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.

  I waited with dread to hear about those few “flaws.”

  “When I was a child, I believed the world was full of many wonders, and miracles could still happen, and blind men would one day see, and the lame would one day walk, and so forth. Thinking like that made all the unfairness I saw all around, all the ugliness, much better. I think the ballet kept me from fully growing up, so I maintained the idea that miracles could truly happen if you believed in them enough—like that song ‘When you wish upon a star, your dreams come true.’ And in the ballet miracles do happen all the time, so I stayed childlike even after I became an adult. I still believed that in the outside world, the real world, everything would work out fine in the long run if I believed enough. Mel and I had that in common. There’s something about ballet that keeps you virginal, so to speak. You see no evil, hear no evil, though I won’t mention speak no evil. You know what I mean, I’m sure, for it was your world too.” He paused and glanced up at the threatening sky.

  “In that world I had a wife who loved me. In the outside world, the real world, she quickly found a replacement lover. I hated Bart for taking her when I needed her most. Then I’d hate Mel for allowing him to use her as just another way to get back at me. He’s still doing it, Mom. And I wouldn’t trouble you with what’s going on if I wasn’t sometimes afraid for my life. Afraid for my children.”

  I listened to him, trying not to show shock as he spoke of all he’d never hinted at before.

  “Remember the parallel bars I exercise on, in order to use the back and leg braces? Well, somebody scraped the metal so that when I slip my hands along the rails I get metal splinters in both hands. Dad dug them out for me and made me promise not to tell you.”

  I shivered, shrank inside. “What else, Jory? That’s not all, I can tell from the way you look.”

  “Nothing much, Mom. Just little things to make my life miserable, like insects in my coffee, tea, and milk. My sugar bowl filled with salt, and my salt cellar full of sugar . . . dumb tricks, childish pranks that could be dangerous. Tacks appear in my bed, in the seat of my chair . . . oh, it’s Halloween time all the time in this house for me. At times I want to laugh, it’s so silly. But when I slip on a shoe and there’s a nail in the toe that I can’t feel, and it gives me an infection because my leg circulation isn’t top-notch, it’s not a laughing matter. It could cost me a leg. I waste so much time looking everything over before I use it, like my razor with new blades that are suddenly rusty.”

  He looked around as if to see if Joel or Bart were in ear-shot, and even though he saw nothing, for I looked, too, still his voice lowered to a whisper. “Yesterday was very warm, remember? You yourself opened three of my windows so I’d have fresh, cool breezes—then the wind shifted and blew from the north, and it turned dramatically cold. You came on the run to close my windows, to cover me with another blanket. I fell back to sleep. Half an hour later I woke up from a dream of being at the North Pole. The windows—all six of them—were wide open. Rain blew in and wet my bed. But that wasn’t the worst of it. My blankets had been removed. I turned to ring for someone to come to my assistance. My buzzer was gone. I sat up and reached for my chair. It wasn’t where I usually put it, right beside my bed. For a moment I panicked. Then, because I’m much stronger now in my arms, I lowered myself to the floor, used my arms to pull myself over to a regular chair that I could shove near the windows. Once I was on the chair seat, I could have easily pulled the windows down. But the first one refused to budge. I moved the chair to another window, and that wouldn’t close any more than the first one would. Stuck with the fresh coat of paint applied a few weeks ago. I knew then it was useless to try the other four and brave that fiercely cold wet rain and wind, for my leverage wasn’t right, even if my arms are strong. Yet, foolhardy as you often say I am, I persisted. No luck. That’s when I put myself on the floor again and made my way to the door. It was locked. I dragged myself along by pulling on furniture legs until I was in the closet, and there I pulled down a winter coat, covered myself and fell asleep.”

  What had happened to my face? It felt so numb that I couldn’t move my lips and speak, nor could I manage to show shock. Jory stared at me hard.

  “Mom, are you listening? Are you thinking? Now . . . don’t try to comment until I complete this story. As I just said, I fell asleep in the closet, on the floor, soaking wet. When I woke up, I was back on my bed. A dry bed, the sheet and blankets covered me, and I was wearing a fresh pair of pajamas.” He paused dramatically and met my horrified eyes.

  “Mom . . . if someone in this house wanted me to catch pneumonia and die, would that someone have put me back in bed and covered me up? Dad wasn’t home to pick me up and carry me, and certainly you don’t have the strength to do that.”

  “But,” I whispered, “Bart doesn’t hate you that much. He doesn’t hate you at all . . .”

  “Perhaps it was Trevor who found me, and not Bart. But somehow I don’t think Trevor is young and strong enough to lift me. Still, somebody here hates me,” Jory stated firmly. “Somebody who would like to see me gone. I’ve thought about this considerably and come to the conclusion that it had to have been Bart who found me in the closet and put me back to bed. Has this occurred to you: If you, Dad, I, and the twins were out of the way, Bart would have our money as well as his own?”

  “But he’s already filthy rich! He doesn’t need more!”

  Jory spun his chair so that it faced east, staring at the faded sun. “I’ve never really been afraid of Bart before. I have always pitied him and wanted to help him. I think about taking the twins and leaving with you and Dad . . . but that’s a coward’s way. If Bart did open those windows to let in the rain and wind, he later changed his mind and came back to rescue me. I think about the clipper ship and how it was broken, and certainly Bart couldn’t have been responsible for that, not when he wanted it so much. And I think about Joel, whom you think was responsible—and again I think about who influences Bart more than anyone here. Someone is taking Bart and twisting him and turning back the clock, so he’s again like that tormented ten-year-old kid who wanted you and his grandmother to die in fire and be redeemed . . .”

  “Please, Jory, you said you’d never mention that period in our lives again.”

  Silence came, stretched out interminably before he went on. “The fish in my aquarium died last night. Their air filter was turned off. The temperature control smashed.” Once again he paused, watching my face closely. “Do you believe any of what I’ve just told you?”

  I fixed my eyes on the blue-misted mountains with their soft, rounded tops to remind me of ancient, gigantic, dead virgins laid out in jagged rows, their upthrust, moss-covered bosoms all that remained. My eyes lifted to the sky, deeply blue, and the feather-brushed storm clouds with wisps of shimmering gold clouds behind them, heralding a better day.

  Under such skies as this, surrounded by the same mountains, Chris, Cory, Carrie, and I had faced terrors while God watched. My fingers nervously wiped away those invisible cobwebs, trying to find the right words to say.

  “Mom, as much as I hate to say this, I think we have to give up on Bart. We can’t trust his now-and-then love for us. He needs professional help again. Truthfully, I’ve always believed he had a great deal of love within him that he didn’t know how to release or express. And here I am, now thinking he’s beyond saving. We can’t drive him out of his own home—unless we want him declared insane and put in an institution. I don’t want that to happen, and I know you don’t. So, all we can do is leave. And isn’t it funny—now I don’t want to go, even when my life is threatened. I’ve grown accustomed to this house; I love it here, so I risk my life, the lives of all of us. The intrigue of what might happen today keeps me from ever being bored. Mom, the worst thing in my life is boredom.”

  I wasn’t half listening to Jory.

  My eyes widened as I saw Deirdre and Darren following Joel and Bart to the small chapel, which had its own outside door that could be reached
from the gardens. They disappeared inside, and the door closed.

  I forgot my basket of cut roses and jumped to my feet. Where was Toni? Why wasn’t she protecting the twins from Bart, from Joel? Then I felt foolish, for why should she feel that Bart or Joel was a threat to two such small, innocent children? Still I said a hasty good-bye to Jory, told him not to worry, I’d be back in a few minutes with Darren and Deirdre so we could all eat lunch together. “Jory, you will be all right if I leave you alone for a few moments?”

  “Sure, Mom. Go after my kids. I spoke to Trevor this morning, and he gave me a battery-operated two-way intercom. Trevor can be fully trusted.”

  Believing wholeheartedly in our butler’s loyalty, I sped after the foursome already in the chapel.

  * * *

  Minutes later I sneaked through the small downstairs inside door to enter the chapel that Joel had told Bart was truly necessary if he were to redeem his soul from sin. It was a small room that tried to duplicate what many old castles and palaces contained for family worship. There was Bart kneeling behind the first pew, with Darren on one side and Deirdre on the other. Joel stood behind the pulpit, his gray head bowed as he began to pray. Stealthily I inched myself closer to hide in the shadow of an arch strut.

  “We don’t like it here,” complained Deirdre in a loud whisper to Bart.

  “Be quiet. This is God’s place,” Bart warned.

  “I hear my kitty crying,” said Darren weakly, cringing away from Bart.

  “You cannot possibly hear your cat, or any cat crying from such a distance. Besides, it’s not your kitty. It’s Trevor’s kitten, which he only allows you to play with.”

  Both the twins began to sniffle, trying to hold back cries of distress. They both adored kittens, puppies, birds, anything that was little and cute. “SILENCE!” roared Bart. “I don’t hear anything from the outside, but if you listen carefully, God will speak and tell you how to survive.”

  “What’s survive?”

  “Darren, why do you let you sister ask all the questions?”

  “She likes questions better.”

  “Why is it so dark in here, Uncle Bart?”

  “Deirdre, like all females, you talk too much.”

  She began to wail louder. “I do not! Gramma likes my talk . . .”

  “Your gramma likes anyone’s talk as long as it isn’t mine,” answered Bart bitterly, pinching Deirdre’s small arm to make her stay quiet.

  Dozens of candles burned on the podium where Joel lifted his head. The architects had arranged for ceiling spots to converge on whoever was behind the pulpit, placing Joel squarely in the center of a mystical, artificial, light cross.

  In a clear and loud voice he said, “We will stand and we will sing the praises of the Lord before today’s sermon begins.” His voice was resonant, assured, and authoritative.

  I had eased myself by this time to a position behind a supporting pillar from which I could spy and not be seen. Like two small robots, the twins, who’d obviously been here many times before without their father, Chris, me, or Toni, were well trained and intimidated. They stood obediently, one on each side of Bart, who kept his hands restrainingly on their small shoulders and they began, with him, to sing hymns. Their voices were frail, faltering, unable to carry the tune well. Yet they made mighty efforts to keep up with Bart, who stunned me with his surprisingly good baritone singing voice.

  Why hadn’t Bart sung out like that when we attended the chapel services? Did Chris and I, with Jory, so intimidate Bart that he held back what had to be a God-given natural gift? When we’d praised Cindy for her singing voice, he had just frowned and said nothing to indicate that he had a wonderful voice as well. Oh, the complexity of Bart was likely to drive me crazy.

  Under other, less sinister circumstances I would have been thrilled to hear Bart’s voice lifted so joyously, his whole heart in it. Some filtering sunlight fell through the stained glass windows to glorify his face with colors of purple, rose, and green. How beautiful he appeared as he sang, with his eyes lit up, as if he truly had the power of the Holy Ghost.

  I was touched by his faith in God. Tears came to my eyes as a sense of relief washed over me and made me feel clean.

  Oh, Bart, you can’t be all evil if you can sing like that, and look like that. It isn’t too late to save you, it can’t be.

  No wonder Melodie had loved him. No wonder Toni was unable to turn her back and leave such a man.

  “Oh, sing this song . . . this song of love to thee,

  In God we trust, in God we trust . . .”

  His voice soared, overwhelming the thin voices of the twins. I was lifted up and out of myself, willing to believe in the powers of God. I sank down on my knees, bowing my head.

  “Thank you, God,” I whispered. “Thank you for saving my son.”

  Then I was staring at him again, catching the Holy Spirit and willing to believe in anything he did. Words came out of the past. Bart had been with us at the time. “We’ve got to be careful with Jory,” warned Chris. “His immunity system has been impaired. We can’t allow him to catch a cold that might fill his lungs with fluid . . .”

  Still I knelt on, transfixed. Now I could not believe Bart was anything but a very troubled young man trying desperately to find what was right for himself.

  Bart’s powerful singing voice drew to the end of the hymn. Oh, if only Cindy could have heard him. If only they could both sing together, the two of them friends at last, joined by their equal talents. There was no one to applaud when his song ended. There was only silence and the thud of my beating heart.

  The twins stared up at Bart with wide, innocent, blue eyes. “Sing again, Uncle Bart,” pleaded Deirdre. “Sing about the rock . . .”

  Now I knew why they came to this chapel—to hear their uncle sing, to feel what I was feeling, an unseen presence that was warm and comforting.

  Without any accompaniment, Bart sang “Rock of Ages.” I was by this time a limp rag of emotions. With a voice like that he could have the world at his feet, and he locked away his talent in an office.

  “That’s enough, nephew,” said Joel when the second song was over. “Everyone will sit, and we will begin today’s sermon.”

  Obediently, Bart sat and pulled the twins down beside him. He kept his arm about each in such a protective way that I was again moved to tears. Did he love Jory’s twins? Had he, all this time, only pretended to dislike them because they resembled the evil twins of yesterday?

  “Let us bow our heads and pray,” instructed Joel.

  My head bowed as well.

  I listened to his prayer with incredulity. He sounded so professional, so concerned for those who had never experienced the joy of being “saved” and belonging entirely to Christ.

  “When you open your heart and let Christ enter, he fills you with love. When you love the Lord, love his son who died for you, and you believe in the righteous ways of God and his son crucified so cruelly on that cross, you will find the peace of fulfillment that’s always eluded you before. Lay down your sins, your swords, your shields, your thirsts for power and money. Put away your earthly lusts that crave the pleasures of flesh. Lay down all your earthly appetites that can never be satisfied and believe, believe! Follow in the footsteps of Christ. Follow where he led, believe in his teachings, and you will be saved. Saved from the evils of this world of sin and lust for sex and power. Save yourselves before it is too late!”

  His zealot’s fire was frightening. Why couldn’t I believe in his fiery sermon as I believed in Bart’s beautiful singing voice? Why were visions of wind and rain pouring in on Jory washing me clean of Joel’s evangelistic oratory? I felt I’d betrayed Jory by my moment’s belief that even Joel was what he seemed to be at this moment.

  There was more to his sermon. I was startled at the casual, conversational tone he now assumed, as if he were talking directly to Bart. “The voices in the village are momentarily lulled because we have constructed in this great mountain mansion a small
temple dedicated to the worship of God. The workmen who constructed this divine house of worship and created the elaborate embellishments have told them what we have done, and others spread the word that the Fox-worths are trying to salvage their souls. They no longer speak of revenge upon the Foxworths, who have ruled over them for more than two hundred years. They bear deep in their hearts many grudges for deeds done to them in the past by our self-serving, self-centered ancestors. They have not forgotten or forgiven the sins of Corrine Foxworth, who married her half-uncle, nor have they forgotten the sins of thy mother, Bart, and the brother she loves. Under your very roof she still gives him the pleasure of enjoying her body, as she takes her pleasure with him . . . and under God’s own heavenly blue sky, those two lie naked in the sun before they blend one with the other. They are addicted to one another, as surely as if they were addicted to one of the many drugs that abound in today’s immoral, headstrong, selfish, heedless society.

  “He, the doctor, her very own brother, redeems himself somewhat in his efforts to serve mankind, dedicating his professional life to medicine and science. So he can be more easily forgiven than the sinful woman, thy mother, who gives nothing to the world but a perverted daughter who will turn out perhaps even worse, and a firstborn son who danced indecently for money! For glorifying his body! And for that sin he has paid, and dearly paid, by losing the use of his legs, and in losing his legs, he lost his body, and in losing his body, he lost his wife. Fate has infinite wisdom when it comes to deciding whom to punish and whom to assist.” Again he paused, as if for dramatic effect, before he fixed his piercing zealot’s eyes on Bart, as if to burn his will into the brain of my son by pure force. “Now, my son, I know you love your mother and you would at times forgive her anything . . . wrong, wrong—for will God? No, I don’t think so. Save her, for how can God forgive her when she is responsible for luring her brother into her arms?”