Regina Giddens, nineteenth century southern belle, twentieth century pariah. The need for greed and power turn her from a once wincing young girl, to a now manipulative and domineering woman. Tender succulent grapes turned to sour mash. If nothing else she is now consistent in her will and drive to be foremost in her life. Whether it is complaining about cold grits or wishing death upon her husband for her own self gain, she is relentless in self-preservation.

When she is told she can get more with a smile, than with her to be reckoned with temper, she does so and makes a mockery out of sincerity. Like the cat at the cream. If she should ever cry, they would be crocodile tears, a laugh the likes of which would frighten small children. Consideration is never something she posses. As being fitted for a dress, she pants, complains and acts as though on the measuring stool she is superior to all. This little bit of added height only raises her stature and makes her even more sovereign. Superior. The old cliche of pouring water on a drowning man was spoken with Regina in mind. And to pick a dead man's pocket, she would be only too glad.

We can see her in her rose garden snipping roses to be admired at an evening meal. Lovely buds of crimson, natures own. Thorns that are sharp, her true counterpart. This she does in preparation to welcome home a dying husband. Wishing maybe they were for his funeral pall? She welcomes him as she would a stranger on the street, the same way she grasp her daughter's shoulder; it is a paralyzing grip. Brothers that she laughs at and lets them know she does not ask for things that she does not think she will get. An alcoholic sister-in-law she considers for comic relief. A dimwitted nephew she only finds disdain. Her own circle of loved ones. The souls she leaves in her wake. The completion of a cotton mill could make her millions but her husband will have no part of her sweat shop of dividends. Upon this she wishes out loud, "I hope you die, I hope you die soon, I'll be waiting for you to die." This is how she greases heaven's gates for his arrival.

But, the stolen contents of her husband's lock box put bricks in place for the foundation of her ill fated rise. Brothers who stole them now become her work hands. She watches as the waning and dying husband climbs the stair to death, only to listen and wait for the end with great anticipation. For a moment she is almost human and runs to his aid, but it is too late and to no avail.

He lies still in his bed, with the devoted daughter holding his hand; Regina looks as an onlooker who seems out of place and unwelcome. Reality of her liking soon bounces back and she deals with the pressing matters at hand. Her own personal gain, he thirty pieces of silver as it were. She has everyone in the palm of her hand, almost. The daughter who she wanted to have the world, bids her good-bye and takes her leave. There, she will sleep in the house cloaked with death alone, a little shaken at the events of the evening and its out come. She watches through a window pane that frames her astringent face as the daughter of her misguided aspirations leaves the house in pouring rain. Rain drops upon the glass not to be confused with tears to the onlooker, with the street lamp casting halos of light is all that greets her in her empty bounty. She slowly closes the lace curtain and seals her fate.

April 8, 1999

Mark Edward Rogers

"The Little Foxes" by Katherine Hellman.