Rain

by V. C. Andrews

  "Really?" I heard someone say sharply and turned to see my grandmother standing in the doorway. Immediately, I jumped to my feet and we confronted each other.

  She was taller than I expected and still very stately with posture as perfect as could be. Her Confederate gray hair was cut and styled to frame her face, the prominent feature of which was her tight, strong jaw line. I saw my mother's eyes and nose, but my grandmother's mouth was fuller.

  The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes were deep, perhaps because of the way she squinted at me. Other than those, there weren't many lines in her face. She didn't appear to be wearing much make-up, if any.

  She wore a turquoise velvet robe with a gold fringe on the collar and the sleeves. The robe reached her ankles. Her feet were in velvet slippers that matched her robe.

  "I am absolutely positive you know why you are here," she continued. "Sit," she ordered and waved at the chair I had been sitting in. I did so quickly.

  She crossed to the leather sofa and pulled her robe tightly around her as she sat. She leaned back, resting her right arm on the arm of the sofa and stared at me. I saw the way her eyes shifted, studying my face, pausing, softening and then hardening again as she drew her shoulders up.

  "Megan tells me you're a good student. I hope that's not another one of her exaggerations. She's prone to do that...she has exaggerationitis," she remarked.

  "What? I never heard of such a thing."

  "Nevertheless, she has it. Well?"

  "Well what?"

  "Are you a good student?"

  "Yes. I've been on the honor roll ever since the seventh grade."

  "And what happened before that?"

  "There wasn't any honor roll," I said dryly.

  She stared, her lips relaxing in the corners for a moment and then stiffening.

  "You understand that I am not in favor of your living here. I've never mollycoddled Megan or made excuses for her behavior. When she was pregnant and showing, I had her sent away. She had none of her family with her when you were born and my husband handled the arrangements," she said sternly.

  "Do you want me to leave?" I countered.

  "Don't be stupid," she commanded. "I said I wasn't in favor of your living here, but I didn't say you couldn't do so. Under the right conditions, of course," she added quickly.

  "Which are?"

  "One, we don't admit to anyone who you really are. At this stage of your history, it would be an insufferable embarrassment. I am known for my philanthropic works. I serve on the boards of various charitable and nonprofit organizations. It will not be considered unusual for me to take in someone such as yourself under the guise of doing something for the downtrodden," she proposed. Her voice was deeper and thicker than my mother's and she cracked a whip on her consonants and vowels like someone practicing for speech class.

  "You are to always address me as Mrs. Hudson and when Megan comes here, which will be rarely, I expect, you address her as Mrs. Randolph. Is that understood?"

  "Yes," I said, my eyes beginning to bum with the tears that filled underneath my lids. How would she like to feel as if no one wanted to claim her?

  "Good."

  "You said one so there must be a two," I said after swallowing back my pain. I didn't disguise the fury in my voice. She looked amused rather than upset, however.

  "Oh there's a two and a three. Two...I understand from where you come and how you've lived. You're to leave all that outside the door. No smoking, no messing up the house, no leaving clothing strewn about your room like teenagers are so prone to do these days. I don't want the phone ringing off the hook with calls from new boys you've met and you are not to invite anyone here without my permission first. And definitely no loud music!"

  She paused as if trying to remember something she had memorized and then continued.

  "I want you to maintain a clean and presentable appearance at all times. I often have important visitors and now that you are here, you will represent me as well.

  "I hope you will always maintain decent standards of language and the moment I see evidence of drugs or drinking, you'll be asked to leave. Am I clear?"

  "My family is poor and we lived in the ghetto, but I know right from wrong," I shot back. "Mama didn't tolerate bad language. We didn't have much, but we were always clean and I never as much as touched any drugs."

  "Good," she said. "Let's hope all that's true."

  "It's true," I said firmly. "I don't lie like some people."

  She gazed at me, her lips relaxing for a moment and her eyes filling with an amused twinkle. Then she returned to her stiff and formal posture.

  "I have already made the necessary

  arrangements for you to attend Dogwood. My driver will take you to and from the school. I expect you to be on your best behavior there as well as here. Whatever you do there will again reflect on me. It happens to be one of the most prestigious private schools in the Southeast. Elizabeth Whitney, a descendant of Eli Whitney, the man who invented the cotton gin, is the headmistress and a dear friend of mine."

  She sat forward, her eyes fixed on me more intently.

  "It's been a long time since I've had anyone as young as you under my roof. My grandchildren, Megan's other offspring, don't come around that often."

  I wanted to say maybe they don't feel welcome, but I kept my lips pasted.

  "Teenagers are almost another species these days," she quipped. Then she rose. "We dress for dinner. I understand your mother has bought you the beginnings of a decent wardrobe?"

  "I suppose," I said. "I don't spend money I don't have on fashion magazines."

  She formed a wry smile.

  "I'm sure she spent a lot of money and bought you the most up-to-date styles. Megan never worried much about spending. She was spoiled and she spoils her children."

  "Why did you spoil her if you think it's so wrong?" I asked.

  "I didn't. Be, father did. Anyway, it's too late for regrets. I don't wallow in the past. If you have grit, you step over your hardships."

  Yes, I thought, if you have grit and money, lots of money, you can step over them.

  "I hope you will have a similar attitude. Dinner is at six-thirty tonight," she added and started out. She paused in the doorway and looked back at me. "The things you have to do for your children," she muttered, shaking her head.

  Wonderful, I thought. I just love feeling like someone's burden. I was tempted to just run out of the house, leaving all the new things behind. Maybe that's what she hoped I would do. Then she would be comfortable with her beliefs. She could go on and say I was just what she had expected and I behaved just the way she had predicted.

  She was my grandmother and she did have steel flowing through her veins, but her blood had been passed on to me whether she liked it or not, I thought.

  I'm not running.

  I'm here, Grandmother. I can't call you that, but soon enough, yes, soon enough, you'll know I'm your granddaughter, and all the lies and phony smiles in the world won't change that one iota.

  I turned and looked back at the eagle.

  "I was wrong," I admitted. "I do know why I'm here. I'm here to teach that rich, important woman what family means."

  The eagle looked impressed.

  11

  The Ties That Bind

  .

  As I sifted through my small but expensive

  wardrobe, I felt like a frenzied moth madly circling the flame of a candle. Which was the correct dress or outfit to wear to dinner? What did my grandmother mean by "We dress for dinner?" I wanted to make the right choice just to prove that my background and upbringing didn't mean I had no style and no taste. Like the moth, I started toward what attracted me and then I pulled back as if I thought I might bum my fingers, sifted through the garments, and started to choose something else, only to hesitate. If I dressed too formally, would my grandmother laugh, call me ridiculous? If I put on this beautiful blouse and skirt, would she turn up the corners of her mouth and snap, "Didn't I
tell you we dress for dinner?"

  Why, I paused to ask myself, was pleasing her suddenly so vital? She hadn't thought I was important enough to greet me as soon as I arrived, and she certainly didn't do much to make me feel welcome when we finally did meet. Usually, I despised someone as conceited and as condescending as she appeared to be. What would I gain by pleasing or impressing her? Could I ever do either to her satisfaction anyway? I was her daughter's mistake, a living example of the burden children lay upon their parents. She practically told me so to my face.

  I stood back from the clothing, my arms folded under my breasts, fuming for a moment, and then, impulsively, with as much of a devil may care attitude as I could muster, I stabbed out and plucked the leather skirt and leather vest outfit. I chose it because I liked the way it looked on me and not because it would be what my grandmother would choose. It was something my mother had muttered when we were snaking our way through aisles and displays of garments in the department store: "If you please yourself first, you'll be happy and your happiness will make others feel good about you."

  At first I thought that was a very selfish attitude, but after I thought about it awhile, I realized it made some sense. Whenever you were unhappy about yourself, you weren't good company, right? Look at Merilyn, for example. She was so sour on herself that she curdled everything around her.

  I put on the cream silk blouse my mother had chosen to go with the leather outfit, found the matching shoes, and then concentrated on my hair, making sure it was primped and neat. When I gazed at myself in the mirror just before leaving my room to go down to dinner, I felt my heart thump in loud, quick beats. I looked fine, I told myself. I looked better than ever. She has to be impressed.

  Merilyn had set the table with what looked like the most expensive china in the world. I was afraid to touch the paper thin crystal goblet for fear it would shatter if I pressed my fingers around it too hard. The plates had gold trim and pink roses at the center. The silverware was so heavy, I thought my trembling fingers might drop a fork or a spoon on a dish and shatter it, and there were so many forks, even one with another spoon at the top of the plate. What were they all for?

  My setting was placed where I had sat to have my lunch and my grandmother's was at the head of the table. She wasn't there when I arrived, and I had arrived on time.

  "What are we having, Merilyn?" I asked when she came out of the kitchen with a pitcher of ice water. I was too nervous to just sit quietly and watch her work.

  "It's Tuesday. Mrs. Hudson has fish on Tuesdays. Poached salmon," she added with a tone of voice that added "whether you like it or not." The tick of the dark hickory grandfather clock in the corner of the dining room seemed louder than before, especially while I was sitting there alone, waiting. I stared at the mural, wishing myself in that scene. It looked so peaceful, friendly and, unlike my present circumstances, so uncomplicated. Finally, I heard footsteps in the hail and then my grandmother entered the dining room.

  Once, when I was very young and walking with Roy, we saw many rich and elegantly dressed people arriving at what looked like a major social event in Washington, D.C. It was at one of the finer restaurants. Limousines stopped to empty their affluent passengers in front and out stepped lavishly adorned women, their hair styled and glittering with jeweled hairpieces, their necks roped in diamonds, their bodies encased in furs and black cashmere furtritnmed capes, and their gentlemen all in tuxedos. They glowed under the lights and I had to stop and drink in all the glamour and wealth. They looked like royalty to me. I imagined them coming from some magical kingdom where skin blemishes were forbidden, where everyone was born with perfect features, where laughter was musical and smiles fell like rain upon their blessed faces.

  "Who are they, Roy?" I had asked my brother in a loud whisper.

  "Them," he replied, not without a little bitterness in his voice.

  "Who's them?"

  "Them's them," he told me looking back as we continued on. "There's us and there's them. That's them."

  It made no sense to me, of course. I wasn't very class conscious at-nine years old, and it wasn't something that haunted me as much as it haunted Ken, Beni and Roy. Mama seemed aware of it, but resigned to the division of the world, and I tried to be more like her. What good did it do to walk about with green eyes and a stomach churning up unhappiness?

  However, when my grandmother entered the dining room, her diamond necklace so prominent, her matching earrings sparkling under the light of the chandelier, her beautiful, black velvet dress making her look even more stately, I had to catch my breath and remind my heart to beat. She was definitely one of them, which reinforced the fact that I was not.

  She did seem like royalty. She moved like a queen, head high, posture regal, pausing before she had come halfway to her chair.

  "It's proper for young people to stand when their elders enter the room," she said through her nearly clenched teeth. "Especially in the dining room."

  I rose quickly. She looked me over intently; checking my hair, my make-up, and of course, my clothing. Once again, I saw that tiny gleam of warmth in her eyes before they turned indifferent.

  "Who chose that outfit for you? Your mother or you?" she demanded.

  "We both did, I suppose," I replied.

  She shook her head and continued to her seat.

  "Megan has such a difficult time being the wife of a conservative man. The little rebel in her like some persistent ember won't go out. Are young people back to wearing skirts that short?"

  "It was what the store featured," I told her.

  She sat and nodded at me and I sat.

  "You look like you do take care of yourself and know how to wear your hair," she admitted with a little surprise echoing behind her words.

  Merilyn hurried in to pour her a glass of water and then filled my glass as well. Then she rushed out with a look of abject terror on her face. Despite her coolness to me, I couldn't help but feel sorry for her and wished that I could just get up and help serve the dinner. I would have been glad to prepare the salad or something instead of waiting around for the sacred dinner bell to ring or my grandmother to make her grand entrance.

  "Why shouldn't I know how to take care of myself?" I asked self-defensively. I couldn't help but sound like Beni with a chip on my shoulder. Some people just made it appear, people like my rich and conceited grandmother.

  She didn't answer. Instead, she unfolded her napkin carefully and placed it on her lap. Then she gazed at me. I quickly did the same with my napkin.

  "From time to time," she said, "you will be present at the dinner table when I have important guests. Of course, they will know you come from unfortunate circumstances, but they will nevertheless expect a show of proper etiquette simply because they will know you are under my roof and I would demand nothing less. I expect you to look presentable, even at breakfast."

  "I'll always be presentable, but I'm not going to be a phony," I said.

  She laughed coldly, shaking her head. Then she sighed, lifting and dropping her shoulders as if they were of great weight.

  "What is that saying, 'The more things change, the more they stay the same?' Megan used to tell me something similar." The smile evaporated and she leaned forward. "Mealtime manners have nothing to do with being a phony. Good manners are part of what makes the experience pleasurable, for others as well as for you. Sprawling posture, elbows akimbo, or talking with a mouth full of food are simply unacceptable. It's simply a matter of courtesy toward other people at the table.

  "Besides," she continued, "tomorrow you will register in a prestigious school. You will eat in their cafeteria with young people who come from the finest homes and backgrounds. You wouldn't want to look foolish, would you? Unless, of course," she added with a tiny smile on her lips, "being foolish is who you really are."

  "I'm not foolish," I insisted.

  "Good. You have good posture. That's a start," she said. "To this day, Megan slumps. Sometimes I think she does it deliberately
just to be defiant."

  I didn't remember my mother slumping at the French restaurant in Georgetown, but I was so anxious about meeting her, I could easily have not noticed.

  "I know something about good table manners," I said. "I know you're not supposed to put your elbows on the table."

  "Well, that's not always the case," she said and hesitated as Merilyn brought in our salads.

  My grandmother watched me. I was waiting to see what she would do, which fork she would take. Again, a small smile crinkled her lips.

  "The fork and the spoon above your plate tonight are for our dessert. I had an English trifle made, not by Merilyn, of course. She doesn't have that skill. When it's served, I'll explain how you use the fork and the spoon. For now, just remember that you use your silverware from the outside in, so the fork on your far left is your salad fork," she added and reached for hers.

  "Why did you say not putting your elbows on the table was not always the case? I always thought that was rude. Mama told me that."

  She chewed her food, swallowed, touched her lips with her napkin and then sat forward supported by her elbows on the table.

  "A woman is far more graceful looking like this than like this," she said taking her elbows off and hanging over the table. "With my hands in my lap, leaning awkwardly like this, I look like I have cramps now, don't I?"

  For the first time, I smiled, but she didn't mean to be funny.

  "Well, don't I?"

  "Yes, I suppose."

  "Just don't put your elbows on the table when you're eating, only when you have to speak to someone across the table, understand?"

  As the meal continued, she continued to lecture me as to how to hold my silverware, how to ask for things, and how to eat different foods properly. I never realized how complicated proper table manners could be. After dinner, when the English trifle was served, she showed me how to use both the fork and the spoon to eat it.

  "Did your mother teach you all these things?" I asked her.

  "My mother? Hardly," she said a little bitterly. "They sent me to-a-private preschool, a private school and a finishing school. I was away more than I was home, but if I didn't behave properly at their dinner table, I was sent to my room without supper."