Dollenganger 03 If There Be a Thorns

by V. C. Andrews

  Later I was in the barn with Apple. John Amos stood tall and skinny above, as I sprawled on the hay. He lectured again on how evil women were, and how they made men "sin."

  "Nobody does anything for nothing," he said. "Don't you think for one second she doesn't have wicked plans for you, Bart Winslow."

  "Why'd you call me that?"

  "It's your name, isn't it?"

  I grinned, really proud to tell him I had the longest name ever.

  "That's not important," he said with no patience. "Be attentive, boy. You asked me yesterday about sin, and I wanted to tell you exactly, but I had to plan the wording. Sin is what men and women do together when they close their bedroom door."

  "What's so bad about sin?"

  He scowled, showing his teeth, and I shrank back into the hay, wishing he'd go away and leave me and Apple alone.

  "Sin is what women use to make a man weak. You've got to face up to certain facts. Inside of every man there is a weak, spineless streak, and women know how to find it by taking off their clothes and using earthly pleasures to sap a man's strength by desire. Watch your own mother, see how she smiles at your father, how she paints her face and nails and wears skimpy clothes, and see your stepfather's eyes light up--both are on their way to sinning when you see that."

  I swallowed, kinda hurting inside. Didn't want my parents to do bad things to make God punish them.

  "Now hear the words of Malcolm again. 'I cried and cried for five years after my mother went away and left me with my father, who hated me for being hers. He told me all the time she was married to him she was unfaithful, deceiving him with many lovers. And then he couldn't love me. Couldn't stand for me to be near him, and it grew so lonely shut up in that big house with no one who cared. Time and again Father told me he'd never be able to remarry because of me. None of his paramours liked me. But they did fear me. You can bet I let them know what I thought. I knew they'd burn in the eternal fires of hell.' "

  "What's a paramour?" I asked, bored sometimes with Malcolm.

  "A derelict soul on its way to hell." His eyes burned into me. "And don't you think you can go away on a vacation and leave the care of Apple to another. When you accept the love of an animal, that animal is your responsibility for its entire life. You feed him, water him, groom and exercise him--or God will see that you suffer!"

  I shivered and looked at my puppy-pony, who was chasing his tail.

  "There is power in your dark eyes, Bart. The same kind of power Malcolm had. God has sent you to carry out an unfinished duty. Malcolm will never rest easy in his grave until all the Devil's spawn are sent down to roast over the fires of hell!"

  "Fires of hell," I repeated dully.

  "Two are there already . . . three more to go." "Three more to go."

  "Evil seeds reproduce and multiply over and over."

  "Over and over."

  "And when you have done your duty, Malcolm will rest easy in his grave."

  "Rest easy in my grave."

  "What's that you said?"

  I was confused. Sometimes I pretended I was Malcolm. John Amos smiled for some reason and seemed pleased. I was allowed to go home then.

  Jory came on the run to question me, "Where've you been? What do you do over there? I see you talking to that old butler. What does he tell you?"

  He made me feel like a mouse facing up to a lion. Then I remembered Malcolm's book and how he handled situations like this. I put a cold mask on my face. "John Amos and I have secrets that are none of your damn business."

  Jory stared. I strode off.

  Under a huge spreading tree Momma was pushing Cindy in her baby-swing. Sissy girls had to be strapped in to keep from falling out. "Bart," she called, "where have you been?"

  "Nowhere!" I snapped.

  "Bart, I don't like smart answers."

  I stopped and decided I'd do like Malcolm and wither her small with my mean glare--instead I saw to my amazement she wore a skimpy blue halter-top that didn't meet the top of her white shorts, showing her bellybutton. She was showing bare skins Sin was connected to bare skin. In the Bible the Lord had commanded Adam and Eve to put on clothes and cover their wicked flesh. Was my momma just as sinful as that wicked Corrine who had run off with her "paramour"?

  "Bart, don't stare like you don't know who I am."

  Into my mind popped one of the lines from the Bible John Amos was always quoting. Bit by bit I was learning what God expected from the people he created. "Be warned, Momma, the Lord will see when I do not, and He will punish."

  Momma almost jumped. Then she swallowed and in a dry voice asked, "Why did you say that?"

  Look at her tremble, I thought. I turned my head to glare at all the naked statues in this evil garden of sin. Wicked naked people made Malcolm rest uneasy in his grave.

  But I loved her; she was my mother; sometimes she came and kissed me goodnight and stayed to hear my prayers. Before Cindy came she was better and spent more time with me. And she didn't appear to be in love with a "paramour."

  Didn't know what to do. "Sleepy, Momma," I said and then drifted away, feeling at odds with myself and the rest of the world. What if what Malcolm wrote, and John Amos quoted, was true? Was she evil and sinful, luring men to be like animals? Was it bad to be like animals? Apple wasn't bad, or sinful. Not even Clover was, and he didn't like me.

  Inside Jory's room I paused before his thirtygallon aquarium. The air made a steady stream of tiny bubbles that burbled to the surface like the champagne Momma had let me sip once.

  Pretty fish wouldn't live in my tank. Fish in Jory's tank never died. My empty tank held nothing but water, and a toy pirate ship spilled out fake jewels on the fake ocean floor. Jory's tank grew seaweed that snaked in and out of a small castle. His fish darted in and out of coral reefs.

  Jory did everything better than me. I didn't like being Bart anymore. Bart had to stay home and forget about Disneyland now that he had responsibilities.

  A pet could be a heavy, heavy burden.

  I fell on my bed and stared up at the ceiling Malcolm didn't need his power and strength anymore, or his clever brain that was smart too. He was dead and his talents were wasted. Nobody ever made Malcolm do anything he didn't want to after he grew up. Didn't want to be a boy anymore. Wanted to be a man, like Malcolm the powerful, the financial wizard.

  Was gonna make people jump when I spoke. Tremble when I looked. Cower when I moved. The day was coming. Felt it.

  Shadows

  .

  "Jory," said Mom as we picked up our totes and headed for her car, "I can't understand what's happening to Bart this summer. He's not the same child. What do you think he does outside alone all the time?"

  I felt uncomfortable. I wanted to protect Bart and let him have the old lady next door for his friend, and I couldn't tell Mom that woman was saying she was Bart's grandmother. "Don't you worry about Bart, Mom," I assured her. "You just keep on having fun with Cindy. She's sure a cute kid, like you must have been."

  She smiled and kissed my cheek. "If my eyes aren't deceiving me, there's another cute kid you admire too."

  I felt a blush heat up my cheeks. I couldn't help but look at Melodie Richarme. She was so darn pretty, with hair that was a deeper shade of blonde than Mom's, but blue eyes that were just as soft and shining. I thought I'd never love any girl who didn't have blue eyes. Just then Melodic showed up, running to her father's car, making me stare at the way she was turning into a woman Gosh, it was miraculous the way flat-chested little girls showed up one day with bosoms, tiny waists and swelling hips, and suddenly they were ten times more interesting.

  The minute we hit home Mom had me hunting up Bart. "If he's over in that other yard, you tell me. I don't want you children bothering an old recluse, though I wish to heaven she'd stop climbing that ladder and staring at me over the wall."

  Climbing, jumping, calling, I searched until I found Bart in the old barn that had once been what was called in olden times "a carriage house." Now it had em
pty stalls where horses used to live, and Bart was in one, using a rake to pull out the dirty hay. I stared, disbelieving my eyes. With him was a St. Bernard puppy. The dog was almost as big as he was. It was easy enough to tell it was only a puppy, for it had kiddish ways, frolicking and making puppy noises.

  Bart threw down his rake and scolded the dog. "You stop jumping around like that, Apple! Ponies don't jump anything but hurdles--now you eat that hay or I won't give you clean hay tomorrow."

  "Bart . . . "I called softly, leaning against the barn wall and smiling to see him jump. "Dogs don't eat hay."

  His face flamed. "You go 'way! You get out of here! You don't belong!"

  "Neither do you."

  "You get out of here," he sobbed, hurling down his rake and pulling the huge puppy into his arms. "This is my dog; he was supposed to have been a pony--so I'm making him both a puppy and a pony. Don't you laugh and think I'm crazy."

  "I don't think you're crazy," I said, a lump in my throat to see him so upset. It really was a shame I had more affinity for animals than he did. They seemed to know he'd step on their tails or trip over them. In fact, even I wasn't too comfortable lying on the floor when Bart was around.

  "Who gave you the puppy?"

  "My grandmother," Bart said, with so much pride in his eyes. "She loves me, Jory, really loves me more than Momma does. And she loves me more than your ole Madame Marisha loves you!"

  That was the trouble with Bart. No sooner did I feel close to him than he slapped me in my face, making me regret I'd ever let him under my skin.

  I didn't pat the beautiful puppy on his head, though he was making up to me. I let Bart have his way; maybe this time he'd make a friend after all.

  He smiled at me happily as we headed for home. "You're not mad at me?" he asked. Of course I wasn't. "You won't tell on me, Jory? It's important not to tell Momma or Daddy."

  I didn't like to keep secrets from my parents, but Bart was insistent, and what would it hurt anyway if a kind lady gave Bart a few gifts and a new puppy? She was making him feel loved and happy.

  In the kitchen Emma was spooning cereal into Cindy's open mouth. Cindy had been dressed by Mom in new baby-blue coveralls with a white blouse embroidered with pink rabbits. Mom had done that embroidery work herself. Cindy's hair had been brushed until it gleamed like silvery gold; a blue satin ribbon held her ponytail high on the back of her head. She was so clean and fresh I wanted to hug her, but I only smiled. I knew better than to be demonstrative when Bart was around to get jealous. Strangely, it was Bart who fascinated Cindy far more than me. Perhaps because he wasn't so much larger than she was.

  My brother hurled himself down into a kitchen chair that almost toppled over backward from the force. Emma looked his way and frowned. "Go wash your hands and face, Bart Winslow, if you expect to eat at my table."

  "Not your table," he grouched as he headed for the bathroom. He pulled his dirty hands along the walls to leave long smudges.

  "Bart! Take your filthy hands off the walls!" called Emma sternly.

  "Not her walls," he mumbled. It took him forever to wash his hands, and when he was back only his palms were clean. He stared with disgust at the soup and sandwiches Emma had prepared.

  "Eat up, Bart, or you'll fade away to nothing," said Emma.

  Already I was on my second sandwich, my second bowl of homemade vegetable soup, and ready for dessert while Bart still nibbled on half of his sandwich, his soup as yet untouched.

  "What do you think of your new sister?" asked Emma, wiping Cindy's messy mouth, taking off the soiled bib. "Isn't she a living doll?"

  "Yeah, she's sure cute," I agreed.

  "Cindy's not our sister!" flared Bart. "She's just another messy little baby that nobody but our mother would want!"

  "Bartholomew Winslow . . . don't you ever let me hear you talk like that again." Emma gave him a long, chastisizing look. "Cindy is a lovely child who resembles your mother so much she could be her own daughter."

  Bart continued to scowl at Cindy, at me, at Emma, even at the wall. "Hate blonde hair and red lips that are wet all the time," he mumbled under his breath before he stuck out his tongue at Cindy, who laughed and patty-caked. "If Momma didn't fuss around her so much, curling her hair and buying her new clothes, she'd be ugly."

  "Cindy will never be ugly," denied Emma, looking at the little girl with admiration. Then she leaned to kiss the child's pretty small face.

  That kiss drew another of Bart's darkest frowns.

  I sat there, up-tight, frightened. Each morning I woke up knowing I'd have to face a brother who was growing more and more strange. And I loved him; I loved my parents, and darn if I wasn't beginning to love Cindy too. Somehow I knew I had to protect everyone--but from what I didn't know and couldn't even guess.

  Changeling Child

  . Drat Jory and Emma, I was thinking as I slipped through the hot Arizona desert. Good thing I had Apple to love me as well as my grandmother, or I'd be in a sorry state. There stood my lady in black with her arms wide open to welcome me and I was kissed and hugged much more than Cindy ever was.

  She served me a bowl of soup. It was so good, with cheese on top. "Why can't I tell my parents how much I like you, and how much you love me? That would be so neat." I didn't tell her I thought she wasn't really my own true grandmother, but only said that to please me. In a way that made her love better, for families had to love each other. Strangers didn't.

  Square in the middle of one of her tables she put a large dump truck before she answered my question. Odd she seemed so sad, and in a way scared, when a moment ago she'd seemed happy enough.

  "Your parents hate me now, Bart," she whispered thinly. "Please don't tell them anything about me. Keep me your secret."

  My eyes widened. "Did you know them once?" "Yes, a long, long time ago, when they were very young."

  Gee. "What did you do to make them hate you?" Everyone hated me, almost, so I wasn't surprised someone might hate her.

  Her hand reached for mine. "Bart, sometimes even adults make mistakes. I made a terrible mistake that I'm paying for dearly. Every night I pray for God to forgive me; I pray for my children to forgive me. I find no peace when I look in the mirror, so I hide my face from myself, from others, and sit in

  uncomfortable rockers so I'll never forget for one second all the harm I did to those I loved most."

  "Where did your children go?"

  "Have you forgotten?" she sobbed, tears in her eyes now. "They ran away from me. Bart, that hurts so much. Don't you ever run away from your parents."

  Gosh, hadn't intended to run. World out there was too big. Too scary. Safe, had to stay where it was safe. I ran to embrace her, then turned to play with my truck--and that's when John Amos limped into the room, his watery eyes angry. "Madame! You do not develop strength in young children by indulging their every whim. You should know that by now."

  "John," she said haughtily, "don't you ever come in this room again without knocking--stay in your place."

  Tough. My grandmother was tough. I smiled at John Amos, who backed away, mumbling under his breath about how she wasn't giving him any place, or not the place he deserved. I forgot him the moment he was out of sight as I fell under the spell of my enchanting new dump truck and why it worked like it did. Soon I'd find out--and maybe my curiosity was the same thing as being mean, for everything given to me ended up broken within an hour.

  My grandmother sighed and looked unhappy as my truck came apart.

  Long summer days passed slowly, with John Amos teaching me lots of important things about being powerful and fearsome like Malcolm, who knew all about being sneaky and clever. In his own kind of way John Amos was fascinating, with his queer shuffling walk, his skinny legs more knobby than mine, his whistling breath, his hissing words, his stringy mustache and bald head where one white hair grew. One day I was gonna pull it out. Wonder why my grandmother didn't like him She was the boss, she could fire him, and yet she didn't. Something hard and mean was b
etween them.

  I was happy living between them, blessed on one side by my grandmother, with all her nice gifts, her hugs and kisses, and on the other side by John Amos, who was teaching me how to be a powerful man who could make women do his bidding. And now that I had someone who loved me for myself, no matter how mean or clumsy I was, I began to feel that special kind of magic that Momma and Jory shared. I thought I, too, could hear the music of sunset colors. I thought the lemon tree made little harp chords sound. I had Apple, my puppy-pony. And, best of all, Disneyland was waiting for me and my birthday was coming up soon.

  Now that I was getting brilliant like Malcolm, I tried to figure out a way to keep Apple's love while I went away for three weeks. It woke me up at night. Worried me all day. Who would feed Apple and steal his love while I was gone? Who?

  I went back to the wall and checked on a peach pit that hadn't sprouted any roots as yet. It was supposed to be growing--and it wasn't. Next I checked my sweetpea seeds. Dumb things were just lying there, not doing anything.

  Cursed. I was cursed. I glared at the part of the garden Jory cared for. All his flowers were in full bloom. Wasn't fair how even flowers wouldn't grow for me. I crawled to where Jory's hollyhocks grew. My knees crushed petunias, squashed portulaca. What would Malcolm do if he was me? He'd rip up all of Jory's flowers, dig holes with his thumbs in his own garden, and stick in the blossoms.

  One by one I filled my thumb holes with Jory's hollyhocks. They refused to stand up straight, but I arranged them so they could lean against one another-- and now I had blooming flowers in my garden too. Clever. Devious and sneaky--smart too.

  Glanced down at my filthy knees and saw I'd ripped my new pants on the doghouse I'd started building for Clover. It was my way of asking forgiveness for tripping over him so often. Right now he was up on that "veranda" keeping a keen eye on me, afraid to sleep while I was in sight. I didn't need him now. Once I had, but now I had a better pet.

  Bugs were biting my face. I rubbed at my eyes, not caring if my hands were covered with grease from fooling around in my dad's garage workshop. Emma wouldn't like seeing my new white tank-top that had grease all over, and even Momma couldn't repair the rip from neck to shirttail. I chewed on my lip.