Knollwood

Knollwood

by Harry Buschman

Mrs. Hopkins slept in a canopied bed with purple silk damask side curtains. Her mattress was nearly three feet above the level of the floor and she had to climb three steps to get into it.

Since the death of her husband, Schuyler, she slept alone and her butler helped her into bed every night. He saw to it that she climbed the steps carefully, crawled to the center of the bed and then rooted herself firmly beneath the covers before he closed the curtains.

At that point he would say, “Goodnight Mrs. Hopkins,” He would listen for the muted paper thin whisper of her voice before turning out the light and leaving the room.

Tonight, Sarah Hopkins lay still in the center of her bed, her eyes focussed on the narrow slit of the curtain opening. Finally the crack of light from the hall told her that Epson had opened her bedroom door. When it blinked out she knew he was gone and she would be alone––unless she rang downstairs. She could get up if she wanted without calling him, and although he didn’t know, she did it often. With the aid of her stick she could even make her way to the bathroom. She had done it before and she might do it again––without anyone the wiser. She didn’t have to stay in bed at all if she didn’t want to. After all she was Sarah Hopkins and Knollwood was her house.

In fact the only thing she had to put up with was not being able to sleep. She had no control over that; Doctor Angelis had no control over it either. He left strict orders with the butler; “Be sure she doesn’t take more than two of these. If two won’t do it, nothing will.”

Well, Sarah Hopkins knew that wasn’t true. She knew what would happen if she took more than two––at least she thought she did. How many more would it take? Two more than two? Three? Four?

She had already accumulated four of the pills simply by holding them between her lip and her gum when she was supposed to swallow them. Then when the butler wasn’t looking she spit them out in her hand and made a fist to hide them. They had to get up pretty early in the morning to put something over on Sarah Hopkins. She knew exactly where she hid them too; in her old scrapbook. There was a tiny blue envelope in the scrapbook, it was one of the invitations she sent out for the housewarming party at Knollwood many years ago. She hid the pills inside the envelop.

She stretched her legs out as far as they would go and they came nowhere near reaching the foot of the bed. It was more than a king sized bed, and just as wide as it was long. She stretched her arms out as far as they would go and she couldn’t feel the sides of the bed. Ridiculous bed! It was all Schuyler’s idea. He had to have the biggest and the best of everything, and he had to have them before anyone else did.

Schuyler was a very possessive man, jealous of men richer and smarter than he was. Sarah could still see the anger that boiled in him as he read the morning paper, cursing the deals he missed out on and smiling with satisfaction if they fell through. She thought of their four sons. None of them showed any interest in the company. Schuyler brought them to the factory to show them how exciting it was to watch a toaster or a vacuum cleaner slowly take shape on the assembly line. The boys would come home in tears, “Papa scolded us! He yelled at us all day!” Schuyler would be livid with rage, “They showed no interest! No interest at all, Sarah. they can’t belong to me! How can children of mine not care about the business?”

No amount of explaining would satisfy Schuyler why his sons did not share his passion for the business. They were not athletic or competitive either, and they were certainly not interested in their father’s factory. Stanley, the youngest, in fact was the author of two children’s stories in the Catholic Quarterly.

He took Buddy and Skipper camping, “To make men of them,” he explained to Sarah. Buddy stepped on a paper wasp nest and was stung so badly they had to come home. He was unrecognizable from the swelling. She remembered the doctor coming over immediately when he heard of the reaction, “Buddy’s allergic to wasp stings, he could have died.”

Schuyler sat in his huge reclining chair and shook his head, “I don’t know, Sarah, I just don’t know. I’m trying to make men of them. Four boys, Sarah, you might just as well have had four girls.”

Failing in his attempt to make men of the boys, he tried to make a man of Sarah. He tried to get her to love the woods and streams that were fast disappearing from their part of the country. Up before dawn on weekends and off under cold cloudy skies to some god-forsaken lake with no name. As she lay in her bed, she remembered those mornings, The lakes were lined with dead trees, dead reeds and sumac. Schuyler would say, “The fish are out there. Just waiting for us Sarah! This hour of the day you can’t keep them off the hook.” She’d stand knee deep in her hip-high boots in the dark murky water hoping with all her heart that the trout were elsewhere. Most times they were and if the weather improved––if the sun came out and it might even have been a pleasure to spend the rest of the day at this lake without a name, Schuyler would say, “The hell with it! They ain’t bitin’ today, let’s go home.”

They’d come home and realize too late they made no plans for the rest of the weekend if the fishing was bad. They’d discover the boys had made plans of their own that had nothing to do with them. Schuyler would walk into his den and close the door, Sarah would sit in the kitchen and talk to the cook.

Well, Buddy was a teacher now––at a girl’s school in Connecticut, Skipper was in South Africa teaching sanitary cooking to the Angolans, Stanley was still writing children’s books––and Thomas, dear Thomas was living in the city with someone named Lance.

So Sarah Hopkins couldn’t sleep tonight. The past pressed in on her so close it smothered her. She wished they had been poor, perhaps they would have been happier if they had been poor. If Schuyler had to worry about making ends meet, he may not have had the time to badger his sons.

Well, Schuyler was dead now. “He couldn’t be deader,” she said to herself. His death was slow and painful for him. The boys were grown and worldly wise by then and they were not overcome with grief. Nor was Sarah for that matter. Death came slowly for Schuyler and in many ways it came as a blessing to all of them. She lay there in the center of her bed, the bed that she shared with Schuyler and admitted to herself that she mourned more profoundly when Schuyler ran over her Cocker Spaniel in the driveway. It was unexpected, and she was such a dear, dear dog she reminded herself, it was the suddenness of it, nothing to be ashamed of. That was the conclusion that fit for the moment. But, “How strange,” she thought, “That Schuyler’s death meant so little to his family.”

She was wide awake now, drumming her fingers on the mattress. How did they expect her to get through the night with only two pills? She felt like getting up and walking around the room. What was the weather like? How can you tell what the weather is like when you’re shut up in a canopied bed? “It’s like a tomb in here,” she thought.

Rolling over twice she was able to reach the side of the bed. She pushed herself up to a sitting position and parted the side curtain. By leaning out a little she could see the window overlooking the terrace. The jet black cypresses, darker than the sky, waved like dancers just beyond the railing. She swung her feet out over the stool at the side of the bed and gripping the blanket tightly she let herself down gently. She let out a little triumphant sigh and reached for her walking stick and robe that hung from the back of the chair.

If they heard her downstairs they’d be up in a minute. “What are you doing out of bed, Miss Sarah? You know you shouldn’t be walking around up here alone. Suppose you fell and no one heard you? Tsk, tsk.” It would go on and on, then they’d lead her back to bed and the endless night would start all over again. She was careful to stay on the rug so her stick would not be heard on the bare floor.

She made her way to the dressing table and lit the little make-up lamp, that’s where her scrapbook was. She carefully lifted the chair and moved it back just enough to allow her to sit. Her face in the mirror showed strain. “I look a wreck,” she whispered. “They’re going to take me away––next month, maybe the month after––but soon.” She overheard her lawyer speaking to Buddy just last week. “The house is a drain on the trust fund. Look at these landscaping bills. For her own sake Buddy, and yours––she needs full time care––it’s time for the home.”

“Nobody thought to ask me, did they? This is the house I grew old in. My husband died here. This is the house I loved and now it’s the house my sons want no part of.” She pulled the scrapbook over to her and turned to the page with the housewarming memorabilia. A picture of Sarah and Schuyler dancing to the George Tilyou band. There was the menu––leek soup, Caesar salad, roast veal, French cut string beans and new potatoes. Cherries jubilee for dessert too.

... and there inside the envelope was the tiny blue invitation ...

©Harry Buschman