“Let’s open the diaries and read them,” Christine said. “After all, the withered old wuss hasn’t been around all these years.”
“Since seeing those diaries among other stuff in that trunk,” Vivian said, “I’ve been turning over in my head whether to crack open one of them or not. I think we’d be better off not knowing what’s in them.”
“Oh, pooh. Someone’s bound to find out sooner or later, one way or another. The truth has to come out sometime.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Of course I am.”
Vivian held one diary in her hand and cut the strap that bound it. “Let’s be careful with them,” she said. “I wouldn’t want those pages torn. There might be something of value in them.” She handed the diary to Christine, who grabbed it with hungry fingers.
Christine perused excerpts throughout the book and read about Rose’s Hollywood heyday in the 1960s and her affairs with various writers, directors, producers, and actors. It shocked Christine to read that Rose had admitted to having Albert Fontaine, a producer, killed. Rose had her personal handyman “fix” the brakes on his car while she and Albert dined at a restaurant.
“Our so-called flesh-and-blood is a murderer!” Christine said.
It was my revenge, Rose had written, for not getting the role of a lifetime that I had desperately wanted. According to Alfred, he didn’t think the role was right for me. I had believed in my heart that this particular role could have garnered me more (and better) roles and possibly an Academy Award for Best Actress.
I also blacklisted Jeff Burgio, one of Hollywood’s top screenwriters, by ruining his professional reputation and personal life. He had tailored a script especially for me and wanted only my love in return—on a permanent basis. But how could I, since I was married? All my extramarital affairs were intended to be brief, and each lovesick fool was to be used only as a stepping-stone to my pending success in my career.
Eventually, thanks to me, Jeff ended up committing suicide. No need to know the manner by which he offed himself.
“It’s hard to believe that a married woman like her had many affairs,” Christine said. “Here’s another one with whom she had a fling, an actor named Otto Goldschmidt, ‘an Adonis direct from Germany,’ as she put it. She said the relationship itself was based solely on lust, purely sexual.”
“Did she kill him or have him kill himself?” Vivian asked with sarcasm.
“It says here when she tried to terminate the relationship, the actor would not give in. So, as a last resort, she had him deported to Germany. She added as an afterthought, ‘Ah, the power of power itself.’ Unbelievable!”
“I’ll say. Check this out. She wrote where she had started out as a model and was eventually discovered by a Hollywood agent. She goes on to say how she hated the other models, hated competition, and hated every damned thing and every damned person around her, especially her Bible-thumping, Jesus-loving, God-fearing parent, Desirée Hutchins. What was this woman’s problem? What did anyone ever do to her to deserve this kind of hatred?”
Christine shrugged noncommittally.
Vivian continued to read.
I’ve never gotten over such a frivolous French name as Desirée Lemaire, her maiden name. What a laugh. At any rate, there is nothing more I wish for than to have the old crow dead. Only I wish she had departed long ago, shortly after I was born, by about two minutes.
I am only too glad to have grown up without another authority figure—a father, Guillaume Lemaire by name. He was killed in action during WWII. All the better for me.
“She also alludes to not giving a damn about our grandparents either,” Vivian said, “and she saw them as inconvenient nuisances, as were her aunts, uncles, cousins, and ‘every other cursed relative,’ the way she put it.”
The world was one rosy place, growing up as an only child. I did not have to deal with siblings nor sibling rivalry. If they had me to contend with, they would have been dead and buried long ago.
“The magnitude of this woman’s hatred is incredible,” Vivian said as she shook her head. Tears welled in her eyes. “I can’t believe someone can be this cruel.” Vivian turned the page and noticed some pages had been censored and others were missing. “She even blacked out and torn out some pages.”
“Apparently, she’s hiding some things,” Christine said. “Goes to show what a friggin’ coward she is.”
Vivian nodded, then continued to read.
In addition to Desirée (I’m loathe to address her as “my mother,” that’s why I wrote “parent” instead), I also despised my first husband, Charles Hutchins. The same applies to my second husband, Jack Windom. I merely married the sad oaf for his affluence. Eventually, all that will change, if my plans go accordingly. That is, if nothing stands in my way! Even my own determination surprises me every now and then. Within time, somehow, somewhere along the line, I will eventually get rid of Jack. It seems as if it were only yesterday when I had gotten rid of Charles.
“I’m getting the sick feeling that she may have killed our father,” Vivian said, “and plans to kill her second husband, if she hasn’t killed him already.”
“What do you mean?” Christine asked.
“Just wait till you read this.”
As for Winston and Cynthia Peterson—oh, how I shudder at the mere thought of such disgusting persons. All it takes is one fleeting thought, and I am instantly nauseous. Vivian is a commoner since she married one.
Vivian wanted to stop but the next page caught her attention.
. . . and because Vivian married Rob, I had been determined the waif would suffer. I had been adamantly against Vivian’s marriage and refused to put up with this sort of arrangement or have anything to do with their useless, wretched brats, should they have had any (Heaven forbid!). They would have only been spawns of the Devil, as Desirée had said of someone else’s children. What a Jesus freak she had been.
Determined to put an end to all this nonsense, I had Rob taken care of, which compounded in having Vivian taken care of, also. She would be miserable in every way. Whatever had happened to Rob can be considered, on my part, a preventive tactic to Vivian’s possibly getting pregnant, so that I would not have grandchildren to contend with.
I hired my personal handyman to do whatever it took to get rid of Rob and to make it look like an accident, even if it meant fixing the brakes on his car just like the brakes on Albert Fontaine’s car had been fixed years before.
“From what I can gather here,” Vivian said, “since the way it is written seems cryptic, she had her personal handyman follow my husband home from work. Rob was driving on the freeway when a car intentionally cut in front of him, causing him to swerve and lose control. His car veered off the shoulder and crashed on the street below, exploding upon impact.”
Right after that, Rose had written, Rob is now out of the picture . . .
Vivian paled at this shocking revelation. A sick, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach overcame her. Horror quickly replaced shock. Her spirit became void of energy. This left her speechless. Her vision blurred and she did what she could to prevent from fainting.
“She even had my husband killed!” Vivian said as she began to sob. “The love of my life!”
Vivian distinctly remembered the day when two police officers knocked on the door and informed her that her husband had been in a fatal auto accident. She remembered how serious and apologetic they were.
“If she hated him so much, she didn’t have to kill him!” Vivian said as she wailed. “Was it necessary to kill him? I thought I hated her before but now, I really hate her guts with a passion!”
“I don’t blame you,” Christine said. “Now, you know how I feel about her.”
“If I had known about this when she was still alive,” Vivian said, “I would’ve gone right after her myself and killed her! Never mind calling the police!” Vivian heaved as she continued to bawl. “I can’t believe my mother did this! I just can’t believe it! That’s something I’ll never get over!”
“Hell, she killed our father,” Christine said. “She admits it in her diary without being so direct.”
“I’ll never forgive her for this! Never!” Vivian walked around in circles for a couple minutes as her mind reeled. “Oh, gosh! I can’t—I can’t think straight. I just can’t think clearly. I don’t want to read any more.” She let the diary drop to the floor. “I’ve had enough.”
“Well, I haven’t,” Christine said between clenched teeth.
“Give it a rest. I’m going downstairs.”
Vivian bolted from the room and went downstairs.
Christine continued to read.
I had plans and needed to get Charles out of the way. On this night, when the drunken oaf had too much to drink, I watched from the doorway of my bedroom until he had come out of his room while my personal handyman watched within the shadows from the other end of the hall and take care of the rest.
“I’m guessing this is when our father got to the head of the stairs,” Christine said out loud, “where her personal handyman sneaked up behind him and shoved him. ‘A scream was heard which gave neighbors the impression that an accident happened.’ Indeed, who was going to know what had really happened since you were the one with all the knowledge, yet you dared to ask who would ever know. You disgust me!”
The only way anyone would know is if they found out about the soon-to-be-installed mezzanine. I confidently conclude it would be impossible (and improbable) for anyone to find out. The fools would have to wait until I was long gone before coming across such oh-so-shocking information as this. Goodness, what a field day the press and the media would have.
After Charles was gone, I had sold most of the household furnishings. Other stuff had been donated to Goodwill and The Salvation Army.
Some time later, I had informed the Weavers that I would be accompanying a business associate to Europe, first to London, then to New York. I did not know when I would be back but had mentioned to them that I would be gone for quite a while. In the meantime, I had said that I would keep in touch with them by way of phone and postcards.
I had plans to travel extensively and it made no sense to haul all those things everywhere I would go. I would not want to stash it in one or more bank accounts or safe deposit boxes. I would much rather have the mental security of knowing that all my personal valuables would be stored in one place and only I would know the location. I would be constantly reassured of its safety, as well. It is that important to me. It is my nest egg. In the interim, I will maintain the property and continue paying the mortgage and the bills, even from abroad.
However, before I could travel, I found out that I had been three months pregnant with a fourth child when Christine had been a little more than a year old. My secret pregnancy had been one of the reasons why I kicked them all out.
I had an appointment with my doctor earlier that day where I gave a urine specimen. The doctor ran a test and in a matter of minutes, my pregnancy was confirmed.
The moment I arrived home, I heard Vivian and Blaine arguing, typical of young adults, even if they were siblings. I took advantage of the situation and used it as a ruse to fuel my rage against them. I had told them that enough was enough, then went into my bedroom, pulled out two suitcases, then went to Vivian’s bedroom and yanked some of her clothes off hangers, pulled other clothes from drawers, and stuffed them into one suitcase. Then, I went to Blaine’s bedroom and did the same. I stood by the railing on the second floor and tossed both suitcases down to the first floor. Then, I went into the nursery and picked up Christine from the crib, carried her downstairs, and lumped the baby into Blaine’s arms. I told both Vivian and Blaine to get out.
Vivian fumed in anger, Blaine shook with shock and fear, and Christine cried in Blaine’s arms. Blaine just walked out without a backward glance. Vivian looked back with fury etched on her face. I just stood expressionless and motionless as they left.
I could not care less where any of them went, what they did, or how they fared on their own. I just wish Vivian, Blaine, and Christine had not been born. Each pregnancy and eventual birth had been a hindrance to my career and unnecessary nuisances in my life. I was more concerned with myself, my dilemmas, and my pending success in my career.
Regarding this dreaded (and unwanted) pregnancy, I had been determined not to keep the baby and fervently hoped for a miscarriage. I had always been against abortion. Thus, I worked all the harder and pushed myself past the point of exhaustion, past the point of normal human endurance. Come to think of it, I should have had my tubes tied but never got around to it due to a hectic fast-paced life, which I maintained and enjoyed immensely.
This pregnancy is not the only reason for throwing out Vivian, Blaine, and Christine, but I had untold preparations for installing a mezzanine which would be situated between the attic above and an empty, unused room below. It would be used as a secret place of storage for my mass accumulation of wealth, including all the necessary and important documents. The purpose of all this, plus the dire secrecy, is so absolutely no one would know about it except me and my diaries. This way, all this would be shielded from public view.
When the squalling little brat had been born, I gave it up for adoption and didn’t care where the child went. However, I can only hope the child has a halfway decent home with halfway decent commoners for parents. Then again, what difference would it make? Do I really care?
“What’s this ‘hope’ crap?” Christine said to herself, bewildered and beyond disbelief that this callous, cold, and uncaring monster had expressed such a flagrantly flippant attitude as she had in those pages of the diaries.
The last passage Christine read sent shivers up her spine and made the blood drain from her face.
Moreover, I am determined that in the end, everything will solely be mine—the money, the property, the jewels, the power, you name it. All in all, in the great words of General MacArthur, “I came through and I shall return.”