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!

by Andrews, V. C.

  People always suspected me. If something was broken it was always my fault. If the toilet stopped up and overflowed it was always because I’d thrown down too much paper. If Momma lost her jewelry, that was my fault too. Whatever bad thing happened in our house, they said it was my fault. I’d show ’em now how wrong it was for them not to love me.

  “Bread and water,” I said. “Bread and water is good enough for women who are unfaithful to husbands and sons.”

  “Fine, fine,” mumbled John Amos.

  Down, down the narrow cellar steps John Amos led me, carrying a small flashlight. Made eerie shadows on the walls, felt clammy. Long time ago when this house belonged to Jory and me we’d found every nook, every cranny. But this was where ghosts lived, where I’d never felt comfortable, so I stayed close at the heels of John Amos, terrified if he moved more than a yard ahead of me. “They’ll look down here,” I whispered, scared of waking up things that might be sleeping.

  “No, they won’t look where I have them hid,” answered John Amos. He chortled. “Your father will be sure they are in the attic, and why not? That would be the perfect revenge. But they’ll never-never find the snug little cage the workmen made when they put up a new brick wall to reinforce the wine cellar.”

  Wine cellar. Didn’t sound nearly as good as the attic. Wasn’t nearly as scary, but it was very cold and dark down here.

  John Amos began brushing away spiderwebs, then he shoved old furniture aside, and finally came to a board door that was very hard to open. “Now you go in and peek through the little door at the bottom of that door over there,” he said. “We used to have a stray kitten your grandmother took in, but it disappeared shortly after you started coming over here. She had me cut this little door in the larger one so the cat could come and go when it wanted to.”

  With the flashlight held beneath his chin be looked like something dead and dug up. Didn’t trust him not to slam the door shut behind me, and I’d never be able to wiggle through that little kitty door.

  “No. You go in the wine cellar first,” I ordered like Malcolm would. For a moment he didn’t move. Maybe he thought I might slam the door behind him. Then he gave me a long look before he went slowly into the wine cellar. He put the flashlight on one of the wine racks while he tugged and tugged at the back rack holding many bottles of dusty ole wine bottles.

  Finally it creaked open. Smelled bad in there. I held my nose and stared, and then stared some more. John Amos held his flashlight high so I could see the two women prisoners better.

  Oh, oh. Momma, Grandmother—how pitiful my momma looked, lying on the damp concrete with her head held on my grandmother’s lap. Both of them raised their hands to shield their eyes from the bright light come so suddenly into their dark evil cell. I could barely see, it was so dim.

  “Who is it?” asked my momma weakly. “Chris, is that you? Have you found us?”

  Was my momma blind now? How could she think John Amos was my daddy? If my momma went blind and crazy too, would God think that enough punishment?

  My grandmother spoke up. “John, I know that’s you. You let us out of here this minute. Do you hear me—let us out immediately.”

  John Amos laughed.

  I didn’t know what to do, but Malcolm came in my brain and told me. “You give me the key, John Amos,” I ordered sternly. “You go up the stairs and let me give the prisoners their bread and water.”

  Wonder why he obeyed? Did he really think I was as strong as Malcolm? I watched until he was out of sight, then I ran to bolt another door so he couldn’t sneak up behind me.

  Feeling more like Malcolm than like Bart, I crept on my hands and knees, shoving along the silver tray with its half loaf of bread, and its silver pitcher of water. It didn’t seem to me funny to be serving prison meals from a silver tray, for that’s the way my grandmother always did things, elegantly.

  Big door was shut now. It appeared only another of the wine shelves full of dusty old bottles. Flat on my stomach I reached under the lower shelf and opened the little door that would swing inward or outward—wonder why the kitten liked it back in the darkest part?

  “Bread, water,” I said in a hard gruff voice and quickly shoved in the tray. I slammed the little door shut and picked up a brick to wedge it so they couldn’t see me if they pushed.

  I stayed to spy on them. I heard my mother moaning, and crying out for Chris. Then she surprised me. “Momma, where has Momma gone, Chris? It’s been so long since she visited us, months, months, and the twins don’t grow.”

  “Cathy, Cathy, my poor darling, stop thinking about the past,” said my grandmother. “Please hold on, eat and drink to keep up your strength. Chris will come to save us both.”

  “Cory, stop playing that same tune over and over. I’m so tired of your lyrics. Why do you write such sad songs? The night will end, it will. Chris, tell Cory the day will begin soon.”

  I heard sobs then. From my grandmother?

  “Oh, my God!” she cried. “Is this the way it’s going to end? Can’t I do anything right? This time I was so sure I could work it out. Please, God, don’t let me fail all of them, please.” I listened to her pray out loud. Praying for my mother to get well, for her son to come and find them before it was too late. Over and over she said the same words as my mother asked crazy questions.

  I sat and listened for a long time. Legs got cramped and uncomfortable, got old and weary inside, like I was locked up in there with them, crazy too, hungry, hurting, dying.

  “Goin now,” I said in a whisper. “Don’t like this place.”

  * * *

  Nobody was home and it was dark. Now I could run to the refrigerator and steal the food. I was stuffing in another ham slice when Madame Marisha opened the door from the garage and stalked into the kitchen. “Good evening, Bart,” she said, “Where’s your father and Jory?”

  I shrugged. Nobody told me nothin. Didn’t know why Daddy and Jory would go off and leave Cindy alone with me. Then Emma was calling out from another room. “Hello, Madame Marisha. Dr. Sheffield told me you were due here any moment. I’m sorry you went to so much trouble. Once I knew Cathy had disappeared, I couldn’t stay away. I have to know what’s happened to her, and she was so sick, so feverish, I should have known better than to leave her.” Then Emma saw me. “Bart! You wicked little boy. How dare you add to your father’s worries by disappearing too. You are a bad boy, and I’ll bet my life you know something about where your mother is!”

  Both old women glared at me. Hating me with their mean-mean eyes. I ran. Ran from knowing soon I’d be crying and I couldn’t let anybody see me cry—now that I had to act just like Malcolm—the heartless.

  The Search

  The night was not fit for man nor beast. It was raining like when Noah was building his ark. The wind howled and shrieked and was trying to tell us something, like wild music that would destroy your brain. I kept pace with Dad, though that wasn’t easy since I’d yet to grow legs as long as his. His hands were balled into fists. I fisted mine too, ready to do battle beside him when the need arose.

  “Jory,” said Dad, striding on without pausing, “how often does Bart come over here?” We’d reached the black iron gates by this time, then he leaned to speak into the box which sent his voice into the house.

  “I don’t know,” I said miserably. “Bart used to trust me, but now he doesn’t tell me what he does anymore.”

  Slowly, slowly, the black gates swung open. They seemed like black skeleton hands welcoming us into our graves. I shivered, thinking I was getting as morbid as Bart. I had to run then to keep up with Dad. “I’ve got to say something,” I yelled so I could be heard above the wind. “When I first found out you are Mom’s brother and our own uncle, I thought I hated you and her, too. I thought I could never forgive either one of you for making me so ashamed, so disappointed. I thought I’d dry up inside and never love or trust anyone again. But now that Mom’s gone I know I’ll always love her and you. I can’t hate either one of yo
u, even if I want to.”

  In the hard driving rain, in the dark, he turned to clasp me against his chest, his hand pressing my head against his heart. I think I heard him sob. “Jory, you don’t know how much I’ve longed to hear you say you don’t hate me or your mother. I always hoped you’d understand when we told you—and we were going to tell you when you were older. We thought, perhaps foolishly, that we needed to wait a few more years, but now that you have found out on your own, and you can still love us, maybe later on you will come to understand.”

  I drew closer to Dad as we continued on our way to the shadowy mansion. I felt a new bond had developed between us that was stronger than what we’d had before. In a way he was more my father, because he had much of my own kind of blood. Blood of my blood, I thought, my own uncle and Bart’s, though I’d always thought he was Bart’s uncle, and that had made me a little jealous. Now I could lay claim to him too. But why hadn’t they realized I was mature for my age, and I would have understood when they told me Mom had an affair with Bart’s father . . . I would have . . . I think.

  We reached the steps. Before Dad could bang on the door-knocker, the left side of the double doors swung open and there stood that butler, John Amos Jackson. “I’m packing,” he said in way of greeting, scowled up and ugly-looking, “and my wife has gone to Hawaii. I have a million things to take care of here without entertaining the neighbors. I plan to join her as soon as I’m done here.”

  “Your wife?” bellowed Dad, his astonishment so clear it slapped me too.

  Something smug came and went in the butler’s watery eyes. “Yes, Dr. Christopher Sheffield, Mrs. Winslow is now married to me.”

  I thought Dad would fall from shock. “I want to see her. And I don’t believe you. She’d be out of her mind to marry you.”

  “I don’t lie,” said that grim, ugly butler. “And she is out of her mind. Some women can’t live without a man to run their affairs, and that’s what I am—someone to lean on.”

  “I don’t believe you,” stormed my dad. “Where is she? Where is my wife? Have you seen her?”

  The butler smiled. “Your wife, sir? I have enough to do keeping up with my own wife without looking out for yours. Yesterday my wife railed about this terrible weather and took off with one of our maids. She told me to join her later, after I’d arranged to close up this house. And after all the trouble and expense she went to having this place redecorated and refurbished—now she wants to move.”

  Dad stood staring at John Amos Jackson. I thought we’d leave then, but Dad seemed rooted. “You know who I am, don’t you, John? Don’t deny it. I see it in your eyes. You are the butler who made love to the maid Livvie while I lay on the floor behind the sofa and heard you tell her about the arsenic on the sugared doughnuts meant to kill the attic mice.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” denied the butler, while I looked from him back to Dad. Oh, I should have finished every page of Mom’s manuscript. Things were even more complicated than I’d realized.

  “John, perhaps you are married to my mother and perhaps you are lying. Regardless, I think you know what has happened to my wife, and now I’m concerned about my mother as well. So, get out of my way. I’m going to search this house from top to bottom.”

  The butler paled. “You can’t come over here and tell me what to do,” he muttered indistinctly, “I could call the police . . .”

  “But you won’t, and if you want to, go ahead, call them. I am going to search now, John. There’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

  The old butler shuffled away, shrugging helplessly. “Go on then, have your way, but you won’t find anything.”

  Together Dad and I searched. I knew the house much better than he did, all the closets, the secret places. Dad kept saying the attic was where they would be. But when we were up there and looking, there was nothing but junk and dusty clutter.

  Again we returned to the parlor where the woman he called Mother had her hard wooden rocker which I sat in and found quite uncomfortable. Restlessly Dad prowled the room, then paused in the archway that led to the adjacent room, that parlor where the huge oil portrait hung. “If Cathy came over here she would have seen that, and she could have come if Bart told her something.”

  Rocking back and forth in the chair, I made it “walk” a little closer to the fire that was guttering out. Something crunched beneath one of the rockers. Dad heard the sound and bent to pick up an object. It was a pearl.

  He tested it between his teeth and smiled bitterly. “My mother’s string of pearls with a butterfly clasp. She always wore them, just as our grandmother always wore her diamond brooch. I don’t believe my mother would go anywhere without those pearls.”

  Another hour of searching the house, and questioning the Mexican maid and cook who did not understand English very well, and both he and I were frustrated. “I’ll be back, John Amos Jackson,” said Dad as he opened the front door, “and the next time I’ll have the police with me.”

  “Have it your way, Doctor,” said the butler with a tight malicious smile.

  “Dad, we can’t notify the police—can we?”

  “We will if we have to. But let’s wait at least until tomorrow. He wouldn’t dare harm Cathy or my mother, or he’d land up behind bars.”

  “Dad, I’ll bet Bart knows what is going on. He and John Amos are very thick.”

  I explained then how Bart was always talking to himself whenever he believed he was alone. He talked in his sleep too, and when he stalked around playing pretend games. It seemed the most important part of Bart’s life was spent alone, talking to himself.

  “All right, Jory, I understand what you’re saying. I have an idea I hope works. This may well be the most important part you’ve ever played, so pay attention. Tomorrow morning you are only to pretend to go to school. I’ll let you out as soon as we turn the corner onto the highway. You run back home and make sure Bart doesn’t see you. I’ll try to find out if my mother really flew to Hawaii, and if she really married that horrible old man.”

  Whispering Voices

  Questions, questions, all they did was ask me questions.

  Didn’t know nothing, nothing. Wasn’t guilty, wasn’t. Why ask me? Crazy kids didn’t give straight answers. “Momma’s gone ’cause she always hated me, even when I was a little baby.”

  That night whores, harlots, and strumpets came to dance in my head. Woke up. Heard the rain beating on the roof. Heard the wind blowing at my window.

  Fell asleep again and dreamed I was like Aunt Carrie who didn’t grow tall enough. Dreamed I prayed and prayed and one day God let me grow so tall my head touched the sky. Looked down and saw all the little people running around like ants, afraid of me. I laughed and stepped in the ocean, making tidal waves rise up and wash over the tall cities. More pipsqueak screams. All the people I didn’t squash were drowned. Sat in the ocean then that came to my waist and cried. My tears were so huge they made the ocean rise up again—and all I could see all around me was my reflection, and how handsome I was now. Now that there wasn’t a girl or woman left alive to love and admire me, I was handsome, tall, and strong.

  I told John Amos about my dreams. He nodded his head and told me he used to dream when he was young about girls and how much he could love them, if only they wouldn’t see how long his nose was. “I had other attributes I couldn’t show them, but they never gave me a chance, never a chance.”

  * * *

  Next morning Jory left with Daddy. Easy to slip away from Emma and Madame Marisha, for they had to fool around with Cindy so much. But it gave me the chance to steal into the mansion next door. I sneaked around to find John Amos. He was packing all the beautiful lamps, paintings, and other valuables in boxes. “The silver should be wrapped in tarnish-proof papers,” he said to one of the maids, “and be careful with that china and crystal. When the movers show up, have them put in the best furniture first, for I may be busy elsewhere.”

  The prettiest maid was young
, and she frowned. “Mr. Jackson, why we go? Thought Madame liked it here. She never say we moving.”

  “Your mistress is a woman of changing moods—it’s that nutty boy next door. That little one who keeps coming over here. He’s gotten to be a real nuisance. He killed the dog she gave him. I suppose none of you know that?”

  I stared in the room and saw the maid’s lips part in horror. “No . . . thought the dog went over to boy’s home . . .”

  “The brat is dangerous! That’s why Madame has to move—he’s threatened her life more than one time. He’s under the care of a psychiatrist.”

  They looked from one to the other and made circles above their heads. Mad! Mad as hell at John Amos, telling lies about me.

  Waited until he was alone, sitting at the fancy desk where my grandmother kept her checkbook. He jumped when I came in. “Bart, I wish you wouldn’t sneak around like that. Make some noise when you enter, clear your throat, cough . . . do something to announce you are there.”

  “I heard what you told the maids. I’m not crazy!”

  “Of course you’re not,” he said, his S’s hissing as always. “But I do have to tell them something, don’t I? Otherwise they might become suspicious. As it is, they think your grandmother has gone on a trip to Hawaii . . .”

  I felt sick inside, standing there, toeing in my sneakers, and staring down at them. “John Amos . . . can I give my momma and granny sandwiches to eat today?”