“Don’t you say anything like that again!” bellowed Bart, so furious with Joel he forgot all about Cindy and Lance, who were both hastily pulling on the night clothes they’d abandoned. He hesitated, as if shocked to find himself defending the girl he incessantly denied was his sister. “This is my life, Uncle,” he said sternly, “and my family more than it is yours. I will deal out what justice is demanded, and not you.”
Seemingly very distressed and shaken, shuffling lamely like an older man, Joel ambled off down the hall, bent over almost double.
The moment Joel was out of sight, Bart turned his furious temper on me. “YOU SEE!” he roared. “Cindy has just proven what I suspected she was all along! She’s no good, Mother! NO GOOD! All the time she played the game of being sweet, she was planning how she’d enjoy herself when Lance came. I want her out of this house and out of my life forever!”
“Bart, you can’t send Cindy away—she’s my daughter! If you have to punish someone more than you have, send Lance away. You’re right, of course, Cindy shouldn’t have done what she did, nor should Lance have taken advantage of our hospitality.”
Somewhat mollified, he managed to simmer down a little. “All right, Cindy can stay since you insist on loving her no matter what. But that boy is going tonight!” He yelled at Lance, “Hurry and pack your things—for in five minutes I’m driving you to the airport. If you ever dare touch Cindy again, I’ll break the rest of your bones! And don’t think I won’t know. I have friends in South Carolina, too!”
Lance Spalding was very pale as he hurried to throw his clothes back into suitcases he’d just emptied. He couldn’t even look at me as he hurried by and whispered huskily, “I’m sorry and so ashamed, Mrs. Sheffield . . .” and then he was gone, with Bart right behind him, shoving him on faster from time to time.
Now I turned to Cindy, who had donned a very modest granny gown and was huddled under the covers of her bed, staring at me wide-eyed and scared-looking. “I hope you are satisfied, Cindy,” I said coldly. “You have truly disappointed me. I expected more from you . . . you promised me. Don’t your promises mean anything at all?”
“Momma, please,” she sobbed. “I love him, and I wanted him, and I think I waited long enough. It was my Christmas gift to him—and to myself.”
“Don’t lie to me, Cynthia! Tonight wasn’t your first time with him. I’m not as stupid as you presume I am. You and Lance have been lovers before.”
She wailed loudly, “Momma, aren’t you going to love me anymore? You can’t just turn it off, ’cause if you do, then I’ll want to die! I don’t have any parents but you and Daddy . . . and I swear it won’t happen again. Please forgive me, please!”
“I’ll think about it,” I said coldly as I closed her door.
* * *
The next morning as I dressed, Cindy came running into my room, crying out hysterically, “Momma, please don’t let Bart force me to leave too. I’ve never had a happy Christmas when Bart was around. I hate him! Really hate him! He’s ruined Lance’s face, ruined it.”
More than likely she was right. I had to teach Bart how to hold back his rage. How terrible for such a good-looking boy to have his beautiful nose broken, to say nothing of his black eyes and many cuts and bruises.
However, after Lance was gone, something peculiar laid a ghostly hand on Bart and turned him very quiet. Lines I hadn’t seen before etched from his nose to his beautiful shaped lips, and he was too young for face lines. He refused to look or talk to Cindy. He treated me as if I weren’t there, either. He sat sullen and quiet, staring at me, then rested his dark eyes fleetingly on Cindy, who was weeping, and I couldn’t remember another time when Cindy had allowed any of us to see her cry.
Through my mind flitted all kinds of dreary thoughts. The place where owls and foxes resided, remembering the Bible we used to have to study every day. Where could understanding be found? There was a time for planting, a time for reaping, a time to gather in . . . where was our time for joy?
Hadn’t we waited long enough?
Later that morning I had a talk with Cindy. “Cindy, I am shocked at your behavior. Bart had every right to be enraged, even though I disapprove of the way he was so rough on that boy. I can understand his actions, but not yours. Any young man would have entered your room when you willingly opened your door and invited him in. Cindy, you have to promise not to do anything like that again. Once you are eighteen, you become your own boss—but until that day, and while you are under this roof, you will not play sex games with anyone here or anywhere else. Do you understand?”
Her blue eyes widened, took on the shine of forthcoming tears. “Momma, I don’t live in the eighteenth century! All the girls are doing it! I held out much longer than most do, and from all I’ve heard about you . . . you went after men too.”
“Cindy!” I snapped sharply. “Don’t you ever throw my past or present in my face! You don’t know what I had to endure—while you have had nothing but happy days full of everything that was denied me.”
“Happy days?” she asked bitterly. “Have you forgotten all the nasty, mean things Bart did to me? Maybe I wasn’t locked up, starved, or beaten, but I’ve had my problems, and don’t think I haven’t. Bart makes me feel so unsure about my femininity that I have to test all the boys I meet . . . I just can’t help it.”
We were at that time in her bedroom, while Bart was downstairs.
I stepped forward to take Cindy into my arms. “Don’t cry, darling. I do understand how you must feel. But you must try to understand how parents feel about their daughters. Your father and I want only the best for you. We don’t want you to be hurt. Let this experience with Lance teach you a lesson, and hold back until you are eighteen and able to reason with more maturity. Hold out longer than that if you can. When you grab at sex too soon, it has a way of biting back and giving you exactly what you don’t want. It did that to me, and I’ve heard you say a thousand times you want a stage and film career, and husbands and babies have to wait. Many a girl has been thwarted by a baby that started because of uncontrollable passion. Be careful before committing yourself to anyone. Don’t fall in love too soon, for when you do you make yourself vulnerable to so many unforeseen events. Give romance a try without sex, Cindy, and save yourself all the pain of giving too much too soon.”
Her arms were tight about me, her eyes turned soft and told me we were again mother and daughter.
Later Cindy and I stood side by side downstairs, watching everything whiten with snow, grow misty with distance, cruelly isolating us even more from the rest of the world. “Now all roads from Charlottesville will be blocked,” I said tonelessly to Cindy. “What’s more, Melodie is acting so strangely she makes me fear for the good health of her child. Jory’s staying in his room as if he doesn’t want to encounter her, or any of us. Bart saunters around like he owns all of us as well as the house. Oh, I wish Chris were here. I hate it when he’s gone.”
I turned to find Cindy staring at me with a kind of wonderment. She flushed when she met my eyes. When I asked why, she murmured, “I just wonder sometimes how the two of you hang on to what you have, when I fall in and out of love so often. Momma, someday you’ve got to tell me how to make a man really love me, and not just my body. I wish boys would look first into my eyes like Daddy looks into yours; I wish they’d look at my face at least once in a while, for it’s not an ugly face, but they all stare at my boobs. I wish their eyes would follow me around like Jory’s follow Melodie . . .”
Cindy put her arm around me and buried her face against my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Momma, really so sorry I caused all that trouble last night. Thank you for not scolding me more than you did. I’ve been thinking about what you said, and you’re right. Lance has paid a heavy price, and I should have known better.” Pleadingly she gazed into my eyes. “Momma, I was serious, all the girls at school started way back when they were eleven, twelve, and thirteen, and I love Lance. And I held back, although all the boys chased after me mor
e than they did the others. The girls thought I was doing it when I wasn’t. I pretended to be really with it, but then one day I heard some boys comparing notes and they were all saying they hadn’t scored all the way with me. They talked as if I were some kind of freak—or maybe a lesbian. That’s when I decided I’d let Lance have his way this Christmas. The special gift I had for him.”
I stared at her hard, wondering if she told all the truth, as she went on to tell me she was the only girl in her group to hold out until sixteen, and that was really old for a girl in today’s world. “Please don’t be ashamed, for if you are, then I’ll be. I’ve wanted to do it since I was twelve but held back because of what you said. But you’ve got to understand that what I did with Lance wasn’t casual. I love him. And for a while, before you and Bart came in . . . it felt . . . felt . . . so good.”
What could I say now ?
I had my own willful youth clearly tucked in a memory closet, ready to jump forward and put the vision of Paul before me . . . and the way I’d wanted him to teach me all the ways of love, especially when my first experience with sex had been so devastating, filling me with the kind of guilt that even now I could cry to look up at the moon that had seen Chris’s sin, and mine.
About six Chris called to say he’d been trying to reach me all day but the lines had been down. “You’ll be seeing me Christmas Eve,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve hired a snowplow to precede me to the Hall, and I’ll be right behind. How are things going?”
“Fine, just fine,” I lied, telling him Lance’s father had fallen down the stairs and he had to fly home immediately. Then I rattled on and on, saying we were all set for Christmas, gifts wrapped, tree up, but Melodie was, as usual, clinging to her rooms as if they offered her the only sanctuary in the world.
“Cathy,” said Chris in a tight voice, “how nice it would be if you’d only level with me on occasion. Lance didn’t fly home. All the planes are grounded. Lance is, at this moment, not ten feet away from this very phone booth. He came to me and confessed everything. I took care of his broken nose, his other wounds, and cursed Bart all the time. That boy is a mess.”
Early the next morning, we heard on the radio that all roads to the village and the nearest city were snowed under. Travelers were warned to stay home. We kept the radio on all day, listening to the weathermen who seemed to control our lives. “Never before has there been a winter more dramatic than this one,” went the singsong male voice, extolling the virtues of weather. “Records are being broken . . .”
Hour by miserable hour Cindy and I stood at the windows, with Jory often joining us to stare as we did at the snow coming down with relentless determination to isolate us.
Behind my eyes I saw the four of us, locked in that room, whispering about Santa Claus and telling the twins that surely he would find us. Chris had written him a letter. Oh, the pity of those little twins waking up on Christmas morning, not even remembering the good times that had gone on before.
Hearing Jory cough brought me back to the present. Every few minutes Jory suffered through paroxysms of racking coughs. I glanced at him fearfully.
Soon he was heading his chair for his room, saying he could put himself back into bed. I wanted to go with him but knew he wanted to do all he could for himself.
“I’m beginning to hate this place,” grumbled Cindy. “Now Jory’s got a cold. That’s why I brought Lance home with me, knowing it would be this. I was hoping every night we’d have a party, and being slightly drunk would take away the pall of living under the shadows of Bart and that creepy old Joel. I was expecting Lance to keep me happy while I was here. Now I’ve got no one but you, Momma. Jory seems so aloof and alone, and he thinks I’m too young to understand his problems. Melodie never says anything to me, or anybody. Bart stalks around like the grim reaper—and that old man sends shivers up my spine. We don’t have any friends. No one ever calls unexpectedly. We’re all alone, getting on each other’s nerves. And it’s Christmas. I’m looking forward to that ball Bart says he’s throwing. At least that would give me the chance to meet some people and brush off the moss I feel creeping up my legs.”
Suddenly Bart was there, yelling at Cindy. “You don’t have to stay. You’re just the bastard my mother had to have.”
Cindy blushed deeply red. “Are you trying to hurt me again, jerk? You can’t hurt me now! I’m through with that!”
“Don’t you ever call me jerk again, bastard!”
“CREEP, JERK, CREEP, JERK!” she taunted, backing up and dodging behind chairs and tables, deliberately baiting him to give chase, and in this way, give her dull day a bit of excitement.
“Cindy!” I stormed, furious now. “How dare you talk to Bart that way? Now, say you’re sorry . . . say it!”
“No, I won’t say it, for I’m not sorry!” she yelled not at me but at Bart. “He’s a brute, a maniac, a crazy, and he’s trying to drive us all as batty as he is!”
“STOP!” I yelled, seeing Bart’s face go very pale. Then he lunged forward and caught her by her hair. She tried to run, but he had her held too securely. I rushed forward to prevent him from striking her by clinging onto his free arm. Above her he towered. “If you ever so much as speak to me again, little girl, you’ll rue the day. You’re very proud of your body, of your hair, of your face. One more insult and you’ll hide in closets and break all the mirrors.”
His deadly tone of voice said he was serious. I moved to help Cindy stand. “Bart, you don’t mean that. All your life you’ve tormented Cindy. Can you blame her for wanting her revenge?”
“You take her side, after what she said to me?”
“Say you’re sorry, Cindy,” I pleaded, turning to her. Then I turned appealing eyes on Bart. “You say it, too, please.”
Indecision flashed in Bart’s fiery dark eyes as he saw how upset I was, but it vanished the moment Cindy screamed out, “NO! I’m not sorry! And I’m not afraid of him! You’re just as creepy and senile as that old jerk who wanders around muttering to himself. Boy, do you have a thing for old men! Maybe that’s your hang-up, brother!”
“Cindy!” I whispered, very much shocked, “apologize to Bart.”
“Never, never, NEVER!—not after what he did to Lance!”
The anger on Bart’s face frightened me.
Just then Joel ambled into the room. He stood with his long arms crossed over his chest and met Bart’s fiery eyes. “Son . . . let it go. The Lord sees and hears all and, in time, wreaks his own justice. She’s a child like a bird chirping in the trees, led by instincts that know nothing of morality. She acts, speaks, moves, all without thinking. She’s nothing compared to you, Bart. Nothing but a hank of hair, a bone, and a rag—you are born to lead.”
As if transfixed, Bart’s anger simmered down. He followed Joel from the room without looking our way. To see Bart follow that old man so obediently and without question filled my head with fresh fears. How had Joel gained such control?
Cindy fell into my arms and began to cry. “Momma, what’s wrong with me, with Bart? Why do I say such hateful things to hurt him? Why does he say them to me? I want to hurt Bart. I want to pay him back for every ugly thing he’s done to hurt me.”
In my arms she sobbed out her anxieties until she was limp.
In many ways Cindy reminded me of myself, so eager to love and be loved, to live a full, exciting life even before she was mature enough to accept the emotional responsibilities.
I sighed and held her closer. Someday, somehow, all family problems would be resolved. I held to that belief, praying that Chris would come home soon.
Christmas
As it had in the past, Christmas Eve arrived with its charm and festive peace to reign over troubled spirits and gave even Foxworth Hall its own beauty. The snow still fell, but it was not so wild and wind driven. In our favorite room for getting together, Bart and Cindy, with Jory directing, were decorating the gigantic Christmas tree. Cindy was up on a ladder on one side, Bart was on the second ladder, as Jory sa
t in his wheelchair, fiddling with strings of lights meant for our door wreaths. Decorators were working in other rooms to make them festive enough for the hundreds of guests Bart expected to entertain at the ball. He was terribly excited. To see him happy and laughing added joy to my heart, especially when Chris came in the door loaded down with all he’d purchased at the last moment, as was his customary procrastinating way.
I ran to greet him with hungry arms and eager kisses that Bart couldn’t see from his position behind the tree. “Whatever took you so long?” I asked, and he laughed, indicating the beautifully wrapped gifts.
“Out in the car I’ve got more,” he said with a happy smile. “I know what you’re thinking, that I should do my shopping earlier, but I never seem to find the time. Then all of a sudden it’s Christmas Eve, and I end up paying twice as much, but you’re going to be very pleased—and if you’re not, don’t tell me.”
Melodie was crouched down on a low stool near the fireplace in the salon just off the foyer, looking miserable. In fact, when I studied her more closely she appeared to be in pain. “Are you all right, Melodie?” I asked. She nodded to say she was fine, and I foolishly took her word for that. When Chris questioned her, she stood and denied anything was wrong. She threw Bart an imploring glance he didn’t see, and then she was heading for the back stairs. In her shapeless, dull-colored garment, she seemed a drab thing that had aged ten years since July. Jory, who always kept a close eye on Melodie, turned to watch her drift away, a terrible haunted sadness in his eyes that stole his pleasure from the happy occupation at hand. The string of lights slid from his lap to entangle the wheels of his chair. He didn’t notice, only sat with clenched fists, as if he’d like to smash Fate in the face for taking away the use of his marvelous body, and in so doing stealing from him the woman he loved.
On the way to the stairs, Chris stopped to clap Jory heartily on the back. “You’re looking fit and healthy. And don’t worry about Melodie. It’s normal for a woman in the last trimester to become irritable and moody. So would you if you were carrying around all that extra weight.”
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 141