That old butler let us in, standing back to scowl at us. "My mother has not flown to Hawaii," stated Dad, his blue eyes hard and cold.
"So? She is not an organized woman. She may have gone on to visit friends for the holidays. She has no friends here."
"You smoke expensive cigarettes," said my father dryly. "I remember that night when I was seventeen lying behind the sofa while you and Livvy the maid were there . . . and you smoked the same cigarettes--.- French?"
"Right," said John Amos Jackson with a sneering grin. "Old Malcolm Neal Foxworth's tastes gave me the habit . . ."
"You pattern yourself after my grandfather, don't you?"
"Do I?"
"Yes, I believe you do. When I checked this house the last time, I opened a closet full of expensive men's clothes--yours?"
"I am married to Corrine Foxworth. She is my wife."
"How did you blackmail her to marry you?"
Again the old man smiled. "Some women have to have a man in the house or they don't feel safe. She married me for a companion. As you can see, she treats me like a servant still."
"I think not," said my father with his narrowed eyes sweeping over the butler who was wearing a new suit. "I think you were thinking of your future when, or if, my mother should die."
"How interesting," replied John Amos Jackson, grinding out his stub of quickly smoked cigarette. "I've made my departure plans. I'm flying back to Virginia where I expect my wife will join me when she becomes tiresome to her hosts. Her daughter ruined her socially in Virginia years ago, which you must know, but still she will go there."
"Why?"
John Amos Jackson grinned widely. "She is having Foxworth Hall reconstructed, Dr. Sheffield. From out of the ashes, Foxworth Hall shall rise again--like the fabled Phoenix!"
Dad faltered, still staring at the cigarette. "Foxworth Hall," he said in a haunted voice, "how far along is it?"
"Almost finished," answered John Amos Jackson smugly. "Soon I shall reign as king where Malcolm ruled, and his arrogant beautiful daughter will reign at my side." He laughed crazily, seeming to enjoy my father's discomfort. "She'll have her facial scars reconstructed, her face lifted again. She'll color her hair and make it blonde again, and she'll sit at the foot of my dining table. Behind me will stand one of my own cousins, where I used to stand. It will all be as it was before, except this time I shall be the lord and master."
Wheels were churning in Dad's head. "You will never rule anywhere but in prison," he said before he turned and left.
"Dad," I said when we were home, "did you believe what that butler told us?"
"I don't know yet. I do know he's more clever than I thought. When I was a boy in Foxworth Hall looking down on his bald head, I never suspected he had any power. He seemed just another servant. However, I can see now he laid his plan a long time ago and is now fulfilling his schedule for revenge."
"For revenge?"
"Jory, can't you see that man is insane? You have told me that Bart imitates a man he calls Malcolm who has been dead for years. But the man Bart is really imitating is John Amos Jackson, who is himself imitating my grandfather. Malcolm Foxworth, dead and gone, but still influencing our lives."
"How do you know? Did you ever see your grandfather?"
"I saw him one time only, Jory," he said in a sad reflective way. "I was fourteen, your age. Your mother and I hid in a huge chest on the second floor and looked down in the ballroom, and Malcolm Foxworth was in a wheelchair. He was a far distance away, and I never heard his voice. But our mother used to come to us with descriptions of how he talked about sin and hell, quoting from the Bible, talking about Hell and Judgment Day."
Night came. We turned on all the lights hoping that would light Mom home and Bart too. Emma and Madame put Cindy to bed early. Emma went from Cindy's room back into the kitchen, but Madame came into the family room and slouched in a chair across from Dad. Just about that time Bart came in the door and crouched down in a corner. "Where have you been so long?" asked Dad, sitting up straighter and fixing Bart with a strange long look. Madame M. riveted her dark ebony eyes on Bart too. Bart ignored them, and continued to make shadow pictures on the wall by holding his hands in contorted positions.
The TV set behind me was turned on though no one was watching. A choir of boys were singing Christmas carols. I felt exhausted from trying to follow Bart around all day. Exhausted more from worrying about Mom, to say nothing about what would happen to all of us . . .
I decided I had to escape by going to bed, and rose to say good night, but Madame put her finger before her lips and gestured to Dad so he too would pay attention to what Bart was muttering to himself as he made the eerie picture of an old man talking to a child.
"Bad things happen to those who defy the laws of God," he crooned in a hypnotizing way. "Bad people who don't go to church on Sundays, who don't take their children, who commit incestuous acts, will all go to hell and burn over the everlasting fires as demons torment their eternal souls. Bad people can be redeemed only by fire, saved from hell and the Devil and his pitchfork only by fire, fire."
Weird, really weird.
Dad could control his impatience and rage no longer. "Bart! Who told you all that hocus-pocus?"
My brother jerked upright, his dark brown eyes went blank. "Speak when spoken to, said the wise man to the innocent child. The child says in return, unholy people who commit sins will come to a fiery end."