In my ears was John Amos’s voice, telling me what to do. I spoke as in a dream: “Once long ago there was a man in London called Jack the Ripper, and he killed prostitutes. I kill strumpets too, and bad sisters who don’t know right from wrong. Momma, I’m going to show you how God wants you to be punished for committing incest.”
Trembling and looking weak as a white rabbit, too scared to move, she stood with Cindy held in her arms, and waited as I stalked her . . . closer, closer, jabbing with my knife.
“Bart,” she said, her voice stronger, more under control, “I don’t know who has been telling you stories, but if you harm me or Cindy, God will have his revenge on you—even if the police don’t lock you up, or put you in the electric chair.”
Threats. Empty threats. John Amos had already told me a boy my age could do anything he wanted and the police couldn’t do a thing to stop or punish him.
“Is that man you live with your brother? Is he?” I yelled. “Tell me a lie and you’ll both die.”
“Bart, calm down. Don’t you know it will soon be Christmas? You don’t want to be put away and miss all the toys Santa Claus will put under the tree for you.”
“No Santa Claus!” I shrieked, even more furious—did she think I believed in that nonsense?
“You used to love me. All your life you have held back telling me so in words, but I could see it in your eyes. Bart, what has changed you? What have I done to make you hate me? Tell me so I can change, so I can be better.”
Look at that, trying to win me moments before her death . . . and her redemption. God would feel pity for her when she was butchered, humiliated in every way possible.
Squinted my eyes and raised my razor-sharp blade that my grandmother had not given me—it had been a gift from John Amos, given shortly after that old witch Marisha came.
“I am the dark angel of the Lord,” I said in my quivering old voice, “and I am here to deal out justice, for mankind has not yet discovered your sins.”
Swiftly she moved Cindy and turned her body so the little girl wouldn’t be injured when I thrust. Then, while I was watching what she was doing, her right leg shot out and caught my wrist with a hard kick. The knife went flying. I ran to get it, but she moved quicker and kicked the knife under the counter. I threw myself down to feel for it, and in that time she must have put Cindy on the floor, for suddenly she was on top of me, twisting my arm behind me. With a handful of my hair in her other hand, she made me stand up.
“Now we’ll see who is boss, and who will be punished.” She shoved and dragged me, and never released my arm or my hair, as she forced me into my room and threw me on the floor. Quicker than I could scramble to my feet, she slammed the door and I heard the key turn. I was locked in.
“You whore, let me out. You let me out or I’ll set this house on fire. And we’ll burn, all burn, burn.”
I heard her raspy breathing as she panted, leaning on my closed bedroom door. I tried to find the stash of matches and candles I’d stored in my room. Gone. All my matches, all my candles, even the cigarette lighter I’d stolen from John Amos.
“Thief!” I roared. “Nothing in this house but thieves, cheats, whores, and liars! All of you after my money too! You think I’ll die today, tomorrow, next week, or next month—but I’ll live to see you dead, Momma! I’ll live to see every last one of the attic mice dead!”
Down the hall she sped. I heard the clickity-clack of her satin mules. I’d scared myself; now I didn’t know what to do. Hadn’t John Amos told me to wait until Christmas night, so everything would coincide with the other fire in Foxworth Hall. Do it the same way, only differently.
“Momma,” I whispered, down on my knees and crying, “I didn’t mean none of that mean stuff. Momma, please don’t go away and leave me alone. Don’t like to be alone. Don’t like what’s happening to me, Momma. Why did you have to go and pretend you were married to your brother? Why couldn’t you just have lived with him and us, and been decent?” I sobbed, afraid of what I could be when I felt mean.
She didn’t need to lock the door when she had Cindy with her, did she? Never could she trust me to do the right thing. But that must be because she couldn’t help herself either, no more than me. She was born bad and beautiful, and only through death could God redeem her sinful soul. I sighed and got up to do what I could to save her from the mess she’d made of her life, and ours. “Momma!” I yelled, “unlock my door! I’ll kill myself if you don’t! I know all about you now, what you and your brother are doing—the people next door told me everything about your childhood. And your book told me the rest. Unlock my door, if you don’t want to come in and see me dead.”
She came to my door and unlocked it, staring down in my face, even as she wiped her nose and ran her hand through her hair. “What do you mean the people next door told you everything? Who are the people next door?”
“You’ll find out when you see her,” I said smugly, all of a sudden mean again. Drat that Cindy she had to hold on to all the time. Was me she gave birth to, not Cindy. “There’s an old man over there too, he knows about you and your attic days. Just go over and talk to them, Momma, and you won’t feel so happy to have a daughter anymore.”
Her mouth gaped open as a wild look of horror came to her blue eyes and made them look dark, dark. “Bart, please don’t tell me lies.”
“Never tell lies, not like you do,” I said, watching as she began to tremble so much she almost dropped Cindy. Pity she didn’t. But it wouldn’t hurt if she just fell to the carpeted floor.
“Now you stay here and wait for me,” she said as she headed for the coat closet. “For once in your life do as I say. Sit down and watch TV—eat all the candy you want—but stay in this house and out of the rain.”
She was going next door. I felt panicky inside, afraid she wouldn’t come back. Afraid she wouldn’t be saved, afraid maybe after all, this wasn’t a game John Amos was playing, not a game after all. But I couldn’t speak. For God was on the side of John Amos—he’d have to be since he wasn’t sinning.
Dressed in her warmest white winter coat, wearing white boots, Momma picked up Cindy, who was dressed warmly too. “Be a good boy, Bart, and remember always I love you. I’ll be back in less than ten minutes, though heaven only knows what that woman in black can know about me.”
I flicked a quick shamed glance at her pale, worried face. Momma was gonna crack up when she met my grandmother, who was her own mother. Momma was gonna end up in a straightjacket and I’d never see her again.
Why wasn’t I glad that already God was punishing her, beginning her redemption? My head ached again. My stomach felt queasy. Legs didn’t want to obey, but had a leaden weight of their own that knew their mind. Pulling me along with them to the coat closet as Momma slammed the front door behind her.
Momma, my soul was crying, don’t go and leave me alone. Don’t like to be alone. Nobody will love me but you, Momma, nobody will. Please don’t go over there—don’t let John Amos see you. Shouldn’t have said anything. Should have known you wouldn’t stay here where it was safe. I pulled on my coat and raced to the front windows to watch her carrying Cindy into the wind and cold rain. Just as if she, a mere woman, could face up to God and his black wrath.
Soon as she was out of sight I slipped outside and began to follow her. Did this new coat mean she really did love me? No, said the wise old man in my brain, didn’t mean anything. Gifts, toys, games, and clothes were easy things to give—things that all parents gave their children even when they were about to feed them arsenic on sugared doughnuts. Parents held back what was most important, security.
I sighed wearily, hoping someday, somewhere, I’d find the mother who would stay forever, the mother who was right for me—who would always understand I was doing the best I could.
Outside, the wind blew my slicker against my body and drove the rain into my face. About ten yards ahead I could see Momma was having a rough time attempting to hold Cindy, who was trying to wiggle free and run
back home as she screamed: “Don’t like rain! Take me home! Momma, don’t wanna go!”
Trying to comfort her while she kept her footing and at the same time trying to keep the hood over her hair, she finally gave up efforts to keep herself dry and settled for keeping Cindy as dry as possible. Soon her hair was pasted down flat to her head, as flat to her head, as flat as my hair was by now, for never never would I slip a hood over my head—made me scared to look in a mirror.
Momma slipped on the mud that was being washed down from the hills, and she almost lost her footing. But she caught herself and rebalanced. Cindy screamed and beat at her face with small fists. “HOME! I WANT HOME!”
Ran fast, for she wasn’t looking backward. All her concentration was on the winding road ahead. “Stop fighting me, Cindy!”
High walls. Iron pickets. Strong gates. Magic boxes to speak into. Small voice coming back—and hear the wind blow. Privacy didn’t mean nothing to God and the wind, not nothing at all.
Heard my momma’s voice as she shouted to be heard above the shriek of the wind and rain: “This is Catherine Sheffield. I live next door and Bart is my son. I want to come in and talk to the lady of the house.”
Silence, only the wind.
Then my momma was calling out again: “I want to see her, and if I have to climb this fence I’ll do just that. I’m coming in, one way or another—so open the gates and save me the trouble.”
I stood back and waited, gasping as if my heart truly did hurt. Slowly, slowly, the wide black iron gates swung open.
For a moment I wanted to shriek out, NO! Don’t walk into a trap, Momma! But I really didn’t know if there was a trap at all. I was just afraid that, between John Amos and the Malcolm that was inside of me, nothing good would come of Momma’s venture into my grandmother’s house. Quickly I ducked inside the gates just before they clanged softly closed. Sounded like prison doors.
She trudged on ahead, all the while Cindy was screaming and crying. By the time they reached the door both seemed soaked to the skin, for I was, and I’d had two hands to hold my slicker together.
Up the stairs Momma stumbled, clasping Cindy, who was still trying to kick free. She lifted the loose jaw of the brass lion’s head and banged loud.
John Amos had been expecting her, for he swung one side of the double doors open immediately and bowed very low, as if admitting a queen. Ran, ran then as fast as I could so I wouldn’t miss a thing. Quickly into the side door, and down the corridor to the dumbwaiter—hoping that she’d be in that room, for behind the potted palms was not such a secure place. Jory had found me there once, and it could happen again.
I crawled into the dumbwaiter after I dropped my coat on the floor, then slid open the door just a slot. Momma was probably still in the foyer taking off her wet coat and muddy white boots.
Then she appeared in the doorway, minus her coat and boots. I hadn’t even had the time to check and see if my grandmother was in her rocking chair—but she was there all right.
Stiffly she rose, facing my momma, hiding her trembling hands behind her back, the veil hiding most of her face as it hid all of her hair.
Something small, weak, and young inside of me wanted to cry as I saw Momma step into “her” room, still carrying Cindy, only Cindy’s outer clothes had been taken off. She was completely dry, while Momma’s hair stuck to her face and head like strings. Her flushed face looked so feverish I again wanted to cry. What if God struck her dead this second? What if death by hellfires was what He really wanted?
“I’m sorry to burst in on you like this,” said my momma. I’d thought she’d pitch right into her. “But I must have a few answers to my questions. Who are you? What is it you tell my youngest son? He’s told me terrible things he claims you told him. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me, so what can you tell him but lies?”
So far my grandmother hadn’t said a word. She kept staring at Momma, then at Cindy.
My grandmother gestured toward a chair, then inclined her head as if to say she was sorry. Why didn’t she speak?
“What a lovely room,” said Momma, glancing around at all the fine furniture. There was a troubled look in her eyes, even her smile seemed forced. She put Cindy on her feet and tried to hold on to her hand, but Cindy wanted to explore and see all the pretty things.
“I’m not going to stay any longer than necessary,” Momma went on, keeping an eye on Cindy, who had to touch everything. “I have a severe cold and want to be home in bed, but I must find out just what you have been telling my son so he comes home and says terrible things. And doesn’t respect me as his mother. When you can explain, Cindy and I will leave.”
Grandmother nodded, keeping her eyes lowered, like she truly was some Arab woman. I guessed from the odd way Momma kept looking at her she was thinking this was a foreigner of some kind who didn’t understand our good English.
Momma sat down uninvited near the fire, as Cindy came to perch on the raised hearth near her legs.
“This is an isolated area, so when Bart comes home and tells me the lady next door has told him this and that, I knew it had to be you. Who are you? Why are you trying to turn my son against me? What have I ever done to you?” Her questions went on and on, for the woman in black wouldn’t speak. Momma leaned forward to peer more closely at Grandmother.
Was Momma suspicious already? Was she so smart she could tell despite the disguise of the black veil, the long loose black dress? “Come now, I’ve given you my name. Be courteous enough to tell me yours.”
No answer, just a shy nod of the black veiled head.
“Oh, I think I understand,” said Momma with a perplexed frown. “You must not speak English.”
The woman shook her head again. Momma’s frown deepened. “I truly don’t understand. You seem to understand what I say, yet you don’t answer. You can’t be mute or you wouldn’t have been able to tell my son so many lies.”
Time was ticking away loudly. Never heard the clock on the marble mantle tick so loud before. My granny just rocked on and on in her chair, like she’d never speak or raise her head.
Momma was beginning to be annoyed. Suddenly Cindy jumped up and raced to pick up a porcelain kitty. “Cindy, put that down.”
Obeying reluctantly, Cindy carefully replaced the cat on the marble table. The minute the cat was out of her hands, Cindy looked around for something else to do. She spied the archway to the next room and ran that way. Jumping to her feet, Momma hurried to prevent Cindy from roaming. Cindy had a way, like me, of wanting to examine everything—though she didn’t drop things as often as I did.
“Don’t go in there!” cried out my grandmother, as she too stood up.
As if stunned, my mother slowly turned around, Cindy forgotten. Her blue eyes widened and the color drained from her face as she kept staring at the woman in black who couldn’t keep her nervous hands from straying up to the neckline of her black dress. Soon she had the rope of pearls and was twisting them between her fingers.
“Your voice, I have heard it before.”
Grandmother didn’t speak.
“Those rings on your fingers, I’ve seen them before. Where did you get those rings?”
Helplessly my grandmother shrugged and quickly released the pearls, which dropped down out of sight under her black robe. “Pawn shop,” she said in a strange, raspy, foreign way. “Bargain.”
Momma’s eyes narrowed as she continued to stare at the woman who wasn’t a stranger. I sat breathless, wondering what would happen when she knew. Oh, Momma would find out. I knew my mother couldn’t be so easily fooled.
As if her knees were suddenly weak, Momma sank down on the nearest chair, unmindful that her clothes were still wet, unmindful that Cindy had wandered into the other room.
“You do understand a little English, I see,” she said in a quiet slow way. “The moment I walked into this room, it was as if the clock had been turned backward, and I was a child again. My mother had the same taste in furnishings, the same choice
of colors. I look at your brocade chairs, your cut velvet ones, the clock on your mantelpiece, and all I can think of is how very much my mother would have approved of this room. Even those rings on your fingers look like the rings she used to wear. You found them in a pawn shop?”
“Many women like this type of room . . . and jewelry,” said that lady in black.
“You have a strange voice . . . Mrs. . . . ?”
Another shrug from the black figure.
Momma got up again and went into the other room to fetch Cindy. I held my breath. The portrait was in there. She’d see it. But she must not have looked around, for in another second she was back, pulling Cindy and standing close to the fireplace, keeping a tight hold on Cindy’s hand.
“What a remarkable home you have. If I closed my eyes I could swear I was looking at Foxworth Hall as I saw it from the balcony.”
Dark, dark were the eyes of my grandmother.
“Are you wearing pearls? I thought I saw pearls when you were fiddling around your neck. Those rings are so beautiful. You show your rings, why not your pearls?”
Again another shrug from Grandmother.
Dragging Cindy along with her, Momma stepped closer to the woman I didn’t want to think of as my grandmother anymore. “As I stand here all sorts of memories come flooding back,” said Momma. “I remember a Christmas night when Foxworth Hall burned to the ground. The night was cold and snowy, yet it lit up like the Fourth of July. I yanked all the rings from my fingers and hurled the diamond and emerald jewelry into the deep snow. I thought no one would ever find it—but Madame, you are wearing the emerald ring I threw in the snow! Later Chris picked up all that jewelry because it belonged to his mother! His precious mother!”
“I am sick too. Go away,” whispered that forlorn figure in black, standing in the middle of her room, avoiding the rocking chair that might trap her.
But she was already trapped.
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 112