The Misremembered Man Read Online Free PDF Page A

business, time was money, and Elizabeth could be quite a handful at times, “could keep a nation back” with her long-winded stories and remembrances of times past; stories in which the opinions of her late husband, the Reverend Perseus Cuthbert, and the foibles of the young always figured large.
    With her mother safely installed, Lydia reminded her of the arrangement. “I’ll pick you up in two hours’ time, Mother, at…” She pulled back the cuff of her jacket and checked her watch, “…at half-past three exactly. That would be correct, Susan, for the rollers and rinse?”
    “Yes, that would be about it, Lydia,” the hairdresser said over her shoulder, already steering Elizabeth toward the washbasins. “A half-hour extra for the color to take.”
    “And where are you going?” Mrs. Devine demanded of her daughter. “Why can’t you stay here with me?”
    “Mother, I told you: I have things to do.” And with that she made her escape.
     
     
    Lydia drove back home, relieved to have some time to herself. It was only in those interludes of absence, when her mother was not about, that she could fully appreciate solitude and silence. Often, she longed for a life of freedom and independence, would dream of living in a quiet place, answerable to no one but herself. At the same time, she drew a veil over such a future, was reluctant to picture it too clearly because of the harsh reality that would precede it. Deep down, she dreaded the day when her mother’s voice would not call out her name, when she’d not be needed to help her find “the dark way through her dress,” when a breakfast tray would not be required in the elderly lady’s bedroom.
    Her mother’s needs always came first, and Lydia rarely questioned why this should be so. Such allegiance and daughterly docility had been planted in her long ago by her strict Presbyterian father. Even in death his uncompromising spirit persisted. His thunderous sermons still echoed down the days, and the fearsome image of him in the pulpit, nostrils flared, great hands gripping the Bible stand, remained as defined and real as the Vermeer print that hung in the drawing room. She being an only child, the fourth commandment—the one about honoring parents forever and always—carried an excessive potency for Lydia. In no time at all, the helpless, obedient little girl had grown into a selfless, loyal servant, taking on the functions of nurse, cook, maid, gardener, cleaner, caretaker—and whatever other roles her demanding parents decreed needed filling. What a gift she was! The malleable, dutiful daughter to the righteous, controlling couple.
    She maneuvered the car into the driveway of Elmwood House and cut the engine. She sat for a time massaging her temples against a headache, and gazed up at the respectable, ivy-clad vicarage where she’d been raised. It held memories of everything she knew: her infancy, girlhood, womanhood. She thought of the child she had been, inching her way toward maturity; so naive, facing the great and as yet walled-in future that had been so carefully planned for her by her parents. What chance did she have in the face of all that authority and good sense? It had been decreed that teaching was an honorable profession, and Lydia had willingly acquiesced. What else could she do? In her heart she had wanted to be a beautician, a hairdresser even, but could hardly have dared voice this desire. Her father would have considered her vain and frivolous and certainly no daughter of his.
    Yes, her father: her intractable, inflexible father. For more years than she cared to contemplate, she’d lived according to his exacting standards. He’d constructed the rigid little box into which he’d fitted her life, his beliefs and opinions screwed tightly in place, and had hammered down the lid with his righteous reasoning. All her life she’d felt constricted. Now that he was gone, she wanted to stretch herself, collapse the sides of all that restraint,