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Authors: Robin Hathaway
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pennies. Tucked inside was a note in Mrs. Doyleâs precise penmanship: âYour cut (minus the cost of two Eagles tickets.)â
CHAPTER 13
S ince the loss of two children, in less than a month, Marie Pancoastâs personality had undergone a dramatic change. Once cheerful and outgoing, she was now quick-tempered and withdrawn. Before, her family had been the focus of her universe, and sculpting a mere hobby or pastime. Now, she was hardly aware of her family (what remained of it) and sculpting occupied all her waking hours. She spent more and more time in her studio. The only way she could cope with her loss was to immerse herself in her work. When she was shaping a block of wood or stone into some intelligible form, she could bury her pain. But as soon as she stopped, it rushed back all the stronger for having been forgotten for a time.
As a result, she worked until she was exhausted, sometimes forgetting to eat or sleep. Often she slept on a cot that she kept in the studio for that purpose. Edgar was also distraught: torn between grieving over the loss of his children and watching the transformation of his wife. He neglected his work and began
to lose clients. Other architectural firms outbid him and succeeded in meeting the deadlines that he no longer cared about. He spent his days in the auntsâ parlor staring at the newspaper, rarely turning a page. Every now and then, he would go up to the studio and beg his wife to come down and eat something or come home with him and sleep.
The aunts clucked over their brother continually, bringing him tea and coffee and treats to tempt him back into life. Susanne, the only remaining child, dropped by every day to see her parents and try to comfort them. Sometimes she brought the children, hoping to distract them. But they barely acknowledged Amanda and Tad, and it was usually left to the aunts to entertain them.
One day, a particularly pathetic ceremony took place in the garden. Mildred Pancoast had convinced the aunts that the dolls were in some way responsible for the tragedies. She insistedâin quite a hysterical sceneâthat they destroy them.
âIf only youâd get rid of those damned dolls, there wouldnât be any more deaths,â she screamed at the shaken aunts. (No one in the family could bring themselves to refer to the deaths as âmurdersâ yet.)
Although failing to see the logic of her request, out of deference to the poor widowâs wishes, the aunts agreed to dispose of the dollsâand their clothes. Each doll had an intricately made wardrobe for every season of the year. It was especially painful to Emily to part with her dollâs tiny fringed shawl, which bore a delicate butterfly embroidered on the back. And it nearly broke Judithâs heart to give up her dollâs miniature pair of black patent leather boots.
They chose a particularly blustery December day for this doleful task. Both wore overcoats. Judith wore a felt hat pulled down over her fuzzy curls and Emily tied a wool scarf under her chin. Judith carried the spade. Emily carried two shoe boxesâone filled with the dolls, the other with their clothes.
Judith tried to press the spade into the ground, but the earth was like stone. She could hardly make a dent in it. Emily offered to try, but Judith forbade it, remembering her sisterâs heart. Judith prowled around the garden, searching for a hole or crevice among the bare hydrangea bushes or in the dried-up vegetable patch. She paused at the bottom of the garden and beckoned to Emily. She had found a cavityâa sort of depression in the earthâpossibly made by some animal. Judith directed Emily to lay the shoe boxes in it. Emily obeyed. Judith prowled the garden again until she found some loose soil and small stones she could pick up easily with her shovel. She had to make several trips back and forth, dropping the material on the shoe boxes, to cover them completely. When they were no
CHAPTER 13
S ince the loss of two children, in less than a month, Marie Pancoastâs personality had undergone a dramatic change. Once cheerful and outgoing, she was now quick-tempered and withdrawn. Before, her family had been the focus of her universe, and sculpting a mere hobby or pastime. Now, she was hardly aware of her family (what remained of it) and sculpting occupied all her waking hours. She spent more and more time in her studio. The only way she could cope with her loss was to immerse herself in her work. When she was shaping a block of wood or stone into some intelligible form, she could bury her pain. But as soon as she stopped, it rushed back all the stronger for having been forgotten for a time.
As a result, she worked until she was exhausted, sometimes forgetting to eat or sleep. Often she slept on a cot that she kept in the studio for that purpose. Edgar was also distraught: torn between grieving over the loss of his children and watching the transformation of his wife. He neglected his work and began
to lose clients. Other architectural firms outbid him and succeeded in meeting the deadlines that he no longer cared about. He spent his days in the auntsâ parlor staring at the newspaper, rarely turning a page. Every now and then, he would go up to the studio and beg his wife to come down and eat something or come home with him and sleep.
The aunts clucked over their brother continually, bringing him tea and coffee and treats to tempt him back into life. Susanne, the only remaining child, dropped by every day to see her parents and try to comfort them. Sometimes she brought the children, hoping to distract them. But they barely acknowledged Amanda and Tad, and it was usually left to the aunts to entertain them.
One day, a particularly pathetic ceremony took place in the garden. Mildred Pancoast had convinced the aunts that the dolls were in some way responsible for the tragedies. She insistedâin quite a hysterical sceneâthat they destroy them.
âIf only youâd get rid of those damned dolls, there wouldnât be any more deaths,â she screamed at the shaken aunts. (No one in the family could bring themselves to refer to the deaths as âmurdersâ yet.)
Although failing to see the logic of her request, out of deference to the poor widowâs wishes, the aunts agreed to dispose of the dollsâand their clothes. Each doll had an intricately made wardrobe for every season of the year. It was especially painful to Emily to part with her dollâs tiny fringed shawl, which bore a delicate butterfly embroidered on the back. And it nearly broke Judithâs heart to give up her dollâs miniature pair of black patent leather boots.
They chose a particularly blustery December day for this doleful task. Both wore overcoats. Judith wore a felt hat pulled down over her fuzzy curls and Emily tied a wool scarf under her chin. Judith carried the spade. Emily carried two shoe boxesâone filled with the dolls, the other with their clothes.
Judith tried to press the spade into the ground, but the earth was like stone. She could hardly make a dent in it. Emily offered to try, but Judith forbade it, remembering her sisterâs heart. Judith prowled around the garden, searching for a hole or crevice among the bare hydrangea bushes or in the dried-up vegetable patch. She paused at the bottom of the garden and beckoned to Emily. She had found a cavityâa sort of depression in the earthâpossibly made by some animal. Judith directed Emily to lay the shoe boxes in it. Emily obeyed. Judith prowled the garden again until she found some loose soil and small stones she could pick up easily with her shovel. She had to make several trips back and forth, dropping the material on the shoe boxes, to cover them completely. When they were no
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