Lightning Strikes

by V. C. Andrews

  "I actually built this little cottage for my daughter. It was going to be her dollhouse," my Greatuncle Richard said sadly. Then he smiled. As you'll see, I've improved it a bit over time."

  He led me farther in. From the sitting room, a flagstone hallway led to the small kitchen and dining area with its timbered pine ceiling. The cottage had only the one bedroom with its wrought-iron double bed, a large mirror-fitted wardrobe and some small tables. I saw immediately that the bedroom had been changed. It still had the pink and white wallpaper with the cartoon characters, but gone were the dolls on shelves, the small mauve-colored desk and chair, and the storybook pictures. In their places were a much larger desk and chair, old theater and movie posters on the walls and some young-adult magazines on the desk and shelves. Some of the magazines looked years old, but there were a few that looked recent.

  The vanity table had new brushes and combs, bottles of perfume and bath powders. There was also a tray of makeup with a variety of lipsticks, eye shadow and eyeliner. I noticed that the comforter and the pillowcases were different as well. In short, everything looked like it belonged to someone more mature, as if the little girl who had lived here had grown up overnight.

  A flutter of panic made my heart skip when I turned and looked back at Great-uncle Richard. He had a strange, twisted smile on his lips and was staring at me madly.

  "It's nice, isn't it? Sort of what I imagined her room would be if she was your age," he said in a soft, dreamy voice. "Well," he said, looking around and brushing back his hair, "I guess we can start."

  "Start?"

  "I thought I'd take advantage of the abrupt change in plans today, especially since everything is ready. I didn't expect Mrs. Endfield to get sick, but since she has why not make good use of the opportunity?" He crossed the bedroom and opened the closet. "I've chosen these dresses carefully," he explained, stepping back so I could see them all. "Each fits a different sort of social occasion, from casual to formal."

  I crossed to the closet and looked at the dresses. The first had a faded department store tag and when I held out the dress and looked at it, I realized it was not a very recent purchase. It wasn't really my size, but a size too small.

  "Are you saying you bought these dresses for me?" "Of course," he said.

  "But these would all be too tight on me," I said. "Why did you buy clothes without knowing my exact size?"

  "Oh, don't worry about how it looks, my dear. The only one seeing you in any of this will be me, and yourself of course, but just consider them all to be costumes."

  "Costumes?"

  "Well, we are working on a performance of sorts," he said.

  I looked at the shoes. None of them would fit me either. "I couldn't get into these, costume or not," I said. "Don't worry about that then. Go barefoot for now." Some pairs looked old and faded.

  "What kind of a store sold you this stuff?" I asked. "They look like thrift store clothes."

  "I told you," he said a little sharply and sternly, "it's not important." The-surprised look on my face brought a calming smile to his. "What's important is what we do, not what we look like. For now, that is," he added. "I tried to provide everything you might need," he said, nodding at the dresser.

  I glanced at him and then slowly opened a dresser drawer. It was filled with undergarments, but the panties and the bras were too small as well.

  "You bought all this for me?" I asked.

  "I just had a package thrown together," he said quickly. "I wanted you to feel at home here, comfortable, as if this really was your room, your little dollhouse, too."

  "I heard you say that, but it seems quite large for a toy," I said gazing around the cottage.

  He laughed.

  "As large as the love in my heart. That's what I used to tell her every time she or someone else remarked about something I had given her being too extravagant. Well," he said, pausing and looking around with a smile that involved every part of his face, "here it is. Don't you just love it all?"

  I followed his gaze, shaking my head, my thoughts rushing about in a maze of confusion.

  "I still don't understand what I'm supposed to do, Mr. Endfield," I said.

  "Let's begin with the simplest of things and work our way through," he said. "I'll create the scenario for you. Set the scene as it were. I think that's the term your stage directors use, is it not?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "Fine. This is your home or apartment. You are to imagine that you are now living on your own. Every child must leave the nest someday," he said, his expression darkening like someone who had to face an unpleasant truth. "The Bible even tells us so. But that doesn't mean we have to let our children go unaided or ill advised, does it?"

  "No." I said, even though I still didn't understand where all this was leading.

  "Of course not. Of course not:' he muttered. He looked like he had forgotten his point himself and then he lifted his head, his eyes bright again. "Okay, now tonight you are going to entertain a producer who has shown interest in you. You're naturally excited about it. It's your first experience of this sort. I'm sure you've fantasized about such things, have you not?"

  "Not really:' I said. "I've just begun to study. It will be some time before I actually audition for something professionally."

  "No, no, no," he said as if I were ruining the scenario. "Once you step on a stage, you're vulnerable to all this. You're exposed. They're all hovering out there, predators, swooping down on the young and the innocent such as yourself. You're not in my home anymore. You're not under my wing, you see."

  "Not in your home?"

  "Exactly," he said. "Why, tomorrow, someone like that could come up to you after school and say, 'Rain Arnold, I've been watching you and I think you might be perfect for a new production I'm beginning. I'd like you to audition and I would like to be personally involved in this.'

  "Wouldn't you be flattered? Come on," he urged. "Be honest, my dear. Wouldn't you?"

  "I suppose so," I admitted.

  "Precisely. Now," he said, crossing back to the closet. "You have this occasion. What will you wear?"

  "Nothing in there," I said, pointing to the closet. "Nothing fits."

  He smirked and shook his head.

  "If you don't, how do they say it, suspend disbelief, we won't be able to do this. I told you to ignore the sizes. Pick a garment," he practically ordered, his eyes darkening as his face tightened.

  A tiny alarm bell went off in the pit of my stomach and rang its way up to my thumping heart. He looked like a lit firecracker, ready to explode if I said or did the wrong thing.

  "All right," I said. I plucked a lavender dress out of the closet. "How about this one?"

  He nodded.

  "Yes, very good choice, not too formal and yet not too casual. You have the right instincts. I knew it. All right. I'll step out and you put it on. Then, you will hear the doorbell ring. You come out to let me in and we'll begin the exercise:' he said. "I'll give you a little time should you want to do something with makeup, hair. I imagine you would," he added, gazed around the room, sighed and then left.

  I was standing there, holding the dress on its hanger, looking after him, my mouth still open. Never in my wildest imaginings after first meeting Greatuncle Richard could I envision this. Why would such a successful and respected man need these fantasies? I couldn't help being curious as to how far this makebelieve would go, and yet I was also quite tempted to simply run out of the cottage and not look back.

  "You want to make a good impression," he called from the other room, "but try not to be too obvious. Obvious women are usually not taken seriously. My mother used to tell me that

  understatement was the best statement, the most powerful statement. How are you doing?"

  "All right," I called back and held the dress up against me. Should I really try to put this on? I suppose I have to, I thought.

  I took off my skirt and blouse and stepped into it. As I suspected, it was snug at the hips and tight ar
ound my bosom. I could get the side zipper up only a little more than halfway. I thought I looked absolutely ridiculous. The moment he saw me, he would certainly realize it, laugh and put an end to all this, I hopefully concluded.

  "It's just as I told you," I called.

  "Don't tell me anything. We're beginning. Both of us have to step into character. ring the doorbell," he added, opened the door, stepped out and did so.

  Now what? I asked myself as I walked to the door. He rang the bell again. I felt like I was in the second grade playing with some of my friends. Nevertheless, I opened the door and he beamed as if he was looking in at the Queen of England.

  "Oh my dear, you look absolutely radiant. Just as I expected," he said, winked and nodded. "Just as Constance does in the first act of my new play. I'd love you to read for the part. May I come in?"

  "What? Oh, yes," I said. Couldn't he see the left side of the dress was hanging ridiculously over the unzipped portion and I was moving like someone in a straitjacket?

  "What a quaint flat you have," he said looking around. "It's actually just as I pictured it would be."

  I noticed he had some papers in his left hand.

  "I've brought the script with me," he said. "I'd like you to read some of the dialogue, Constance's dialogue, of course. The lead," he added, widening his eyes and raising his brow into little folds.

  He put his hand over his mouth and turned it so he could whisper out of the other side.

  "Now you ask me if I'd like something to drink."

  "Would you like something to drink?"

  "Oh, just a glass of white wine if you'll join me," he said.

  He leaned over, hand on his mouth again.

  "Go into the kitchen. It's on the counter. You know how to open a bottle of wine, right?"

  "Yes," I said. Was this pretend too? I expected so; however, when I went into the kitchen, there really was a bottle of wine, two glasses and a corkscrew.

  "What a nice view you have. You're very lucky to have found this flat."

  "Thank you," I said with a giggle. I couldn't help it. I thought I was only inches from falling into a pool of hysterical laughter. I opened the wine and poured two glasses, tasting it and smiling. It was good. Then I brought it out.

  "You should bring some napkins with it," he whispered.

  "Oh, right."

  "You'll find them in the small closet on the left where they always are."

  "Right," I said, returned to the kitchen, found them and brought them back. He was seated on the two-seater settee, sipping his wine. I handed him a napkin. He thanked me and asked me to sit beside him. I did so and he shook his head.

  "Remember," he whispered, "you're alone with a man you really don't know. Don't be so quick to do everything he says or suggests."

  "Okay," I said, my eyes almost as wide as his were. He sat back.

  "Now then, I'll read Horace. I'd like you to be as relaxed and natural as possible, Rain. Read it as if I wasn't even here, understand?"

  "Yes, I do," I said.

  He handed me the script and I looked over the first page. It was a love scene.

  "Anything wrong?" he asked when I hesitated. "What? No."

  "Good. Let's begin. Pretend we're seated just like this on the stage, in her living room, early evening" He sipped his wine, put the glass on the table, and sat forward. It was immediately obvious that he had memorized his part.

  "What play is this?" I asked, quickly reading some of it to myself. I thought it was really bad.

  "Love Undone," he replied. "The playwright is the rage of London these days. We're lucky to have the rights to it and anyone who gets a decent part will make an impression quickly on the theater

  community."

  He paused and leaned toward me again, his hand over his mouth as if there were other people in the room from whom he was trying to hide his words.

  "You have to decide how much of what he says is real and how much is hype. This takes experience," he added and sat back. "So, shall we start? Wait," he interrupted, "it's too bright in here. Not at all as it would be on the stage."

  He got up and closed all the curtains tightly. Then he sat again and nodded.

  "Any time you're ready," he said.

  "Ready?"

  "To read. Go on," he directed, flicking his right hand at me.

  "Oh. All right." I began. "Horace, I wish you hadn't come here tonight. You know how I feel about our relationship."

  "I know how you think you feel," he said, moving closer to me on the settee. Then, before I knew what to expect, he had his fingers under my chin and was looking deep into my eyes. It was strange to be so close to him.

  "Our ages are just accidents of birth," he continued, still holding my chin. "We can't let time stand like a wall between us."

  I pulled back a bit.

  "But Horace, your daughter and I are best friends. It would break her heart."

  "It's not her heart I'm concerned with now," he followed, inching closer to me again. "You're doing very well, Rain," he added sotto voce, "but try to look at me when you speak and show me how you are saying one thing, but feeling another. Go on, try it," he directed.

  "I can't do this, Horace," I read, gazing up at him quickly. He stared at me.

  "Your eyes tell me otherwise, Constance, and so do your lips," he said, seizing my shoulders and turning me so roughly, the pages flew from my hand. Then he slapped his lips against mine, pressing so hard, I lost my breath. With his mouth still on mine, he dropped his hand to lower the zipper on my dress even farther. Then he pulled back, taking the dress down with his small retreat.

  I was too shocked and stunned to move, even utter a sound.

  "You're beautiful, Rain. Just as I'd hoped. I'll make you a star. We'll blaze your name across the lights of London. Trust me," he said and leaned forward to kiss my neck.

  I slipped out from under him and jumped up from the settee.

  "What are you doing?" I cried, pulling the dress back up.

  The lustful look in his eyes evaporated instantly and was quickly replaced with the stern, fatherly expression he had shown me before.

  "Good," he said. "That's what I hoped you would do, but you're still in some danger here. We'll start again, and I'll show you another way this could begin. Repair yourself while I go back outside. I'll press the doorbell again," he said rising.

  "No!" I cried the moment he opened the door. "I can't do this. I don't want to do this," I said and charged by him when he turned with surprise.

  I ran from the cottage.

  "Heather!" I heard him cry. It was his dead daughter's name. I paused and looked back to see him standing in the cottage doorway. It put an even colder chill in my heart and I hurried along to the house. As I made the turn toward the front door, I saw Boggs off to my left, standing like a grim statue, watching me.

  I practically charged through the front door and down the hallway to my room where I quickly stripped off the foolish dress and threw it on the floor. Then I sat on my bed and tried to catch my breath.

  Was it great madness or great sorrow that makes him do these things? I wondered. I didn't have much of a chance to think about it. My door was thrust open so hard, it strained on its hinges. Boggs stood there, gaping in at me. I covered myself quickly with my hands.

  "Don't go saying anything nasty about Mr. Endfleld," he warned.

  Then he closed the door.

  "Oh, Mama," I moaned. "If you only knew the truth about what you hoped was my salvation. You might have left me to take my chances in the hell we at least understood."

  13

  Seize the Moment

  .

  Of course I was quite nervous about serving

  Great-uncle Richard and Great-aunt Leonora breakfast the following morning. I was emotionally exhausted and almost immediately fell into a comatose state the moment I lowered my head to the pillow, but very soon I began to toss and turn so much in anticipation of waking that my legs and arms actually ached when I
woke. It felt like I had been swimming miles.

  I don't think I really dreamed until shortly before waking. Just as the sun was coming up, I flitted in and out of nightmares, dreaming I was dressed like a baby in a giant crib. I wore only a diaper. Greatuncle Richard was a giant reaching in for me. His hands looked enormous and at the very ends of each finger, there were smaller versions of his head. I might have been screaming as I dreamed, but Boggs, if he heard it, didn't come to see what was wrong. I could hear myself crying and saw myself running in a forest in which tree after tree turned into Boggs, his arms stretched out toward me like great, thick branches.

  After I rose and went to the bathroom, I gazed at myself in the mirror and saw eyes that looked glassy and still asleep, the lids drooping like flags on a day with no breeze. I didn't have the energy to make myself look much better and barely ran a brush through my hair. I let my legs carry me through the hallway to the kitchen as if the top half of me was yet not awake.

  "Looks like I'm the only one chirpy this mornin'," Mrs. Chester commented the moment she set eyes on me. "Whatja do, get yourself good and sloshed yesterday?" she asked me.

  "Sloshed? You mean, drunk?"

  "Call it whatever yer want, the end's the same. You look like you turned yerself inside out and in again."

  "No, I didn't get sloshed," I said sharply. "I don't get sloshed."

  "Well, one .gander at you tells me yer candle was burned on both ends, dearie," she insisted.

  She could be so infuriating, making my stomach feel like I had swallowed a handful of straight pins. I decided to ignore her and do my work. Mary Margaret came in from the dining room where she had been setting the table. She looked pale, her eyes foggy. She threw a quick glance at me and then turned away. I could see Mrs. Chester watching her out of the corner of her eyes.

  "Get a move on," she ordered. "They'll be down in a minute," she said.

  I was surprised Great-aunt Leonora came to the dining room after the way she had been late yesterday. She said she had to get up and get presentable because she had an important social affair, a luncheon, that she insisted she had to attend. The proceeds were marked for a charity. However, she let us all know how much of a sacrifice it was for her. She complained about her nose and her throat and how heavy her head felt.