“My knee has not hurt seriously in more than two full years. Have you heard me gripe about pain? No, you haven’t!”
With that, Dad strode from the kitchen, through the utility room, and on into the garage.
In a flash she was running after him, and I was running after her—hoping to hear more of this argument—and hoping she’d win. Then I’d have her for my very own.
“Chris,” she cried, throwing open the passenger door and slipping inside his car, where she threw her arms about his neck. “Don’t go away angry. I love you, respect you, and vow on my word of honor that this will be the very last time I perform. I swear I will never, never dance on stage again. I know why I should stay home . . . I know . . .”
They kissed. Never saw people who liked to kiss so much. Then she was pulling away and looking softly into his eyes, stroking his cheek as she murmured, “This is my first chance to dance professionally with Julian’s son, darling. Look at Jory, how much he resembles Julian. I’ve choreographed a special pas de deux in which I’m the mechanical doll and Jory is a mechanical soldier. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done. I want you out in the audience watching, feeling proud of your wife and son. I don’t want you sitting there worrying about my knee. Honestly, I’ve rehearsed, and it does not hurt!”
She stroked him and kissed him some more, and I could see he loved her more than anything, more than us, even more than himself. Fool! Damned fool to love any woman that much!
“All right,” he said. “But this must be the last time. Your knee cannot take years and years of practice. Even in teaching you use that knee too much, so much so that other joints could become impaired.”
I watched her turn from him and leave the car, her voice so sad when she spoke. “Years ago Madame Marisha told me there would be no life for me without dancing, and I denied this was so. Now I’m going to have the chance to find out.”
Good!
Just the words he needed to hear to make him come up with a new idea. He leaned and called to her: “Cathy, what about that book you said you were going to write? This is a good time to start . . .” He gave me a long look, and I felt like a clear windowpane. “Bart, remember you are very loved. If you feel resentment about anyone, or anything, all you have to do is tell me, or tell your mother. We are willing to listen and do what we can to make you happy.”
Happy? I’d be happy only when he was gone from her life. Happy only when I had her all to myself—and then I remembered that old man . . . two old men. Neither one of them wanted her to stay alive . . . neither one. I wanted to be like them, especially like Malcolm, so I pretended he was in the garage, waiting for Daddy to drive away, and I’d be alone. He liked it when I was alone, when I felt sad, lonely, mean angry . . . and right now he was smiling.
* * *
No sooner had Momma and Jory driven away, shortly after Daddy left, than Emma was at me again, pestering me, hating me.
“Bart, can’t you wipe that blood from your lip? Do you have to keep on biting down? Most people refrain from deliberately hurting themselves.”
What did she know about being me? I didn’t feel pain when I chewed on my lip. Liked to taste the blood.
“I’ll tell you one thing, Bartholomew Scott Winslow Sheffield, if you were my little boy you’d feel the sting of my hand on your bottom. I believe you like to torment people and do every mean thing you can just to gain their attention. It doesn’t take any psychiatrist with ten diplomas to know that!”
“SHUT UP!” I yelled.
“Don’t you dare yell and tell me to shut up. I’ve had all I am going to take from you! You are responsible for all the terrible things going on in this house. You broke that expensive figurine your mother prized. I found it in the trashcan, wrapped in newspaper. You may sit there and scowl at me with your black ugly eyes, but I’m not afraid. You are the one who wrapped that wire around Clover and killed your brother’s pet. You should be ashamed! You’re a mean, hateful little boy, Bart Sheffield, and it’s no wonder you don’t have any friends, no wonder at all! And I’m going to save your parents thousands of dollars when I turn you over my knee and paddle your bottom until it’s black and blue. You won’t sit comfortably for two weeks!”
She towered over me, making me feel small and helpless too. I wanted to be anybody but me, anybody who was strong.
“You touch me and I’ll kill you!” I said in a cold voice. I rose stiffly, planted my feet wide apart, put my hands on the table to steady my balance. Inside I was boiling with rage. I knew now how to turn into Malcolm and be ruthless enough to get what I wanted, when I wanted.
Look at her, afraid now. Now her eyes were big and scared. I curled my upper lip and showed my teeth, then allowed both lips to curl into a sneer. “Woman, get the hell away from me before I lose control of myself!”
Silently, Emma backed away, and then she was running into the dining room, heading for the hall so she could protect Cindy.
* * *
All day I waited. Emma thought I was hiding in my hole in the shrubs, so she left Cindy alone in her sandbox under the shade of a huge old oak tree. Had a pretty little canopy too. Nothing too good for Cindy and she was only adopted.
She tittered when she saw me limping up, as if I looked funny and was only pretending to be an old man. Look at her smile and try to charm me. Sitting there half naked, nothing on but little green and white shorts. She’d grow up, become more beautiful and be like all women, sinfully enticing men to be their worst. And she’d betray the man who loved her, betray her children, too. But . . . but . . . if she were ugly, what man would want her then? Wouldn’t make babies if she was ugly. Wouldn’t be able to charm men then. I’d save all her children from what she’d do later on. Save the children, that was important.
“Barr-tee,” she said, smiling at me, sitting crosslegged so I could see her lacy panties beneath her play shorts. “Play, Barr-tee? Play with Cindy . . . ?”
Plump little hands reached for me. She was trying to “seduce” me! Only two years old and a few months and already she knew all the wicked ways of women.
“Cindy,” called Emma from the kitchen, but I was down low and she couldn’t see me behind the bushes, “are you all right?”
“Cindy’s playing sand castle!” answered little nobody, as if to protect me. Then she picked up her favorite red sand pail and offered it to me—and the red and yellow shovel too.
In my hand I gripped the handle of my pocket knife tighter. “Pretty Cindy,” I crooned softly as I crawled closer, putting a sweet smile on my face that made her giggle. “Pretty Cindy wants to play beauty parlor . . .”
She clapped her hands “Ohhh,” she trilled. “Nice.”
The blonde hair in my hand felt silky and clean. She laughed when I tugged at her hair and took the ribbon from the ponytail. “I’m not going to hurt you,” I said, showing her my pearl-handled knife. “So don’t you scream . . . just sit quietly in the beauty parlor until I’ve finished.”
* * *
In my room I had my list of new words. Had to pronounce them, practice spelling them, and use them at least five times in that same day—and from then on. Had to know big words in order to impress people, make them know I was smarter.
Intimidating. Got that—meant to make people scared of you.
Ultimately—had that down too. Meant sooner or later my time would come.
Sensuous—bad word. Meant thrills you got from touching girls. Had to do away with sensuous things.
Grew tired after a short while of big words I had to learn in order to gain respect. Grew tired of pretending to be Malcolm. But the trouble was, I was losing the real me. Now I wasn’t Bart all the way through. And now that he was slipping away, suddenly Bart didn’t seem nearly as stupid and pitiful as he once had.
I reread a certain page in Malcolm’s book when he was the very same age I was. He’d hated pretty blonde hair like his mother’s, like his daughter’s—but he didn’t know about his little “Corrine” when he wrote:
; * * *
Her name was Violet Blue, and her hair reminded me of my mother’s hair. I hated her hair. We attended the same Sunday school class, and I’d sit in back of her and stare at that hair that would beguile some man someday and make him want her, as that lover had wanted my mother.
She smiled at me one day, expecting a compliment, but I fooled her. I said her hair was ugly. To my surprise she laughed. “But it’s the same color hair you have.”
I shaved off all my hair that day—and the next day I caught Violet Blue and threw her down. When she went home crying, she was as bald as I was.
* * *
All that pretty blonde hair that used to be Cindy’s was blowing on the wind. She was crying in the kitchen. Not because I’d scared her, or hurt her. It was Emma’s shriek that told her something had gone wrong. Now Cindy’s hair looked like mine. Stubby, short, and ugly.
The Last Dance
Jory,” called Mom in relief when she saw me come in, “thank God you’re back. Did you enjoy your lunch?”
Sure, I said, fine lunch, and she didn’t pay much attention if I didn’t elaborate, for she was much too busy with last-minute details. This was the way it went on performance days: class in the morning, rehearsal in the afternoon, and the performance at night. Rush, rush, rush, all the while making yourself believe the world would stop turning if you didn’t dance your role to the best of your ability. When the world wouldn’t stop . . .
“You know, Jory,” gushed Mom happily in the dressing room we were sharing—she was behind a screen, and we really couldn’t see one another—“all my life the ballet has thrilled me. But this night will be the grandest of them all because I will be dancing with my own son! I know you and I have danced many times together, but this night is special. Now you’re good enough to dance solo. Please, please, do your best so Julian in heaven can be proud of his only son.”
Sure, I’d do my best, always did. The foots went on, the overture ended; the curtain lifted. There was a moment of silence before the first-act music began. Mom’s kind of music and mine—taking us both to that happy never-never land where anything could happen, even happy endings.
“Mom, you look wonderful—prettier than any of the other dancers!” She did too. She laughed joyfully and told me I certainly knew how to please a woman, and if I kept it up I’d be the Don Juan of the century. “Now listen carefully to the music, Jory. Don’t get so absorbed in counting that you forget the music—that’s the best way to catch the magic, by feeling the music!”
I was so keyed up and tense I’d likely burst in another second or two. “Mom, I hope the father I love best will be sitting front row center.”
That’s when she ran to where she could peek out and see the audience. In certain places the foots didn’t blind my eyes. “He’s not there,” she said dismally, “nor Bart either . . .”
No time for me to answer. I heard my musical cue and danced out with the other members of the corps. Everything went just fine, with Mom up on the balcony as the beautiful doll Coppelia, lifelike enough to inspire love from afar.
But when the first act was over she was left gasping and panting for breath. She hadn’t told Dad she was also dancing the role of the village girl, Swanhilda, who loved Franze even as he fell foolishly in love with a mechanical doll. Two roles for Mom—difficult roles too, as she had choreographed them. Dad certainly would have forbidden her to dance if he had known the full truth about her last dance. Had I been wrong to help her deceive him?
“Mom, how’s your knee feeling?” I asked when I saw her grimace once or twice between acts.
“Jory, my knee is fine!” she said sharply, once more trying to see Dad and Bart in their seats. “Why aren’t they out there? If Chris doesn’t show up to see me dance for the last time, I’ll never forgive him!”
I saw Dad and Bart just before the second act started. They sat in the second row, and I could tell Bart had been brought along forcibly. His lower lip pouted sullenly as he glared at the curtain that would lift and display beauty and grace—and he’d frown more. Beauty and grace did not light up Bart’s life as they did mine.
Third act time. Mom and I danced together, dolls wound up by huge keys attached to our backs. Woodenly we began, limbering up our squeaky joints. The huge room where Dr. Coppelius kept his inventions was mysteriously dim, and made more dramatic by blue lights. I could tell Mom was having trouble, but she didn’t miss a step as we both kept time to the music and turned on all the other mechanical toys that came alive to dance with us. “Mom, are you okay?” I asked in a whisper when we were close enough. “Sure,” she said, still smiling, never doing anything but smiling, for it was supposed to be painted on.
I felt scared for her even as I admired her courage. I knew out in the audience Bart was looking at us, thinking us stupid fools and feeling jealous of our grace.
Suddenly I could tell from Mom’s tight smile that she was in terrible pain. I tried to dance closer, but one of the down dolls kept getting in my way. It was going to happen. I knew it would—just what Dad feared.
Next came a series of whirling pirouettes which would take her in a circle around the stage. To do these she had to know precisely where everyone else was located, and all the props too. When she spun near me I reached out to keep her on balance before she whirled on by. Oh, golly, I couldn’t stand to watch. Then I saw she was going to make it; pain or not, she’d dance without falling. Joyfully now, I bounded into the air and landed on one knee as I playfully proposed marriage to the doll of my dreams. Then my heart jumped. One of the ribbons of her points had come undone!
“Your ribbons, Mom, watch out for your left shoe ribbon!” I called above the music, but she didn’t hear. The dragging ribbon was stepped on by another dancer. Mom was thrown off balance. She put out her arms to steady herself and might have succeeded in doing this—but I saw her painted-on smile turn into a silent shriek of pain as her knee gave way and down she went. Right in the center of the stage.
People in the audience screamed. Some stood up to see better. We on the stage went right on dancing as the manager came out and carried Mom backstage. Her back-up whirled onto the stage, and the ballet went on.
At last the curtain descended. I didn’t wait to take any bows. I couldn’t get to Mom fast enough. Terribly afraid, I raced up to where Dad held her in his arms while ambulance men in white suits were feeling her legs to find out if one or both might be broken.
“Chris, did I do all right?” she was asking, though pain had made her face very pale. “I didn’t really louse up the show, did I? You did see Jory and I in our pas de deux?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, kissing her face all over and looking so tender as he helped lift her onto a stretcher. “You and Jory were magnificent. I’ve never seen you dance better—and Jory was brilliant.”
“And this time I didn’t have to bleed on my feet,” she whispered before she closed her eyes wearily, “I only had to break a leg.”
What she said didn’t make much sense. I turned my thoughts to the look on Bart’s face as he stared at her. He seemed to be glad, almost gloating. Was I being unfair to him? Or was it guilt I saw in his eyes?
I sobbed as Mom was lifted onto a stretcher and put in an ambulance that would drive her and Dad to the nearest hospital. Melodie’s father promised he’d drop me off at the hospital, then drive Bart home safely. “Though I’m sure Melodie wishes it was Jory who’d go home, and Bart who’d insist on staying with his mother in the hospital.”
* * *
Much later Mom awakened from the sedatives given her to stare at the flowers filling her room. “Why, it looks like a garden,” she breathed. She smiled weakly at Dad, stretching out her arms to embrace him and them me. “I know you’re going to say I told you so, Chris. But until I fell, I did dance well, didn’t I?”
“It was your slipper ribbon,” I said, anxious to protect her from his anger. “If it hadn’t loosened you wouldn’t have fallen.”
“My leg isn
’t broken, is it?” she asked Dad.
“No, darling, just torn ligaments and some broken cartilage that was repaired during the operation.” Then he sat on the edge of her bed and gravely told her every detail of her injury, which wasn’t as minor as she wanted to believe.
Mom reflected aloud: “I really can’t understand how that ribbon could come loose. I always carefully sew on the ribbons myself, not trusting anyone else . . .” She paused, staring into space.
“Where are you hurting now?”
“Nowhere,” she flared as if annoyed. “Where’s Bart? Why didn’t he come with you?”
“You know how Bart is. He hates hospitals and sick people, just as much as he hates everything else. Emma’s taking good care of him and Cindy. But we want you home soon, so do what your doctor and nurses tell you—and don’t be so damned stubborn you won’t listen or obey.”
“What’s wrong with me?” she asked, alerted as I was. I sat up straighter, feeling something was about to slam down on all of us.
“Your knee is in bad shape, Cathy. Without going into specifics, you are going to have to sit in a wheelchair until some torn ligaments heal.”
“A wheelchair?” Stunned-looking, she said that like it was an electric chair! “What’s really wrong? You’re not telling me everything. You’re trying to protect me!”
“When your doctors are sure, you will know. But one thing is certain, you can never dance again. And they have told me, too, that you cannot even demonstrate to your pupils. No dancing whatsoever, not even waltzing.” He said it so firmly, but compassion and pain were in his eyes.
She looked stunned, not believing that such a small fall could have done so much harm. “No dancing . . . ? None at all?”
“None at all,” he repeated. “I’m sorry, Cathy, but I warned you. Think back and count the times you have fallen and hurt that knee. How much damage do you think it can take? Even walking won’t be as effortless as it used to be. So cry your heart out now. Get it out of your system.”
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 102