Dollenganger 04 Seeds of Yesterday

by V. C. Andrews

  "I love you, Cindy," I said as I switched off her lamp, and then bent to lift her hair and kiss the warm nape of her neck.

  Flipping over, her slim young arms tightened around my neck as she sobbed, "Oh, Momma, you're the best! I promise to be good from now on. I won't let any boy so much as hold my hand. But let me escape this house and fly to New York and attend that New Year's party my best friend is throwing in a grand hotel ballroom."

  Silently I nodded. "All right. If you want to enjoy yourself at the home of your friend, that's fine, but please do your best not to rile Bart tomorrow. You know his problem, and he has worked hard to overcome all those disturbing ideas planted in his head when he was very young. Help him, Cindy. Let him realize he has a family backing him up."

  "I will, Momma, I promise I will."

  I closed the door and was soon saying good night to Jory. He was unusually quiet. "It's going to be all right, darling. Just as soon as the baby is here, Melodie will see you again."

  "Will she?" he asked bitterly. "I doubt it. She'll have the baby then to occupy her time and thoughts. She'll need me even less than she does now."

  Half an hour later, Chris opened his arms to me, and eagerly I surrendered to the only love in my life that had lasted long enough to let me know I had a firm grip on happiness . . . despite everything that could have ruined what we had cultivated and grown in the shade.

  The morning light crept eerily into my room, bringing me out of sleep even before the alarm sounded. Quickly I was up and staring out the windows. The snow had stopped. Thank God for that; Bart would be pleased. I hurried back to the bed to kiss Chris awake. "Merry Christmas, darling Doctor Christopher Sheffield," I whispered in his ear.

  "I'd rather you call me just darling," he mumbled as he came awake and looked around in a disoriented way.

  Determined that this day was going to be successful, I tugged him out of bed, and soon we were both dressed and heading for the breakfast room.

  For two days men and women had been coming to the house, repeating what had been done in the summer, only this time the entire downstairs had been transformed into a Christmas fantasy.

  I watched with a certain indifference as the workers from the caterer Bart had hired finally finished making our home look like a wonderland. Cindy stood at my side watching all they did to turn the rooms into extraordinarily festive rooms, full of color, candles, wreaths, garlands, a towering Christmas tree that outdid our family tree by ten feet.

  All she saw soon had Cindy convinced she didn't want to spend the better part of her day in bed. She forgot Lance and loneliness, for Christmas Day worked better magic than Christmas Eve.

  "Look at that pie, Momma! It's huge. Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie," she sang, all of a sudden glowing with life. "Sorry I've acted ugly. I've been thinking, there'll be boys here tonight, and lots of handsome rich men. Oh, maybe this house can give more than misery after all."

  "Of course it can," Bart said as he came in to stand between us, his eyes shining as he surveyed all that had been done. He seemed thrilled by his expectations. "You just be sure and wear a decent dress, and don't do anything outrageous." Then he was following the workmen and giving directions, laughing often, even including Jory, Cindy, Melodie and me, as if all were forgiven now that it was Christmas.

  Day after day, like some dark, gloomy shadow, Joel had trailed behind Bart, his old voice cracking as he intoned words from the Bible. He said again this morning, fully dressed at six-thirty, "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God . . ."

  "What the hell are you trying to say, old man?" shouted Bart.

  Momentarily Joel's watery eyes flared with anger, like a spark ready to ignite from a brisk, unexpected wind.

  "You're throwing away thousands of dollars hoping to impress someone--and no one will be impressed, for the others have money, too. Some live in finer homes. Foxworth Hall was the best of its kind in its day, but its day has come and gone."

  Bart turned on him with fury. "SHUT UP! You're trying to spoil whatever happiness I reach for. Everything I do is a sin! You're an old man and have done your share; now you try to spoil mine. This is my time to be young and fully enjoy my life. Keep your religious quotes to yourself!"

  "Pride goeth before a fall."

  "Pride goeth before destruction," corrected Bart, glaring at his great-uncle and giving me delicious satisfaction.

  At last, at last, Bart was seeing Joel as a threat and not as the respectable father he'd sought all his life.

  "Pride is the never-failing vice of fools," extolled Joel, looking with disgust at all that had been done.

  "You have wasted money that would be better off given to charities."

  "Get out! Go to your room and polish your pride, Uncle! For obviously you have nothing in your heart but jealousy!"

  Joel stumbled from the room, muttering to himself, "He'll find out. Nothing is forgotten or forgiven here in the hills. I know. Who would know better than I? Bitter, bitter are the days of the Foxworths despite all their wealth."

  I stepped forward to hug Bart. "Don't listen to him, Bart. You'll have a wonderful party. Everyone will come now that the sun is shining and melting the snow. God is on your side this day, so rejoice and have the time of your life."

  The look in his eyes when I said that, oh, that grateful look. He stared at me, trying to say something --but the words couldn't form. Finally he could do nothing but briefly embrace me; then he was striding away as if embarrassed. Such a wonderful-looking man, so wasted, I was thinking. There had to be someplace where Bart fitted.

  Rooms that had been closed off since winter began were opened, the dustcovers removed and freshened so that no one would know we ever made an effort to conserve heat or money. Bathrooms and powder rooms were given special attention to make them both immaculate and attractive. Expensive soaps and lavish guest towels were put out. Every toiletry item that a guest might need was displayed. Special Christmas china and crystal were taken from the party cabinets, along with seasonal decorations too expensive for the caterer to supply.

  We gathered around the Christmas tree about eleven o'clock. Bart was freshly shaven, splendidly well groomed, as was Jory. Only Melodie looked stale in her worn maternity dress that she wore day in and week out. Trying as always to ease tensions, I picked up the Christ child fromrie realistic manger and held the baby in my arms. "Bart, I haven't seen this before. Did you buy this? If so, I've never seen a more beautifully carved set of Biblical figures."

  "It just arrived yesterday, and only today I unpacked it," Bart answered. "I bought it in Italy last winter and had them ship it over."

  I gushed on, happy to see him so animated. "This Christ child looks like a real baby, when most don't, and the virgin Mary is absolutely beautiful. Joseph looks so kind and understanding."

  "He'd have to be, wouldn't he?" asked Jory, who was leaning forward to put more of his gifts under our family tree. "After all, it must have seemed a bit incredible for him to believe a virgin could be impregnated by an invisible, abstract God."

  "You're not supposed to question," answered Bart, his eyes lovingly caressing the almost life-sized figures he'd purchased. "You just blindly accept what is written."

  "Then why did you argue with Joel?"

  "Jory . . . don't push me too far. Joel is helping me find myself. He's an old man who lived in sin when he was young and is redeeming himself in his old age through good deeds. I am a young man who wants to sin, feeling my traumatic childhood has already re deemed me."

  "I suggest a few orgies in some big city will have you running back here, as old and hypocritical acting as your great-uncle Joel," answered Jory fearlessly. "I don't like him. And you'd be wise to drive him out, Bart. Give him a few hundred thousand and say goodbye."

  Something yearning struggled in Bart's eyes, as if he'd like to do exactly this. He leaned forward to stare into Jory's eyes. "Why don't you like him?"
r />   "I can't really say, Bart," said Jory, who'd always forgiven easily. "He looks around your home like it should be his. I've caught him glaring at you when you aren't paying attention. I don't believe he's your friend, only your enemy."

  Deeply distressed and disturbed looking, Bart left the room, tossing back his cynical remark. "When have I ever had anything but enemies?"

  In a few moments Bart was back, bearing his own heavy stack of gifts. It took him three trips from his office to put all he'd bought under the family tree.

  Then it was Chris. Carefully arranging all his presents, and that took some doing. The gifts were stacked up three feet high and spreading to fill most of one corner.

  Melodic crept dismally into the cheerful room like a dark shadow and settled down near the fireplace, close enough to feel the warmth, crumpled like a rag in her chair, still everlastingly finding more fascination in the dancing flames than in anything else. She appeared sullen, moody, withdrawn and determined to be there in physical appearance only as her spirit roamed free. Her abdomen was

  tremendously swollen, and she still had a few weeks to go. Her eyes were darkly shadowed.

  Soon all of us were making an effort to be a loving family as Cindy played Santa Claus.

  Christmas, as I'd learned a long time ago, had its own gifts to give. Grudges could be forgotten, enemies forgiven as we all united around the tree, even Joel, and one by one shook our packages, made our guesses, then tore into our packages, laughing and drowning out the carols I'd put on the stereo. Soon glittering paper and shining ribbons littered the floor.

  Cindy at last handed Joel the gift she had for him. He accepted it tentatively as he'd taken all our gifts, as if we were heathen fools who didn't know the real meaning of a Christmas that didn't need gifts. Then his eyes were bulging at the white nightshirt and the peaked sleeping cap Cindy must have really hunted to find. Definitely he would look like Scrooge wearing those things. Included was an ebony walking stick, which he hurled to the floor along with the nightshirt and cap. "Are you mocking me, girl?"

  "I only wanted you to have warm sleeping garments, Uncle," she said demurely, her sparkling eyes downcast, "and the walking stick would hurry your steps."

  "Away from you? Is that what you mean?" He stooped painfully to pick up the stick and brandished it wildly in the air. "Maybe I will keep this thing after all; great weapon in case I'm attacked one night when I stroll the gardens . . . and long corridors."

  Silent for a moment, not one of us could speak. Then Cindy laughed. "Uncle, I thought of that in advance. I knew one day you'd feel threatened."

  He left the room then.

  Only too soon all the gifts were unwrapped, and Jory was staring worriedly at the litter on the floor, then scanning all around the room. "I didn't forget you, Bart," he said with concern. "Cindy and Dad helped me wrap it once, but then I undid the wrapping, touched up again, wrapped it myself the last time after Cindy helped me lift it in." He kept looking through the rubble of discarded foil and ribbons. "Early this morning, before the rest of you were up, I came down here and I put it under the tree. Where the hell did it go, I wonder? It's a huge box, wrapped in red foil, tied with silver ribbons--and by far the largest box under the tree."

  Bart didn't say a word, as if he'd grown accustomed to disappointments and the lack of Jory's gift was of no importance.

  Of course I knew Jory had worked for months and months to finish the clipper ship that had ended up three feet in length and just as tall, with all its fragile riggings exactly right. He'd even sent for special copper fittings and a solid brass wheel for the helm. Desperately Jory looked around. "Has anyone seen the big box wrapped in red foil, with Bart's name on the tag?" he asked.

  Immediately I was on my feet and scrambling through the piles of boxes, papers, ribbons, tissues, with Chris soon joining me in the search. Cindy began her own search on the other side of the room. "Oh," she cried out. "Here it is, behind this red sofa." She carried it to Bart and put it on the floor near his feet, bowing in mocking obeisance. "For our lord, our master," she said sweetly, backing away. "I think Jory's a fool to give it to you after all the hard work he put into this thing, but maybe you'll be appreciative, for once."

  Suddenly I noticed Joel had slipped back into the room to observe Bart. How strange his expression, how strange.

  Bart dropped his sophistication like an unwanted garment and became childishly eager to open this particular gift. Already he was tearing into the package Jory had so beautifully and carefully wrapped. He glanced up at Jory, his smile warm, wide and happy, his dark eyes lit with boyish anticipation. "Ten to one it's that clipper ship you made, Jory. You really should keep that yourself . . . but thanks, thanks a heap--" He paused, then sucked in his breath.

  He stared down into the box, paling before he looked upward, his happiness vanished. Now his eyes were full of bitterness. "It's broken," he said in a dull tone. "Smashed to small pieces. There's nothing in this box but broken matchsticks and tangled rigging."

  His voice cracked as he stood up and dropped the box to the floor. Violently he kicked it aside before he threw a hard look at Melodie, who hadn't said a word even when she opened her gifts, only thanked us with nods and weak smiles. "I should have known you would find the perfect way to repay me for sleeping with your wife."

  Stunned silence rumbled louder than thunder. Melodic sat on, bleakly staring, seeming an empty shell, even as she mumbled on and on about how much she hated this house. Jory's eyes went starkly blank.

  Had he guessed all along? All of Jory's color vanished before finally he could force his eyes to look at Melodie. "I don't believe you, Bart. You've always had a nasty, hateful way of kicking where it hurts most."

  "I'm not lying," lashed out Bart, disregarding the pain he was inflicting on Jory, on me and Chris. "While you lay on your hospital bed, inside your cast, your wife and I shared one bed, and eagerly enough she spread her legs for me."

  Chris jumped to his feet, his face angrier than I'd ever seen it. "Bart, how dare you say such things to your brother? Apologize to Jory and Melodic, immediately! How can you hurt him like this, when already he's hurt enough? Do you hear me? You tell him every word you just said is a lie! A damned lie!"

  "It's not a lie," raged Bart. "If you never believe anything I say again, believe me when I say that Melodic was a very cooperative bed companion."

  Cindy squealed, then jumped up to slap Melodie's stricken white face. "How dare you do that to Jory?" she screamed. "You know how much he loves you!"

  Then Bart was laughing, hysterically laughing. Chris thundered, "STOP THAT! Face up to this situation, Bart--the loss of the clipper ship is not a good excuse for trying to destroy your brother's marriage. Where is your honor, your integrity?"

  Almost instantly Ba'rt's laughter faded. His eyes turned crystal hard and cold as they surveyed Chris from head to toe. "Don't you talk to me about honor and integrity. Where was yours when it came to your sister? Where is it now when you continue to sleep with her? Don't you realize yet that your relationship with her has warped me so that I don't care about anything but seeing the two of you separated? I want my mother to finish out her life as a decent, respectable woman . . . and it's you who keeps her from that! You, Christopher, you!"

  His face full of disgust and no remorse, Bart spun on his heel and left the room.

  Left us all in the shambles of our Christmas joy.

  Eager to do the same, Melodie rose awkwardly, stood trembling with her head bowed, before Cindy yelled, "Did you sleep with Bart? Did you? It isn't fair for you to just say nothing when Jory's heart is breaking."

  Melodie's darkly shadowed eyes seemed to sink deeper into her skull even as they grew larger and larger, her pupils dilating as if with fear. "Why can't you leave me alone?" she cried pitifully. "I'm not made of the same iron as the rest of you! I can't take one tragedy after another. Jory lay stricken in the hospital, unable to ever walk or dance again, and Bart was here. I needed someone. He
held me, comforted me. I closed my eyes and pretended he was Jory."

  Jory fell forward in his chair. I ran to hold him, only to find him gasping so rackingly he couldn't even control his shaking hands. I held him in my arms as Chris tried to stop Melodie from running up the stairs. "Be careful!" he called. "You could fall and lose your baby!"

  "I don't care," came back her pitiful wail before she disappeared from sight.

  By this time Jory had gained enough control to wipe away his tears and find a weak smile. "Well, now I know," he said in a cracked voice. "I guessed a long time ago that she and Bart had something going on, but I hoped it was only my suspicions working overtime. But I should have known better. Mel can't live without a man beside her, especially in bed ... and I can hardly blame her, can I?"

  Stricken to the bone, I began to pick up the wrappings that had been so carefully applied and so ruthlessly ripped off. Like life, and how carefully we tried to maintain our illusions when things were seldom what they had appeared to be.

  Soon Jory excused himself, saying he needed to be alone.

  "Who could have smashed that wonderful ship?" I whispered. "Cindy helped Jory wrap that gift the last time he touched up the paint, and I was there watching. The ship was carefully put in a special plastic foam shell to hold it upright. It shouldn't have had one crack, one thing broken.

  "How can I ever explain what goes on in this house?" answered Chris in a throaty voice full of pain. He looked up to see Bart standing in the doorway, his long legs spread wide, his fists on his hips as he glared at me. In a louder tone Chris addressed Bart. "What's done is done, and I'm sure it's not Jory's fault the clipper ship was broken. He meant well. All along he told us he was putting that ship together for your office mantel."

  "I'm sure Jory did mean well," said Bart evenly, his control regained. "But there is my dear little adopted sister who hates me and no doubt wants to punish me for giving her boyfriend what he deserved. Next time it will be her I punish."