Already we’d gained some weight in the two weeks of eating Mrs. Beech’s delicious cooking, even Carrie who was so darn finicky. Now she ate with enthusiasm, and for her that was remarkable. So, as I peeled the red potatoes, Mrs. Beech wrote another note when her signals failed to communicate. Fairy-Child, from now on call me only Henny. No Mrs. Beech.
She was the first black person I’d known, and though at first I’d felt ill-at-ease with her and a little afraid of her, two weeks of intimacy had taught me much. She was just another human being of another race and color, with the same sensitivities, hopes and fears we all had.
I loved Henny, her broad smiles, her loose, flowing gowns with flowers blooming riotously, and most of all I loved the wisdom that came from her small pastel paper sheets. Eventually, I did learn to understand her sign language, though I was never as good at it as her “doctor-son.”
Paul Scott Sheffield was a strange man. So often he looked sad when there was no apparent reason for him to be sad. Then he’d smile and say, “Yes, God favored Henny and me that day he put you three on that bus. I lost one family, and grieved for them, and fate was kind enough to send me another, ready-made family.”
“Chris,” I said that evening when we had to reluctantly part, “when we lived in the room upstairs, you were the man, the head of the household. . . . Sometimes it feels funny to have Dr. Paul around, watching what we do and listening to what we say.”
He blushed. “I know. He’s taking my place. To be honest,” and here he paused and blushed a deeper red, “I don’t like him replacing me in your life, but I’m very grateful for what he’s done for Carrie.”
Somehow all that our doctor did for us made Momma seem a thousandfold worse in comparison. Ten thousandfold worse!
The next day was Chris’s eighteenth birthday, and though I’d never forget, it surprised me that the doctor had planned a party with many fine gifts that sparkled Chris’s eyes, and then saddened them with the guilt both he and I felt. Already we’d accepted so much. Already we had been making plans to leave soon. We just couldn’t stay on and take advantage of Dr. Paul’s good nature, now that Carrie was well enough to travel on.
After the party Chris and I sat on the back veranda, mulling this over. One look at his face and I could tell he didn’t want to leave the one and only man who could, and would, help him reach his goal of becoming a doctor. “I really don’t like the way he keeps looking at you, Cathy. His eyes follow you about all the time. Here you are, so available, and men his age find girls your age irresistible.”
They did? How fascinating to know. “But doctors have plenty of pretty nurses available to them,” I said lamely, knowing I would do anything short of murder, to see that Chris reached his goal. “Remember that day we first came? He spoke of the kind of competition we’d be up against in the circus. Chris, he’s right. We can’t go work for the circus; that’s only a silly dream.”
He stared off into space with knitted brows. “I know all of that.”
“Chris, he’s just lonely. Maybe he only watches me because there isn’t anything else as interesting to watch as me.” But how fascinating to know that men of forty were susceptible to girls of fifteen. How wonderful to wield over them the power that my mother had.
“Chris, if Dr. Paul says the right thing, I mean, if he really honestly wants us, would you stay on?”
He frowned and studied the hedges he’d so recently clipped. After long consideration he spoke slowly, “Let’s give him a test. If we tell him we’re leaving, and he doesn’t say anything to prevent us, then that will be his polite way to let us know he doesn’t really care.”
“Is it fair to test him like that?”
“Yes. It’s a good way to give him the chance to get rid of us and not feel guilty about it. You know, people like him often do nice things because they feel they should, not because they really want to.”
“Oh.”
We were not ones to procrastinate. The next evening after dinner, Paul came to join us on the back veranda. Paul. I was calling him that in my thoughts—getting familiar, liking him more and more because always he looked so casually elegant, so clean, so nice, sitting in his favorite white wicker rocker, wearing a red cable-knit sweater with gray slacks and slowly, dreamily puffing on a cigarette. We three wore sweaters too, for the evening was chilly. Chris perched beside me on the balustrade while Carrie crouched on the top step. Paul’s gardens were fabulous. Shallow marble steps nine feet across took you down a few feet to other steps which took you to a higher level. There was a small Japanese footbridge lacquered red, arching over a small stream. There were nude statues of men and women, placed at random, which lent to his gardens an atmosphere of seduction, of worldly sensuality. They were classic nudes. Graceful, and elegantly posed, and yet, and yet . . . I knew that garden for what it was. For I’d been there before in my dreams.
The doctor was telling us, even as the wind turned colder and started to blow dead leaves hither and yon, that he traveled abroad every other year to search out the beautiful marble statues he’d ship home and add to his collection. He’d been so lucky the last time to come across a full-sized copy of Rodin’s The Kiss.
I sighed with the wind. I didn’t want to go. I liked it here with him, with Henny, with the gardens that held me in thrall and made me feel enchanted, beautiful, desirable.
“So all my roses are old-fashioned roses that haven’t had the heady scent bred from them,” said Dr. Paul. “Why have roses at all if they don’t reek of perfume?”
In the fading, purplish light of the failing day his glimmering eyes met with mine. My pulse quickened and forced another sigh. I wondered what his wife had been like, and how it felt to be loved by someone like him. Guiltily my eyes fled from his long, searching look, afraid he’d see what I was thinking. “You look disturbed, Cathy. Why?” His question teased me, as if he knew already my secrets. Chris turned his head to give me a hard look of warning.
“It’s your red sweater,” I said foolishly. “Did Henny knit it for you?”
He chuckled softly, then glanced down at the handsome sweater he wore. “No, not Henny. My older sister knitted the sweater for my birthday, then mailed it to me parcel post. She lives on the other side of town.”
“Why would your sister mail you a gift and not bring it in person?” I asked. “And why didn’t you tell us you had a birthday? We would have given you gifts too.”
“Well,” he began, settling back comfortably and crossing his legs, “my birthday came and went shortly before you arrived. I’m forty in case Henny hasn’t told you. I’ve been a widower thirteen years, and my sister, Amanda, has not spoken to me since the day my wife and young son died in an accident.” His voice faded away and he stared off into space, moody, solemn, distant.
Dead leaves scuttled on the lawn, chased over the porch and came to nestle near my feet, like brown, dried-up ducklings. All this took me back to a certain forbidden night when Chris and I had so desperately prayed while we huddled on the cold slate roof under a moon that looked like the scowling eye of God. Would there be a price to pay for just one terrible sin committed? Would there? The grandmother would quickly say, yes! You deserve the worst punishment! Devil’s spawn, I knew it all along!
And while I sat there floundering Chris spoke up. “Doctor, Cathy and I have been talking this over, and we feel now that Carrie is well we should be leaving. We deeply appreciate everything you’ve done, and we intend to repay you every cent, though it may take us a few years. . . .” His fingers squeezed tight around mine, warning me not to say anything different.
“Hold on there, Chris,” interrupted the doctor, jerking upright in his chair and planting both his feet solidly on the floor. Clearly he meant business. “Don’t think for one minute I haven’t seen this coming. I’ve dreaded each morning, fearful I’d wake up to find you gone.”
“I’ve been looking into the legal ramifications of making the three of you my wards. And I’ve found out it isn’t as com
plicated as I thought. It seems most children who run away say they’re orphans, so you’ll have to give me proof your father is really dead. If he’s alive, I would need his consent, as well as your mother’s.”
My breath caught! My mother’s consent? That meant we’d have to see her again! I didn’t want to see her, not ever!
He went on, his eyes soft as they saw my distress. “The court would petition your mother to appear at a hearing. If she lived in this state she’d be forced to comply in three days, but since she’s in Virginia, they’ll give her three weeks. If she doesn’t show up, then instead of having only temporary custody of you, I will be granted permanent custody—but only if you’re willing to say I’ve done a good job as a guardian.”
“You’ve been wonderful!” I cried out. “But she won’t come! She wants to keep us a secret! If the world finds out about us, she’ll lose all that money. Her husband might turn against her too if he knew she’d hidden us away. You can bet your life if you dare to try for permanent custody, you’ll get it—and you might be sorry in the end!”
Chris’s hand tightened more on mine, and Carrie looked up with huge, scared eyes.
“In a few weeks Christmas will be here. Are you going to leave me to spend another lonely holiday by myself? You’ve been here for almost three weeks, and I’ve explained to everyone who asked that you were the children of a relative of mine who died recently. I’m not going into this blindly. Henny and I have given this a great deal of thought. She feels, just as I feel, that the three of you are good for us. We both want you to stay on. Having young people in the house makes it more like a home. I feel healthier than I have in years, and happier too. Since the death of my wife and son, I’ve missed having a family. In all this time I’ve never gotten used to being a bachelor again.” His persuasive tone grew wistful. “I feel fate wants me to have custody of you. I feel God planned for Henny to be on the bus, just so she could bring you to me. When fate steps in and makes the decisions, who am I to deny it? I accept the fact you three are godsent to help me make up for the mistakes I’ve made in the past.”
Wow! Godsent! I was more than half-won. I knew people could always find the motivation to justify what they wanted; well enough I knew that. Even so, tears filled my eyes as I looked at Chris questioningly. He met my look and shook his head in bewilderment, confused as to what I wanted. His hand gripped mine like iron while he spoke, still looking at me, not at Dr. Paul. “We’re sorry for the loss of your wife and son, sir. But we can’t replace them, and I don’t know if we’d be doing right to burden you with the expense of three kids not your own.” Then he added, looking the doctor squarely in the eyes. “And you should think about this too. You’ll have one hell of a time finding another wife when you assume guardianship of us.”
“I don’t intend to marry again,” he replied in a strange way. Then he went on with an abstract air, “Julia was the name of my wife, and my son was named Scotty. He was only three when he died.”
“Oh,” I breathed, “how terrible to lose a son so young, and your wife too.” His obvious grief and remorse reached out and touched me; I was very in tune with those who grieved. “Did they die in an accident, a car accident like our father?”
“An accident,” he said sharply, “but not in a car.”
“Our father was only thirty-six when he was killed, and we were having a surprise birthday party, with a cake, presents . . . and he never came, only two state policemen. . . .”
“Yes, Cathy,” he said softly, “you’ve told me. The adolescent years aren’t easy for anyone, and to be young and on your own, without the proper education, with little money, no family, no friends—”
“We’ve got each other!” said Chris staunchly, so as to test him more. “So, we will never truly be alone.”
Paul went on. “If you don’t want me, and what I have to give you isn’t enough, then go on to Florida with my blessings. Throw away all those long hours you studied, Chris, just when you’re almost there. And you, Cathy, can forget your dream of being a prima ballerina. And don’t you think for one moment that’s going to be a healthy, happy life for Carrie. I’m not persuading you to stay, for you’ll do what you want to and have to. So make up your minds—is it to be me and the chance to fulfill your aspirations, or is it to be the hard, unknown world?”
I sat there on the balustrade as close as possible to Chris, with my hand held in his. I wanted to stay. I wanted what the doctor could give to Chris, to say nothing of Carrie and myself.
The southern breezes kept blowing, caressing my cheek and whispering too convincingly that everything would work out right. I could hear Henny in the kitchen making fresh dough for the hot rolls we’d eat in the morning, made golden by dripping butter. Butter was one of the things denied us before, and the luxury Chris had missed most.
Everything here beguiled me, the air, the soft, warm glow in the doctor’s eyes. Even the banging of Henny’s pots and pans began to work magic, and my heart, so heavily burdened for so long, began to feel lighter. Maybe perfection did exist outside of fairy tales. Maybe we were good enough to walk upright and proud beneath God’s blue sky; maybe we were not contaminated shoots grown from the wrong seed planted in the wrong soil.
And more than anything the doctor had said, or anything his sparkling eyes implied, I think it was the roses that still bloomed, though it was winter, that made me feel dizzy from the overwhelming sweetness of their perfume.
But it wasn’t Chris and I who decided. It was Carrie. Suddenly she jumped up from the top step and went flying into the doctor’s outstretched arms. She flung herself against him and wrapped her thin arms about his neck. “I don’t want to go! I love you, Dr. Paul!” she cried out, almost frantic. “I don’t want no Florida and no circus! I don’t want to go anywhere!” Then she was crying, letting out all her grief for Cory, withheld for so long. He picked her up and held her on his lap, and put kisses on her wet cheeks before he used his handkerchief to mop up the tears.
“I love you too, Carrie. I always wanted a little girl with blond curls and big blue eyes, just like yours.” But he wasn’t looking at Carrie. He was looking at me. “And I wanna be here for Christmas,” sobbed Carrie. “I’ve never seen Santa Claus, not once.” Of course she had, years ago, when our parents took the twins to a department store and Daddy snapped a picture of the two of them on Santa’s lap, but maybe she’d forgotten.
How could a stranger come so easily into our lives and give us love, when our own blood kin had sought to give us death?
Life’s Second Chance
Carrie decided. We stayed. Even if she hadn’t decided, still we would have stayed. How could we not?
We tried to give Dr. Paul what money we had left. He refused. “You keep that money for yourselves. You worked hard to get it, didn’t you? And you might as well know I’ve seen my attorney so he can fill out the petitions that will bring your mother to Clairmont. I know you believe she won’t come, but you can never tell. If I’m so lucky as to win permanent custody, I’ll give each of you a weekly allowance. No one can feel free and happy without some money in his pocket. Most of my colleagues give their teenage children five dollars a week. Three dollars should be enough for a girl Carrie’s age.” He planned to buy all our clothes and everything else we needed for school. We could only stare at him, amazed he’d be so generous—again.
A few days before Christmas he drove us to a shopping mall that was carpeted in red; the ceiling was a glass dome; throngs of people swarmed about as pop Christmas music played. It was like fairyland! I glowed; so did Carrie and Chris—and our doctor. His huge hand held Carrie’s small one as Chris and I held on to each other. I saw him watching us, enjoying our wide-eyed stares. We were charmed by everything. Awed, impressed, very wanting, fearful too he would see and try to satisfy all our yearnings.
I turned in circles when we reached the department that sold clothes for teenage girls. Dazzled and bewildered by so much, I looked at that, and looked at this, and
couldn’t decide what I wanted when everything was so pretty and I’d never had the chance to shop for myself before. Chris laughed at my indecision. “Go on,” he urged, “now that you have the chance to fit yourself perfectly, try on what you like.” I knew what he was thinking, for it had been my mean way to complain that Momma never brought me anything that fitted right.
With great care I selected parsimoniously the outfits I thought suitable for school that would begin for us in January. And I needed a coat, real shoes, and a raincoat and hat and umbrella. Everything that kind-hearted, generous man allowed me to buy made me feel guilty, as if we were taking advantage of him.
To reward me for my slowness and my reluctance to buy too much, Paul said impatiently, “For heaven’s sake, Cathy, don’t think we’re going shopping like this every week. I want you to buy enough today to last you through the winter. Chris, while we finish up here, you dash on to the young men’s section and begin picking out what you want. While you do that, Cathy and I can outfit Carrie with the clothes she needs.”
I noticed that all the adolescent girls in the store were turning to stare at my brother as he made his way to the young men’s department.
At last we were going to be normal kids. Then, when I felt tentatively secure, Carrie let out a howl to shatter crystal palaces in London! Her cries jolted the salespeople, startled the customers, and a lady bumped her baby-stroller into a dummy who went crashing down. The baby in the stroller added his screams to Carrie’s!
Chris came on the run to see who was murdering his small sister. She stood, feet wide apart, head thrown back, with tears of frustration streaming her cheeks. “Good God, what’s wrong now?” asked Chris as our doctor looked dumbfounded.
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 43