It troubled me that she didn’t reprimand us and speak of the unmade beds, the cluttered, messy room that I tried to keep neat and tidy—and why hadn’t she scolded Chris for dressing Carrie? Why was she looking, and seeing, but saying nothing?
Chris came down from the attic with a birdcage and some wire screening he said would make the cage more secure.
Those were words to snap the grandmother’s head in his direction. Then her stone eyes fixed on me, and the pale blue washcloth I held. “What do you hold in your hands, girl?” she fired in a glacial tone.
“An injured mouse,” I answered, my voice as icy as hers.
“Do you intend to keep that mouse as a pet, and put it in that cage?”
“Yes, we do.” I stared at her defiantly and dared her to do something about it. “Cory has never owned a pet, and it is time that he did.”
She pursed her thin lips and her stone-cold eyes swept to Cory, who trembled on the verge of tears. “Go on,” she said, “keep the mouse. A pet like that suits you.” With that she slammed out the door.
Chris began to fiddle with the birdcage, and the screening, and spoke as he worked. “The wires are much too far apart to keep Mickey inside, Cory, so we’ll have to wrap the cage with this screen, and then your little pet can’t escape.”
Cory smiled. He peeked to see if Mickey still lived. “It’s hungry. I can tell, its nose is twitching.”
The winning over of Mickey the attic mouse was quite a feat. First of all, he didn’t trust us, though we’d set his foot free from the trap. He hated the confinement of the cage. He wobbled about in circles on the awkward thing we’d put on his foot and leg, seeking a way out. Cory dropped cheese and bread crumbs through the bars to entice him into eating and gaining strength. He ignored the cheese, the bread, and in the end, walked as far away as he could get, his tiny bead-black eyes wary with fear, his body atremble as Cory opened the rusty cage door, to put in a miniature soup tureen filled with water.
Then he put his hand in the cage and pushed a bit of cheese closer. “Good cheese,” he said invitingly. He moved a bit of bread nearer to the trembling mouse whose whiskers twitched, “Good bread. It will make you strong and well.”
It took two weeks before Cory had a mouse that adored him and would come when he whistled. Cory hid tidbits in his shirt pockets to tempt Mickey into them. When Cory wore a shirt with two breast pockets, and the right one held a bit of cheese, and the left a bit of peanut-butter-and-grape-jelly sandwich, Mickey would hesitate indecisively on Cory’s shoulders, his nose twitching, his whiskers jerking. And only too plainly could you see we had not a gourmet mouse, but a gourmand who wanted what was in both pockets at the same time.
Then, when finally he could make up his mind as to which he would go for first, down he’d scamper into the peanut-butter pocket, and eat upside down, and in a squiggle he’d race back up to Cory’s shoulder, around his neck, and down into the pocket with the cheese. It was laughable the way he never went directly over Cory’s chest to the other pocket, but always up and around his neck, and then down, tickling every funnybone Cory had.
The little leg and foot healed, but the mouse never walked perfectly, nor could he run very fast. I think the mouse was clever enough to save the cheese for last, for that he could pick up and hold as he daintily nibbled, whereas the bit of sandwich was a messy meal.
And believe me, never was there a mouse better at smelling out food, no matter where it was hidden. Willingly, Mickey abandoned his mice friends to take up with humans who fed him so well, and petted him, and rocked him to sleep, though oddly enough, Carrie had no patience with Mickey at all. It could be just because that mouse was as charmed by her dollhouse as she was. The little stairways and halls fitted his size perfectly, and once on the loose, he headed directly for the dollhouse! In through a window he clambered, and tumbled down on the floor; and porcelain people, so delicately balanced, fell right and left, and the dining-room table turned over when he wanted a taste.
Carrie screamed at Cory, “Your Mickey is eating all the party food! Take him away! Take him out of my living room!”
Cory captured his lame mouse, which couldn’t move too quickly, and he cuddled Mickey against his chest. “You must learn to behave, Mickey. Bad things happen in big houses. The lady who owns that house over there, she hits you for anything.”
He made me giggle, for it was the first time I’d ever heard him make even the slightest disparaging remark about his twin sister.
It was a good thing Cory had a little, sweet gray mouse to delve deep into his pockets for the goodies his master hid there. It was a good thing all of us had something to do to occupy our time, and our minds, while we waited and waited for our mother to show up, when it was beginning to seem like she never would come to us again.
At Last, Momma
Chris and I never discussed what had happened between us on the bed the day of the whippings. Often I caught him staring at me, but just as soon as my eyes turned to meet his, his would shift away. When he turned suddenly to catch me watching him, mine were the eyes to flee.
We were growing more day by day, he and I. My breasts filled out fuller, my hips widened, my waist diminished, and the short hair above my forehead grew out longer and curled becomingly. Why hadn’t I known before that it would curl without so much weight to pull the curls into waves only? As for Chris, his shoulders broadened, his chest became more manly, and his arms too. I caught him once in the attic staring down at that part of him he seemed so taken with—and measuring it too! “Why?” I asked, quite astonished to learn that the length mattered. He turned away before he told me once he’d seen Daddy naked, and what he had seemed so inadequate in size. Even the back of his neck was red as he explained this. Oh, golly—just like I wondered what size bra Momma wore! “Don’t do it again,” I whispered. Cory had such a small male organ, and what if he had seen and felt as Chris did, that his was inadequate?
Suddenly I stopped polishing the school desks, and stood very still, thinking of Cory. I turned to stare at him and Carrie. Oh, God, how too much closeness dims your perspective! Two years, and four months we had been locked away—and the twins were very much as they had been the night they came! Certainly their heads were larger and that should have diminished the size of their eyes. Yet their eyes appeared extraordinarily large. They sat listless on that stained and smelly old mattress we’d pulled close to the windows. Butterflies danced nervously in my stomach to view them objectively. Their bodies seemed frail flower stems too weak to support the blossoms of their heads.
I waited until they fell asleep in the weak sunlight, then said in an undertone to Chris, “Look at the buttercups, they don’t grow. Only their heads are larger.”
He sighed heavily, narrowed his eyes, and neared the twins, hovering above them, and bending to touch their transparent skins. “If only they would go outside on the roof with us to benefit from the sun and fresh air like we do. Cathy, no matter how much they fight and scream, we’ve got to force them outside!”
Foolishly, we thought if we carried them out on the roof while they were asleep, they would awaken in the sunlight, held safe in our arms, and they’d feel secure enough. Cautiously, Chris lifted up Cory, while I leaned to heft Carrie’s slight weight. Stealthily, we approached an open attic window. It was Thursday, our day to enjoy outdoors on the roof, while the servants spent their day off in town. It was safe enough to use the back part of the roof.
Barely had Chris cleared the window ledge with Cory when the warm Indian summer air brought Cory suddenly out of sleep. He took one look around, seeing me with Carrie in my arms, obviously planning to take her out on the roof too, when he let out a howl! Carrie bolted out of sleep. She saw Chris with Cory on the steep roof, she saw me and where I was taking her, and she let out a scream that must have been heard a mile away!
Chris called to me through the racket, “Come on! For their own good, we have to do this!”
Not only did they scream, they k
icked and beat at us with small fists! Carrie clamped her teeth down on my arm, so I screamed, too. Little as they were, they had the strength of those in extreme danger. Carrie was battering her fists into my face so I could hardly see, plus screaming in my ear! Hastily, I turned around and headed back toward the schoolroom window. Trembling and weak, I stood Carrie on her feet beside the teacher’s desk. I leaned against that desk, gasping and panting, and thanking God for letting me get her safely back inside. Chris returned Cory to his sister. It was no use. To force them out on the roof endangered the lives of all four of us.
Now they were angry. Resentfully they struggled when we pulled them toward the markings on the wall, where we’d measured their height the first day in the schoolroom. Chris held them both in place, while I backed up to read the inches they’d grown.
I stared and I stared, shocked and disbelieving it was possible. In all this time to grow only two niches? Two inches, when Chris and I had gained many, many inches between the ages of five and seven, though they had been exceptionally small at birth, Cory weighing only five pounds and Carrie five pounds and one ounce.
Oh. I had to put my hands up to cover my face so they couldn’t see my stunned and horrified expression. Then that wasn’t enough. I spun around so they saw only my back as I choked on the sobs stuck in my throat.
“You can let them go now,” I finally managed. I turned to catch a glimpse of them scurrying away like two small flaxen-haired mice, racing for the stairwell, heading toward the beloved television and the escape it offered, and the little mouse which was real and waiting for them to come and pleasure his imprisoned life.
Directly behind me Chris stood and waited. “Well,” he asked when I just wilted, speechless, “how much have they grown?”
Quickly I brushed away the tears before I turned, so I could see his eyes when I told him. “Two inches,” I said in a flat way, but the pain was in my eyes, and that was what he saw.
He stepped closer and put his arms about me, then held my head so it was against his chest, and I cried, really bawled. I hated Momma for doing this! Really hated her! She knew children were like plants—they had to have sunshine if they were to grow. I trembled in the embrace of my brother, trying to convince myself that as soon as we were freed, they’d be beautiful again. They would, of course they would; they’d catch up, make up the lost years, and as soon as the sunshine was upon them again, they’d shoot up like weeds—they would, yes, they would! It was only all the long days hidden indoors that made their cheeks so hollow, and their eyes so sunken. And all of that could be undone, couldn’t it?
“Well,” I began in my hoarse, choked voice, while clinging to the only one who seemed to care anymore, “does money make the world go around, or is it love? Enough love bestowed on the twins, and I would have read six or seven or maybe eight inches gain in height, not only two.”
* * *
Chris and I headed for our dim sequestered prison to eat lunch, and as always I sent the twins into the bathroom to wash their hands, for they certainly didn’t need mouse germs to imperil their health more.
As we sat quietly at the dining table, eating our sandwiches, and sipping our lukewarm soup and milk, and watching TV lovers meet and kiss and make plans to run away and leave their respective spouses, the door to our room opened. I hated to look away, and miss what would happen next, yet I did.
Gaily into our room strode our mother. She wore a beautiful, lightweight suit, with soft gray fur at the cuffs and around the neck of the jacket.
“Darlings!” she cried in enthusiastic greeting, then hesitated uncertainly when not one of us jumped up to welcome her back. “Here I am! Aren’t you glad to see me? Oh, you just don’t know how very glad I am to see all of you. I’ve missed you so much, and thought about you, and dreamed of you, and I’ve brought you all so many beautiful presents that I chose with such care. Just wait until you see them! And I had to be so sneaky—for how could I explain buying things for children? I wanted to make up for being away for so long. I did want to tell you why I was leaving, really I did, but it was so complicated. And I didn’t know exactly how long I’d be gone, and though you missed me, you were cared for, weren’t you? You didn’t suffer, did you?”
Had we suffered? Had we only missed her? Who was she, anyway? Idiot thoughts while I stared at her and listened to how difficult four hidden children made the lives of others. And though I wanted to deny her, keep her from ever really being close again, I faltered, filling with hope, wanting so much to love her again, and trust her again.
Chris got up and spoke first, in a voice that had finally resolved from one that was high and squeaky at tunes into reliable, deep and masculine tones. “Momma, of course we’re glad you’re back! And yes, we missed you! But you were wrong to go away, and stay away for so long, no matter what complicated reasons you had.”
“Christopher,” she said, her eyes widening in surprise, “you don’t sound like yourself.” Her eyes flicked from him to me, then to the twins. Her vivaciousness simmered down. “Christopher, did anything go wrong?”
“Wrong?” he repeated. “Momma, what can be right about living in one room? You said I don’t sound like myself—look me over good. Am I a little boy now? Look at Cathy—is she still a child? Look longest at the twins; notice in particular how tall they’ve grown. Then turn your eyes back on me, and tell me that Cathy and I are still children to be treated with condescension, and are incapable of understanding adult subjects. We haven’t remained idle, twiddling our thumbs while you were off having a good time. Through books Cathy and I have lived a zillion lives . . . our vicarious way to feel alive.”
Momma wanted to interrupt, but Chris overrode her small voice which faltered. He threw her many gifts a scornful glance. “So, you have come back bearing peace offerings, like you always do when you know you have done wrong. Why do you keep thinking your stupid gifts can make up for what we’ve lost, and what we are constantly losing? Sure, once we were delighted with the games and toys and clothes you brought up to our prison room, but we’re older now, and gifts are just not enough!”
“Christopher, please,” she begged, and looked uneasily at the twins again, and so quickly she averted her eyes. “Please don’t speak as if you’ve stopped loving me. I couldn’t bear that.”
“I love you,” was his reply. “I make myself keep on loving you, despite what you do. I’ve got to love you. We all have to love you, and believe in you, and think you are looking out for our best interests. But look at us, Momma, and really see us. Cathy feels, and I feel, that you close your eyes to what you are doing to us. You come to us smiling, and dangle before our eyes and our ears bright hopes for the future, but nothing ever materializes. Long ago, when you first told us about this house and your parents, you said we’d only be shut up in this room for one night, and then you changed it to a few days. And then it was another few weeks, and then another few months . . . and over two years have passed while we wait for an old man to die, who may never die from the skilled way his doctors keep pulling him back from the grave. This room is not improving our health. Can’t you see that?” he almost shouted, his boyish face suffused with red as his limit of self-control was reached at last. I thought I would never live to see the day when he would attack our mother—his beloved mother.
The sound of his loud voice must have startled him, for he lowered his tone and spoke more calmly, and yet his words had the impact of bullets: “Momma, whether or not you inherit your father’s immense fortune, we want out of this room! Not next week, or tomorrow—but today! Now! This minute! You turn that key over to me, and we’ll go away, far away. And you can send us money, if you care to, or send nothing, if that’s what you want, and you need never see us again, if that is your choice, and that will solve all your problems, we’ll be gone from your life, and your father need never know we existed, and you can have what he leaves you, all to yourself.”
Momma went pale from shock.
I sat in my chair,
with my lunch half-eaten. I felt sorry for her, and I felt betrayed by my own compassion. I closed the door, slammed it hard, just by thinking of those two weeks when we were starved . . . four days of eating nothing else but crackers and cheese, and three days without any food at all, and nothing but water to drink. And then the whippings, the tar in my hair, and, most of all, the way Chris had to slash his wrist to feed the twins his nourishing blood.
And Chris, what he was saying to her, and the hard determined way he said it, was mostly my doing.
I think she guessed this, for she shot me a stabbing glance, full of resentment.
“Say no more to me, Christopher—it’s clear to see you are not yourself.”
Jumping to my feet, I stepped over to his side. “Look at us, Momma! Observe our radiant, healthy complexions, just like yours. Look especially long on your two youngest. They don’t look frail, do they? Their full cheeks don’t look gaunt, do they? Their hair isn’t dull, is it? Their eyes—they’re not dark and hollowed out, are they? When you look, and register, do you see how much they’ve grown, how healthily they thrive? If you can’t have pity for Christopher and me, have pity for them.”
“Stop!” she yelled, jumping up from the bed where she’d sat to have us crowd cozily around, in our former way. She spun on her heel so she wouldn’t have to see us. Choking sobs were in her voice that cried, “You have no right to talk to your mother in this manner. But for me you would all be starving in the streets.” Her voice broke. She turned sideways, throwing Chris an appealing, woebegone look. “Haven’t I done the best I could by you? Where did I go wrong? What do you lack? You knew how it would be until your grandfather died. You agreed to stay here until he did. And I’ve kept my word. You live in a warm, safe room. I bring to you the best of everything—books, toys, games, the best clothes that money can buy. You have good food to eat, a TV set.” Fully she faced us now, spreading wide her hands in a supplicating gesture, appearing ready to fall down on her knees, pleading with her eyes at me now. “Listen to this—your grandfather is so ill now he is confined to bed all day long. He isn’t even allowed to sit in the wheelchair. His doctors say he can’t last long, a few days or the maximum of a few weeks. The day he dies, I’ll come up and unlock your door and lead you down the stairs. I’ll have money enough then to send all four of you to college, and Chris to medical school, and you, Cathy, can continue on with your ballet lessons. I’ll find for Cory the best of musical teachers, and for Carrie, I’ll do anything she wants. Are you going to throw away all the years you’ve suffered and endured without waiting for rewards—just when you’re on the verge of reaching your goal! Remember how you used to laugh and talk of what you’d do when you were blessed with more money than you knew how to spend? Recall all the plans we made . . . our house where we could all live together again. Don’t throw everything away by becoming impatient just when we’re due to win! Tell me I’ve had pleasure while you’ve suffered, and I’ll agree that I have. But I’ll make up for that by tenfold!”
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 28