial likeness.

“It’s just not possible,” Margaret said, forcing the thought away. She slammed the Bible shut, set it on the floor and shoved it under the bed skirt with her foot.

“Pardon, Mrs. Browne. What did you say?” Walter asked Margaret as he moved the vase of daffodils to the luncheon table.

“Nothing, Walter. Nothing at all. I was just thinking aloud.”

“Of course. I do it all the time myself,” Walter replied with a polite smile. “Here, let me help you fix mother’s pillows.”

Walter plumped the pillows in back of Mother Browne’s head and added several more that were sitting on a nearby chair.

Margaret stared at Walter as if it was the first time she’d ever seen him. He seemed not to notice. He simply picked up the plate with the soup bowl on it and handed it to her. Unavoidably, the tips of their fingers touched, causing a shock in Margaret’s body. She felt her nipples stiffen against her corset.

The plate and the bowl of warm soup wobbled between their grasps and the bowl nearly slid off onto Mother Browne’s bed. “Oh, no!” Margaret cried just in time for Walter to pull the plate safely away.

Margaret felt flushed but hoped desperately that neither Walter nor her mother-in-law noticed. Apparently he didn’t and Mother Browne had her eyes closed.

“I’ll excuse myself now, Mrs. Browne,” Walter said, “Unless, of course, there’s anything else I can help you with. I need to prepare the refreshments for your ladies’ meeting.”

“That’s perfectly fine, Walter. Thank you very much for bringing up my mother-in-law’s lunch,” Margaret said while busying herself with some inconsequential rearrangement of the items on Mother Browne’s nightstand.

“Not at all, Mrs. Browne. It’s my pleasure,” Walter said as he bowed slightly, and took a step back toward the door.

For the briefest moment, Margaret allowed herself to look at Walter as he left the room. Fearful that her mother-in-law might be sensing her discomfort, Margaret quickly lifted a spoonful of the soup to the woman’s lips and coaxed her to swallow.

After three or four spoonfuls of soup, Mother Browne turned her face away again. Margaret set the bowl on the table, took a damp washcloth and cleaned Mother Browne’s face and hands.

Margaret felt she was beginning to understand her mother-in-law. “Would you like me to read to you for a little while,” Margaret asked her. Amazingly, Mother Browne nodded yes. It seemed that her face had assumed a certain softness.

Margaret removed one of the extra pillows from behind Mother Browne’s head, and straightened the bed covers, then retrieved the Bible. She settled into a nearby chair and turned to the pages where she had found the daguerreotype. She selected Psalm 37.

“Fret not thyself because of evildoers, neither be envious against the workers of iniquity. For they shall soon be cut down like the grass, and wither as the green herb.

“Trust in the Lord and do good; so shalt thou dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be fed. Delight thyself also in the Lord; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart.”

Margaret looked up and saw that Mother Browne had fallen asleep, but she decided to read on quietly.

“Delight thyself also in the Lord; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart. Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass.”

Margaret let the Bible rest against the roundness of her expectant tummy, and closed her own eyes for a moment.

She thought again of the prayer that she recited every morning and every night, the prayer that one day she would find the child she had given birth to seventeen years ago. She opened her eyes and propped the Bible back up to read a bit more.

“And he shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and thy judgment as the noonday. Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for him; fret not thyself because of him who prospereth in his way, because of the man who bringeth wicked devices to pass.”

Mother Browne was sleeping soundly. Margaret closed the Bible and set it aside, then stood and kissed Mother Browne on the temple. After gathering the luncheon plates onto the tray, she left the room.

As Margaret stepped into the hallway, she gently closed Mother Browne’s door behind her. The grandfather clock chimed again. It was eleven-thirty; she had to hurry. The committee members were due any minute.

She headed for the stairway but stopped just short of taking the first step down. Some vague instinct was urging her to go back down the hallway to Kyle’s bedroom. Like any good mother, Margaret obeyed the instinct.

For a long moment she stood outside of her stepson’s bedroom door wondering what to do. Now that he was a young man, she tried hard to respect his privacy, except she was becoming worried about him. Besides, the door was ajar and it was going to be hours before he returned home. It couldn’t hurt just to peek in and make sure that everything was all right.

Still holding the luncheon tray Margaret pressed a hip against the door, only something prevented the door from moving. Undaunted, she pressed against the door harder, this time also using her shoulder. Whatever it was that made the door heavy certainly needed to be put back in its place, she scolded silently.

Finally, she was able to push the door open just far enough to get into the room. To her great dismay, the room was a horrific mess. The bed sheets and blankets were halfway on the floor, dirty clothes were strewn everywhere, and not one book was standing upright on its shelf.

But what was behind the door? She turned to look. There were three wooden crates, each stacked on top of one another. The side of each crate had a picture of a skull on it and two words printed in boldfaced black letters above the skull:

Warning
Dynamite

Margaret gasped and dropped the tray. The china dishes the tray had held broke into numerous shards.

Margaret staggered backward but bumped into a box filled with empty pop bottles. A box next to that one was brimming with oil rags. What in the world was Kyle up to?

She opened the window to air out the room and started to clean. First, she righted all the books, and put the cars from Kyle’s train set back on their track.

Next, she gathered his dirty clothes into a pile for washing. As she had always done, she checked his pants pockets for forgotten belongings.

In one pair of pants she found a cap pistol and in the pocket of another pair, a BB gun. From his shirt pockets she gathered two self-rolled cigarettes, a bowie knife, and three silver bullets. It was as if she were in the room of a complete stranger.

Margaret looked at Kyle’s closet door, but heard the sound of Walter’s voice, and a few seconds later the voices of a group of women. Oh dear, the church social committee had arrived. Still, Margaret’s instinct was bidding her to open Kyle’s closet door.

Hesitantly, she pulled the closet door open and pulled on the light chain. She felt as if she had fallen into a nightmare.

A panel of drawings of Negroes hanging from ropes slung over tree branches was painted on the closet’s back wall. Filthy words were scrawled underneath.

Behind the few clothes properly on their hangers, hung a long white robe with a KKK emblem.

Margaret wondered if the world had actually caved in on her. She had to hold one hand over her mouth to keep from vomiting, and one hand on her stomach to reassure herself that the baby was safe from all this vileness. She wept tears of disbelief and fear.

She grabbed an empty duffel bag from the closet floor, tore the Klan robe from its hanger, and stuffed it into the bag. Stepping back out of the closet, she gathered all of Kyle’s dirty clothes and pushed them into the bag too.

The bag was barely big enough for all it needed to hold. She heaved the bag onto the bed and made a mental note to return for it later. She bent to pick up the tray and the broken china.

As she stood to leave, yet another instinct bid her to look on the back of the bedroom door. She pushed the door back, away from the stack of boxes, and gagged at the sickening sight of what she saw.

Kyle’s childhood teddy bear was hanging from a rope tied to a nail lodged in the door. Its eyes were gouged out and an arm was torn from its seam. Stuffing hung out of its insides and its fur was singed.

Margaret’s first wave of emotion was fear, but it was quickly drowned by a deep sense of sorrow. His own father had turned the stepson she had so lovingly raised from a dear boy into a repulsive hatemonger.

That night Margaret waited and waited for Devin to come home. It was nearly sunup when he finally staggered in drunk, reeking of dime-store perfume and stale tobacco.

Margaret lifted her head from the dining room table, where she had fallen asleep waiting, and looked at her husband pleadingly. “Devin, all those sick Klan ideas you’ve been forcing on Kyle are polluting his heart and his mind. And worse, he’s becoming hateful and mean. Destructive.”

Devin slurred something back at her and wavered to and fro until he rested against the wall. “Don’t you tell me how to raise my son,” he finally managed to say. “Kyle is my blood, not some immigrant trash like you and your father.”

Margaret ignored the insult. She had heard it so often that it no longer hurt. “But what you’re teaching him is vile. Have you seen what’s in his room? It’s frightening.”

Devin grabbed Margaret by the arm. “You becoming a nigger lover?” he spewed, and twisted her arm until she faced him.

“Please, Devin, that’s painful,” she begged.

“Painful? Ha! I’ll show you pain if you ever mouth off to me again or criticize my son again.”

Devin drew her close enough to spray spittle in her face.

“Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Devin, I hear you.”

Tears of pain spilled down her cheeks. He yanked her arm again.

“You don’t like it, you can just go the hell back to your two-bit father. I don’t need his damn money anymore, anyway. That was my hard-up mother’s idea, the crazy old bag.”

Devin pushed Margaret away, slamming her into the dining room wall. Sparks exploded in her head as she slid to the floor, and her arm hung limp at her side. There was a loud ringing in her ears but she could still hear her husband cursing to himself as he stumbled up the stairs.

She remained on the floor, and rocked back and forth, hugging her stomach and weeping. “It’s all right, baby. We’ll be gone from here, soon. I promise.”