“Hah!” she snorted, back to her old self. “Life is always like that—twenty minutes of misery for every two seconds of joy. So, be everlastingly grateful for those rare two seconds and appreciate; appreciate what good you can find, no matter what the cost.”
My smiles were false. Underneath I was truly depressed. Her cynical words didn’t really help. “Does it have to be that way?” I asked.
“Jory,” she said, thrusting her old pastry-dough face closer to mine, “think about this. If there were no shadows, how could we see the sunlight?”
I sat there in her gloomy office and allowed this kind of sour philosophy to give me some peace. “Okay, I get your meaning, Madame. And if you can’t say you are sorry, then I can.”
She whispered as if it hurt, “I’m sorry too.”
I hugged her close, and we had come to some sort of compromise.
* * *
All the way home I held the gold box of chocolates on my lap, dying to open it. “Dad,” I began falteringly, “Madame is sending Mom this candy as a reconciliation gift, I guess.”
He threw me a glance and a smile. “That’s nice.”
“I think it’s terribly strange Mom is staying sick with that cold for so long. She’s never been sick more than a day or two. Don’t you think she looks very tired?”
“It’s that writing, that damned writing,” he grouched, watching the heavy traffic, turning on the windshield wipers, leaning forward to peer more closely at the traffic signal to the right. “I wish it would stop raining. Rain always bothers her. Then she’s up till four in the morning, next day up at dawn to scribble on legal pads, afraid to use the typewriter for fear of waking me. When the candle is burned at both ends something has to give—and that’s her health. First that fall, now this cold.” He gave me another sideways glance. “Then there’s Bart and his problems, and you and yours. Jory, you know our secret now. Your mother and I have talked it over, and you and I have talked about it for hours and hours. Can you forgive us? Haven’t I managed to help you understand?”
I bowed my head and felt ashamed. “I’m trying to understand.”
“Trying? Is it that difficult? Haven’t I told you how it was with us, up there, all four of us in one room, growing up, finding out in our adolescence that we had only each other . . .”
“But, Dad. When you ran away and found a new home with Dr. Paul, couldn’t you have found someone else? Why did it have to be her?”
Sighing, he set his lips. “I thought I explained to you how I felt then about women. Your mother was there when I needed her. Our own mother had betrayed us. When you’re young you fix very strong ideas in your mind. I’m sorry if you’ve been hurt by my inability to love anyone but her.”
What was there for me to say? I couldn’t understand. The world was full of beautiful young women, thousands, millions. Then I thought of Melodie. If she were to die could I go out and find another? I thought and thought about that as Dad turned silent and his lips stayed in that grim line, and the rain came down, down, driving hard. It was as if he could read my mind. For yes, if ever I was so unfortunate to lose Melodie, if she moved away and I never saw her again, I’d go on living, and eventually I’d find another to take her place. Anything was better than—
“Jory, I know what you’re thinking. I’ve had years and years to think about why it had to be my sister and no one else. Perhaps it was because I’d lost faith in all women because of what our mother was doing to us and only my sister could give me comfort. She was the one who kept me from falling apart during those long years of deprivations. She was the one who made of that one room a whole house. She was a mother to Cory and Carrie. She made that room seem a home, making the table pretty, making the beds, scrubbing clothes in the bathroom tub, hanging them in the attic to dry, but more than anything, it was the way she danced in the attic that made me love her, and put her in my heart forever. For it seemed as I stood in the shadows and watched her, she was dancing only for me. I thought she was making me the prince of her dreams, as I made her the princess of mine. I was romantic then, even more so than she. Your mother is made of different stuff than most women, Jory. She could live on hate and still flourish, I couldn’t. I had to have love or die. When we escaped Foxworth Hall, she flirted with Paul, wanting him to take her from me. She married your father when Paul’s sister, Amanda, told her a lie. She was a good wife to your father, but after he was killed she ran to the mountains of Virginia to complete her plans for revenge, which included stealing her mother’s second husband. As you have found out, Bart is the son of my mother’s husband, and not the son of Paul as we told you and told him. We had to tell lies then, to protect you. Then, after your mother married Paul, and he died, she came to me. During all those years I waited, I somehow knew eventually she’d be mine as long as I held fast to my faith, and kept the flame of my first love burning. It was so easy for her to love other men. It was impossible for me to find any woman who could compare. She took me for her own when I was about your age, Jory. Be careful whom you love first, for that is the girl you will never forget.”
I let out a long withheld breath, thinking that life was not at all like fairy tale ballets or TV soap operas. Love did not come and go with the seasons as I’d kinda hoped it would.
The drive home seemed to take forever. Dad was forced to drive very slowly and carefully. From time to time he flicked his eyes to the dashboard clock. I stared out of the windows. Everywhere there were Christmas decorations. Through picture windows I saw gaily lit Christmas trees. Longingly I stared at the windows we passed, seeing everything in that smeary way that made scenes ten times more romantic in the rain. I wished it was last year. I wished we had the happiness that had seemed so permanent then. I wished that old woman next door had never come into our lives and messed up what I thought was perfect. I wished too that Madame M. had never flown here to snoop in their lives, and reveal all their secrets better left hidden. Worst of all, those two women had destroyed the pride I had for my parents. Try as I might, I still resented what they were doing, what they had done, risking scandal, risking ruining my life and Bart’s, Cindy’s too, and all because one man couldn’t find another woman to love. And that one woman must have done something to keep him faithful and hoping.
“Jory,” began Dad as he turned into our driveway, “from time to time I hear your mother complain about chapters she’s misplaced. Your mother isn’t the kind of woman to be careless in any important work project. I’m presuming you’ve been slipping her completed chapters out of her desk drawer and reading them . . .”
Should I tell him the truth?
Bart was the one who first stole pages from her script. And yet my sense of morality hadn’t kept me from reading them too. Though as yet I hadn’t read to the end. For some reason I couldn’t force myself to read beyond the time when first a brother betrayed his sister by forcing himself upon her. That this man beside me could rape his own sister when she was only fifteen was beyond my comprehension, beyond my ability to sympathize no matter how desperate his need had been, or what the circumstances had been to drive him to commit such an unholy act. And certainly she shouldn’t tell the whole world.
“Jory, have I lost you?”
I slowly turned my eyes his way, feeling sick and weak inside, wanting to hide from the torment I plainly saw on his face. Yet I couldn’t say yes—or no.
“I guess you don’t need to answer,” said Dad in a tight way. “Your silence gives your answer, and I’m sorry. I love you as my own son, and I hoped you loved me enough to understand. We were going to tell you when we thought you were old enough to empathize with us. Cathy should have locked her first drafts in a drawer and not trusted two sons to remain uninterested.”
“It’s fiction, isn’t it?” I asked hopefully. “Sure, I know it is. No mother could do that to her own children . . .” and I threw open the passenger door and was racing to the house before he could answer.
My lips parted to call out to Mom. T
hen I shut my mouth and said nothing. It was easier for me to avoid her.
Usually when I came home I dashed out into the garden and ran around, doing practice leaps and positions, and on rainy days like this, I spent more time at the barre. Today I threw myself in front of the television set in the family room, pushed the remote control button, and lost myself in a silly but entertaining soap opera.
“Cathy!” called Dad as he came in, “where are you?”
Why hadn’t he sung out, “Come greet me with kisses if you love me?” Did he feel silly, guilty saying that now that he knew we knew where that line came from?
“Have you said hello to your mother?” he asked as he came in.
“Haven’t seen her.”
“Where’s Bart?”
“Haven’t looked for him.”
He threw me a pleading look, then went on into the bedroom he shared with his “wife.”
“Cathy, Cathy,” I could hear him calling, “where are you?”
A few seconds later he was in the kitchen behind me, checking there—and not finding her. He began to race around from room to room, and finally banged on Bart’s locked door. “Bart, are you in there?”
First a long silence, then came a reluctant, surly reply, “Yeah, I’m in here. Where else would I be with the door locked?”
“Then unlock it and come out.”
“Momma locked me in from the outside so I can’t come out.”
I sat on, immersing myself in the show, keeping myself detached, wondering how I was going to survive and grow up normally when I felt so unhappy.
Dad was the type to have duplicate keys to everything, and soon Bart was out and undergoing a third degree. “What did you do to cause your mother to lock you up and then go away?”
“Didn’t do nothin!”
“You must have done something that made her furious.”
Bart grinned at him slyly, saying nothing. I looked their way feeling anxious and scared.
“Bart, if you have done anything to harm your mother, you won’t get out of this lightly. I mean that.”
“Wouldn’t do nothing to hurt her,” said Bart irritably. “She’s the one always hurtin me. She don’t love me, only Cindy.”
“Cindy,” said Dad, suddenly remembering the little girl, and away he strode to her pretty room. He showed up minutes later with her.
“Where is your mother, Bart?”
“How do I know? She locked me up.”
Despite myself, I was losing my ability to stay uninvolved. “Dad, Mom left her car in the garage a few days ago, and Madame drove us home the rest of the way, so she couldn’t have gone far.”
“I know. She told me—something wrong with her brakes.” He threw Bart a long scrutinizing look. “Bart, are you sure you don’t know where your mother is?”
“Can’t look through solid doors.”
“Did she tell you where she was going?”
“Nobody ever tells me nothin.”
Suddenly Cindy piped up: “Mommy went out in rain . . . rain got us all wet . . .”
Bart whirled around to stab her with his glare. She froze and began to tremble.
Smiling, Dad picked up Cindy again and sat down to hold her on his lap. “Cindy, you’re a lifesaver. Now, think back carefully and tell me where Mommy went.”
Trembling more, she sat staring at Bart and unable to speak.
“Please, Cindy, look at me, not Bart. I’m here, I’ll take care of you. Bart can’t hurt you when I’m here. Bart, stop scowling at your sister.”
“Cindy ran out in the rain, Daddy, and Momma had to chase outside and catch her, and then she came in dripping water, and coughing, and I said something, and she got mad at me and shoved me in my room and slammed the door.”
“Well, I guess that explains Cindy’s tangled hair,” said Dad. But he didn’t look relieved. He put Cindy on her feet and began to make a series of phone calls to all Mom’s friends, and Madame Marisha. My grandmother said she’d drive right over.
Then he was talking to Emma, who couldn’t return until tomorrow because of the storm. I thought of my grandmother on the road, trying to drive here in the downpour. Even in perfect weather, she wasn’t what I’d call a safe driver.
“Dad, let’s check all the rooms, even the attic,” I said, jumping up and running toward the linen closet. “She may have gone up there to dance like she does sometimes, and accidently locked herself in, or fallen asleep on one of those beds . . . or something.” I concluded this lamely, thinking he was looking at me in an odd way.
When Dad started to follow me up the attic stairs, Cindy let out a loud wail of fright. Quickly he returned to the hall and picked her up as if to take her with us. Bart pulled out a new pocketknife and began to whittle on a long tree branch. It seemed he was going to skin off all the tree bark and make a smooth switch. Cindy couldn’t take her eyes off of that knife or switch.
Dad, Cindy, and me looked all over our house, in the attic, in the closets, under the beds, everywhere. Mom was nowhere to be found. “It’s just not like Cathy to do anything like this,” Dad said worriedly. “Especially I know she wouldn’t leave Cindy alone with Bart. Something is very wrong.”
Yeah, I thought, if there was a fish in the house, it was watching us and whittling away on a limb that should be used on his bare bottom.
“Dad,” I whispered as he stood in the middle of his bedroom again, looking around with bleak eyes, “why don’t we presume Bart knows where she’s gone? He’s not the most honest kid ever born. You know how crazy he’s been acting lately.”
We set off together, Dad still carrying Cindy, and hunted now for Bart. Now we couldn’t find him. He was gone.
Dad and I stared at each other. He shook his head.
I stared around, knowing Bart had to be hiding behind a chair, or was crouched down low in some corner that was dim, or perhaps out in the rain, acting like an animal.
But the storm was getting worse. His cave in the hedges wouldn’t keep him dry. Even Bart had more sense than to stay out in the cold and wet.
My thoughts in a turmoil, I felt wild inside, like the storm. I hadn’t done anything to deserve all this trouble—yet I was in the midst of it, suffering along with Dad, with Mom, with Cindy . . . and maybe Bart, too.
“Are you hating me now, Jory?” asked Dad, looking at me squarely. “Are wheels churning in your head saying your mother and I brought this all on ourselves and we deserve to pay the price? Are you thinking you shouldn’t have to pay any price? If that’s what you’re thinking, I’m thinking the same thing. Maybe your mother’s life would have turned out better, and yours and Bart’s too, if I had gone away and left her to live in Paul’s home until she found another man. But I still loved her. I love her now, tomorrow and forever. God help me for not being able to think about life without her.”
Dully I turned away. So that was what everlasting burning love was like, destroying everything that got in its way.
On my bed I lay down and sobbed.
Finally, I sat I up and wondered again where Mom was. For the first time it really hit me—she might be in danger. She wouldn’t leave Dad. Something terrible must have happened or she’d be here, setting the table as she did every Thursday when Emma had her day off. Thursdays were very special to them for reasons I was just beginning to understand.
Thursday, the day the maids of Foxworth Hall went into the city. Thursday, the day Mom and Dad could climb out the attic dormer window and lie on the roof and talk, and as they talked, as they looked at each other in their high and lonely place, they fell mindlessly, uncontrollably in love.
For now I knew why Mom had married one man after another. Trying always to escape the sinful love she felt too.
I got up. Decided. It was up to me find Bart.
When I found Bart, I’d find my mother.
My Attic Souvenirs
In the huge kitchen of the mansion John Amos had everything under control. The maids and cook were scurrying about. “M
adame had to leave early,” he told them. “Now you are to pack up what clothes she’ll need for her trip to Hawaii, and be quick about it. Lottie, I want you to drive her bags to the airport and put them on the plane. Don’t just stand there and stare at me with your blank face looking so stupid. You understand English. Do as I say!”
Boy, he could act mean when he wanted to. They scattered like scared birds, one this way, one that, and then we were alone and he was grinning at me with his cracked teeth. “How did your end go?”
Just like the movies, him and me. I swallowed over some lump that stayed in my throat and wouldn’t go away. “They don’t know where Momma is. They’re worried, and keep asking, where is she?”
“Never mind about them,” he said in his funny old voice that made me wonder why God had chosen him for such a special job, “I’ll take care of everything until God sends his signal that your mother and grandmother have been redeemed, and saved from hellfires. You just go home and keep quiet.”
Fire in my mind, growing bigger, hotter. “You told me my momma would be my attic souvenir. And now you won’t even tell me where you put her. I’ve looked in the attic and they’re not up there. You tell me where they are, or I’ll go home and tell my daddy what you’ve done.”
“What I’ve done?” he asked with a curling sneer. “It’s what you have done, Bart Winslow Sheffield. Do you think for one moment, with your violent psychiatric history that you can be believed and not blamed? The law will take you and find you guilty, and you will be locked away.”
When he saw the red Malcolm anger in my eyes he tried to smile. “Come now, Bart, I was only testing you, trying to see if you’d break and lose your courage. But you’re strong and full of the righteous power, the same as your great-grandfather, Malcolm. Every power he had you have. And now is your chance to use those powers. For now you’ll be in charge of the adults—your mother and grandmother. You will control their lives, and feed them—if you will—or let them starve if you are so inclined. But you have to be careful. You must keep them a secret until . . . well, remember always your father and brother will be suspicious, and they may betray you if you give them the least hint of what you’re up to.”
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 114