Still I stood there, riveted to the carpet . . . and felt overwhelmed with my second son's desperate need to be loved. So many times in the past I'd believed him capable of evil, and he'd been proven innocent. Did my own guilt for bringing him into being curse me with eyes that refused to see the good in Bart?
"Are you sure, Bart? Do you truly love Melodie--or do you just want her because she belongs to Jory?"
Turning on his back, his dark eyes met mine with more honesty than he'd ever shown. How those dark eyes pleaded for understanding. "In the beginning I wanted Melodie only because she belonged to Jory. I honestly admit that. I wanted to take from him what he treasured most. Because he'd taken from me what I wanted most--YOU!"
I cringed as he went on. "She rejected my advances so many times that I began to respect her, to see her as different from other women who were easy to get. The more she shoved me away, the higher burned my desire, until I had to have her or die. I love her! Yes, she's made me vulnerable . . . and now I don't know how to live without her!"
I threw my hands wide before I sank to the side of his king-sized bed. "Oh, Bart . . . what a pity it couldn't have been another woman. Any woman but Melodie. I'm glad you've experienced love--and know it isn't dirty or sinful. Would God have made men and women the way he did if he hadn't meant for them to join together? He planned it that way. We recreate ourselves through love. But Bart, you have to promise not to see her alone again. Wait until Melodie has her baby before you and she decide anything."
His eyes filled with hope, with gratitude. "You'll help me?" Disbelief flooded his eyes. "I never thought you would .. ."
"Wait, please wait. Let Melodie have her child, then go to her, and then to Jory, and face up to him, Bart. Tell him how you feel about her. Don't steal his wife without giving him a chance to have his say."
"What can he say, Mother, that will make any difference? He's already lost. He can't dance. He can't even walk. He can't perform physically."
Seconds ticked away before I found more useless words to speak. "But does she honestly love you? I was in your sitting room. I heard her. She hasn't had her say in this matter. From what I can tell, she's torn between loving Jory and needing you. Don't take advantage of her weakness, or Jory's disabilities. Give him time to recover--then do what you must. It isn't fair to steal from Jory when he can't fight back. Give her time to adjust to Jory's condition. Then, if she still wants you, take her, for she'd only harm him more. But what would you do with Jory's child? Will you take that child from Jory, as well as take his wife? Are you planning to leave him nothing?"
Staring up at me, his eyes glittered
suspiciously. Bart jerked his eyes away to stare up at the ceiling. "I don't know yet about the baby. I haven't thought it out to that extent. I try not to think of the baby--and you don't have to go running to Chris or Jory with this. For once in your life, give me a chance to have something of my very own."
"Bart--"
"Go now, please. Leave me alone to think. I'm tired. You can weaken a man, Mother, with your demands, with your judgments. Just give me a fair chance this time to prove to you that I'm not as bad as you think, or as crazy as I once believed myself to be."
He didn't ask me again not to tell Jory, or Chris. As if he knew I wouldn't. Standing and turning about, I left his room.
On the way back to my room I thought about confronting Melodie, but I was too upset to face her without giving it more thought. She was already distraught enough, and I had to consider the health of her child.
Alone in my rooms, I sat before a guttering log fire and contemplated what to do. Jory's needs came first. In three months Jory's strong legs had begun to wither into thin sticks, reminding me of Bart's legs when he was very young. Short, thin legs covered with scratches, cuts and bruises, always falling, always breaking his bones. Punishing himself for being born and not living up to the standards Jory had set. That alone stood me up and headed me toward Jory's bedroom.
I stood in his doorway, my face washed clean of tear streaks, my eyes cooled by ice packs so they weren't red, and I smiled brightly at my firstborn. "Melodie is napping, Jory. But she'll see you before dinner. I think it would be nice for the two of you to dine alone before the fireplace. The rain outside will make it very cozy in here. I've asked Trevor and Henry to carry up logs and a special small table for dining. I've planned a menu with everything you like. Now, what can I do to help you dress and look your best?"
He shrugged indifferently. Before the accident he'd always loved clothes, had always groomed himself to perfection. "What difference now, Mom, what difference? I see you didn't bring her back with you, and why did it take you so long to come back and say she's napping?"
"The telephone rang. . . and Jory, I have to do a few things for myself once in a while. So now, what suit do you favor most?"
"Pajamas and a robe will do," he said distantly.
"Listen to me, Jory. Tonight you are going to sit in that electric wheelchair, wearing one of your father's suits, since you didn't bring a winter suit with you." Immediately he objected, while I insisted.
Already we'd sent to New
York for all of Jory's clothes, but Melodie had requested we leave hers where they were--and that had made me heat with anger inside, although I'd said nothing.
"When you look good, you feel good, and that's half the battle. You've stopped caring about your appearance. I'm going to shave your face even if you do want to grow a beard. You're much too handsome to hide behind bristly hair. You've got the most beautiful mouth, and a strong chin. Only weakchinned men should hide behind beards."
Eventually he gave up and smiled sardonically, agreeing to all I wanted to do to make him look more like himself. "Mom, you're something else. You care so damned much--but I won't ask why. I'm just grateful somebody cares enough."
About that time Chris drove home from Charlottesville, and he was eager to help. He shaved Jory's handsome face with a straight-edge razor, claiming that kind of shave did more for a man than anything else.
I sat on the bed to watch Chris finish the shaving before he splashed on lotion and cologne. All the time Jory looked so tolerant. I couldn't help but wonder what Bart was doing, and how I was going to approach Melodie and tell her that I knew what was going on between her and my second son.
Already Jory's arms were strong enough to swing his upper body into the chair. Chris and I stood back and watched, not offering to help, knowing he had to do this for himself. He seemed somewhat humiliated, and also somewhat proud that he did It easily the first time. Once he was in the chair, Jory looked pleased despite himself. "Not so bad," he said as he studied his face in the mirror I held up. He activated the chair and buzzed around the room for a trial spin. He grinned at us both. "It is better than the bed. What a fool you must think me--now it will be easier to finish the ship before Christmas, and maybe, with pampering like this, I'll struggle through."
"As if we ever believed anything else," said Chris happily.
"Now contain yourself, Jory . . . I'm going for Melodie," I said, delighted with the way he looked, and the glow of happiness in his eyes, and his excitement to be mobile again, even if he had wheels instead of legs. "Melodie is probably dressed and ready for dinner downstairs. As you know, our formerly sloppy Bart is now a stickler for all the niceties of living elegantly."