Casteel 01 Heaven

by V. C. Andrews

recognize."

  "Oh, come now, Heaven," said Mr. Taylor, "you're exaggerating, I know you are. Your mother is a lovely, gracious woman, I can tell from the way she smiles at you."

  Yeah, how sweet and kind were the smiles of Kitty Dennison. How dumb men could be, really. Even book-smart ones like Mr. Taylor.

  My teacher's voice took on a persuading tone while the wild northeast winds whipped around the school building, making me shiver even with the heat on. On and on he wheedled: "The city orders us to turn off the heat on weekends, and all the other students are gone. Do you want the poor little expectant mother to stay in a freezing room so we'll find her dead on Monday? Come, dear, share the responsibility of loving a pet . . . that's what love is all about, you know, responsibilities and caring."

  "But my mother hates animals," I said in a weak voice, really wanting to have Chuckles for an entire weekend.

  He must have seen some yearning in my expression, for he went on cajoling. "Gets mighty cold in here," he said, watching my face in a calculating way. "Even if Chuckles has food and water, mighty cold for a wee dear caged expectant mother."

  "But . . . but . . ."

  "No buts. It's your duty. Your obligation. I'm leaving this weekend with my family, or else I'd take Chuckles home with me. I could leave her in my home alone with plenty of food in her cage, and her bottle of water . . . but she might give birth any day. And I want you there with the movie camera I taught you how to use to show the class the miracle of birth, in case it happens while she's with you."

  And so I was persuaded against my better judy ent, and in Kitty's spick-and-span white-and-pink house, among all the brilliant ceramic critters, tanand-white Chuckles was established in the basement, a place Kitty never went now that she had a slave to do the clothes washing and drying.

  However, Kitty was not in the least predictable. Her mood swings were startling, dramatic, and, most of all, dangerous. With much trepidation I bustled about making a clear and clean place, out of drafts, for the big cage. Under a sunny high window seemed to me just perfect. I found an old standing screen with its black lacquer peeling off, and I set it up. Now Chuckles would be protected not only from drafts but from Kitty's cruel seawater eyes if ever she dared to enter the basement. There was absolutely no reason for her to come to where I had Chuckles cozily established against a distant wall. I felt only a small apprehension for Chuckles' safety.

  "Now, you take it easy down here, Chuckles," I warned the small animal, who sat up on her haunches and nibbled daintily on the slice of apple I gave her. "Try not to use your treadmill so much. In your condition, you might overdo it."

  The darn wheel squeaked and squealed, and even after I took the wheel out and oiled the moving parts, it still made a certain amount of noise when I spun it with my fingers. Chuckles ran madly about in her cage, wanting her exercise wheel back. Once I put it back in the cage, Chuckles instantly jumped in and began to run in the wheel--it still squealed, but not very much.

  Upstairs in the back hall I pressed my ear against the closed basement door. All was silent down there. I opened the door and listened. Still I couldn't hear anything. Good. I descended the stairs, five, six, then seven of them, paused to listen. Only then could I hear a faint sound, but it was all right. Kitty would never enter the basement alone, and she couldn't do anything if Cal was at his workbench. I had finished with the laundry, so why should she check?

  In another few minutes I had a few old chairs put one on each side of the screen, so it wouldn't topple over and fall on the cage. I tested it, found it stable enough, and once more told Chuckles to be a good girl, and please don't have your babies before I have the camera set up and ready."

  Chuckles went right on spinning in the treadmill.

  It was another of those strange evenings, with Kitty not working overtime as she used to do. There was a distraught look in her pale eyes. "Got another migraine," she complained in a whiny tone. "Goin t'bed early," she announced after an early supper. "Don't want t'hear t'dishwasher goin, ya hear? Makes t'house vibrate. I'm gonna swallow some pills an sleep an sleep an sleep."

  Wonderful!

  Saturday began like any other Saturday. Kitty got up grouchy, tired, rubbing at her puffy, reddened eyes, complaining of feeling drugged. "Don't know if I kin make it t'my classes," she mumbled at the breakfast table, while I dutifully tended to the sausages, browning them just right, with a bit of water added to keep them moist. "All t'time tired, I am. Life ain't good no more. Kin't understand it."

  "Take the day off," suggested Cal, unfolding the morning paper and beginning to read the headlines. "Go back to bed and sleep until you can get up and not feel tired."

  "But I should go t'my classes. Got my students waitin . ."

  "Kitty, you should go to a doctor."

  "Ya know I hate doctors!"

  "Yes, I know, but when you have constant headaches that indicates trouble, or the need for eyeglasses."

  "Ya know I'm not gonna wear any damn spectacles an make myself look like an ole lady!"

  "You could wear contacts," he said as if disgusted, and he glanced at me. "I'll be working all day, until at least six. I just hired two new men who need training." He was telling me not to expect too much in the way of entertainment tonight.

  Kitty rubbed at her eyes again, staring at the plate I put before her as if she didn't recognize her favorite morning meal of sausages, fried eggs, and grits. "Don't have no appetite fer nothin . . ." She stood up, turned, saying she was going back to bed and sleep until she woke up without head pains. "An ya kin call an make my excuses."

  All morning I cleaned and scrubbed, and didn't hear or see Kitty. I ate lunch alone. In the afternoon I dusted, vacuumed downstairs, quickly saw to the needs of Chuckles, who very obviously didn't want me to go and leave her alone. She indicated this in playful, touching ways, sitting up and begging, acting cuter whenever I turned to leave. Oh, but for Kitty I'd bring Chuckles home every night, keep her in my room. "It's all right, darling," I said, scratching her soft, furry head, and that made soft sounds of contentment in her throat. "You play as much as you want to. The demon in the house has drugged herself with Valium, and that keeps you safe, safe."

  Cal didn't take me to the movies that Saturday; he and I watched television, neither one of us talking very much.

  Sunday.

  Kitty's loud singing woke me early.

  "Feel good," she shouted to Cal as I got up and quickly strode down the hall toward the stairs and the downstairs bath. "Feel like goin t'church. HEAVEN," she bellowed as she heard me pass her open door, "get yer lazy butt down in t'kitchen fast, an fix breakfast. We're goin t'church. All of us. Gonna sing praises ta t'Lord fer chasin away my headaches . . ."

  Why, she sounded just like her old self!

  Feeling tired myself, burdened with too much to do, I dashed about trying to do everything before Kitty came down. I started for the bathroom to take a quick shower before I began breakfast. No, better to put the water on for the coffee first, and shower while it heated. After the shower, I'd check on Chuckles as the bacon fried slowly.

  But someone had already put the water in the kettle, and it was hot and steaming. I headed for the bath, presuming Cal had been downstairs and was eager for his two cups of morning coffee.

  My robe and nightgown I hung on a hook on back of the bathroom door, before I turned to step into the tub. That's when I saw Chuckles!

  Chuckles--in the tub--all bloody! A long string of intestines spewed out of her mouth; her tiny babies strung out from the other end! I fell to my knees sobbing, heaving up the contents of an almost empty stomach so it splashed into the tub to blend with the blood and other sickening contents.

  Behind me the door opened.

  "Makin a mess agin, are ya?" asked a harsh voice from the doorway. "Screamin an yellin like yer seein somethin ya didn't expect. Now go on, take yer bath. Not gonna let no dirty hill-scum gal go inta my church widout a bath."

  Wide-eyed with horror, with h
ate, I stared at Kitty. "You killed Chuckles!"

  "Are ya losin yer mind? I ain't killed no Chuckles. Don't even know what yer talkin bout."

  "LOOK IN THE TUB!" I yelled.

  "Don't see nothin," said Kitty, staring directly down at the pitiful dead animal and all the bloody mess there. "Jus use t'stopper an fill up t'tub while I watch. Ain't gonna take no hill filth inta my church!"

  "CAL!" I screamed as loud as possible. "HELP ME!"

  "Cal's in t'shower," said Kitty pleasantly, "doin what he kin to cleanse away his sins. Now ya do t'same cleanse yers!"

  "You're crazy, really crazy!" I screamed.

  Calmly Kitty began to fill the tub. I leaped to my feet and snatched for a towel to shield my nudity. And in reaching, I took my eyes off of Kitty for one brief second.

  Enough time. Like a baseball bat Kitty slung her stiffened arm so it struck and hurled me toward the tub. I stumbled, staggered off balance, and again Kitty moved, but this time I managed to dodge, and, screaming, I headed for the stairs, calling Cal's name as loudly as I could.

  "YA COME BACK HERE AN TAKE YER BATH!" shrieked Kitty.

  I pounded on the door of the upstairs bath, screaming for Cal to hear me, but he was in there with the water going full blast, singing at the top of his voice, and he didn't hear. Any minute I expected Kitty to climb the stairs and force me to sit in that tub of filth and death. Daring embarrassment, I turned the knob on the door. Cal had locked it! Oh, damn, damn!

  Sliding to the floor, I waited for him to come out. The minute he turned off the water I was up and calling again. Tentatively he cracked open the door, still dripping water from his hair, with a towel swathed about his hips. "What's wrong?" he asked with great concern, drawing me into his arms and bowing his damp face into my hair as I clung to him for dear life. "Why are you acting so frightened?"

  I gushed it all out, Chuckles in the basement, how Kitty had used something to wrap about her middle and squeeze the life out of a harmless, helpless little creature.

  His face turned grim as he released me and reached for his robe, and, with me in tow, headed for the downstairs bathroom. In the doorway I waited, unable to look at poor Chuckles again. Kitty had disappeared. "There's nothing in the tub, Heaven," he said, coming back to me. "Clean as a whistle . . ."

  I looked myself. It was true. The dead hamster and her young were gone. Sparkling-clean tub. Still wearing nothing but a towel, I tagged behind Cal to visit the basement. Empty cage with a wide-open door.

  "What ya two doin down there?" called Kitty from above. "Heaven, now ya take yer shower, an hurry up. Don't wanna be late fer church."

  "What did you do with Chuckles?" I shrieked when I was in the back hall.

  "Ya mean that rat I killed? I threw it away. Did ya want t'save it? Cal," she said, turning to him and looking sweeter than sugar, "she's mad cause I killed a nasty ole rat in t'tub. An ya know I kin't put up with filth like rats in my house." Her deadly cold eyes riveted on me with warning.

  "Go on, Heaven," urged Cal. "I'll talk to Kitty."

  I didn't want to go. I wanted to stay and fight it out, make Cal see Kitty for what she was, a psycho who should be locked up. Yet I felt too weak and sick to do more than obey. I showered, shampooed, even fixed breakfast, as Kitty protested over and over again, growing more and more vehement, that she'd never seen a hamster, didn't even know what one looked like, would never go alone into the basement no time, no how.

  Her pale eyes swung to me. "Hate ya fer tryin t'turn my man against me! I'll go ta t'school authorities an tell em what ya did ta that poor lil critter--an tryin t'put t'blame on me. It were yers, weren't it? I'd neva do nothin so mean . . . ya did it jus t'blame me! Ya kin stay here until ya finish school--then get out! Ya kin go t'hell fer all I kerr."

  "Chuckles was pregnant, Kitty! Maybe that made her more than you could stand!"

  "Cal, would ya hear this girl lie? I neva saw no hamster--did ya?"

  Could Cal believe I could do anything so horrible? No, no, his eyes kept saying. Let it pass this time, please, please.

  Why didn't he look for evidence in the garbage can? Why didn't he come right out and accuse Kitty? Why, Cal, why?

  The nightmare continued in the church.

  "Amazing grace . . .

  How sweet the sound . . ."

  Everybody was singing reverently. How spaced out I felt standing beside Kitty, dressed in my best new clothes. We looked so fine, so respectably Christian and God-fearing, and all the time the memory of a dear little dead hamster was in my head. Who would believe me if I told?

  Kitty dropped her tithe in the passed plate; so did Cal. I stared at the plate, then at the bland face of the deacon who passed it. I refused to put in one penny. "Ya do it," whispered Kitty, giving me a sharp elbow nudge. "Ain't gonna have no friends of mine thinkin yer a heathen, an ungrateful fer all yer blessins."

  I stood up and walked out of the church, hearing behind me all sorts of murmurs. Kitty's insanity was coloring everything, making me stare at people and wonder what they were really like inside.

  Down the street I started walking fast, leaving Kitty and Cal still in the church. I hadn't gone two blocks before Cal's car was pulling up behind me, with Kitty leaning out to call, "C'mon, kid, don't be silly. Ya kin't go nowhere when ya ain't got more than two bucks--an that belongs ta t'Lord. Get in. Feelin betta, I am. Mind's clear as a bell, though all night an all mornin early it near gave me a fit."

  Was she trying to tell me she hadn't known what she was doing when she murdered Chuckles?

  Reluctantly I got into the car. Where could I go with only two dollars in my purse?

  All the way home from church I thought about what to do. She had felt she had to kill Chuckles. Only crazy people did sadistic things like that. And how was I ever going to find a reasonable excuse for Chuckles' death when next I saw Mr. Taylor?

  "You can't tell him," said Cal when we had the chance to be alone, while Kitty was again sleeping to rid herself of a fresh assault of "cluster headaches." "You've got to make it seem that Chuckles died in childbirth . . ."

  "You're protecting her!" I cried angrily.

  "I believe you, but I also want you to finish high school. Can you do that if we go now to the authorities and try to have her committed? She'll fight us. We'll have to prove her insane, and you know as well as I do that Kitty shows her worst self only to you and me. Her `girls' think she's wonderful, generous, and self-sacrificing. Her minister adores her. We have to convince her to see a psychiatrist, for her own good. And, Heaven, we can play our own game until then, and in the meanwhile I'm putting away extra dollars so you'll have enough money to escape this hellhole."

  I stepped to the door, then said in a calm voice, "I'll help myself, in my own way, in my own time."

  He stood for a moment looking back, like a small boy who'd lost his way, before he closed another door, softly.

  seventeen SAVING GRACE

  . OUR LIVES IN CANDLEWICK TOOK AN UNEXPECTED TURN after Chuckles died. Mr. Taylor naively accepted my excuse about Chuckles dying in childbirth. One day passed, and in the cage I'd brought back there was another hamster, also pregnant (and little different from the one Kitty had killed), again named Chuckles. It hurt, really hurt, to see that one life more or less really didn't make any difference.

  I'm not going to love this one, I told myself. I'm going to be careful not to love anything while Kitty is still in my life.

  After this incident, as if the murder had done something to shame her spirit, Kitty slipped into a deep, prolonged silence, sitting for hours in her bedroom just staring into space and combing and brushing her hair, teasing it until she had it standing straight out like a wire brush; then she'd smooth it down again, and repeat and repeat the entire process until it was a wonder she had any hair left.

  She seemed to have undergone a drastic personality change. From loud and abrasive she became brooding and too quiet, reminding me somewhat of Sarah. Soon she stopped brushing her hair and do
ing her nails and face. She no longer cared how she looked. I watched her throw out the best of her lingerie, including dozens of expensive bras. She cried, then fell into a dark pit of reflection. I told myself she deserved whatever she was going through.

  For a week Kitty made excuses for not going to work, for staying in bed, staring at nothing. The more Kitty withdrew, the more Cal lost his abstract quality, forgot his moodiness, and took on a new, confident air. For the first time, he seemed in control of his life as Kitty gave up control in hers.

  Strange, so strange, I couldn't stop wondering about what was going on. Could it be guilt, shame, and humiliation, so Kitty didn't have the nerve to face another day? Oh, God, let her change- for the better-- for the better, Lord, for the better.

  School ended, hot summer began.

  Temperatures soared over ninety, and still Kitty was like a walking zombie. On the last Monday in June, I went to find out why Kitty wasn't up and ready to rule over her beauty-salon domain. I stared at Kitty lying on the bed, refusing to look my way or respond to her name. She lay there as if paralyzed. Cal must have thought she was still sleeping when he got up. He came from the kitchen when I called to tell him Kitty was desperately ill. He called an ambulance and had her rushed to the hospital.

  At the hospital she was given every test known to medical science. That first night at home, alone with Cal, was very uncomfortable. I more than suspected Cal desired me, and wanted to be my lover. I could see it in the way he looked at me, feel it in the long, uncomfortable silences that came suddenly between us. Our easy relationship had flown, leaving me feeling empty, lost. I held him off by setting a daily routine that wore both of us out, insisting we spend every second we could with Kitty in her private room in the hospital. Every day I was there doing what I could, but Kitty didn't improve, except that she did begin to say a few words. "Home," she kept whispering, "wanna go home."

  Not yet, said her doctors.

  Now the house was mine to do with as I pleased. I could throw out the hundreds of

  troublesome houseplants that were so much work, could put some of those gaudy ceramic pieces in the attic, but I did none of this. I carried on exactly as I'd been taught by Kitty, to cook, to clean, dust, and vacuum, even if it did wear me out. I knew I was redeeming my sinful acts with Cal by working slavishly. I blamed myself for making him desire me in a way that wasn't right. I was dirty, as Kitty had always said I was. The Casteel hill-scum filth coming out. And then, contrarily, I'd think, NO! I was my mother's child, half Bostonian--but--but--and then I'd lose the battle.