The Minuscule Mansion of Myra Malone by Audrey Burges

Author:Audrey Burges [Burges, Audrey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2023-01-24T00:00:00+00:00

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LOCKHART, VIRGINIA, 1948

Willa had never cared much about the changing seasons. When she was in the refuge, the weather around her could be whatever she wished it to be, though it tended to reflect her moods more than any conscious decision to change it. The arbitrary significance accorded to specific days in the societies that grew around her meant little, and in her life before Ford—before she linked herself to a family steeped deeply in the societal expectations she had long avoided—she never decorated.

Then what was left of Ford cast its shadow through the Mansion, and for the first time, Willa couldn’t keep Mildred at bay. Her constant presence was meant as a silent reproach, a confirmation that Willa was not equal to the task of Ford’s care. Mildred’s judgment-tinged intonations echoed through the house and began emerging from Ruth’s mouth as soon as the boy could talk. His first visit home from boarding school, from which Mildred insisted on collecting him herself, they walked into the wide front hall and exchanged a glance with each other before gazing at Willa.

“We have a gigantic Christmas tree at Saint Thomas,” Ruth said. “I helped decorate it. I stood on a ladder.”

“That sounds exciting,” Willa said.

“There should be a tree here.”

“Oh.” Willa glanced around the front hall and felt, for the first time, all of the ways that Mildred—that outsiders—found the mansion inadequate. As she felt judgment, the walls of the house echoed it, looking shabby and showing their age as Willa herself did. “Would a tree make you happy? We can certainly get one.”

“I’ll have one delivered.” Mildred swept her way into the hall and cast her eyes upward toward the ceiling as if measuring the particular arboreal specimen the space would accommodate. “Let’s go and see your father, darling boy, so we can make it home for dinner.”

Willa looked at her son, already halfway up the stairs toward Ford’s room. “Are you not eating here?”

“We thought it would be easier to have Ruther stay with us during his holiday break. You have so much on your plate, my dear, and my son is so sensitive to noises—it’s just not fair to a growing boy to expect him to stay so quiet during the holiday season.” Mildred’s face was a moue of regret that concealed profound satisfaction at a day gone to plan.

“He doesn’t have to stay quiet,” Willa said. “This is his home. Here, with me, and with his father. Surely you don’t expect me to agree—”

“Agree to let your son be cared for by the grandparents who love him dearly, and who will keep him safe and happy so that you can focus on your husband, who is also my son? Whose care we have entrusted to you, against our better judgment, in light of your constant refusal of our assistance? Yes, I expect you to agree. Because for all that your approach to things is—shall we say—unconventional, you aren’t a selfish mother, my dear. A five-year-old

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