Dear Rita,
It’s cold in Connecticut. I won’t close the windows and the wind feels more like March than July. How is it that this bed still smells of her, after all this time? I keep burying my head deeper and deeper into the down pillows to find her. What a rabid mind I have, that makes cheese out of everything I think I know. I’m a ninny. Did I have babies? Ninnies shouldn’t have babies. Nor should whores. Only women like you, Rita. Only women like you should be allowed to have and raise babies. Maybe people like me shouldn’t be allowed to even live among the rest of society. Maybe it would be better if the rotten apples fell from all the trees. I have holes in me. All over me like a moth’s been at a sweater. I wonder where Robert’s holes are. Through his eyes? His arms? Leg? Heart? Head?
Oh, my. I suppose I should begin again. You must think I’ve gone around the bend.
Do you like the stationery? So fancy. Just like my mother. She liked fancy things. I’m sitting up today (in her bed...but upright, which is an improvement and allows me to hold a pencil). I somehow managed to get from Massachusetts to Connecticut with myself and the children in one piece, though I don’t recall much of the drive. I’m beginning to feel a little better this morning, though it’s been a hell of a couple of days.
I hope my letter to you about Robert made sense. I jotted it down and handed it to Levi to post. He begged me not to leave. I couldn’t even look at him. Looking at him seemed as bad as touching him. I thought I’d vomit and faint at the same time. So I did the only rational thing—I put the kids in the car and drove off like a mad woman. And even as I was driving—even in my grief over what has befallen Robert—I still could not get Levi’s burning gaze out of my mind. God help me, Rita...if you could see him, perhaps you’d know why. The depth in his brown eyes. The smolder just beneath the surface. How is it that the mind and the body can crave two different things? I keep trying to talk to my mother, but she won’t talk back. She’s not a good spirit. Or she’s stubborn. Either way, she’s quiet. Maddeningly so.
I’d not been back here since her funeral. And you know when you revisit somewhere you remember being large, and then you go and it’s much, much smaller? Well, that isn’t what happened. The opposite, really.
This house—it’s enormous. I think I had a better handle on its size when I ran through its halls as a child. It even has a name. Not overly original or creative. Astor House.
I couldn’t believe how well kept the place is. I mean, I sign the checks for the caretakers each month, but I thought it’d be overgrown and dusty. Like a secret place or something. Dead like my mother and father.
Not so. It’s perfect. It’s like we never left it. Spooky, really.
When we drove up there was no one there to greet us, as I hadn’t called or written ahead. So I opened the grand front door, my hands shaking, convinced the key wouldn’t work. I was holding Corrine in one arm and Robbie was clinging on to the bottom of my spring duster. They were so quiet, both of them. No trouble at all. And then there we were, in the grand foyer. All the air came out of my chest. I sat down on a small chair by a marble-topped side table. The children sat at my feet. I don’t know how long it was until the car was noticed and Michael and Gwen (the couple who takes such good care of the estate) came fussing. But I felt as if we were statues, the three of us. Me in my hat and gloves...hands folded properly in my lap. I stared off up the sweeping staircase, waiting for my mother to come down. And my babies sat so still. Little marble garden gnomes...quiet as clouds.
“Miss Astor, are you all right?” asked Gwen. I didn’t know her well. I hired the couple after my mother died. But she seemed sweet in a ruddy sort of way. I didn’t know how to answer her. I tried to form words with my mouth, but none came out. Michael cleared his throat.
“Gwen, why don’t you see to the children while I put on a pot of tea?”
That’s all it took. They are good people. People who realized I needed to sit there. Good enough not to ask me any questions.
Gwen swept the children upstairs with superb grace. They were laughing with her, I think. Glad to be away from my hand-wringing. Michael backed away from me. I think he wiped tears from his eyes as he left. I couldn’t fathom why, but then I lifted my gloved hand to my own eyes and realized my whole face was wet with tears, wet enough to seep through the cotton. I had a dizzying moment where I thought perhaps I was still reaching for the telegram, but I wasn’t. I was home.
I sat there, with my ankles crossed (the way Father always asked me to sit) and with my handbag on my lap and my driving hat pinned on. Like a visitor. And I stared at the staircase for a long time. Waiting for her to linger, lovely on the landing, and welcome me home. The stained-glass window on the landing soon caught afternoon light and the colors danced across my feet. I used to practice ballet here in this hall. Chaîné, chaîné, plié...and again.
I don’t know what finally moved me. Boredom? The smell of something cooking? But my legs were stiff so I must have been there a long time. I walked through the drawing room on my way to the kitchens. Lifting a white sheet off my piano on the way. I touched the keys. Out of tune, sour. Like me.
The servant’s kitchen, on the other hand, was warm and inviting. Michael tried to get me to eat some toast with my tea. But I couldn’t. It was then that he asked me what had happened, and though I tried to tell him, I opened my mouth and the words wouldn’t come. The tears. Only the tears. How disgusting it was. I don’t know why I couldn’t just contain myself.
Kind Gwen came down and then brought me back up to my childhood rooms. I stayed safely outside the door frame, just close enough to see my babies happily at play...so comfortable among all my old things. And just close enough for them to see me there, to know that I was still with them. But I couldn’t go back into those sweet pastel rooms. Baby rooms. Rooms for my babies, not for me. I am no longer an innocent.
And to be quite honest with you, Rita—my thoughts went wild as I watched them. I was thinking, Who are those children? How does Miss Gloria Astor have children? I thought I was going to be a ballerina, in France. I quit dancing years ago. After mother died...but still...maybe I should run away to France. Would everyone be better if I were just gone? Plenty of people I grew up with left their children in the care of other people to live lives abroad. Why not? Oh, but my heart wants to kiss butter off Corrine’s chubby fingers. And kiss sweet Robbie on the forehead after he’s gone to sleep. He smells of honey and cut grass, that boy. How did I get here?
I’d never leave them. And France is different now, I suppose. The world is forever changed by war. We are forever changed.
I walked toward my mother’s quarters. “Are they made up, or empty, Gwen?” I was able to ask, though I didn’t recognize my voice.
“You never told us what to do with her things, so the room is just as she left it. It’s fair dusted, though, and clean as clean could be. I’m sorry, miss, if that doesn’t please you.”
Miss? I chase chickens. Really. I touched her face. “Please call me Glory.”
“Yes, miss,” she said before she left me in front of the double doors that led to my mother’s suite. And then she turned around. “Don’t worry about the children. Michael and me love children and we’ll keep them safe and fed until you feel well again.”
The first thing I did was open the windows. Because the smell in the room was about to make me faint. My mother, concentrated. Tea rose. Glycerin. Cigars. (Yes, she had that man’s vice. Though she didn’t smoke them outside her rooms.)
I didn’t know what to do. And she wasn’t there. And even if she was, she wouldn’t council me, would she? So I crawled on her big four-poster bed, like I did when I was a little girl and they were in Europe. And fell asleep. With my gloves on.
The next few days were a blur. Gwen brought me coffee and soup. But I had her draw the curtains. Make it dark. Like a cave. And I kept on sleeping.
But this morning? This morning I feel better. And I said to myself, “Glory, if there is stationery in your mother’s bedside table, then you must write to Rita!” and lo and behold when I opened the drawer, there was her stationery set. Voilà!
So here I am. I have a lot to think about. I told Levi to phone me here as soon as he gets a letter from Robert or another telegram. I need to know the extent of Robert’s injuries. I need to prepare for the worst.
I also need to know if I’ll be able to care for him. Am I doomed to be the caretaker of the sick forever? Is that a selfish question to ask? Of course it is.
But the question haunting me more than any other is this: “How will I tell him about Levi?” I’m a harlot just like Claire Whitehall always thought.
I think I’ll dress like her today, my mother. Wear her things and look in the mirror. Conjure her and demand advice.
I believe I’ll be here for a bit. Feel free to write me here. The address is on the envelope.
Please don’t worry too much over me. I’ll be fine.
I also want to say that I read your last letter at a rest stop on the way here. I swept it into my handbag before I left Rockport. Tell Roylene congratulations! I am so, so proud of her. What a monumental decision. She’s in my thoughts. Her bravery.
I’m trying to learn from her. I’m trying to be brave.
The sun plays games with its shadows here. My mind is working in waves. There’s no more air left inside today. Maybe there will be more tomorrow. Rita, does the air have favorites? Does it choose to blow life into certain people and not others? Does God have favorites? How does He choose? How do any of us choose?
Glory