Heaven (Casteel Series #1)

by V. C. Andrews

  Maybe Pa read my thoughts. He glanced my

  way, caught my full hard glare, and perhaps saw for the first time why he hated me, who was so different from his angel. You bet I was different. I would have had better sense than to fall for an ignorant mountain man who lived in a shack and ran bootleg moonshine.

  He seemed to read my mind as his lips pulled back in a sneer that showed one side of his upper teeth so he no longer looked handsome.

  "Yer gonna do something now, little gal? Go on. Do it. I'm waiting."

  Unconsciously I'd picked up the poker again.

  Tom came in, quickly set down the pail of

  water, then sprang forward to keep me from using the poker. "He'll kill you if you do," he whispered urgently, pulling me back from harm's way.

  "Got ya a real champion, haven't ya?" Pa asked, looking at Tom with scorn. Casually he stood up, yawned, as if nothing at all had happened to make either one of us hate him. "They'll be coming any minute. Hurry up there, Fanny girl. Ya'll soon know just how much yer pa loves ya when ya see who's gonna take ya in and treat ya betta than gold."

  Hardly were the words out of his mouth when a car pulled into our dirt yard. Only this was not a strange car, it was a car we knew very well, having seen it many times on the streets of Winnerrow. It was a long, black, shiny Cadillac that belonged to the wealthiest man in Winnerrow, the Reverend Wayland Wise.

  At last, at last! Miss Deale had found a way to save us!

  Squealing more, Fanny hu!!ed her arms over her small breasts and shot me a smug, delighted look.

  "ME! They want ME!"

  In a moment she was dressed in what used to be my best.

  Pa flung open the door and cordially invited inside the Reverend and his thin-faced wife, who didn't smile, didn't speak, only looked sour and unhappy. She didn't stare at what must have been a shock to someone so . e uent, but then I reckoned she must have expected to see such living conditions. As for the handsome Reverend, he didn't waste one moment.

  I was wrong to have presumed that Miss Deale had sent him to save us, much less that God was going to work one of his miracles. Fanny knew much more about reality than I. God's man already knew which one of Pa's remaining three he wanted, though, when the Reverend looked us over up close, his eyes lingered long and lusting on me.

  I backed away, terribly frightened by the holy man. I shot an angry glance at Pa, to see him shaking his head, as if he didn't want me living too near his home.

  Confirmed when Pa said: "My eldest is a troublemaker, quick to answer back, stubborn, hardheaded, and mean, Reverend Wise, Mrs. Wise.

  Take my word for it, this younger girl, Fanny, is far the better choice. Fanny is easygoin, beautiful, and sweet. Why, I call her my dove, my doe, my lovely, lovin Fanny."

  What a lie! He never called any of us by pet names.

  This time there would be no caterwauling, no fighting, no holding back. Fanny couldn't have been happier. Her smile was dazzling she was so happy.

  The Reverend handed out boxes of chocolate candy to all three of us, and also gave Fanny a beautiful red coat just her size, with a black fur collar. Fanny was won over. That's-all it took!

  She didn't even wait to hear about the beautiful room of her own they said they'd have decorated to suit her fancy, or other things they planned to give her, like dancing and music lessons.

  "I'll be what ya want!" cried Fanny, her dark eyes shining. "Be anythin ya want! I'm ready, willin, eager t'go! An thank ya fer comin, fer wantin me, thank ya, thank ya."

  Fanny ran and threw her arms about the

  Reverend. "Blessed are ya—blessed am I! Two million times I say, thank ya! I'll never be hungry or cold again. Already I love ya, I do, I do—fer choosin me an not Heaven."

  Fanny! Fanny! I silently screamed. Have you forgotten already our pledge to stick together through thick and thin? God didn't plan it this way, for families to be split and given one to this person and one to that.

  Fanny, you've been like my own. "Ya see, ya see," Pa exclaimed proudly. "Best choice, this one. A lovin, sweet girl ya'll never be ashamed of."

  He threw me another of those sneering looks as I stared straight ahead, ashamed of Fanny, fearful for Fanny. What did a thirteen-year-old know about any-

  thing? Tom stood beside me, holding my hand, his face pale, his eyes dark with his own frightened pain.

  Five little Indians we were playing.

  All disappearing one by one. Two left.

  Who'd it be next time, Tom or me?

  "I'm sure proud they chose me," Fanny pronounced happily again as if she couldn't get over the wonder of it. When she was wearing her new red coat, she whispered in a breathless, touching way,

  "I'm gonna live in a big rich house, an ya kin come t'see me." She sniffled once or twice, enough to show at least a little regret, before she threw several beseeching looks at me and Tom. Then she picked up her two-pound box of chocolates and smiled before she turned and led the way out to the big car. "See ya in town," she called without looking back, not even at Pa.

  Paperwork finished, the Reverend paid his five hundred in cash, accepted Pa's carefully written receipt, and turned to follow Fanny, with his wife a step or two behind him. And, like a true gentleman, the Reverend helped both Fanny and his wife into his car. All sat on the front seat, Fanny in the middle.

  Bang! went the heavy car door.

  The sharp pain came again, not as bad as it had been for Our Jane and Keith. Fanny wanted to leave, and hadn't screamed and howled and kicked her legs and flailed her arms—the little ones had wanted to stay. Who could say which decision was right?

  And Fanny was only going to Winnerrow. Our Jane and Keith were way off in Maryland, and Tom could remember only three of the license-plate numbers.

  Would that be enough to lead us to them . .

  someday?

  Now it was my time to miss Fanny, my

  tormentor, my now-and-then friend and sister. Fanny, also my shame when I was in school and heard her giggles coming from the cloakroom. Fanny with her sex ready, her uninhibited inheritance from the hills.

  This time Pa didn't go after Fanny left. As if the information Fanny gushed when first he came in had put him on guard, and he'd not leave to find Tom and me gone when he came back again. Both Tom and I were anxious to see him go so we could escape before we too were sold. We waited without speaking, sitting side by side on the floor not far from the stove. We sat so close I felt his heat, as he must have felt mine. I heard his hard breathing, as surely he heard mine.

  In no way was Pa going to give us a chance to run. He ensconced himself in a hard chair on the other side of the stove, tipping it backward before he half lowered his lids, and seemed to be waiting. I tried to convince myself days would pass before someone else came. Time for us to escape. Plenty of time . . .

  No such luck.

  A muddy maroon-colored pickup truck just as old and beat up as Pa's pulled to an abrupt stop in our yard, putting panic in my heart that was echoed in Tom's eyes. He reached again for my hand, squeezed it hard, as we both backed to the wall. Fanny'd only been gone two hours, and here was another buyer.

  Footfalls on the porch steps. Heavy feet

  crossing the porch. Three loud raps, then another three. Pa's eyes opened; he jumped up, sprang to the door, threw it open. Now we could see a burly, short man who stepped inside, looked over the cabin with a frown on his grizzly bearded face. He saw Tom, who was already a head taller than he was.

  "Don't cry, Heavenly, please don't," pleaded Tom.

  "I won't be able t'stand it if you do." He squeezed my fingers again, touched my tears with his free hand, then lightly kissed me. "Ain't nothin we kin do, is there? Not when people like Reverend Wise and his wife don't see nothin' wrong in buyin kids. It's been done before, ya know it and I know it. Ain't gonna be t'last time it happens either, ya know that."

  I threw myself into his arms, held tight. I was not going to cry, not going to let it hurt so bad this
time. Best thing to do, really it was. Nobody could be more heartless than Pa, nobody more shiftless and rotten. Everybody sure would be better off. Sure we would. Nicer houses, more and better food to eat. Sure was going to be wonderful to know we were all eating three meals a day like everybody else in this free land called the United States.

  That's when I broke and began to bawl.

  "Tom., run! Do something!"

  Pa moved to block any chance of Tom's

  escaping, though he didn't try. We had only one door, and the windows were too high and too small.

  Pa didn't see my tears, refused to see the anguish on Tom's face before he hurried over to shake the hand of the burly man wearing worn, dirty overalls. His face was heavyset, what could be seen of it. His dense grizzly beard hid everything but his bulbous nose and his small, squinty eyes. His thick salt-and-pepper hair made his head seem to sit atop his broad shoulders without a neck; then came his bulging chest, his huge, swollen beer belly—all half concealed beneath those loose-fitting overalls.

  "I come t'git him," he said without preliminaries, looking straight at Tom, not even glancing at me. He was about three feet away, and between him and us was Pa. "If he's what ya said he is, that is."

  "Take a look at him," said Pa, not smiling this time. He was all business with this farmer. "Tom is fourteen years old and already he's almost six feet tall.

  Look at those shoulders, those hands and feet; that's how you judge what kind of man a boy's gonna make.

  Feel his muscles, made strong from swinging an ax, and he can pitch hay as good as any full-grown man."

  Sick, it was cruel and sick, treating Tom like a prize calf to be sold.

  That farmer with the red face yanked Tom

  closer, held him as he looked into Tom's mouth, checked over his teeth, felt his muscles, his thighs and calves, asked him intimate questions about elimination problems, if he had any. Other embarrassing questions that Pa answered when Tom refused to reply. As if Pa could possibly know, or even care, whether or not Tom had headaches or early-morning lusts.

  "He's a healthy boy, he must be sexually aware.

  I was at his age, eager and ready to do my damndest fer the girls."

  What did he want with Tom anyway, stud

  services?

  The burly_ farmer stated his occupation; he was a dairy farmer named Buck Henry. Needed help, he did. Needed someone young and strong and eager to earn good wages. "Don't want nobody weak, shiftless, or lazy, or unable to take orders."

  Pa took umbrage at that. "Why, my Tom has never had a lazy day in his life." He looked proudly at Tom, while Tom scowled and seemed miserable, and tried to stay at my side.

  "Good, strong-looking boy," Buck Henry said with approval. He handed Pa the five hundred in cash, signed the papers Pa had ready, accepted his receipt, seized Tom by the arm, pulled him toward the door.

  Tom tried to drag his feet, but Pa was behind him shoving him on, and kicking his shins when he moved too slowly. Grandpa rocked on and on, whittling.

  At the door Tom broke. "I don't want to go!" he yelled, fighting to free himself.

  Pa moved quickly to position himself directly behind me; though I tried to escape, I moved too late.

  Pa caught me by my hair. His large hands moved downward to rest lightly on my shoulders, his fingers spread in such a way all he had to do was move them slightly and he'd have a choking grip on my neck and throat.

  It seemed to chill Tom to see me held like a chicken about to have its neck wrung.

  "Pa!" he yelled. "Don't you hurt her! If you sell Heavenly like the rest of us—you find her the best parents! If you don't I'll come back one day and make you regret you ever had a child!" His wild eyes met mine. "I'll come back, Heavenly!" he cried. "I promise I won't forget our pledge. I love what you've tried to do for me, and for all of us. I'll write often, keep you so much in touch you won't even miss me—and I'll get to you wherever you are! I make this solemn vow never to be broken."

  My eyes felt strained, swollen, as if I had two discolored, dreary suns behind the blackest of all moons. "Tom . . . write, please, please. We'll see each other again—I know we will. Mr. Henry, where do you live?"

  "Don't tell her," warned Pa, tightening his fingers about my throat. "This one means nothing but trouble, and don't let Tom write. At least not to this one named Heaven. She should have been called Hell."

  "Pa!" screamed Tom. "She's the best you got, and you don't know it."

  Tom was outside now and the door had been

  left open. I managed to call out, my voice hoarse,

  "There's always a bridge up ahead, Thomas Luke, you keep remembering that. And you'll achieve your dream, I know!"

  Turning, he heard and understood, waved,

  smiled, then got in the truck and kept his head out of the window, yelling back to me. "No matter where you go or who tries to keep us apart, I'll find you, Heavenly! I'll never forget you! Together we'll find Keith and Our Jane, just like we planned to do!"

  The dirty old truck drove off, headed toward the rough road, and disappeared, and I was alone with Pa and Grandpa. Feeling numb, in a state of shock so despairing I sank to the floor when Pa released me.

  Already I sensed just what lay ahead for Tom.

  No more education for Tom, no more fun

  hunting and fishing for Tom, or baseball playing, or fooling around with his buddies, just work, work, and more work.

  Tom with his brilliant mind, his dreams and aspirations, would be buried out in the middle of cow pastures, living a farmer's life, the kind he'd often said he'd never put up with.

  But what lay ahead for me frightened me just as much.

  eleven

  MY CHOICE

  .

  TOM WAS GONE.

  I was without a soul to love me. Who would ever call me Heavenly again?

  Tom took with him all the laughter, all the excitement, brightness, courage, encouragement, and good humor he'd given to a grim, struggling household. The fun side of myself disappeared in that pickup truck with license plates so covered with mud I couldn't read them. And I'd tried so hard. I'd thought before, foolishly, that I'd been alone after Keith and Our Jane left. Now I was truly the only one left, and I was the one Pa hated.

  I tried to comfort myself by believing 1 was also the only one who did anything useful in the cabin, like cooking and cleaning, and caring for Grandpa—certainly Pa wouldn't want to leave Grandpa here alone. . .

  I willed Pa to go, to slam out the door, jump into his truck, and drive for Winnerrow, or wherever he went now that he had to stay out of Shirley's Place.

  He didn't go.

  He positioned himself near the only door to our shack like a guard dog, to keep me imprisoned until he had me sold, too.

  He didn't speak, just sat sullen and quiet, and when night fell he moved his chair closer to the stove, his large feet propped up, his eyes half closed, a look of misery on his face.

  All through the remainder of the week after Tom left with Buck Henry I tried to find the strength to run off alone if ever I had the chance—that meant when I had to use the outhouse.

  Without Tom, Keith, Our Jane, I had no heart, no spirit, no will to run anywhere to save myself from what had to be my certain fate. If only I could send a message to Miss Deale. Was she back yet? I prayed each night for Miss Deale or Logan to come to my rescue.

  No one came.

  I was the one Pa hated, and I would be the one he'd turn over to the very worst kind of people. No rich folks for me, Not even anyone as good as Buck Henry. Very likely he'd sell me to that madam who ran Shirley's Place.

  The more my thoughts dwelled on my fate, the angrier I grew. He couldn't do this to me! I wasn't a dumb animal to be sold off and forgotten. I was a human being with an eternal soul, with the inalienable right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Miss Deale had said that so often it was imprinted on my brain. Then, to myself, I had to grin bitterly, for in that class of hers there dwell
ed a spirit that reached out to me, telling me to hold on, she was coming to the rescue. It was almost as if I heard Miss Deale calling out encouragement, her voice coming closer and closer over the hills.

  Hurry, Miss Deale, I wanted to yell across the mountains. This is my needing time, Miss Deale! All pride gone now, vanished, conquered! Without shame I'll take from you! Come, come fast to save me, for it won't be long now!

  I prayed, then got up from my knees, moved to the kitchen cabinet, and peered inside. Life went on despite everything, and meals had to be prepared.

  Hope was in Grandpa's reddened, watery eyes when he came back from his necessity trip with more tree branches. He carefully seated himself in his rocker. He didn't pick up his whittling knife, only fixed his eyes on me. Don't leave me, his eyes were pleading. Stay, they begged silently, even as he motioned me close and whispered, "I'm all right, chile. I know what yer thinkin. Ya wanna run. So go when ya get t'chancesteal out when Luke's asleepin."

  I loved him for saying that. Loved him so much I forgave him for keeping quiet when the others were sold, knowing even as I thought this that I had to love somebody or curl up and die. "You won't hate me if I leave you here alone? You'll understand?"

  "Nope, won't understand. Jus want ya to have what ya want. In my heart I know yer pa's doin what he thinks is best. In yer heart ya think he's doin what's worst."

  It seemed Pa had slept his last sleep in some distant unknown place. He didn't doze, didn't even close his eyes all the way. His cold, dark eyes never left me. Not that he met my challenging glares; he only gazed with hooded eyes at some part of me, my hair, my hands, my feet, my middle, anywhere but my face.

  Seven days passed, and Pa stayed on and on.

  Then one day Logan came to our door, come

  like a prince to save me!

  I opened it expecting to see Grandpa coming from the outhouse. "Hi," Logan said, smiling broadly and then flushing. "Been thinkin a lot about you lately, wondering why you, Tom, and the others don't come to school now that the weather's not so bad.