Free The Americans by John Jakes Page B

at Fifth Avenue and Sixty-first Street, New York, had been invaded and ransacked by men sent by one of Gideon's enemies. Just before Margaret fled from the men and accidentally plunged through a second floor window in a fall that took her life, her mind had cleared. For a moment or so she was blessedly free of the all but ungovernable madness which, combined with the effects of her alcoholism, had made her concoct schemes to drive a wedge between her husband and Eleanor. In that brief period of clarity, Margaret's long-suppressed maternal love reasserted itself. She warned Will to remain in his room with the door bolted. Seconds later, the invaders appeared at the end of the hall. Margaret ran from them, and died- Leaving a frightened and bewildered boy of eight crouching behind a locked door. His mother's last lucid act had been totally unlike the behavior she'd exhibited toward him for the past several months. It had become a game, her tormenting him. No, worse than a game, for in each of their encounters she managed *ffccvey a loathing for her son. She reinforced that loathing with an instrument that filled Will Kent with utter terror-a rod cut from a stout hickory limb she had somehow secured from Central Park. Margaret beat him with the rod whenever he displeased her. And she arranged situations to insure that he would displease her. On each occasion, she warned Will that the slightest mention of the rod would be punishable by even worse reprisals. Over a period of a year or so, the boy suffered beating after beating because of a misguided and desperate hope: by putting up with pain-by enduring Margaret's abuse-he thought he could win the approval and the love he seemed unable to win merely by being her son. Will took what his mother gave, and said nothing to anyone. There had been one final encounter with her on the af- I ternoon of the day she died. Of all the encounters, it was the one he remembered most vividly, andwiththe greatest pain. About three-fifteen, Margaret rang for a pot of tea. Everyone on the household staff knew she never drank tea, only the liquor she kept hidden in her room. But the staff members always humored her rather than risk her irrational fury. Through the speaking tube to the butler's pantry, Margaret said she wanted Will to bring the tea up to her. By now the boy was accustomed to the harrowing routine. But knowing what was going to happen seldom made it any easier to bear. He walked upstairs, not like an eight-year-old going to greet his mother for the first time that day, but like a grown man shuffling stoically to his own execution. Margaret's bedroom was dark and fetid, as always. Will could barely stand the smells of airless corners, soiled bedding, whiskey, unwashed flesh. He set the tea tray on a small marble table, then immediately turned to leave. Margaret pointed to the tea cup's rim: "There's a smudge on the cup, young man." He looked at her sadly. Her hair was unkempt. Her eyes lacked focus. "Mama-was he began. "Do you expect me to drink out of a filthy cup?" The cup was spotless. He was sick with despak. "Mama, there isn't any smudge on-was "There is. There is! Are you blind?" Now her eyes had that irrational glint. She was starting the cruel game again. But much as he loved her-much as he feared and pitied her-today something in him rebelled: "Mama, the cup is clean. If you'll just look, you'll see." "Don't tell me what I see and what I don't!" She pushed him. He fell against the table, upsetting the tea pot and shattering the cup. "Oh!" Her mouth curved down in disgust. Her gleeful eyes made him cringe. "See what you've done, you stupid child." She was sometimes quite graceful when she'd been drinking; this was such a time. With a smooth, supple motion, she bent and snatched the hickory rod from its hiding place beneath the bed: "Turn around and lean over." "Mama-was "Lean over, I say!" "Mama, don't." He fought back tears. She never struck him on bare skin; she didn't want any