“YOU!” cried my mother. “I should have known! There is no other rope necklace of pearls with a diamond butterfly clasp except yours.
“Of course you are sick!” screamed my mother. “What else could you be but sick! I know who you are. Now everything makes sense. How dare you come into my life again. After all you have done to us, you come back again to do more. I hate you. I hate you for everything you have done, but I’ve never had the chance to pay you back. Taking Bart from you wasn’t enough. Now I have the chance to do more.”
Releasing Cindy’s hand, she lunged forward and caught hold of my grandmother, who tried to back away and fight her off. But my mother was stronger. Breathless and excited I watched the two women pull at one another.
My grandmother cringed away from the fierce attack. She didn’t seem to know what to do. Then Cindy let out a howl of fear, and began to cry. “Mommy, let’s go home.”
The door opened and John Amos shambled inside the room. As my mother prepared another attack, he reached out to lay a large knobby hand on my grandmother’s shoulder. I’d never seen him touch her before.
“Mrs. Sheffield,” he began in his whiny-hissy voice, “you were graciously admitted into this house, and now you try to take advantage of my wife, who has not been well for several years. I am John Amos Jackson, and this is my wife, Mrs. Jackson.”
Stunned, Momma could only stare.
“John Amos Jackson,” repeated my mother slowly, savoring the name. “I’ve heard that name before. Why, just yesterday I was rereading my manuscript, and I had to think of a way to change that name slightly. You are the John Amos Jackson who once was a butler in Foxworth Hall! I remember your bald head and how it shone under the chandeliers.” She swiveled about and reached for Cindy’s hand, or so I thought. But instead she snatched the veil from my grandmother’s face.
“Mother!” she screamed. “I should have known months ago it was you. From the moment I entered this house I sensed your presence, your perfume, the colors, the choice of furniture. You had sense enough to cover your face and body in black, but you were stupid enough to wear your jewelry. Dumb, always so damned dumb! Is it insanity, or is it stupidity that makes you think I could forget your perfume, your jewelry?” She laughed, wild and hysterically, spinning around and around so John Amos, who was trying to prevent what she might do, was stumbling, clumsily trying to grab hold of her before she could attack again.
Look at her—she was dancing! All around my grandmother she whirled, flicking out her hand to slap at her—and even as she whipped her legs around, she screamed: “I should have known it was you. Ever since you moved in Bart has been acting crazy. You couldn’t leave us alone, could you? You had to come here and try and ruin what Chris and I have found together—the first time we’ve been happy. And now you’ve ruined it. You’ve managed to drive Bart insane so he’ll have to be put away like you were. Oh, how I hate you for that. How I hate you for so many reasons. Cory, Carrie, and now Bart—is there no end to what you can do to hurt us?” She kicked and hooked her foot behind my grandmother’s knee and threw her off balance, and the moment my grandmother spilled to the floor in a heap of black rags, my mother was on tip of her, ripping at that rope of pearls with its diamond butterfly clasp.
Using both her hands, she forced the knotted string to part, and the pearls scattered all over the Oriental rug that silently swallowed them up.
John Amos roughly seized hold of my momma, and pulled her to her feet. He held her and shook her until Momma’s head rolled. “Pick up the pearls, Mrs. Sheffield,” he ordered in a hard, mean voice that was suddenly very strong. I was surprised that he would handle my mother so cruelly. I knew what Jory would do—he’d run to fight John Amos and save Momma. But me, I didn’t know if I should. God was up there wanting Momma to suffer for her sins, and if I saved her, what would God do to me? Besides, Jory was bigger. And Daddy was always saying everything happened for the best—so this was meant to be, despite the miserable way I felt.
But Momma didn’t need my help after all. She threw back her head and butted her skull squarely against his false teeth. I heard them crack as she whirled free. Then he went after her with more determination. He was gonna kill her, and be the agent of God’s wrath himself!
Quicker than I could move, Momma’s knee came up and caught him squarely in the groin. John Amos screamed, doubled over, clutching at himself as he fell to the floor and rolled about moaning: “Damn you to hell!”
“Damn you to hell, John Amos Jackson!” my momma screamed back. “Don’t you ever touch me again, or I will dig out your eyes.”
By this time my grandmother had gained her feet, and she stood in the center of the room swaying unsteadily as she tried to fit the torn veil over her face again. That’s when my mother’s slap caught her cheek, so Grandmother fell backward into her rocker. “Damn you to hell too, Corrine Foxworth! I hoped never to see your face again. I hoped you’d die in that ‘rest home’ and spare me the agony of looking at you again, and hearing that voice that I used to love. But I’ve never been lucky. I should have known you wouldn’t be considerate enough to die and leave me and Chris alone. You are like your father, clinging desperately to a life not worth living.”
Oh, I hadn’t known before my mother had such a terrible temper. She was just like me. I felt shocked, scared as I watched my mother tackle my old grandmother so her chair tipped over and both of them fell to the floor, rolling over and over as John Amos groaned, maybe never to recover. In a few moments Momma was sitting on top of my grandmother, ripping off all those glittering, expensive rings. Weakly my grandmother tried to defend herself and her jewelry.
“Please, Cathy, don’t do this to me,” she pleaded.
“You! How I’ve longed to see you on the floor, pleading with me as you are. I was wrong a moment ago—this is my lucky day. My chance to have my revenge again for all you’ve done. You watch and see what I do to your precious rings.” She raised her arm, and with one wild gesture she hurled all those rings into the roaring fire. “There, there! It’s done!” cried my momma. “What should have been done long ago on the night Bart died.”
With a gloating expression she ran to pick up Cindy; ran to the foyer closet to yank on Cindy’s coat, and then reached for her own coat and boots she’d pulled off.
John Amos had picked himself off the floor, muttering to himself about Devil’s issue that should have died when she was caged and helpless. “Damned hellcat should have been slaughtered before she could create more Devil’s issue!”
I heard.
Maybe Momma didn’t.
I moved out of the dumbwaiter unseen by my grandmother, who was crying as she sat on the floor in a broken heap.
Momma had on her boots now, her white coat, though she was shivering as she came to the door and looked in on the woman still on the floor. “What did you say, John Amos Jackson? Did I hear you call me a hellcat, Devil’s issue? Say that again to my face! Go on, say it to me now! Now that I’m an adult and not a frightened child anymore. Now that my legs and arms are strong and yours are weak. Don’t think you can do away with me so easily now—for I’m not old, and I’m not weak, and I’m not scared anymore.”
He headed her way, holding in his hand a poker he must have taken from the fireplace. She laughed, seeming to think he was a fool and an easy enemy. Quickly she dodged, then shot out her good leg and kicked his bottom hard so he feel prone his face, screaming out his rage as he fell.
I was screaming too. This was wrong! This was not the way John Amos and I had planned for God to have his revenge. He wasn’t supposed to hurt her.
Momma saw me then. Her blue eyes widened, her face paled, and she seemed to crumple. “Bart.”
I whispered, “John Amos told me all the things I had to do.”
She whirled on my grandmother. “Look what you have done. You have turned my own son against me. And all the time you get by with everything, even murder. You poisoned Cory, poisoned Carrie’s mind so she had
to kill herself, killed Bart Winslow when you sent him back into the fire to save the life of a wretched old woman who didn’t deserve to live—and now you poison the mind of my son against me. And you escaped justice by pleading insanity. You weren’t insane when you set fire to Foxworth Hall. That was the first clever stunt you pulled in your life but this is my time for revenge.” And with those words she raced to the fireplace, picked up the small shovel for ashes, pushed aside the firescreen, and began to pull red hot coals from the fire onto the Oriental rug.
As the rug began to smoke, she called to me, “Bart, put on your coat, we’re going home, and we’ll move so far away she’ll never find us, never!”
I screamed. My grandmother screamed. But my mother was so busy buttoning up Cindy’s coat she didn’t see that John Amos had the poker in his hand again. As I froze, my lips parted to scream a warning again—the poker came down on her head. She slumped quietly to the floor like a rag doll.
“You fool!” cried my grandmother. “You may have killed her!”
Things were happening too fast. Everything was going wrong. Momma wasn’t supposed to be hurt. I wanted to say this, but the face of John Amos was twisted, his lips snarled as he advanced on my grandmother.
“Cathy, Cathy,” she pleaded, down on her knees and cradling my mother’s head, “please don’t die. I love you. I’ve always loved you. I never meant for any of you to die. I nev—”
The whack was so hard she slumped over the body of my mother. Rage was in my head. Cindy was screaming. “John Amos!” I yelled. “That wasn’t in God’s plan!”
He turned, smiling and confident. “Yes, it was, Bart. God spoke to me last night and told me what to do. Didn’t you hear your mother say she was going far-far away? She wouldn’t take a bothersome boy like you with her, would she? Wouldn’t she put you away first in some institution? Then she’d go, and never would you see her again, Bart. Just like your great-grandfather, you’d be abandoned forever. Just like your grandmother you’d be locked up, and you’d never see her again either! That’s the cruel way life treats those who try to do their best. And it’s me, only me who is trying to take care of you and see you escape confinement worse than prison.”
Prison, prison, so much like poison.
“Bart, are you listening? Have you heard? Do you understand I’m doing what I can to save both of them for you?”
I started at him; didn’t really understand anything. “Yes, Bart, instead of one. You will have two souvenirs.”
Didn’t know what or who to believe. I stared down at the two women on the floor, my momma, my grandmother who had fallen crosswise over the slight body of my momma. It came over me in an overwhelming flood—I loved those two women. I loved them more than I’d known I had. Wouldn’t want to stay alive if I lost one, much less two. Were they as evil as John Amos had said? Would God punish me if I kept them from being “redeemed” by fire?
And there he was in front of me, John Amos the only one who had been fully honest with me from the beginning, telling me from the start who my real daddy was, who my real grandmother was, who Malcolm the wise and clever was.
I looked into his small narrow eyes for instructions. God was behind John Amos or else he wouldn’t have lived to be so old.
He smiled and chucked me under the chin, and I shivered. Didn’t like people to touch me when I couldn’t even feel the touch.
“Now listen to me carefully, Bart. First you are to take Cindy home. Then you make her swear not to tell anything or you will cut out her little pink tongue. Can you make her promise?”
Numbly I nodded. Had to make Cindy promise.
“You won’t hurt my momma and my grandmomma?”
“Of course not, Bart. I’ll just put them away where they’ll be safe. You can see them whenever you want. But not one word to that man who calls himself your father. Not one word. Remember he, too, will take you away from your home and have you locked up. He thinks you’re crazy too. Don’t you know that’s why they keep taking you to shrinks?”
I swallowed; my throat hurt. Didn’t know what to do.
John Amos knew. “Now, you go home with Cindy, keep the brat quiet, lock yourself in your room, play dumb, know nothing. And remember . . . you threaten that kid sister so horribly she’ll be scared to let out a squeak.”
“She’s not my kid sister,” I whispered weakly.
“What’s the difference?” he snarled irritably. “You just do as I say. Follow instructions, as God wants men to believe in him unquestioningly—and never let out to your brother or your father that you know his secret, or that you have any idea where your mother went. Play dumb. You should be good at that.”
What did he mean? Was he making fun of me?
I knitted my brows and turned on my brows and turned on my best glower, and imitated Malcolm. “You hear this, John Amos. The day you can outsmart me will be the day the earth sits on the head of a pin, and I swallow it. So don’t you mock me, and think I’m dumb . . . for in the end, I’ll win. I’ll always win, dead or alive.”
Power swelled up huge within me. Never felt so stuffed full of brains. I looked down at the two women I loved. Yes, God had planned for it to happen this way, give me two mothers to keep forever as my own . . . and I’d never be lonely again.
* * *
“Now, you keep your mouth shut, and don’t tell Daddy or Jory one word or I’ll cut out your tongue,” I said to Cindy when we were home and in our kitchen together. “Do you want your tongue cut out?”
Her small face was wet with rain and tears, streaked with dirt too. Her lips gaped and her eyes bulged, and whimpering like a baby, she allowed me to put on her pajamas and put her in bed. I kept my eyes closed all the time so none of her girl’s body would shame me into hating her more.
Where’s Momma?
There was somebody I had to tell off. Somebody who seemed to have started a tornado that was going on forever and ruining our lives. Dad and I had talked about it a lot, but things were still very tense and I was so confused. Why did she have to come and start all this? Finally I could hold in my anger no longer, and as soon as ballet class was over, I raced to Madame’s office.
“I hate you, Madame, for all the mean things you said to my mom. Everything’s been terrible ever since that day. You leave her alone from now on, or I’ll go and never come back to see you. Did you fly all the way here just to make her sick? She can’t dance now, and that’s bad enough. If you don’t stop causing so much trouble, I’ll quit dancing too. I’ll run away and you’ll never see me again. For in ruining my parents lives, you have managed to ruin not only theirs, but mine and Bart’s too.”
She paled and looked very old. “You sound so very much like your father. Julian used to blaze his dark eyes at me in the same way.”
“I used to love you.”
“Used to love me . . . ?”
“Yes, used to. When I thought you cared about me, about my parents, then I believed that dancing was the most wonderful thing in the world. Now I don’t believe.”
She looked stricken, as if I’d stabbed her in her heart. She reeled back against the wall and would have fallen if I hadn’t stepped forward to support her. “Jory, please,” she gasped, “don’t ever run away. Don’t stop dancing. If you do, then my life has been meaningless and Georges will have lived for nothing, and Julian too. Don’t take everything from those I have loved and lost.”
I couldn’t speak, I was so confused. So I ran, ran like Bart always ran when things got too heavy.
Behind me Melodie called out: “Jory, where are you going in such a hurry? We were going to have a soda together.”
I ran on. I didn’t care anymore about anyone or anything. My life was all screwed up. My parents weren’t married. How could they be? What minister or judge would marry a brother and his sister?
Once I hit the sidewalk I slowed down, then went on to a public park where I sat down on a green bench. On and on I sat, staring down at my feet. A dancer’s feet. Strong, to
ugh with calluses, ready for the professional stage. What would I do now when I grew up? I didn’t really want to be a doctor, though I’d said that a few times just to please the man I loved as a father. What a joke. Why should I try and lie to myself—there was no life for me without dancing. When I punished Madame, my mother, my stepdad who was really only my uncle, I punished myself even worse.
I stood up and looked around at all the old people sitting lonely in the park, wondering if one day I’d be like them, and I thought, No. I’ll know when to say I made a mistake. When to say I’m sorry.
* * *
Madame M. was in her office, her head bowed down into her thin hands when I opened the door quietly and stepped inside her office. I must have made some noise, for she looked up and I saw tears in her eyes. Joy flooded them when she saw me, but she didn’t mention all that had happened half an hour ago.
“I have a gift for your mother,” she said in her naturally shrill voice. She slid open a desk drawer and withdrew a gold box bound with red satin ribbon. “For Catherine,” she said stiffly, not meeting my eyes. “You are right about everything. I was ready to take you from your mother and father because I felt I was doing the right thing for you. I see now I was doing what I wanted for myself, not for you. Sons belongs with their mothers, not their grandmothers.” She smiled bitterly as she looked at the pretty gold box. “Lady Godiva candy. The kind your mother was nuts about when she lived in New York and was with Madame Zolta’s company. Then she couldn’t eat chocolates for fear of adding weight—though she was the kind of dancer who burned off more calories than most when she danced—still I allowed her only one piece of candy a week. Now that she won’t dance again, she can indulge to her heart’s desire.”
That was Bart’s phrase.
“Mom has an awful cold,” I explained just as stiffly as she had. “Thank you for the candy and what you just said. I know Mom will feel better knowing you won’t try and take me away from her.” I grinned then and kissed her dry cheek. “Besides, don’t you realize there is enough of me to share? If you aren’t stingy, she won’t be. Mom is wonderful. Not once has she ever told me you and she had any difficulties.” I settled down in her single office chair and crossed my legs. “Madame, I’m scared. Things are going crazy in our house. Bart acts weirder each day. Mom is sick with that cold; Dad seems so unhappy. Clover is dead. Emma doesn’t smile anymore. Christmas is coming and nothing is being done about it. If this keeps up, I think I’ll crack up myself.”
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 113