No sooner were those words out of his mouth than Jory, Melodie and Bart joined us. Jory smiled to see the glow in our eyes. Bart frowned. Melodie sank into a deep-cushioned chair and seemed to disappear in the depths. Cindy came running in with bells that she shook merrily, her pants and sweater bright red. Finally Joel slunk into the room to stand in a corner with his arms folded over his chest, casting his own pall, like a somber judge overseeing wicked and dangerous children.
It was Jory who first responded to Cindy's charm by raising his glass of champagne high and toasting. "Hail to the joys of Christmas Eve! May my mother and father always look at one another as they do this night, with love and tenderness, with compassion and understanding. May I find that kind of love in the eyes of my wife again . . . soon."
He was directly challenging Melodie and in front of all of us. Sadly, his timing was bad for this kind of confrontation. She drew herself into a tighter knot and refused to meet his eyes; instead, she leaned forward to stare more intensely into the fire. The hope in Jory's eyes faded. His shoulders sagged before he swiveled his chair so that he couldn't see her. He put down his champagne and fixed his eyes on the fire just as intensely as his wife, as if to read what symbolism she was seeing. In a distant dim corner, Joel smiled.
Cindy tried to force gaiety. Bart, by attrition, gave in to the corroding gloominess that Melodie emitted like a gray fog. Truly our little family gettogether in a gloriously festive room was a flop. Bart refused even to look at Melodie now that she was so grossly out of shape.
Soon he was pacing the room restlessly, glancing at all the gifts under the "family" tree. His eyes accidentally found Melodie staring at him hopefully, and only too quickly he looked away, as if embarrassed by her too overt pleading. In a few minutes Melodie excused herself, saying in a low voice that she didn't feel well.
"Anything I can do?" Chris asked immediately, jumping up to assist her up the stairs. She plodded along heavily, flat footed. "I'm all right," she snapped near one newel post. "I don't need your help--or anyone's!"
"And a merry Christmas was had by all," intoned Bart, much in the manner of Joel, who still stood in the shadows, watching, always watching.
The moment Melodie was gone from the room, Jory slumped forward in his chair before he stated, too, that he was tired and not feeling too well. His next prolonged bout of coughing revealed that. "I've got just the medicine you need," said Chris, jumping up and heading for the stairs. "You can't go to bed yet, Jory. Stay a while longer. We have to celebrate. Before I dose you with something that might not be appropriate, I need to listen to your lungs."
Bart leaned casually against the mantel, watching this caring scene between Jory and Chris as if jealous of their relationship. Chris came to me. "Perhaps it is better if we retire now, so we can be up at dawn to eat breakfast, open our presents, and then have naps before we start getting ready for the ball tomorrow night."
"Oh, glory hallelujah!" cried Cindy, whirling around the room in a small dance. "People, hordes of people, all dressed in their best--I can hardly wait for tomorrow night! Laughter, how I long to hear it. Jokes and small talk, how my ears crave that. I'm so tired of being serious, looking at grim faces that don't know how to smile, hearing sad talk. I hope all those old fuddy-duds bring along their college-aged sons--or any son as long as he's over twelve. I'm that desperate!"
Bart wasn't the only one of us to throw her disapproving looks, which Cindy ignored. "I'm gonna dance all night, I'm gonna dance all night," she sang, whirling around by herself, pretending to have a partner, refusing to let her anticipations be diminished by anything anyone of us could say. "And then I'll dance some more . . ."
Despite himself, Chris and Jory were charmed with her actions, her bright, happy song. Chris smiled before he said, "There should be at least twenty young men here tomorrow night. Just try to contain yourself. Now, since Jory looks so beat, let's head for bed. Tomorrow will be a long day."
It seemed a good idea.
All of a sudden; falling into a chair, Cindy sagged as limp as Melodie had, looking sad and near tears. "I wish Lance could have stayed. I'd rather have him than any other."
Bart threw her a furious look. "That particular young man will never enter this house again." He turned to me next. "We don't need Melodie at the party," he went on with determination and continued anger, "not when she's acting so miserable and sick. Let her sulk in her room tomorrow morning so we can enjoy opening our gifts. I think afternoon naps are a good idea, so tomorrow night we'll look fresh from plenty of rest and bright and happy for my party."
Jory had gone on ahead, entering the elevator by himself, as if to prove his independence. The rest of us seemed reluctant to part. As I sat there hearing the Christmas carols that Bart had put on the stereo to play, I thought of all his newly acquired fastidious habits.
As a boy he'd loved being not just dirty, but filthy. Now he took several showers a day, kept himself immaculately groomed. He couldn't retire until he'd checked over "his house" from top to bottom, seeing that the doors were locked, the windows, too, and that the new kitten Trevor had as his pet hadn't stained a carpet. (Trevor had been fired a dozen times by Bart, but still he stayed on, and Bart didn't insist that he go.)
Even as I watched, Bart got up to fluff the throw pillows, smoothed wrinkles out of downy sofa cushions, picked up magazines and arranged them in neat piles. All the things the servants forgot to do, he did. Then he'd jump on Trevor in the morning and order the maids to do better--or out they'd go without severance pay. No wonder we couldn't keep servants. Only Trevor remained loyal, ignoring the rudeness of Bart, whom he looked at with pity, although Bart didn't know that.
All this was on my mind as I took note of Bart's growing enthusiasm for tomorrow night's party. I glanced toward the windows and saw the snow was still falling, and already two feet of snow were on the ground. "Bart
... the roads are going to be icy tomorrow night, perhaps closed, and many of your guests might not be able to make it here for the traditional Foxworth ball."
"Nonsense! I'll fly them in if they call to cancel. A helicopter could land on the lawn."
I sighed, for some reason made uneasy by the strangely malicious look of Joel, who chose that time to leave the room.
"Your mother is right, Bart," said Chris kindly, "so don't feel disappointed if only a few are able to show up. I had a devil of a time reaching here a few hours ago, and it's snowing harder now."
It was as if Chris hadn't said a word. Bart bade me good night, then strode toward the stairs. Shortly afterward, Chris, Cindy and I ascended the stairs.
While Chris went in to say a few words to Jory, I waited for Cindy to come from her bath. Another shower (at least two a day with shampoos) brought her fresh and bright from the bath, wearing the briefest little red nightie. "Momma, don't you lecture me again. I just can't take any more. When I first came to this house, I thought it like a fairy tale palace. Now I think of it as a gloomy fortress to keep us all prisoners. As soon as this ball is over, I'm leaving-- and to hell with Bart! I love you and Daddy and Jory, but Melodic has turned into a boring pain in the neck and Bart will never change. He'll always hate me, so I'm going to stop even trying to be nice to him."
She slipped between the sheets, pulled the covers high, turned on her side away from me. "Good night, Momma. Please turn out the light when you leave. Don't ask me to behave myself tomorrow night, for I intend to be the model of ladylike decorum. Wake me three hours before the ball begins."
"In other words, you don't even want to share Christmas morning with us?"
"Oh," she said indifferently, "I guess I can wake up long enough to open my gifts,. . . and watch the rest of you open yours. Then back to bed so I can be the belle of the ball tomorrow night."
"I love you, Cindy," I said as I switched off her lamp, and then bent to lift her hair and kiss the warm nape of her neck.
Flipping over, her slim young arms tightened around my neck as she sobbed, "Oh, Momma, you're the best! I promise to be good from now on. I won't let any boy so much as hold my hand. But let me escape this house and fly to New York and attend that New Year's party my best friend is throwing in a grand hotel ballroom."