And then, and then . . . he didn’t surface! Oh God, . . . he was dead . . . drowned!
“Chris,” I called, sobbing, and began to swim toward the spot where he had disappeared beneath the cold water.
Suddenly I was seized by the legs! I screamed and went under, pulled down by Chris, who kicked his legs strongly and took us both up to the surface, where we laughed, and I splashed water into his face for playing such a dirty trick.
“Isn’t this better than being shut up in that damned hot room?” he asked, frolicking around like someone demented, delirious, wild, and crazy! It was as if this bit of freedom had gone to his head like strong wine, and he was drunk! He swam in circles around me, and tried again to catch my legs and drag me under. But I was wise to him now. He kicked to the surface and backstroked, he also did the breaststroke, the crawl, side-stroked, and named what he did as he performed. “This is the back crawl,” he said as he demonstrated, showing off techniques I’d never seen before.
He surfaced from a dive under, and treaded water as he began to sing, “Dance, ballerina, dance,”—and in my face he threw water, as I splashed it back at him—“and do your pirouette in rhythm with your aching heart. . . .” And then he had me in his embrace, and laughing and screaming, we fought, gone crazy just to be children again. Oh, he was wonderful in the water, like a dancer. Suddenly I was tired, extremely tired, so tired I felt weak as a wet dishcloth. Chris put his arm about me and assisted me up onto shore.
Both of us fell on a grassy bank to lie back and talk.
“One more swim, and then back to the twins,” he said, lying supine on the gentle slope beside me. Both of us stared up at a sky full of glittering, twinkling stars, and there was a quartermoon out, colored silvery-gold, and it ducked and hid, and played hide and seek with the strung-out long, dark clouds.
“Suppose we can’t make it back up to the roof?”
“We’ll make it, because we have to make it.”
That was my Christopher Doll, the eternal optimist, sprawled beside me, all wet and glistening, with his fair hair pasted to his forehead. His nose was the same as Daddy’s as it aimed at the heavens, his full lips so beautifully shaped he didn’t need to pout to make them sensual, his chin square, strong, clefted, and his chest was beginning to broaden . . . and there was that hillock of his growing maleness before his strong thighs, beginning to swell. There was something about a man’s strong, well-shaped thighs that excited me. I turned away my head, unable to feast my eyes on his beauty without feeling guilty and ashamed.
Birds were nested overhead in the tree branches. They made sleepy little twittery noises that for some reason made me think of the twins, and that made me sad and put tears in my eyes.
Fireflies bobbed up every so often and flashed their lemon-colored tail-lights off and on, signaling male to female, or vice-versa. “Chris, is it the male firefly that lights up, or the female?”
“I’m really not sure,” he said as if he didn’t care. “I think they both light up, but the female stays on the ground signaling, while the male flies around looking for her.”
“You mean you aren’t positive about everything—you, the all-knowing?”
“Cathy, let’s not quibble. I don’t know everything—a long way from it.” He turned his head and met my eyes; our gazes locked and neither of us seemed capable of looking elsewhere.
Soft southern breezes came and played in my hair and dried the wisps about my face. I felt them tickling like small kisses, and again I wanted to cry, for no reason at all, except the night was so sweet, so lovely, and I was at the age for high romantic yearning. And the breeze whispered loving words in my ears . . . words I was so afraid no one was ever going to say. Still, the night was so lovely under the trees, near the shimmering moonlit water, and I sighed. I felt that I’d been here before, on this grass near the lake. Oh, the strange thoughts I had as the night-fliers hummed and whirred, and the mosquitoes buzzed and somewhere far off an owl hooted, taking me quickly back to the night when first we came to live as fugitives, hidden from a world that didn’t want us.
“Chris, you’re almost seventeen, the same age Daddy was when he first met Momma.”
“And you’re fourteen, the same age she was,” he said in a hoarse voice.
“Do you believe in love at first sight?”
He hesitated, mulling that over . . . his way, not mine. “I’m not an authority on that subject. I know when I was in school, I’d see a pretty girl and right away feel in love with her. Then when we’d talk, and she was kind of stupid, then I didn’t feel anything at all about her. But if her beauty had been matched by other assets, I think I could fall in love at first sight, though I’ve read that kind of love is only physical attraction.”
“Do you think I’m stupid?”
He grinned and reached out to touch my hair. “Gosh, no. And I hope you don’t think you are, because you’re not. Your trouble is, Cathy, you have too many talents; you want to be everything, and that’s not possible.”
“How do you know I’d like to be a singer and an actress, too?”
He laughed soft and low. “Silly girl, you’re acting ninety percent of the time, and singing to yourself when you feel contented; unfortunately, that’s not very often.”
“Are you contented often?”
“No.”
So we lay, silent, from time to time staring at something that drew our attention, like the fireflies that met on the grass and mated, and the whispering leaves, and the floating clouds, and the play of the moonlight on the water. The night seemed enchanted and set me to thinking again of nature, and all its strange ways. Though I didn’t understand fully many of its ways, why I dreamed as I did at night now, why I woke up throbbing and yearning for some fulfillment that I could never reach.
I was glad Chris had persuaded me into coming. It was wonderful to be lying on grass again, feeling cool and refreshed, and most of all, feeling fully alive again.
“Chris,” I began tentatively, afraid to spoil the soft beauty of this star-filled moonlit night, “where do you think our mother is?”
He kept right on staring at Polaris, the north star.
“I have no idea where she is,” he answered finally.
“Don’t you have any suspicions?”
“Sure. Of course I do.”
“What are they?”
“She could be sick.”
“She’s not sick; Momma’s never sick.”
“She could be away on a business trip for her father.”
“Then why didn’t she come and tell us she was going, and when to expect her back?”
“I don’t know!” he said irritably, like I was spoiling the evening for him, and of course he couldn’t know, any more than I could.
“Chris, do you love and trust her as much as you used to?”
“Don’t ask me questions like that! She’s my mother. She’s all we’ve got, and if you expect me to lie here and say mean things about her, I’m not going to do it! Wherever she is tonight, she’s thinking of us, and she’s coming back. She’ll have a perfectly good reason for going away and staying so long, you can count on that.”
I couldn’t say to him what I was really thinking, that she could have found time to come in and tell us of her plans—for he knew that as well as I did.
There was a husky tone to his voice that came about only when he was feeling pain—and not the physical kind. I wanted to take away the hurt I’d inflicted with my questions. “Chris, on TV, girls my age, and boys your age—they start to date. Would you know how to act on a date?”
“Sure, I’ve watched a lot on TV.”
“But watching isn’t the same as doing.”
“Still it gives you the general idea of what to do, and what to say. And besides, you’re still too young to date guys.”
“Now let me tell you something, Mr. Big Brain, a girl of my age is actually one year older than a boy of your age.”
“You’re crazy!”
&nbs
p; “Crazy? I read that fact in a magazine article, written by an authority on the subject—a doctor of psychology,” I said, thinking he was sure to be impressed. “He said girls mature emotionally much quicker than boys do.”
“The author of that article was judging all mankind by his own immaturity.”
“Chris, you think you know everything—and nobody knows everything!”
He turned his head and met my eyes and scowled, like he used to do so often. “You’re right,” he agreed pleasantly. “I know only what I read, and what I’m feeling inside has me as mystified as any first-grader. I’m mad as hell at Momma because of what she’s done, and I’m feeling so many different things, and I don’t have a man to talk them over with.” He rose on an elbow to stare down in my face. “I wish it wasn’t taking your hair so long to grow back. I wish now I hadn’t used the scissors . . . didn’t do any good, anyway.”
It was better when he didn’t say anything to make me think of Foxworth Hall. I just wanted to look up at the sky and feel the fresh night air on my wet skin. My pajamas were of thin white batiste, scattered all over with rosebuds, and edged with lace. They clung to me like a second skin, just as Chris’s white jockey shorts clung to him.
“Let’s go now, Chris.”
Reluctantly, he got up and stretched out a hand. “Another swim?”
“No. Let’s go back.”
Silently, we headed away from the lake, walking slowly through the woods, drinking in the sensation of being outside, on the ground.
We headed back to our responsibilities. For the longest time we stood by the rope we’d made, fastened to a chimney far above. I wasn’t thinking of how we’d make the ascent, only wondering what we’d gained by this brief little escape from a prison we had to enter again.
“Chris, do you feel different?”
“Yes. We didn’t do very much but walk and run on the ground, and swim for a short while, but I feel more alive and more hopeful.”
“We could get away if we wanted to—tonight—and not wait for Momma to come back. We could go up, make slings to carry the twins, and while they sleep we could carry them down. We could run away! We’d be free!”
He didn’t answer, but began the ascent to the roof, hand over hand, with the sheet-ladder caught fast between his legs as he worked his way up. As soon as he was on the roof, I began, for we didn’t trust the rope to hold the weight of two people. It was much harder going up than coming down. My legs seemed so much stronger than my arms. I reached above for the next knot, and lifted my right leg. Suddenly my left foot slipped from where I’d notched it and I was swinging free—held only by weak hands!
A short scream tore from my lips! I was more than twenty feet from the ground!
“Hold on!” called Chris from above. “The rope is directly between both your legs. All you have to do is squeeze them together quick!”
I couldn’t see what I was doing. All I could do was follow his directions. I grasped the rope between my thighs, quivering all over. Fear made me weaker. The longer I stayed in one place, the more fearful I became. I began to gasp, to tremble. And then came the tears . . . stupid girlish tears!
“You are almost within reach of my hands,” called Chris. “Just a few more feet up, and I can reach you. Cathy, don’t panic. Think of how much the twins need you! Try . . . try hard!”
I had to talk myself into letting go with one hand, to reach higher for another knot. I said over and over again to myself, I can do it. I can. My feet were slippery from the grass—but then, Chris’s feet had been slippery, too, and he had managed. And if he could do it, then I could too.
Bit by terrifying bit I climbed up that rope to where Chris could reach down and grasp my wrists. Once his strong hands had me, a surge of relief tingled my blood down to my fingertips and to my toes. In a few seconds he hauled me up, and I was seized in a tight embrace while we both laughed and then almost cried. Then we crawled up the steep slope, keeping fast hold of the rope until we reached the chimney. That’s when we fell down in our accustomed place and shivered all over.
Oh, the irony of it—that we would be glad to be back!
* * *
Chris lay on his bed and stared over at me. “Cathy, for just a second or two, when we were lying on the bank of the lake, it seemed a bit like heaven. Then when you faltered on the rope, I thought I might die too, if you did. We can’t do that again. You don’t have the strength in your arms that I do. I’m sorry I forgot about that.”
The night lamp was burning with a rosy glow over in the corner. Our eyes met in the dimness. “I’m not sorry we went. I’m glad. It’s been so long since I felt real.”
“Did you feel like that?” he asked. “So did I . . . just like we had left a bad dream that was lasting too long.”
I dared again, had to. “Chris, where do you think Momma is? She’s drifting away from us gradually, and she never really looks at the twins, like they scare her now. But she’s never stayed away this long before. She’s been gone over a month.”
I heard his heavy, sad sigh. “Honestly, Cathy, I just don’t know. She hasn’t told me anymore than she’s told you—but you can bet she’s got a good reason.”
“But what kind of reason could she have to leave without an explanation? Isn’t that the least she could do?”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“If I had children, I would never leave them the way she does. I’d never stick my four children away in a locked room and then forget them.”
“You’re not going to have any children, remember?”
“Chris, someday I’m going to dance in the arms of a husband who loves me, and if he really wants a baby, then I might agree to have one.”
“Sure, I knew all along you’d change your mind once you grew up.”
“You really think I’m pretty enough for a man to love?”
“You’re more than pretty enough.” He sounded embarrassed.
“Chris, remember when Momma told us that it was money that made the world go around and not love? Well, I think she’s wrong.”
“Yeah? Give that a bit more thought. Why can’t you have both?”
I gave it thought. Plenty of thought. I lay and stared up at the ceiling that was my dancing floor, and I mulled life and love over and over. And from every book I’d ever read, I took one wise bead of philosophy and strung them all into a rosary to believe in for the rest of my life.
Love, when it came and knocked on my door, was going to be enough.
And that unknown author who’d written that if you had fame, it was not enough, and if you had wealth as well, it was still not enough, and if you had fame, wealth, and also love . . . still it was not enough—boy, did I feel sorry for him.
One Rainy Afternoon
Chris was at the windows, both hands holding open the heavy tapestry draperies. The sky was leaden, the rain came down in a solid sheet. Every lamp in our room was lit, and the TV was on, as usual. Chris was waiting to see the train that would pass by around four. You could hear its mournful whistle before dawn, around four, and then later if you were awake. You could just barely catch a glimpse of the train that appeared to be a toy, it was so far away.
He was in his world, I was in mine. Sitting cross-legged on the bed Carrie and I shared, I cut pictures from decorating magazines Momma had brought up for my entertainment before she went away to stay so long. I cut each photograph out carefully and pasted them into a large scrapbook. I was planning my dream house, where I would live happily ever after, with a tall, strong, dark-haired husband who loved only me and not a thousand others on the side.
I had my life mapped out: my career first, a husband and children when I was ready to retire and give someone else a chance. And when I had my dream home, I’d have an emerald-glass tub situated on a dais where I could soak in beauty oil all day long if I wanted to—and nobody would be outside the door, banging and telling me to hurry up! (I never had the chance to sit in the tub long enough.) From that emera
ld tub I’d step, smelling sweet of flowered perfume, and my skin soft as satin, and my pores would be forever cleansed of the rotten stench of dry old wood and attic dust permeated with all the miseries of antiquity . . . so that we, who were young, smelled as old as this house.
“Chris,” I said, turning to stare at his back, “why should we stay on and on, and wait for Momma to come back, much less wait for that old man to die? Now that we are strong, why don’t we find a way to escape?”
He didn’t say a word. But I saw his hands clutch the fabric of the draperies harder.
“Chris . . .”
“I don’t want to talk about it!” he flared.
“Why are you standing there waiting for the train to pass, if you aren’t thinking about getting away?”
“I’m not waiting for the train! I’m just looking out, that’s all!”
His forehead was pressed against the glass, daring a close neighbor to look out and see him.
“Chris, come away from the window. Someone might see you.”
“I don’t give a damn who sees me!”
My first impulse was to run to him, to put my arms around him, and lavish a million kisses on his face to make up for those he was missing from Momma. I’d draw his head down against my breast and cuddle it there as she used to do, and he’d go back to being the cheerful, sunny optimist who never had a sullen angry day like I used to. Even if I did all that Momma did once, I was wise enough to know it wouldn’t be the same. It was her he wanted. He had all his hopes, dreams, and faith wrapped up in one single woman—Momma.
She’d been gone more than two months! Didn’t she realize one day up here was longer than a month of normal living? Didn’t she worry about us, and wonder how we were faring? Did she believe that Chris would always be her staunchest supporter when she left us without an excuse, a reason, an explanation? Did she really believe that love, once gained, couldn’t be torn asunder by doubts and fears, and could never, never be put back together again?
“Cathy,” said Chris suddenly, “Where would you go if you had your choice of anywhere?”
The Flowers in the Attic Series: The Dollangangers: Flowers in the Attic, Petals on the Wind, If There Be Thorns, Seeds of Yesterday, and a New Excerpt! Page 26