Heaven (Casteel Series #1)

by V. C. Andrews

  The air-conditioning made a soft, hypnotic whir as she continued.

  "They're all t'same, ya know, even t'sweet-talkin ones. Like Cal. All want one thing, an bein a hill gal, ya know what it is. All is dyin t'slam their bangers inta yer whammer, an afta they done it, if ya start a baby, they won't want it. They'll say it's not theirs, even if it is. If they gives ya a disease, they don't kerr. Now, ya heed my advice, an don't listen t'no sweet-talkin boy—or man—includin mine."

  Kitty finished painting my nails bright rose.

  "There. They do look betta now that yer not scrubbin on washboards no more an usin lye soap. Knuckles done lost all t'rednesso Face done healed—an are ya harmed, are ya?"

  "No."

  "No what?"

  "No, Mother."

  "Ya love me, don't ya?"

  "Yes, Mother."

  "Ya wouldn't take nothin from me that was mine, would ya?"

  "No, Mother."

  Kitty rose to leave. "Got anotha hard day of bein on my feet. Slavin t'make others look pretty."

  She sighed heavily and looked down at her five-inch heels. She had remarkably small feet for such a tall woman; like her waist, they appeared to belong to someone petite and frail.

  "Mother, why don't you wear low-heeled shoes to work? It seems a pity to make yourself suffer in high heels like that."

  Kitty stared with disdain at my bare feet. I tried to tuck them under the full skirt that fell to the floor when I was sitting.

  "Shoes ya wear tell people what yer made of—an I'm made of t'right stuff, steel. Kin take t'pain, t'sufferinan ya kin't."

  Hers was a crazy way of thinking. I vowed

  never again to mention her miserable, too-small shoes that curled her toes so they could never straighten out.

  Let her feet hurt . . . why should I care?

  Summer days were full of work and cooking, and Saturday treats. Soon there were signs of autumn, and school supplies showed up in store windows, with sweaters and skirts, coats and boots. I'd been here eight months, and although Logan had begun writing to me again, still there was no word from Tom. It hurt so much I began to think it was better to stop hoping I'd ever hear from him . . . and then there it was, in the mailbox! Just one letter.

  Oh, Thomas Luke, it's so good to see your handwriting, so good, please let me find only happy things inside.

  With his letter in my hand, it was almost as if I had Tom beside me. I hurried to sit and carefully rip open his letter so as not to tear his return address. He wrote with the flavor of the hills, but something new had been added . . something that took me quite by surprise, and despite myself, I felt jealous.

  .

  Dear Heavenly,

  Boy, I sure do hope you get this letter. Been writing my fool head off to you, and you never answer! I see Logan from time to time and he nags at me to write to you. I do, but I don't know what happens to my letters, so I'll keep trying. Heavenly, first of all I want you to know that I'm all right. Mr.

  Henry is not cruel, not mean as you no doubt think, but he can sure drive you to do your very best.

  I live in his farmhouse which has twelve rooms.

  One of them is mine. It's a nice room, clean and kind of pretty in a plain way. He has two daughters, one named Laurie, age thirteen, and one named Thalia, age sixteen. Both are pretty, and so nice I don't really know which one I like best. Laurie is more fun; Thalia is serious, and gives everything more thought. I've told them both about you, and they say they're dying to meet you one day soon.

  Logan told me about Our Jane's operation, and how well she's doing, and that Keith is happy and well. You know that's a load off my mind. Trouble is, according to Logan, you say little about yourself.

  Please write and tell me all that has happened since last you and I were together. I miss you so bad it hurts. I dream about you. I miss the hills, the woods, the fun things we used to do. I miss our talks about our dreams, miss so many things. One thing I don't miss is being hungry, cold, and miserable. I have lots of warm good clothes, too much to eat, especially milk to drink (imagine)—and cheese and more cheese.

  I'd write a letter two thousand pages long if I didn't have so many chores to finish before bedtime.

  But don't worry, please don't. I'm fine, and we will meet again someday soon. I love you,

  Your brother,

  Tom

  .

  I sat thinking about Tom long after I finished the letter. Then I hid his letter away with those from Logan. Had Kitty somehow kept Tom's letters from me? That wasn't really possible since I was home every day while she worked, and I brought in the mail almost every day. I stared around my cluttered room, knowing Kitty had been in here and moved things about. It wasn't really my room as long as Kitty kept her "thins" locked behind those cabinet doors, and obviously she checked over all my belongings. Her huge pottery wheel was shoved into a corner, and she had shelves everywhere filled with little knickknacks where my books would have fitted nicely. Kitty had no use for books on her shelves. I sat down at my small desk and began to answer Tom's letter. All the lies I'd told Logan would also convince Tom that Kitty was an angelic mother, the best ever . . . but I didn't have to tell lies about Cal, who was the best father possible.

  He's truly wonderful, Tom. Every time I look at him, I think to myself, that's how Pa should have been. It feels so good to know that at last I have a real father I can love, who loves me. So stop worrying about me. And don't forget one day you're going to be president—and not of a dairy firm either.

  Now I'd heard from Tom, and knew Our Jane

  and Keith were happy, and Logan wrote that Fanny was having the time of her life—so what did I have to worry about? Nothing. Nothing at all . . .

  Fifteen

  Hearthrobs

  .

  EARLY-MORNING LIGHT IN THE CITY

  FOUND ME AWAKE about six, when once I'd risen at dawn to begin my day. Downstairs in the second bath I took a quick shower, put on clean clothes, and began breakfast. I was looking forward to returning to school and renewing my neglected friendships.

  Unbeknownst to Kitty, I had a brand-new outfit that fit perfectly. Cal had paid far too much for it, but I wore it with so much pride. I saw the boys staring at me with ten times more interest now that my figure wasn't hidden by loose fabric. For the first time in my life I began to feel some of the power that women had over the opposite sex, just from being female, and pretty.

  I could lose myself in class listening to the teacher talk about monumental people who left their marks on history. Did historians skip over character faults, just to inspire students like me to always strive harder? Would I leave my mark? Would Tom? Why did I feel so driven to prove myself? Miss Deale had always made the people in the past seem human, fallible, and that had given both Tom and me hope.

  I made new friends who didn't understand, as my old friends hadn't, why I couldn't invite them home.

  "What's she like, that mother? Boy, she sure is stacked. And yer father—wow! What a man!"

  "Isn't he wonderful?" I said with pride. Funny the way they looked at me. The teachers treated me with special consideration, as if Kitty had told them I was a dimwit hill girl who couldn't have much sense. I studied like crazy to prove her wrong, and soon enough I earned the teachers' respect. I was especially good at typing. I spent hours and hours typing letters—when Kitty wasn't home. When she was, the clickity-clack of the typewriter made her head ache.

  Everything made Kitty's head ache.

  Cal saw to it that I had dozens of pretty dresses, skirts and blouses, slacks, shorts, swimsuits, clothes that Cal and I selected when we went shopping in Atlanta, clothes that he kept locked in one of his basement lockers that Kitty thought held only dangerous tools. Kitty feared his electronic equipment almost as much as she feared insects. In a small hall closet meant for storing cleaning equipment my too-large ugly dresses, selected by Kitty, hung with the vacuum cleaner, the mops, brooms, pails, and other clutter. There was a closet in
my bedroom, but that was kept locked.

  Even though I had the clothes, still I had to decline the invitations that came my way, knowing I had to scurry home and finish cleaning that white house that needed so much everlasting care.

  Housework was robbing me of my youth. I resented the hundreds of houseplants that needed so much attention; resented the ornate elephant tables with their silly fake jewels that had to be carefully washed and polished. If only one tabletop weren't cluttered I could have made one clean swipe with my dustcloth, but I had to lift and move, shift and be careful not to scratch the wood; then run to fold Kitty's underwear, hang her dresses, blouses, put the towels in the linen closet and be sure only the folded ends showed in front. A thousand rules Kitty had to keep her house a display piece. And only her "girls" ever came to admire it.

  Saturday afternoons more than made up for all the abuses Kitty felt were my due. The hard, brutal slaps that came so readily over any trifling mistake, the cruel words meant to destroy my self-confidence, were more than paid for by the movies, by delicious restaurant meals, by trips to amusement parks when the days weren't rainy or cold. In the park Cal and I threw peanuts to the elephants, and scattered cracked corn to the wild ducks, swans, and geese that came running up from the zoo lake. I'd always had a way with animals, and Cal was charmed with my ability to

  "talk" to chickens, ducks, geese, even elephants.

  "What's your secret?" he teased when I had a wild-looking zebra nuzzling my cupped palm looking for treats. "They don't come running to me as they run to you."

  "I don't know," I answered with a small, wistful smile, for Tom used to ask the same thing. "I like them, and maybe they can tell in some mysterious way." Then I told him about the days of stealing, when a certain farmer's dogs hadn't been charmed with my abilities.

  Real autumn came with brisk cold winds to

  blow away the leaves, and wistful thoughts of the hills and Grandpa kept coming back. A letter from Logan had given me the address of where Pa had put him, and that was enough for me to write Grandpa. He couldn't read, but I thought someone might read my letter to him. I wondered if Fanny ever visited him, if Pa went to Winnerrow now and then to visit her and his father. I wondered so many things I sometimes walked around in a daze, as if the best part of me were still in the Willies.

  I planted tulips, daffodils, irises, crocuses, all with Cal's help, as Kitty sat in the shade supervising.

  "Do it right. Don't ya mess up my six hundred dollars'

  worth of Dutch bulbs. Don't ya dare, hill scum."

  "Kitty, if you call her that again, I'll dump all these worms we've dug up in your lap," Cal threatened.

  Instantly she was on her feet and running into the house, making both Cal and me laugh as our eyes met. With his gloved hand he reached out and touched my face. "Why aren't you afraid of worms, roaches, spiders? Do you speak their language, too?"

  "Nope. I hate all those things as much as Kitty does, but they don't scare me nearly as much as she does."

  "Do I have your promise you will call me at work if things get rough here? Don't you allow her to do one more thing to you—do I have that promise?"

  I nodded, and for a brief moment he held me tight against him, and I could hear the loud thumping of his heart. Then I glanced up and saw Kitty at the window staring out at us. Pulling away, I tried to pretend he'd only been comforting my wounded hand.

  . . .

  "She's watching us, Cal."

  "I don't care."

  "I do. I can call you, but it takes time for you to drive home, and by that time she could peel the skin from my back."

  For the longest time he stared at me, as if all along he'd not believed she was capable of that and now he did. The shock was still in his eyes when we put our gardening tools away and entered the house to find Kitty sound asleep in a chair.

  Then came the nights. Eventually I didn't have to try not to listen, for eventually Cal stopped making any attempts to reason with Kitty, and stopped kissing her passionately, only pecks on her cheek, as if he no longer desired her. I felt his inner rage and frustration building, too. Along with mine.

  Thanksgiving Day I roasted my first store-

  bought turkey so Kitty could invite all her "girls" and brag about her cooking. "Weren't nothin fit," she said over and over again when they praised all her housekeeping and cooking skills. "An I've got so little time, too. Heaven helps some," she admitted generously as I waited on the table, "but ya knows how young gals are . . lazy, an interested in nothin but boys."

  Christmas came with stingy gifts from Kitty, and expensive secret gifts from Cal. He and Kitty attended many a party, leaving me home to watch TV.

  It was only then that I learned that Kitty had a drinking problem. One drink started off a chain reaction so she'd have to drink more, more, more, and many a time Cal had to carry her in the door, undress her, and put her to bed, sometimes with my help.

  It felt odd to undress a helpless woman with the help of her husband, an intimacy that left me feeling uneasy. Still, an unspoken but strong bond united Cal and me. Cal's eyes would meet mine . . . mine would meet his. He loved me, I knew he loved me . . . and at night when I snuggled down in my bed, I felt his protective presence guarding my sleep.

  One fine Saturday in late February he and I celebrated my sixteenth birthday. For one year and more than one month I'd been living with him and Kitty. I knew Cal wasn't quite like a real father, nor quite like an uncle, nor quite like any man I'd ever known. He was someone who needed a friend and family to love as badly as I did, and he was settling for the closest, the most available female. He never scolded or criticized me, never spoke harshly to me as Kitty usually did.

  We were friends, Cal and I. I knew I loved him.

  He gave me what I'd never had before, a man who loved me, who needed me, who understood me, and for him I would gladly have died.

  He bought me nylons and high-heeled shoes for birthday gifts, and when Kitty wasn't home, I practiced wearing them. It was like learning to walk all over again on longer, newer legs. With nylons on, and high heels, I was very conscious of my legs, thinking they looked great, and unconsciously I'd stick them out so everyone could admire them. It made Cal laugh. Of course, I had to hide the shoes and nylons along with all my other new clothes down in the basement where Kitty never went alone.

  Spring came quickly to Atlanta. Because of all the effort Cal and I had put into the yard, we had the most spectacular garden in Candlewick. A garden that Kitty couldn't enjoy because honeybees hovered over the flowers, and ants crawled on the ground, and inch-worms swung from fine gossamer threads to catch in her hair. Once Kitty almost broke her neck brushing one from her shoulder, screaming all the while.

  Kitty was afraid of dim places where spiders or roaches might hide. Ants on the ground sent her into panic; ants in the kitchen almost gave her heart attacks. A fly on her arm made her scream, and if a mosquito was in the bedroom she didn't sleep a wink, only kept us all up, complaining about the buzzing of that "damned thin!"

  Afraid of the dark, was Kitty. Afraid of worms, dirt, dust, germs, diseases, a thousand things that I never gave a thought to.

  When Kitty grew too overbearing with her

  many demands, I escaped to my room, threw myself down, and reached for a book brought home from the school library . . and lost myself in the world of Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights. Over and over I read those two books before I went to the library and hunted up a biography of the Brontë sisters.

  Bit by bit I was edging back Kitty's parade of tiny ceramics with my treasured collection of books.

  I'd brought the doll up from the basement, and every day I took her out of the bottom dresser drawer and stared into her pretty face, determined one day to find my mother's parents.

  Once in a while I even wore a few of my

  mother's clothes, but they were old, frail, and I decided it was better to leave them stretched out as flat as possible, and save them for the day when
I went to Boston.

  Tom wrote long letters, and Logan wrote now and then, hardly telling me anything. Still I kept writing to Fanny, even if she didn't respond. My world was so tight, so restricted, I began to feel strangely out of touch with everyone. . . everyone but Cal.

  Yet in many ways my life had become easier.

  Housework that had terrified me once with all its complexities of instructions was no longer so overwhelming. I could have been born with a blender in one hand and a vacuum in the other. Electricity was part of my life now, and honestly, it seemed it always had been. Every day Cal seemed more and more my savior, my friend, my companion, and my confidant.

  He was my tutor, my father, my date to the movies and restaurants; he had to be now that the boys in the school had stopped asking me to dances and movies.

  How could I leave him alone when once he had said:

  "Heaven, if you have movie dates who will I go with?

  Kitty hates movies, and I enjoy them, and she hates the kind of restaurants I like. Please don't abandon me in favor of kids who won't appreciate you as I do . . .

  allow me to take you to the movies. You don't need them, do you?"

  How guilty that question made me feel, as if I were betraying bim even to think about having a date.

  I tried many a time to think that Logan was as faithful to me as I was to him. . . and yet I couldn't help but wonder—was he? After a while I just stopped looking at boys, knowing better than to encourage them and perhaps alienate the only truly dependable friend I had.