"Bart was on the telephone. He'd left his door ajar. I heard him talking to an insurance agency." She paused, sat down on our unmade bed and lowered her head before she spoke again. Her soft, silky hair hid her expression. "Mom, Dad, it seems Bart took out some kind of special 'party' insurance in case any of his guests were injured."
"Why, that's not at all unusual," said Chris. "The house is covered by homeowner's insurance . . . but with two hundred guests, he needed plenty of extra insurance that night."
Cindy's head jerked upward. She stared at her father, then at me. A sigh escaped her lips. "I guess it's okay then. I just thought maybe . . . maybe . . ."
"Maybe what?" I asked sharply.
"Momma, you picked up a handful of that sand that spilled from the columns when they broke. Wasn't the sand supposed to be dry? It wasn't dry. Someone made it wet--and that made it heavier. The sand didn't come pouring out like it was supposed to. It made those columns stand upright--and the sand clumped down on Jory like cement. Otherwise Jory wouldn't have been hurt so severely."
"I knew about the insurance," said Chris dully, refusing to meet my eyes. "I didn't know about the wet sand."
Neither Chris nor I could find words to defend Bart. Still, surely, surely he wouldn't want to injure Jory--or kill him? At some point in our lives, we had to believe in Bart, give him the benefit of doubt.
Chris paced our bedroom, his brow deeply wrinkled as he explained one of the stage crew could have put water on the sand, hoping to make the columns steadier. It didn't have to be Bart's orders he was following.
All three of us descended the stairs solemnly, finding Bart outside on the morning terrace with Melodie.
With the mountains in the distance, the woods before them, the gardens lush with blooming flowers, the setting was beautifully romantic. Sunlight filtered through the lacy leaves of the fruit trees, slipped under the brightly striped umbrella that was supposed to shield the occupants seated at the white wrought-iron table.
Melodie, to my surprise, was smiling as her eyes lingered on the strong lines of Bart's face. "Bart, your parents don't understand why I can't bring myself to go and see Jory in the hospital. I see your mother looking at me resentfully. I'm disappointing her, disappointing myself. I'm a coward about illnesses. Always have been. But I know what's going on. I know Jory lies on that bed, staring up at the ceiling, refusing to talk. I know what he's thinking. He's lost not only the use of his legs, but all the goals he's set for himself. He's thinking of his father and the way he died. He's trying to withdraw from the world by making himself into a nothing thing that we won't miss when one day he kills himself just like his father did."
Bart quickly looked at her disapprovingly. "Melodie, you don't know my brother. Jory would never kill himself. Maybe he does feel lost now, but he'll come around."
"How can he?" she wailed. "He's lost the most importan
t thing in his life. Our marriage was based not only on our love for each other, but on our mutual careers. Each day I tell myself that I can go to him, and smile, and give him what he needs. Then I pause, flounder, and wonder what can I say. I'm not good with words like your mother. I can't smile and be optimistic like his father--"
"Chris is not Jory's father," stated Bart flatly.
"Oh, to Jory Chris is his father. At least the one who counts most. He loves Chris, Bart, respects and admires him, and forgives him for what you call his sins." She went on while we three hung back, waiting to hear more of why she was acting as she was.
And all we heard was a concluding statement. "I'm ashamed to say it, but I can't go and see him like he is."
"Then what are you going to do?" asked Bart in a cynical way. He sipped his coffee while staring directly into her eyes. If he'd turn his head just a little, he'd see the three of us watching and listening, and learning so much.
Her answer was an anguished wail. "I don't know! I'm coming apart inside! I hate waking up and knowing that Jory will never be a real husband to me again. If you don't mind, I'm going to move into the room across the hall that doesn't hold so many painful memories of what we used to share. Your mother doesn't realize that I'm just as lost as he is, and I'm having his baby!"
Her sobs started then. Bowing her head, she put it down on the arms she folded on the table. "Someone has to think of me, help me . . . someone . . ."
"I'll help," said Bart softly, laying his tanned hand on her shoulder. His right hand set the coffee aside and lightly he brushed that hand over her spill of flowing hair. "Whenever you need me, if only for a shoulder to cry on, I'll be there, anytime."
If I'd heard Bart speak as compassionately before to anyone but Melodie, my heart would have jumped for joy. As it was, it plunged. Jory needed his wife--not Bart!
I stepped forward into the sunlight and took my place at the breakfast table. Bart snatched his hands away from Melodie, staring at me as if I'd interrupted something that was very important to him. Then Chris and Cindy joined us. Silence came that I had to break.
"Melodie, I want to have a long talk with you as soon as we finish breakfast. You're not going to run away this time, or turn deaf ears, and shut out my voice with your blank stare."
"Mother!" flared Bart. "Can't you see her viewpoint? Maybe someday Jory will be able to drag himself around on crutches, if he wears a heavy back brace and a harness . . . can you imagine Jory like that? I can't. Even I don't want to see him like that."
Melodie let out a shrieking cry, jumping to her feet. Bart followed suit, to hold her protectively in his arms.
"Don't cry, MeJodie," he soothed in a tender, caring voice. Melodie uttered another small cry of distress, then fled the terrace. The three of us sat quietly staring after her When she was out of sight, our eyes fixed on Bart, who sat down to finish his breakfast as if we weren't there.
"Bart," said Chris in this opportune moment before Joel joined us, "what do you know about the wet sand in the papier-mache columns?"
"I don't understand," said Bart smoothly, appearing very distracted as he stared at the door through which Melodie had disappeared.
"Then I'll explain more carefully," went on Chris. "It was understood the sand would be dry so it would spill out easily and not harm anyone. Who wet the sand?"