It was a terribly awkward meal, with no one comfortable. Appetites were small, and even Cindy was cross. Emma didn’t speak either, only performed her duties silently. Even the wind that blew incessantly died down and the trees stood still, their leaves hanging as if frozen. All of a sudden it felt so cold, making me think of the graves Bart was always talking about.
I sat wondering how Mom and Dad could force Bart to go to Dr. Oberman’s sessions. How could anyone force him to talk when he could be so darn stubborn? And Dad was busy enough without taking time from his patients—that alone should show Bart who cared enough.
“Going to bed now,” said Bart coldly, standing without asking permission to leave the table. He left the dining room. We sat on, caught in some kind of spell Bart had cast.
Dad broke the silence. “Bart isn’t himself. Obviously something is bothering him so much he can’t even eat. We have to find out what it is.”
“Mom,” I said, “I think if you went in and sat on Bart’s bed first tonight, and stayed a long time with him, and didn’t come in to my room or Cindy’s, that might make up for a lot.”
She gave me a strange, long look, as if not believing it could be that simple. Dad agreed with me, saying it wouldn’t do any harm.
Bart was faking sleep, it was easy to see that. I backed away and stood near Dad in the hallway, in the shadows where Bart couldn’t see us. I was ready to spring forward and save Mom if Bart turned mean. Dad kept a restraining hand on my shoulder, and whispered softly, “He’s just a boy, Jory, a very troubled little boy. A bit smaller than most ten-year-old boys, a bit thinner too, and maybe that’s part of the problem. Bart is having more trouble growing up than most boys do.”
Tensing, I waited for him to say more. “It’s amazing how he could be born with so little grace, when his mother has so much.”
I looked to where Mom stood gazing down on Bart, who looked darkly sullen in sleep—if he was asleep. Then she came running from his room, throwing Dad a wild, distraught look. “Chris, I’m afraid of him! You go in. If he wakes up and yells at me as he did before, I’ll slap him. I’ll feel like putting him in the closet, or up in the attic.” Both her hands rose to clamp over her mouth. “I didn’t mean that,” she whispered weakly.
“Of course you didn’t. I hope he didn’t hear you. Cathy, I think you’d better take two aspirins and go to bed, and I’ll tuck Bart and Jory into bed.” He gave me a big joking smile as I grinned back. Our nighttime talks were the kind of tucking in he gave me . . . advice on how to handle difficult situations. Man-to-man stuff a woman didn’t have to know about.
It was Dad who had the nerve to approach Bart, and he perched with ease on the side of his bed. I knew Bart always slept lightly, and when Dad sat down, the depression he made rolled Bart’s slight figure onto his side. That would awaken even someone like me, who used to sleep deeply and soundly.
Cautiously I stole closer, wanting to see for myself if Bart was faking. Behind his closed lids his eyeballs were jerking spasmodically, as if he watched a tennis game or something much more terrifying.
“Bart . . . wake up.”
As if Dad had fired the words from a giant cannon put near his ears, Bart jolted wide awake. He bolted upright, his dark eyes bulging and terrified. He stared at Dad.
“Son, it’s not eight o’clock yet. Emma has made a lemon pie for dessert that she had to leave in the fridge to set. Don’t tell me you don’t want a slice. It’s a beautiful evening. I used to think, when I was your age, that twilight was the best time of all to play outside. Hide-and-seek, or red light, green light . . .”
Bart stared at Dad as if he spoke in a foreign tongue.
“Come, Bart, don’t sulk alone. I love you, and your mother loves you. It doesn’t matter if sometimes you move less than gracefully. There are other things that count more, such as honor and respect. Stop trying to be what you aren’t. You don’t have to be anyone super-special; in our eyes, you already are super-special.”
Bart just sat on his bed and stared at Dad with hostility. Why couldn’t Dad see him as I did? Could a man as smart as Dad be blind when it came to seeing his son honestly? Had Bart opened his eyes when Mom was in the room, and had she seen the hatred there? She could always see more than Dad, even if he was a doctor.
“Summer’s almost gone, Bart. Lemon pies get eaten by others. What you don’t take today may not be there tomorrow.”
Why was he being so nice to that boy who looked at him with daggers that could kill?
Obediently, when Dad turned to leave the room, Bart tagged along behind him. I was Bart’s unseen shadow. Suddenly Bart ran ahead of Dad, who was on the back porch now, and skipped backward until he nearly tumbled down the steps. “You aren’t my father,” he growled, “and you can’t fool me. You hate me and want me dead!”
Heavily Dad sat in a chair close to the one where Mom was sitting with Cindy on her lap. Bart went to the swings to sit, not pushing with his feet, just sitting and holding fast to the ropes, as if he might fall off the wooden slat.
We all ate a slice of Emma’s delicious lemon pie, all but Bart, who just sat where he was and refused to budge. Then Dad was getting up and saying he had to check on a patient in the hospital. He threw Bart a worried glance and spoke softly to Mom. “Take it easy, darling. Stop looking so troubled. I’ll be home soon. Maybe Mary Oberman isn’t the best psychiatrist for Bart. He seems to have a great deal of hostility toward women. I’ll find another psychiatrist, a man.” He leaned to kiss her upturned face. I heard the soft moist sound of their lips meeting. Then they stared deep into each other’s eyes and I wondered what they saw. “I love you, Cathy. Please stop worrying. Everything will work out fine. We will all survive.”
“Yes,” she said dully, throwing Bart a doubtful look, “but I can’t help worrying about Bart . . . he seems so confused.”
Straightening, Dad cast Bart a long, hard, observant look. “Yes,” he said without doubt. “Bart’s a survivor too. See how fast he clings to the ropes, and he’s less than two feet from the ground. He just doesn’t trust or believe in himself. I think he seeks strength in pretending to be older and wiser; security is in something other than himself. As a ten-year-old boy, he is lost. So it’s up to us to find the right person to help him, even though it seems we cannot.”
“Drive carefully,” she said, as she always did watching him depart with her heart in her eyes.
Very determined to stay up and protect Mom and Cindy, I still found myself growing sleepy. Every time I checked I saw Bart still on the swing, his dark eyes staring blankly into space, as very gently he moved the swing an inch or so, no more than the wind could blow his weight.
“I’m going to put Cindy to bed now, Jory,” Mom said to me, then called to Bart, “Bedtime . . . I’ll be in to see you in a few minutes. Clean your teeth and wash your hands and face. We saved you a slice of lemon pie to eat before you brush your teeth.”
No replay from the swing, but he did get up awkwardly, pausing to glance at his bare feet, stopping to stare at his hands, to finger his pajamas, to glance up at the sky, at the distant hills.
Inside the house Bart wandered aimlessly from object to object, picking one up, turning it over, and staring at the bottom before he set it down. A small Venetian glass sailboat held his attention for a moment, and then he seemed to freeze as his eyes found a lovely porcelain ballerina in arabesque position. It was a figurine my mom had given to Dr. Paul after she married my father; in many ways the dancer was like Mom must have looked when she was very young.
Gingerly he picked up the delicate figure with its fluffy frozen froth of lace tutu and frail, pale arms and legs. He turned it over, stared at the information printed on the bottom. Limoges, it said, for I’d read it too. Next he touched the golden hair, parted in the middle and drawn softly back in waves and held in place with pink china roses.
Then deliberately he let it slip from his hands.
It fell to the bare floor and broke into several lar
ge pieces. I dashed forward, thinking I could glue them back together and maybe Mom wouldn’t notice—but Bart put his foot on the ballerina’s head and ground it fiercely with his bare foot.
“Bart!” I cried out, “that was a hateful thing to do! You know mother prizes that more than anything else. You shouldn’t have.”
“Don’t tell me what I shouldn’t and should do! You leave me alone and say nothing about what you just saw. It was an accident, boy, an accident.”
Whose voice was that? Not Bart’s. He was pretending to be that old man again.
I ran for a broom and a dustpan to clean up the shards of what had been a lovely ballerina, hoping Mom wouldn’t notice she was missing from the shelf.
When I remembered Bart again, I hurried to find him slyly watching Mom as she held Cindy on her lap, brushing her hair.
Mom glanced up and happened to catch Bart watching. I saw her blanch and try to smile, but something she saw made her smile fade before it even shone.
In a flashing streak Bart ran forward and shoved Cindy from Mom’s lap. Cindy squealed as she fell on the floor—then jumped up to howl. She raced to Mom, who picked her up again, then rose to tower over Bart. “Bart, why did you do that?”
He spread his legs and stared up into her face scornfully. Then he left the room without looking back.
“Mom,” I said, as she calmed Cindy down and put her into bed, “Bart’s very sick in his head. You let Dad take him to any shrink he wants, but make him stay there until he’s well.”
I heard her sob, but it wasn’t until later that she broke and cried.
This time it was me who held her; my arms that gave her comfort. I felt so adult and responsible.
“Jory, Jory,” she sobbed, clinging fast to me, “why does Bart hate me? What have I done?”
What could I say? I didn’t know any of the answers.
“Maybe you should try to figure out why Bart is so different from me, for I would die rather than make you unhappy.”
She held me, then stared into space. “Jory, my life has been a series of obstacles. I feel if one more horrible thing happens, I may break . . . and I can’t allow that to happen. People are so complicated, Jory, especially adults. When I was ten, I used to think that adults had it so easy, with all the power and rights to do as they wanted. I never guessed being a parent was so difficult. But not you, darling, not you . . .”
I knew her life had been full of sadness, losing her parents, then Cory, Carrie, my father, and then her second husband.
“The child of my revenge,” she whispered as if to herself. “All the while I carried Bart I suffered from the guilt I felt. I loved his father so much . . . and in a way I helped kill him.”
“Mom,” I said with sudden insight, “maybe Bart senses your guilt when you look at him—do you think?”
PART THREE
Malcolm’s Rage
Sunlight fell on my face and woke me up. When I was dressed, suddenly I didn’t feel so old like Malcolm, and in a way I was glad. In another way I was sad, for Malcolm was so dependable.
Why didn’t I have friends my own age, like other boys? Why was it only old people liked me? It didn’t matter now that my grandmother had said she loved me, now that she’d stolen Apple. I had to face up to the fact that only John Amos was my true friend.
Went outside and crawled around before breakfast, sniffed at the ground, smelled the wild things that were scared of me in daylight. Little rabbit ran like crazy and I wouldn’t hurt it, wouldn’t.
They kept watching me at the breakfast table like they expected me to do something awful. I noticed that Daddy didn’t ask Jory how he was today, only asked me. I scowled down at my cold cereal. Hated raisins! Looked like little dead bugs.
“Bart, I just asked you a question.”
Knew that already. “I’m okay,” I said without looking at Daddy, who always woke up in a good mood and never looked glum like me—and Momma. “I just wish you’d hire a really good cook. Or better if Momma would stay home and cook our meals like other mothers. Emma’s stuff ain’t fit for man nor beast to eat.”
Jory stared at me hard and kicked my leg under the table like he was trying to warn me to keep my mouth shut.
“Emma didn’t cook your cold cereal, Bart,” said Daddy. “It comes that way in a box. And until this morning you always liked plenty of raisins. You used to want Jory’s. But if raisins offend you in some way this morning, don’t eat them. And why is your lower lip bleeding?”
Was it? Doctors were always seeing blood ’cause they were always cutting up people.
Jory took it on himself to answer. “He was playing wolf this morning, Dad, that’s all. I guess when he jumped at the rabbit and tried to bite off its head, he bit himself.” He grinned at me as if pleased with my stupidity.
Something was up. Could tell because nobody asked why I would play wolf. They just looked at me as if they expected me to act crazy.
Heard Momma and Daddy whispering beyond the pantry—taking about me. Heard doctors mentioned, new head shrinks. Wouldn’t go! Couldn’t make me!
Then Mom was back in the kitchen talking to Jory as Daddy went on to the garage and started his car.
“Mom, are we really going through with the performance tonight?”
She threw me a troubled glance, then forced a smile and said, “Of course. I can’t disappoint my students, their parents, and the other guests who have already bought their tickets.”
Fools and their money were soon parted.
Jory said, “I think I’ll call Melodie. Yesterday I told her the show might be canceled.”
“Jory, why would you tell her that?”
He looked at me, as if I were to blame for everything, even shows that weren’t canceled—and I wouldn’t go. Not even if they remembered to ask me. Didn’t want to see sissy-silly ballet where everybody danced and said nothing. They weren’t even going to dance Swan Lake, but the dumbest, dullest ballet of all—Coppelia.
Daddy came back in the house then, having forgotten something as usual. “I guess you’ll be the prince,” he said to Jory, who turned on him with scorn.
“Gosh, Dad, don’t you ever learn? There isn’t a prince in Coppelia! Most of the time I’m only in the corps, but Mom will be terrific in her role. She’s choreographed it herself.”
“What are you saying?” roared Daddy, turning to glare at Momma. “Cathy, you know you’re not supposed to dance on your trick knee! You promised me you would never dance professionally again. At any moment that knee could give way, and down you’d go. One more fall and you may end up crippled for life.”
“Just one more time,” she pleaded, as if her whole life depended on dancing again. “I’m going to be only the mechanical doll, sitting in a chair—don’t get so worked up over nothing.”
“No!” he stormed again. “If you go on tonight and don’t fall, then you’ll think your knee is fine. You’ll want to repeat your success, and one more time might see your knee permanently damaged. Just one serious fall and you could break your leg, your pelvis, your back . . . it’s happened before, you know that!”
“Name every bone in my body!” she shrilled back at him, and I was thinking, thinking: If she broke her bones and couldn’t dance again, then she’d have to stay home with me all the time.
“Honestly. Chris, sometimes you act like I’m your slave! Look at me. I’m thirty-seven years old, and soon I’ll be too old to dance at all. Let me feel useful, as you feel useful. I have to dance—just one more time.”
“No,” he repeated, but less firmly. “If I give in it won’t be the last time. You’ll want to do it again . . .”
“Chris, I’m not going to plead. There is not a student I have capable of playing the role—and I am going on whether or not you like it!” She threw me a glance, as if she worried more about what I thought than what he thought. I was happy, very happy . . . for she was going to fall! Deep inside of me I knew I could make her fall with my wishes. I’d sit in the audien
ce and give her the evil eye; then she’d be my playmate. I’d teach her how to crawl around and sniff the ground like a dog or an Indian, and she’d be surprised at all that could be found out from sniffing.
“I am not talking of a trifling injury, Catherine,” said that hateful husband. “All your life you have given your joints a great deal of stress and disregarded the pain. It’s time you started realizing that the good health of your family depends on your well-being.”
I scowled at Dad, sorry he’d forgotten something and had to come back and hear too much. Mama didn’t even seem surprised he’d forgotten his wallet again, and he was a doctor who was supposed to have a good memory. She gave him his wallet, which had been left beside his breakfast plate, and smiled at him crookedly. “You do this every day. You go out to the garage, start your car, and then remember you don’t have your wallet.”
His smile was just as crooked as hers. “Yes, of course I do. It gives me the opportunity to come back and hear all the things you don’t tell me.” He stuffed the wallet in his hip pocket.
“Chris, I don’t like to go against your wishes, but I can’t allow a second-rate performance, and it’s Jory’s big chance to show off in his solo . . .”
“For once in your life, Catherine, listen to what I say. That knee has been x-rayed, you know the cartilage is broken, and you still complain of chronic pain. You haven’t danced on stage for years. Chronic pain is one thing—acute pain another. Is that what you want?”
“Oh, you doctors!” she scoffed. “All of you have such dreary notions of how frail the human body is. My knee hurts, so what? All my dancers complain of aches and pains. When I was in South Carolina, the dancers complained, in New York they complained, in London . . . so what is pain to a dancer? Nothing, doctor, absolutely nothing I can’t put up with.”
“Cathy!”
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 101