Heaven (Casteel Series #1)

by V. C. Andrews

  staring at my mouth. Was he seeing how much I looked like her, his dead angel? Inwardly I shivered.

  My own mother's lips, the doll mirrored--a doll in a wedding gown—a doll who looked no older than I did now.

  Deep in my thoughts, I didn't hear the raps on the door. Didn't glimpse the two couples who came in until they were there, in the middle of our largest room. Ole Smokey coughed and spat out smoke. Pa shook hands, smiling, acting like a genial host. I looked around, trying to see something I'd forgotten.

  Then came the silence. The long, awful silence as four sets of eyes turned on me, the item up for sale.

  Eyes that swept over me from head to feet, took my measurements, studied my face, hands, body, while I was caught in a web of darkness so intense I could hardly see them at all.

  Now I knew how Tom must have felt. Tom—I

  could feel him beside me, giving me strength, whispering his encouraging words. It'll be all right, Heavenly. . . don't it all work out in t'end, don't it?

  Pa spoke loud and sharp, making my eyes focus on an older couple who stood slightly in front of a younger one who held back considerately for the middle-aged couple to have the first chance at the sale merchandise. I edged backward toward a corner not so far from where Grandpa sat whittling.

  Look at me, Grandpa, see what your good-hearted son is doing! Stealing from you the only one you have left that loves you! Say something to stop him, Toby Casteel . . say it, say it, say it!

  He said nothing, only whittled.

  The gray-haired man and woman before me

  were tall and very distinguished, both wearing gray coats with suits underneath, as if they came from a foreign world, with education and intelligence an aura all around them. They didn't stare around the way the younger man and woman did at the shocking poverty and the pitifulness of Grandpa whittling and acting as if no one had come to call.

  Their bearing was arrogant, regal, their eyes kind as they looked at me pressed back against the wall, with panic in my face and heart. What my eyes must have shown flicked a shimmer of pity in the man's blue eyes, but the woman refused to show anything. She could have been thinking about the weather. I sighed again, swallowing the lump in my throat, or tried to, feeling trapped. I wished time would speed up, and it would be two years from now.

  But right at this moment my heart was thudding madly, drumming out a tune of fright in the cage of my ribs, making me feel weak in the knees and queasy in the stomach. I wanted Grandpa to glance upward and meet my eyes and do something to stop this, but I'd never succeeded in forcing Grandpa to do anything when Pa was around.

  They don't like me, don't like me, I kept

  thinking about the older couple, who refused to smile encouragement my way that would make me feel right about choosing them. With the kind of desperate hope that had been Fanny's, I darted a quick glance at the younger pair.

  The man was tall and good-looking, with dark brown straight hair and light brown eyes. Beside him stood his wife, almost as tall as he was. Six feet, or very near it, she had to be, even without those high heels. Her hair was a huge mass of auburn red, darker and richer than Sarah's hair fall been. Sarah had never been to a beauty parlor, and only too obviously this woman's hair couldn't survive without one. Hair teased to such exaggerated fullness it seemed quite solid. Her eyes were a strange pale color, so light they seemed not to have any color at all, only huge pupils swimming in a colorless sea. She had that porcelain-white skin that often came with naturally red hair, flawless and made up to perfection. A pretty face?

  Yes. Very pretty.

  She had the look of the hill people . . .

  something there. .

  Unlike the older couple who wore those heavy gray tailored coats, she wore a hot-pink suit, so tight it appeared painted on. She sashayed about, staring at everything, even leaning to peer into the oven that she opened. Why did she do that? Straightening up, she smiled at everyone and at no one in particular, turning about to stare brazenly at the old brass bed that I had just made, staring up at the baskets on the ceiling, gaping at the pitiful attempts to give the cabin comforts and coziness. Her face wore myriad expressions, changing fleetingly, as if all struggled to survive new impressions that wiped out former gasps, shocks, shudders . . . and other unspoken surprises.

  With two long-nailed lacquered fingers she picked up the cloth I had used to wipe off the table, held it gingerly two seconds, then dropped it to the floor as if she'd touched a loathsome disease. Her bright pink lips froze in the smile she tried to maintain.

  And all the time the good-looking young

  husband kept his eyes glued on me. He smiled as if to reassure me, and that smile of his lit up his eyes. For some reason that made me feel better—he, at least, approved of what he saw.

  "Well," said Pa, planting his big feet wide apart, his huge fists on his hips, "it's up t'ya, girl, up t'ya . ."

  From one couple to the other I stared. How could I know from appearances? What was I supposed to look for? The auburn-haired woman in the bright pink knit smiled winningly, and that made her even prettier. I admired her long painted nails, her earrings big as half-dollars; admired her lips, her clothes, her hair. The older, gray-haired woman met my eyes without blinking and she didn't smile. Her earrings were tiny pearls and not impressive at all.

  I thought I saw something hostile in her eyes that made me draw back and look at her husband—and he wouldn't meet my gaze. How could I tell if there was no eye contact? The soul was read through the eyes—deceiving eyes if they didn't meet yours squarely.

  Again I turned to the younger couple, who wore the "in" kind of clothes and not the tailored, expensive type of the older couple, the kind of clothes that would never go out of style. Stuffy, dowdy clothes, Fanny would say. At that time I knew nothing at all about comparing real wealth with tacky nouveau riche.

  And all this only made me feel less than human in my shapeless garment, drooping low on one shoulder because the neckline was much too large, with its galled hemline that I was always meaning to fix but never had time to tend to. Even as I stood there, I felt wispy wild hair tickling my forehead, so automatically I reached up to brush it away. This drew everyone's attention to my reddened, chapped hands with short, broken fingernails. I tried to hide my hands that scrubbed clothes every day of my life and did all the dishwashing. Who'd want me when I was such a mess?

  Neither pair would.

  Fanny had been chosen quickly, eagerly. Fanny hadn't ruined her hands, and Fanny's long, straight hair was heavy enough to stay in place. I was too ordinary, too ugly, and too pathetic—who could ever want me—if Logan couldn't bear to meet my eyes anymore? How could I have dared to think that perhaps one day he might even love me?

  "Well, girl," Pa said again, frowning and showing his disapproval because I was taking so long.

  "I said ya'd have yer pick, an if ya don't make it soon, do it fer ya."

  Troubled, sensing something of an undercurrent and not understanding what it was, I tried to guess what was behind the older pair's withdrawn, cold attitude, their eyes resting on me but apparently not wanting to really see me. That made me see them as dull, staid, perhaps cold, and all the time the auburn-haired woman with the colorless eyes was smiling, smiling, and Sarah had been red-haired and so loving—at least until the babies started dying.

  Yes, the younger couple would be exciting and less strict. And that was how I made my hasty decision. "Them," I said, indicating the redhead and her handsome husband. The wife seemed a bit older, but that was all right, she was still young enough, and the longer I stared the prettier she became.

  Those colorless sea eyes with round black fish swimming took on a glistening glow—of happiness?

  She hurried to me, gathered me in her embrace, smothered my face against her voluptuous bosom.

  "Ya'll neva regret it, neva," she said, half laughing, glancing triumphantly at Pa, then at her husband. "I'm gonna make ya t'best motha there is, t'very very best ther
e is . ."

  Then, as if she'd touched red-hot coals, she dropped her arms and stepped back from me, glancing down to see if I'd dirtied her hot-pink suit before she brushed it off vigorously.

  She wasn't really so pretty on close inspection.

  Her darkly fringed pale eyes were set a bit too close together, and her ears were small and lay close to her head, making them almost not there. And yet, when you didn't pick her apart bit by bit, altogether she made a woman marvelous to behold.

  Truthfully, I'd never seen a woman with so much exaggerated femininity, radiating sexuality with her heaving bosom, her full buttocks, her tiny waist that must have struggled to support all it had to. Her knit top was strained so much it appeared thin over the stress areas. Her pants emphasized the wide V of her crotch—making Pa stare at her with a queer smile, not of admiration but of contempt.

  Why was he smiling like that? How could he feel contemptuous of a woman he didn't know—did he know her? Of course, he'd have to have seen her before to set this thing up.

  Again, fearfully alarmed, I looked at the older couple, too late. Already they had turned and were heading for the door. I felt a sinking sensation.

  "Thank you, Mr. Casteel," said the older gentleman, stepping outside, assisting his wife over the doorsill, and, as if with relief, they both headed for their long black car. Pa hastened after them, leaving the door open behind him, said a few words in a low tone, and then hurried back.

  No sooner was Pa in the door than he grinned at me in the most mocking way.

  Had I chosen wrong? Panicky butterflies were on the wing again, battering my brain with doubts, buffeting my heart with indecision that came too late.

  "My name is Calhoun Dennison," said the good-looking husband, stepping forward and taking my trembling hand firmly between both of his, "and this is my wife, Kitty Dennison. Thank you for choosing us, Heaven."

  His voice was soft, barely above a whisper. I'd never heard a man with such a soft voice before. Was his an educated voice? It had to be, since all the uneducated roared and shouted, yelled and bellowed.

  "Oh, Cal, ain't she jus darlin, jus darlin?" asked Kitty Dennison in a voice slightly on the shrill side.

  "Ain't it gonna be fun dressin her up an makin her look pretty, ain't it, though?"

  I was breathing hard. Beside me Grandpa was quietly crying. Grandpa, Grandpa, you could have said something before—why wait until it's too late to show you care?

  "An weren't it easy, Cal?" laughed Kitty, hugging and kissing him, and making Pa turn away as if revolted by her display. "Thought she might want them in their big, rich car an heavy, expensive coats, but it were easy, so easy."

  Again I felt panic.

  "Honey," Kitty Dennison said to me when she

  had finished playing with her man, "ya run along an put on yer coat, but don't ya botha t'pack any of yer clothes. Gonna buy ya everythin new, brand-new.

  Don't wanna carry no filthy germs inta my clean home

  . . ." She gave the cabin another look, this time clearly showing her repugnance. "Kin't wait t'get ya outa here."

  With lead in my legs, I pulled my old coat from the nail in the bedroom, put it on, and, daring her disapproval, I picked up the suitcase I'd swathed about with Granny's old shawls. I wasn't going to leave my mother's things here to rot, especially not that beautiful bride doll.

  "Ya remember, now," called Kitty Dennison,

  "jus bring yerself, nothin else."

  I strolled out of what we called the bedroom into full view, wearing my shabby old coat, lugging my unsightly bundle, and stared defiantly at Kitty Dennison. Her pale eyes glittered strangely. "Didn't I tell ya not t'bring anythin?" shrilled Kitty Dennison, irritation on her face. "Kin't take that filthy stuff inta my clean house, ya kin't."

  "I can't leave here without what I hold dearest in the world," I said with determination. "My granny made these shawls, and they're clean. I just washed them."

  "Ya'll have t'wash em again, then," said Kitty, somewhat placated but still looking angry.

  I paused beside Grandpa, leaning to kiss the top of his balding head. "Take care, Grandpa. Don't fall and break your bones. I'll write often, and somebody can always . . ." And here I hesitated, not wanting those strangers to guess that Grandpa couldn't read or write. "Well, I'll write."

  "Ya done been a good girl, t'best. Couldn't have wanted anyone betta." He sobbed, dabbed at his tears with a handful of his shirttail, and continued brokenly,

  "Ya go an ya be happy, ya hear?"

  "Yes, I hear, and please do take care of yourself, Grandpa."

  "Ya be good now, ya hear."

  "I'll be good," I swore. I blinked back my own tears. "Good-bye, Grandpa."

  "Bye . . ." said Grandpa. Then he picked up a new stick and began to shave off the bark.

  When, if ever, has he really looked at me? I was going to cry, and I didn't want Pa to see me cry. I stared him straight in the eyes, and for a change his dark eyes locked with mine in silent combat. Hate you, Pa. Not saying good-bye to you and take care.

  I'm going and I don't care. Nobody needs me here.

  Nobody has ever needed me but Tom, Keith, and Our Jane . . . not Fanny, not Granny, not really, and certainly not Grandpa, who has his whittling.

  "Now, don't ya cry, girl," Kitty said in a strong voice. "Ya've seen me before, an jus didn't know it.

  I've seen ya in church when I come t'visit my ma an pa who live in Winnerrow. There ya sits with all yer kinfolks, lookin like an angel, truly like an angel."

  Pa's head jerked upward. His hard, dark eyes clashed with Kitty's. He didn't say a word, not a word, leaving me floundering again in uncertainty. There was something unspoken between them, something that hinted that they knew each other more than just casually. It terrified me that she was the kind of woman Pa went after—different from my real mother.

  "Really did envy that red-haired ma of yers,"

  Kitty gushed on, as if Pa didn't matter a hoot to her—and that made me even more suspicious. "Since ya were knee-high onta a grasshopper, I've been watchin yer ma luggin all her brood t'church an back. Envied her then, really did. Wanted her kids so bad, cause they were all so pretty." Her loud, shrill voice turned dull and cold.

  "Kin't have none of my own." Her strange eyes filled with bitterness and fixed on Pa in a hard, accusing way. Oh, oh, oh . . she did know him!

  "There's some who might say that's my good luck, not to havd no kids of my own. . but I got me one now. . an she's an ANGEL, a real live angel; even if she don't have silvery-blond hair, she's still got t'angel face and t'angel-blue eyes . . . ain't that right, Cal?"

  "Yeah," agreed Cal. "She's sure got the look of innocence, if that's what you mean."

  I didn't know what either one was talking about.

  I feared the battle of unspoken recognition between Pa and Kitty. I'd never seen this woman before, and she wasn't the kind anyone would easily overlook. I glanced again at her husband, who was staring around the cabin. His pity showed when he looked at Grandpa sitting like a limp rag doll in his rocker. Eyes blank, his hands idle now. What was he thinking, if anything? Had Granny and Grandpa ever thought?

  Did minds close off as age came on? Did old ears go deaf just so they wouldn't have to hear what might make them miserable?

  "First name is Kitty. Not a nickname. Wouldn't want to be no Katherine, or Katie, or Kate, or Nit. An, honey, ya kin call him Cal, like I does. Now, when yer livin with us yer gonna enjoy all t'big color TV sets we got. Ten of em." She flashed her eyes again at Pa, as if to show him just what kind of rich man she'd captured. Pa seemed indifferent.

  Ten TV sets? I stared at her disbelievingly.

  Ten? Why have ten when one would be enough?

  Shrilly Kitty laughed. She hadn't even heard my silent question. "Knew that would give ya a jolt. Cal here runs his own TV repair and sale shop, an some dummies turn in their old sets fer nothin or almost nothin, so he kin bring em home an fix em up good as new, an he sell
s em as new t'poor folks who don't know no different. Got me a smart man, a handsome, clever man, best kind of man t'have. Turns a tidy profit, too, don't ya, Cal?"

  Cal looked embarrassed.

  Kitty laughed again.

  "Now ya hurry up an say all yer good-byes, Heaven," said Kitty, assuming an air of authority and looking with distaste at the contents of the cabin again, as if to make sure Pa saw how little she thought of his home and his money-making abilities. "Say good-bye to yer fatha, an we'll set off. Gotta get home soon as possible."

  I could only stand there, not looking at Pa, not wanting to look at Pa.

  It was Kitty who was holding up our leave-

  taking. Kitty who addressed Pa, not me. "I keep my house spick an span, everythin in its place. An everythin's got its place, believe ya me. Not like this shack of yers."

  Pa leaned back against a wall, pulled out a smoke, and lit it. Kitty turned to me. "Kin't stand dirt an messiness. An yer pa done said ya knew how t'cook. I pray t'God he didn't tell us no lie."

  "I can cook," I answered in a small voice. "But I've never made anything complicated." An edge of panic was in my voice as I realized this woman might expect fancy meals when all I really knew how to make well were fluffy biscuits and tasty lard gravy.

  Pa wore an odd look, half sad, half full of satisfaction, as he looked from me back to Kitty and Cal Dennison. "Ya done made the right choice," he said solemnly, then turned to smother either a sob or laughter.

  That it could be laughter put fears in me I hadn't felt before. I sobbed, my tears beginning to flow fast. I sailed right on by Pa, saying nothing. Nor did he speak to me.

  At the door I turned and looked back.

  Something sweet and sour was in my throat; it hurt me to leave this shabby house that had known my first steps, and Tom's and Fanny's, and it hurt too much to think of Keith and Our Jane.

  "0, Lord, give me my day in the future," I whispered before I turned and headed for the steps.

  The late-winter sun shone hot on my head as I strode toward the nice-looking white car with the red seats. Pa drifted out to the porch, his hunting hounds back again, as if he'd rented them out and reclaimed them so they could crowd about his legs. Cats and kittens perched on the roof, on lidded rain barrels, peered out from under the porch, and the pigs were rooting with snorts and grunts. Chickens roamed at will, a rooster chasing a hen with obvious intent on reproducing himself. I stared in amazement. Where had they come from? Were they really there? Was I seeing them only in my imagination? I rubbed at my eyes that were smeary with tears. It had been ever so long since I saw the hounds, the cats, the pigs and chickens. Had Pa brought them all here in his pickup truck, planning to stay awhile and take care of his father?