No, whispered a sly voice in my head, they don’t let pretty ladies die in electric chairs when clever lawyers can call killers insane. They were locked in pretty palaces tucked away in green hills. That crazy woman was the same one my daddy had to visit each summer. The mother of my momma too. Oh, the sins of my momma and daddy piled clear up to the sky. Certainly God was gonna punish them now—and if he didn’t, Malcolm would see that I did.
Went to bed that night and tried to sleep. But I kept thinking. Daddy was really Momma’s brother—and that made him really my uncle, and Jory’s uncle. Oh, Momma, you are not the saint or angel Jory thinks you are. You tell him not to do this, and not to do that with Melodie, and all the time you keep going into the bedroom with your brother and closing the door. Telling us never to enter when that door was shut without knocking first. Shame, shame! Privacy, always needing privacy to do what brother and sister should never do. Incest!
Wicked, both of them, just as wicked as I was sometimes. Just as wicked as Jory wanted to be with Melodie, with other girls—doing all the shameful things Eve did with Adam after she bit into the apple. Doing those horrible things the boys whispered about in the restrooms. Didn’t want to live with them no more. Didn’t want to love Momma or her brother.
Jory knew too. I knew Jory knew too—he was gonna go crazy like Momma thought I was. But I was finally gaining sense, good sense, like Malcolm’s. The children of incestuous parents deserved to suffer as I was being made to suffer, as Jory was suffering. Cindy has to suffer too, even if she was too young and dumb to know big words like “incest.”
Yet, yet, why did I keep praying for God not to let tomorrow come? What was I gonna do tomorrow? Why did I want to die tonight, and save myself from doing even worse than “incest”?
Another breakfast to eat. Hated food that tasted nasty. Stared down at the tablecloth that would soon be soiled when I accidently knocked something over. Jory looked as lost as I felt.
Days came, days went, and nobody was happy. Dad walked about looking sick. I guessed he knew we knew, and Momma knew too. Now neither one of them could meet our eyes or answer Jory’s questions. I never asked any. I heard Momma one day rapping on Jory’s locked bedroom door. “Jory, please let me in. I know you overheard when Madame M. was here—let me try to explain how it was. When you understand you won’t hate us.”
Yes he would. I’d read that damn book. Wasn’t fair for life to cheat us by not giving us honorable parents.
Thanksgiving Day, and ole hateful ugly Madame M. showed up when she should never have had the nerve to accept any invitation. Momma shouldn’t have given her one. I thought she was gloating when she watched Dad carve the turkey and not once did he smile, and then she was looking at Momma, whose eyes were red and swollen. Crying, she’d been crying. Served her right. Didn’t like turkey anyway, wasn’t nearly as good as chicken. Daddy asked me what meat I liked, dark or white. I scowled, not answering, thinking his voice was so husky he must have a cold, but he didn’t cough or sneeze, and his eyes didn’t look weak like mine when I had a cold. And Daddy was never sick.
Only Emma was happy, and Cindy, hateful Cindy.
“Come, come,” said Emma with a big cheerful smile that wouldn’t do any good, “it’s time for rejoicing!—for giving thanks for our many blessings, including having a new daughter to sit at our table.”
Revolting to hear that.
Silently Dad picked up his carving knife and fork again, no smiles, and even I stared at him for forgetting to give me the thigh. I looked at Momma, who seemed upset though I could tell she was trying to pretend everything was still all right. She ate a bite or two of her meal, then jumped up and ran from the dining room. Down the back hall I heard her bedroom door slam. Daddy excused himself, saying he had to go and check on her.
“Good Lord, what’s wrong with everybody?” asked Emma while ole Madame Marisha sat on silently, looking glum too. She was part of it all. I glared at her, hating her, hating my own grandmother even more—hating everybody and Cindy too, and all the time thinking maybe Emma had done some evil too by keeping her mouth shut and letting all this sinning go on under her long nose. Jory tried to laugh and smile, teasing Cindy to make her laugh and eat. But I knew he was bleeding deep down in his heart, just as I was bleeding, crying for my real daddy who died in that fire. And maybe Jory was crying for his real daddy, whom Momma hadn’t loved nearly enough because all the time she had a brother who loved her too much.
I wished I hadn’t found out. Why did Momma have to go and write that book? I wouldn’t really have believed anything John Amos told me about her, for I’d thought he was a liar, a pretender, like me. Now I knew he was the only truthful person in the whole world, the only one who respected me enough to tell the truth.
Sobbing, I got up and left the table, glancing at Cindy, who was sitting on Jory’s lap and laughing as she played with some little toy he’d given her. Never gave me anything. Nobody but a lying-black-witch-grandmother who didn’t count gave me gifts . . . nobody.
Then, there came a Sunday when Momma didn’t seem to feel so “wretched,” maybe because she thought Madame M. was gonna leave us alone, and maybe even go back East where she belonged. I knew then Momma could pretend too, like me, like she and Daddy pretended in their marriage game.
I hid in the shadows near her open bedroom door and watched her go down on her knees in prayer. Silent prayers. Wondered if God ever listened.
Back in the family room I crouched in my corner and began to light matches one by one, holding the flames so close to my face I could feel the heat. How awful it was gonna be to be purified and redeemed by fire. How awful it had been when my real daddy’s soul went up in black smoke. And I was just a tiny thing then, hiding in my momma’s womb, called an “embryo” and not Bart, and maybe I’d even been a girl then too, worst of all.
Wish Daddy wouldn’t tell me so much about things I didn’t want to understand.
My head began to ache. Made my hand that held the match shake so much I dropped the match. Quickly I had to snuff it out before someone smelled the carpet burning. They’d blame me, like they always blamed me, not even knowing Jory was outside doing something perhaps just as bad.
What was it John Amos kept saying? “Your mother made all the bad things happen. Every one of the bad things was her fault—that’s the way of women, especially beautiful women. Evil through and through, tricky, sinful beautiful women, out to steal from men.”
Yeah, I thought, my momma, my grandmother, all tricky beautiful sinful women. Telling me lies, hiding from me who she really was, showing me her portrait when she was young and beautiful, seducing my real father when he was too young for her anyway. My head ached more. Darn dratted Momma had done the same thing to my real daddy.
I sighed, thinking I’d better get on with my own business of being the angel of the Lord, sent to act in Malcolm’s stead. After all, I was his great-grandson, and getting almost as smart as him. Acted like Malcolm more and more, making my bones feel tired; making my muscles sore and aching, getting the true feel of being old like Malcolm had been when he was wisest. Though it did get painful to make my heart throb so fast. Disgusted with all women, all. Had to fix them all, everyone. Momma thought I didn’t know, thought only Jory knew . . . but I’d been there too when old Madame Marisha shrilled out loud enough for everyone to hear and I’d read her book.
Head hurt worse. Didn’t know who I was anymore. Malcolm? Bart? Yeah, was Malcolm now, bad heart, weak legs, thinning hair, but so damned clever and wise.
Stupid daughter, hiding her four children on the second floor and thinking I wouldn’t find out sooner or later. Fool. She should have known John would tell me everything. She should have known so many things she ignored, or forgot. So, she thinks I’m going to die soon, and I’ll never climb the stairs, but why should I when John will do that for me. Spy, I told John, spy on my daughter, see what she does when she’s out of my sight. She thinks I’m going to die soon, John, and I’ll ch
ange my will and write her back in, but I’ll have the last laugh. She’s not going to inherit all my hard-earned money. Jingle, jingle, jingle, hear the money in my pockets, like music, the best kind of music. Never too old to outsmart all of them, never too old—and I’ll win as I always win in the end.
Shuffling my feet along, I headed for their bedroom which smelled of their evil acts of love. I paused just outside their closed door. Inside I felt like a little boy who was quietly sobbing, but I had to be Malcolm—the stronger, older, wiser part that was me. Where were the blue-misted mountains? This wasn’t a great house sitting high on a hillside. Where were the servants, the grand ballroom, the winging staircases?
Confused, so confused. Head ached worse. Knee began to throb. Back pained, heart was going to have an attack.
“Straighten up there, Bart,” said that man who was really my uncle. Scared me. Made me jump and grow more confused. “You’re too young to be hobbling around like an old man, Bart. And your knee is just fine.” He gave me a friendly pat on my head and opened the door to his bedroom, where I could see my mother was waiting for him in the bed, her eyes wide open and staring up at the ceiling. Was she crying? Had he just come home from those hateful hospitals with all their germs?
“I hate you!” I whispered fiercely, trying to stab him with the glare of my eyes. “You think you are safe, don’t you? You think a doctor can’t be punished—but God has sent the black angel of his wrath to see that you and your sister are punished for the evil you have done!”
He froze on the spot and stared at me as if he’d never seen me before. Defiantly I glared back. He closed the door to his bedroom and led me down the hall so she wouldn’t hear. “Bart, you go to visit your grandmother every day, don’t you?” His face looked troubled, but he kept his voice soft and kind. “You have to learn not to believe everything you hear. Sometimes people tell lies.”
“Devil’s spawn!” I hissed. “Seed planted in the wrong soil to create Devil’s issue.”
This time he grasped my arm tightly it hurt, and he shook me. “Never let me hear you say that again! You are never to mention any of this to your mother. If you do, I’ll burn your bottom so hard you may never sit down again. And the next time you see that woman next door, you remind her that it was she who planted all the seeds and started the flowers growing. Watch her face when you speak . . . and then guess who is the evil one.”
I shrank back, didn’t want to hear what he had to say. I ran off, bumping into a hall table, upsetting an expensive lamp that toppled to the floor.
In my room I fell on my bed, shaking all over, panting and gasping for breath. In my chest was that awful throbbing pain that made iron bands tighten about me, squeezing me, wanting to shut off my air.
Felt like toothpaste being squeezed from the bottom, then I was rolled up tight as a coil. Painfully I rolled over on my back and stared up at the ceiling as I started to cry. Huge fat tears slid off my face to wet my pillow. If I wet the bed for any other reason I’d get spanked for ten years old was too old for such baby-doings.
Did I want to be ten, or eighty? Who was making me be so old? God? Was it those children hiding in the attic, laughing, laughing, making the best out of the worst that was driving me to prove Malcolm was smarter and they’d never get away even after he was put in the ground.
Momma’s gone and left me.
Left me for good this time.
Momma’s gone and left me,
Now I don’t know how to end what I’ve begun . . .
Fell asleep and tossed around. The little boy kept right on crying as the old man hurled him in the trashcan so soon I’d be dumped outside the city limits—fit only for burning.
For sinners of sinners, those born of incest, they had to be punished too, even me, even me who was dying in the trash-can.
Rage of the Righteous
The rain came down like bullets fired by God. I stood at the back windows and watched the rain batter the faces of those marble statues, punishing them for being naked and sinful. I waited for Jory to come home and look for me.
Bad. We were both bad from living with parents who weren’t supposed to be parents.
Behind me Momma came in from a shopping spree, all rosy-cheeked and laughing, shaking the rain from her hair, greeting Emma like everything was okay. She dumped her parcels in a chair, took off her coat, and said she felt she might be catching a cold.
“I hate it when it rains, Emma. Hello, Bart—I didn’t see you there until now. How’ve you been? Lonesome for me?”
Wouldn’t answer. Didn’t have to talk to her now. Didn’t have to be polite, nice, or even clean. Could do anything I wanted. They did. God’s rules didn’t mean anything to them. Meant nothing now to me either.
“Bart, it’s going to be so nice this Christmas,” said Momma, not looking at me but at Cindy, who needed more new clothes. “This will be our first Christmas with Cindy. The best kind of families always have children of both sexes, and in that way boys can learn about girls, and vice versa.” She hugged Cindy closer. “Cindy, you just don’t know how lucky you are to have two wonderful older brothers who will absolutely adore you as you grow up into a real beauty—if they don’t adore you already.”
Boy, if she only knew. But like Malcolm had said, beautiful women were dumb. I looked into the kitchen at Emma, who was not beautiful and never could have been. Was she wiser? Did she see through me?
Emma’s eyes lifted and met mine. I shivered. Yes, drab women were smarter. They knew the world wasn’t beautiful just because they had hold of beauty for a while.
“Bart, you haven’t told me what you want Santa Claus to bring you.”
I stared hard at her. She knew what I wanted most. “A pony!” I said. I took out the pocketknife Jory had given me and began to pare my nails. That made Momma stare at me, then her eyes moved to Cindy’s short hair that was just beginning to look pretty again.
“Bart, put that knife away. It makes me nervous. You might accidently cut yourself.” She sneezed then, then sneezed again and again. Always her sneezes came in threes. She pulled tissues from her purse to wipe her nose, then blow it. Contaminating my nice clean air with her filthy cold germs.
Jory didn’t come home until way after dark, soaked and miserable-looking as he stalked into his room and slammed his door. I grinned as I saw Momma frown. So, now her darling didn’t love her either. That’s what came of doing wrong.
Still the rain came down. She looked at me, her eyes large, her face pale, her hair a tangle all around her face, and I knew some men would think her beautiful. I yanked a hair from my head and held one end between my teeth as I pulled with one hand to stretch it taut. Easily my knife sliced it in two. “Good knife,” I said, “sharp as a razor for shaving. Good for cutting off legs, arms, hair . . .” I grinned as she looked scared. Powerful. I felt so powerful. John Amos was right. Women were only timid, fearful imitations of men.
Rain came down harder. The wind blew it around the house and made howling noises. Cold outside, dark and cold. All night it rained, next morning it was still coming down. Emma drove away just because it was Thursday and she couldn’t miss a visit with a friend. “You take it easy now, ma’am,” she said to Momma in the garage. “You don’t look well. Just because you don’t have a fever doesn’t mean you won’t come down with something. Bart—you behave yourself and don’t make trouble for your mother.”
I left the garage and went into the kitchen, and somehow or other my arm that was really a plane wing knocked several breakfast dishes to the floor. I saw my bowl of cereal with raisins, little bugs on a creamy sea . . .
“Bart, you did that deliberately!”
“Yes, Momma, you always say I do everything on purpose. This time I let you see how right you are.” I picked up my glass of milk, hardly touched, and hurled it at her face. It missed her by inches, for she was quick to dodge.
“Bart, how dare you do that. When your father comes home I’m going to tell him, and he’ll punish
you severely.”
Yeah, already I knew what he’d do. He’d spank my behind, give me a lecture on obedience and having respect for my mother. And his spanking wouldn’t hurt. His lecture wouldn’t be heard. I could tune him out and Malcolm in.
“Why don’t you spank me, Momma? Come on . . . let me see what you can do to hurt me.” I held my knife in position, ready to jab it if she dared to move closer.
Was she going to faint? “Bart, how can you act so ugly when you know I don’t feel well today. You promised your father you would behave. What have I done to make you dislike me so much?”
I grinned meaningfully.
“Where did you get that knife? That’s not the knife Jory gave you.”
“The old lady next door gave it to me. She give me everything I ask for. If I told her I wanted a gun, a sword, she’d get them, for she’s like you are—weak, so eager to please me, when there isn’t a woman alive who will ever please me.”
Real terror was in her eyes now. She moved closer to Cindy, who was still in her highchair, making a big mess with her graham cracker and her glass of milk, dipping in the cracker until it was mushy, then trying to rush it into her mouth before the mushy part fell off. And she wasn’t scolded.
“Bart, go to your room this moment. Shut and lock the door from the inside, and I’ll lock it from the outside. I don’t want to see you until your father is home. And since you didn’t think enough of your breakfast to eat it, then you don’t deserve any lunch.”
“You can’t tell me what to do. If you dare, I’ll tell the world what you and ‘your husband’ are doing. Brother and sister living together. Living in sin. Fornicating!” (A good “Malcolm” word.)
Staggering, she raised her hands to her face, wiped at her running nose again, stuffed the tissues in her pants pocket, then picked up Cindy.
“What yah gonna do, harlot? Use Cindy for a shield? It won’t work, won’t work, I’ll get the both of you . . . And the police can’t touch me. I’m only ten years old, only ten, only ten, only ten, only ten . . .” and on and on I kept saying that like I was a needle stuck in the same groove.
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 111