His medical practice is large, but not too large, so he has time to work in our four acres of gardens with the marble statues we brought along from Paul’s gardens. As much as possible we have duplicated what he had, except for the Spanish moss that clings, and clings, and then kills.
Emma Lindstrom, our cook, our housekeeper, friend, lives with us as Henny lived with Paul. She never asks questions. She has no family but us, and to us she is faithful, and our business is our own.
Pragmatic, blithe, the eternal, cockeyed optimist, Chris sings when he works in the gardens. When he shaves in the mornings he hums some ballet tune, feeling no trepidations, no regrets, as if long, long ago he had been the man who danced in the shadows of the attic and had never, never let me see his face. Did he know all along that just as he had won over me in all other games it would be him in the end?
Why hadn’t I known?
Who had shut my eyes?
It must have been Momma who told me once, “Marry a man with dark, dark eyes, Cathy. Dark eyes feel so terribly intense about everything.” What a laugh! As if blue eyes lacked some profound steadfastness; she should have known better.
I should know better too. It worries me because I went yesterday into our attic. In a little alcove to the side, I found two single-size beds, long enough for two small boys to grow into men.
Oh, my God! I thought, who did this? I would never lock away my two sons, even if Jory did remember one day that Chris was not his stepfather but his uncle. I wouldn’t even if he did tell Bart, our youngest. I could face the shame, the embarrassment, and the publicity that would ruin Chris professionally. Yet . . . yet, today I bought a picnic hamper, the kind with the double lids that open up from the center; the very same kind of hamper the grandmother had used to bring us food.
So, I go uneasily to bed and lie there awake, fearing the worst in myself, and struggling to keep firm hold of the best. It seems, as I turn over, and snuggle closer to the man I love, that I can hear the cold wind blowing from the blue-misted mountains so far away.
It’s the past that I can never forget, that shadows all my days, and hides furtively in the comers when Chris is home. I do make an effort to be like he is, always optimistic, when I am not at all the kind who can forget the tarnish on the reverse side of the brightest coin.
But . . . I am not like her! I may look like her, but inside I am honorable! I am stronger, more determined. The best in me will win out in the end. I know it will. It has to sometimes . . . doesn’t it?
Prologue
In the late evening when the shadows were long, I sat quiet and unmoving near one of Paul’s marble statues. I heard the statues whispering to me of the past I could never forget; hinting slyly of the future I was trying to ignore. Flickering ghostly in the pale light of the rising moon were the will-o’-the-wisp regrets that told me daily I could and should have done differently. But I am what I have always been, a person ruled by instincts. It seems I can never change.
I found a strand of silver in my hair today, reminding me that soon I might be a grandmother, and I shuddered. What kind of grandmother would I make? What kind of mother was I? In the sweetness of twilight I waited for Chris to come and join me and tell me with the true blue of his eyes that I’m not fading; I’m not just a paper flower but one that’s real.
He put his arm about my shoulder and I rested my head where it seemed to fit best, both of us knowing our story is almost over and Bart and Jory will give to both of us, either the best or the worst of what is yet to be.
It is their story now, Jory’s and Bart’s, and they will tell it as they knew it.
PART ONE
Jory
Whenever Dad didn’t drive me home from school, a yellow school bus would let me off at an isolated spot where I would recover my bike from the nearest ravine, hidden there each morning before I stepped onto the bus.
To reach my home I had to travel a winding narrow road without any houses until I came to the huge deserted mansion that invariably drew my eyes, making me wonder who had lived there; why had they deserted it? When I saw that house I automatically slowed, knowing soon I’d be home.
An acre from that house was our home, sitting isolated and lonely on a road that had more twists and turns than a puzzle maze that leads the mouse to the cheese. We lived in Fairfax, Marin County, about twenty miles north of San Francisco. There was a redwood forest on the other side of the mountains, and the ocean too. Ours was a cold place, sometimes dreary. The fog would roll in great billowing waves and often shrouded the landscape all day, turning everything cold and eerie. The fog was spooky, but it was also romantic and mysterious.
As much as I loved my home, I had vague, disturbing memories of a southern garden full of giant magnolia trees dripping with Spanish moss. I remembered a tall man with dark hair turning gray; a man who called me his son. I didn’t remember his face nearly as well as I remembered the nice warm and safe feeling he gave me. I guess one of the saddest things about growing bigger, and older, was that no one was large enough, or strong enough, to pick you up and hold you close and make you feel that safe again.
Chris was my mother’s third husband. My own father died before I was born; his name was Julian Marquet, and everyone in the ballet world knew about him. Hardly anyone outside of Clairmont, South Carolina, knew about Dr. Paul Scott Sheffield, who had been my mother’s second husband. In that same southern state, in the town of Greenglenna, lived my paternal grandmother, Madame Marisha.
She was the one who wrote me a letter each week, and once a summer we visited her. It seemed she wanted almost as much as I did, for me to become the most famous dancer the world had ever known. And thus I would prove to her, and to everyone, that my father had not lived and died in vain.
By no means was my grandmother an ordinary little old lady going on seventy-four. Once she’d been very famous, and not for one second did she let anyone forget this. It was a rule I was never to call her Grandmother when others could overhear and possibly guess her age. She’d whispered to me once that it would be all right if I called her Mother, but that didn’t seem right when I already had a mother whom I loved very much. So I called her Madame Marisha, or Madame M., just as everyone else did.
Our yearly visit to South Carolina was long anticipated during the winters, and quickly forgotten once we were back and safely snuggled in our little valley where our long redwood house nestled. “Safe in the valley where the wind doesn’t blow,” my mother said often. Too often, really—as if the wind blowing greatly distressed her.
I reached our curving drive, parked my bike and went inside the house. No sign of Bart or Mom. Heck! I raced into the kitchen where Emma was preparing dinner. She spent most of her time in the kitchen, and that accounted for her “pleasingly plump” figure. She had a long, dour face unless she was smiling; fortunately, she smiled most of the time. She could order you to do this, do that, and with her smile take the pain from the ordeal of doing for yourself, which was something my brother Bart refused to do. I suspected Emma waited on Bart more than me because he spilled when he tried to pour his own milk. He dropped when he carried a glass of water. There wasn’t anything he could hold on to, and nothing he could keep from bumping into. Tables fell, lamps toppled. If an extension wire was anywhere in the house Bart would be sure to snag his sneaker toes underneath and down he’d go—or the blender, the mixer, or the radio, would crash to the floor.
“Where’s Bart?” I asked Emma, who was peeling potatoes to put in with the roast beef she had in the oven.
“I tell you, Jory, I’ll be glad when that boy stays in school just as long as you do. I hate to see him come in the kitchen. I have to stop what I’m doing and look around and anticipate just what he might knock off or bump into. Thank God he’s got that wall to sit on. What is it you boys do up on that wall, anyway?”
“Nothing,” I said. I didn’t want to tell her how often we stole over to the deserted mansion beyond the wall and played there. The estate was off-li
mits to us, but parents weren’t supposed to see and know everything. Next I asked “Where’s Mom?” Emma said she’d come home early after canceling her ballet class, which I already knew. “Half her class has colds,” I explained. “But where is she now?”
“Jory, I can’t keep my eye on everybody and still know what I’m doing. A few minutes ago she said something about going up to the attic for old pictures. Why don’t you join her up there and help her search?”
That was Emma’s nice way of saying I was in her way. I headed for the attic stairs, which were hidden in the far end of our large walk-in linen closet in the back hall. Just as I was passing through the family room I heard the front door open and close. To my surprise I saw my dad standing stock-still in the foyer, a strange look of reflection in his blue eyes, making me reluctant to call out and break into his thoughts. I paused, undecided.
He headed for his bedroom after he put down his black doctor’s bag. He had to pass the linen closet with its door slightly ajar. He stopped, listening as I was to the faint sound of ballet music drifting down the stairs. Why was my mother up there? Dancing there again? Whenever I asked why she danced in such a dusty place, she explained she was “compelled” to dance up there, despite the heat and dust. “Don’t you tell your father about this,” she’d warned me several times. After I questioned her, she’d stopped going up there—and now she was doing it again.
This time I was going up. This time I was going to listen to the excuses she gave him. For Dad would catch her!
On tiptoe I trailed him up the steep, narrow stairs. He paused directly under the bare electric bulb that hung down the apex of the attic. He riveted his eyes upon my mom, who kept right on dancing as if she didn’t see him there. She held a dustmop in one hand and playfully swiped at this or that, miming Cinderella and certainly not Princess Aurora from The Sleeping Beauty, which was the music she had on the ancient record player.
Gosh. My stepfather’s heart seemed to jump right up into his eyes. He looked scared, and I sensed she was hurting him just by dancing in the attic. How odd. I didn’t understand what went on between them. I was fourteen, Bart was nine, and we were both a long, long way from being adults. The love they had for each other seemed to me very different from the love I saw between the parents of the few friends I had. Their love seemed more intense, more tumultuous, more passionate. Whenever they thought no one was watching they locked eyes, and they had to reach out and touch whenever they passed one another.
Now that I was an adolescent, I was beginning to take more notice of what went on between the most meaningful models I had. I wondered often about the different facets my parents had. One for the public to view; another for Bart and me; and the third, most fervent side, which they showed only to each other. (How could they know their two sons were not always discreet enough to turn away and leave like they should?)
Maybe that was the way all adults were, especially parents.
Dad kept staring as Mom whirled in the pirouettes that fanned her long blonde hair out in a half circle. Her leotards were white, her pointes white too, and I was enthralled as she danced, wielding that dustmop like a sword to stab at old furniture that Bart and I had outgrown. Scattered on the floor and shelves were broken toys, kiddy-cars and scooters, dishes she or Emma had broken that she meant to glue back together one day. With each swipe of her dustmop she brought zillions of golden dustmotes into play, Frenzied and crazy they struggled to settle down before she attacked again and once more drove them into flight.
“Depart!” she cried, as a queen to her slaves. “Go and stay away! Torment me no more!”—and round and round she spun, so fast I had to turn to follow her with my eyes or end up dizzy just from watching. She whipped her head, her leg, doing fouettes with more expertise than I’d seen on stage. Wild and possessed she spun faster! faster! keeping time to the music, using the mop as part of her action, making housework so dramatic I wanted to kick off my shoes and jump in and join her and be the partner my real father had once been. But I could only stand in the dim purplish shadows and watch something I sensed I shouldn’t be watching.
My dad swallowed over the lump which must have risen in his throat. Mom looked so beautiful, so young and soft. She was thirty-seven, so old in years but so young in appearance, and so easily she could be wounded by an unkind word. Just as easily as any sixteen-year-old dancer in her classes.
“Cathy!” cried Dad, jerking the needle from the record so the music screeched to a halt. “STOP! What are you doing?”
She heard and fluttered her slim pale arms in mock fright, flittering toward him, using the tiny, even steps called bourrées. For a second or so only, before she was again spinning in a series of pirouettes around him, encircling him—and swiping at him with her dustmop! “STOP IT!” he yelled, seizing hold of her mop and hurling it away. He grabbed her waist, pinioning her arms to her sides as a deep blush rose to stain her cheeks. He released his hold enough to allow her arms to flutter like broken bird wings so her hands could cover her throat. Above those crossed pale hands her blue eyes grew larger and very dark. Her full lips began to quiver, and slowly, slowly, with awful reluctance she was forced to look where Dad’s finger pointed.
I looked too and was surprised to see two twin beds set up in the portion of the attic that was soon to be under construction. Dad had promised her we’d have a recreation room up here. But twin beds in all this junk? Why?
Mom spoke then, her voice husky and scared. “Chris? You’re home? You don’t usually come home this early . . .”
He’d caught her and I was relieved. Now he could straighten her out, tell her not to dance up here again in the dry, dusty air that could make her faint. Even I could see she was having trouble coming up with some excuse.
“Cathy, I know I brought those bedsteads up, but how did you manage to put them together?” Dad shot out. “How did you manage the mattresses?” Then he jolted for a second time, spying the picnic hamper between the beds. “Cathy!” he roared, glaring at her. “Does history have to repeat itself? Can’t we learn and benefit from the mistakes of others? Do we have to do it all over again?”
Again? What was he talking about?
“Catherine,” Dad went on in the same cold, hard voice, “don’t stand there and try to look innocent, like some wicked child caught stealing. Why are those beds here, all made up with clean sheets and new blankets? Why the picnic hamper? Haven’t we seen enough of that type of basket to last us our whole lives through?”
And here I was thinking she’d put the beds together so she and I could have a place to fall down and rest after we danced, as we had a few times. And a picnic hamper was, after all, just another basket.
I drifted closer, then hid behind a strut that rose to the rafters. Something sad and painful was between them; something young, fresh, like a raw wound that refused to heal. My mother looked ashamed and suddenly awkward. The man I called Dad stood bewildered; I could tell he wanted to take her in his arms and forgive her. “Cathy, Cathy,” he pleaded with anguish, “don’t be like her in every way!”
Mom jerked her head high, threw back her shoulders, and, with arrogant pride, glared him down. She flipped her long hair back from her face and smiled to charm him. Was she doing all of that just to make him stop asking questions she didn’t want to answer?
I felt strangely cold in the musty gloom of the attic. A chilling shiver raced down my spine, making me want to run and hide. Making me ashamed, too, for spying—that was Bart’s way, not mine.
How could I escape without attracting their attention? I had to stay in my hidden place.
“Look at me, Cathy. You’re not the sweet young ingenue anymore, and this is not a game. There is no reason for those beds to be there. And the picnic basket only compounds my fears. What the hell are you planning?”
Her arms spread wide as if to hug him, but he pushed her away and spoke again: “Don’t try to appeal to me when I feel sick to my stomach. I ask myself each day how I can come
home and not be tired of you, and still feel as I do after so many years, and after all that has happened. Yet I go on year after year loving you, needing and trusting you. Don’t take my love and make it into something ugly!”
Bewilderment clouded her expression. I’m sure it clouded mine, too. Didn’t he truly love her? Was that what he meant? Mom was staring at the beds again, as if surprised to see them there.
“Chris, help me!” she choked, stepping closer and opening her arms again. He put her off, shaking his head. She implored, “Please don’t shake your head and act like you don’t understand. I don’t remember buying the basket, really I don’t! I had a dream the other night above coming up here and putting the beds together, but when I came up today and saw them, I thought you must have put them there.”
“Cathy! I DID NOT PUT THE BEDS THERE!”
“Move out of the shadows. I can’t see you where you are.” She lifted her small pale hands, seeming to wipe away invisible cobwebs. Then she was staring at her hands as if they’d betrayed her—or was she really seeing spiderwebs tying her fingers together?
Just as my dad did, I looked around again. Never had the attic been so clean before. The floor had been scrubbed, cartons of old junk were stacked neatly. She had tried to make the attic look homey by hanging pretty pictures of flowers on the walls.
Dad was eyeing Mom as if she were crazy. I wondered what he was thinking, and why he couldn’t tell what bothered her when he was the best doctor ever. Was he trying to decide if she was only pretending to forget? Did that dazed, troubled look in her terrified eyes tell him differently? Must have, for he said softly, kindly, “Cathy, you don’t have to look scared. You’re not swimming in a sea of deceit anymore, or helplessly caught in an undertow. You are not drowning. Not going under. Not having a nightmare. You don’t have to clutch at straws when you have me.” Then he drew her into his arms as she fell toward him, grasping as if to keep from drowning. “You’re all right, darling,” he whispered, stroking her back, touching her cheeks, drying the tears that began to flow. Tenderly he tilted her chin up before his lips slowly lowered to hers. The kiss lasted and lasted, making me hold my breath.
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 85