Dark Angel

by V. C. Andrews

  Before I could blink she was up on her feet, striking out at me!

  I slapped back at her for the first time in my life. The surprise of the sting my hand made on her face made her draw away and whimper.

  "Ya neva hit me before," she sobbed. "Ya done turned mean, Heaven Casteel, mean!"

  "Put on your clothes," I said sharply. "I'm hungry and want to eat." I watched her scramble into a short red skirt that resembled leather, and over this she pulled a white cotton sweater that was much too small. Gold hoop earrings swung from her pierced ears. The scuffed and thin-soled red plastic shoes she put her feet into had black heels five inches high, and the contents of her small, red plastic purse had spilled on the floor when she dropped it on seeing me. A crumpled pack of cigarettes lay beside five little square boxes of condoms. I looked away. "I'm sorry I came, Fanny. After dinner we'll say goodbye."

  She was silent all during our meal in an Italian restaurant down the street from where she lived. Fanny devoured everything on her plate, then polished off what I left, though I would have paid for another entree. From time to time she'd gaze at me furtively in a calculating way, and I knew without guessing that she was plotting her next move. Eager to part from her and return to Troy, still I allowed her to talk me into returning to her small room. "Please, Heaven, please, for ole times' sake, 'cause yer my sista an' ya jus' can't up an' leave me t'fend fer myself." '

  Once we were back in her room, she whirled to confront me. "Now ya wait a minute!" she screamed, putting her fists on her hips and spreading her legs. "Who ya think ya are, anyway? Ya kin't jus come an' go without Join' somethin' more than givin' me a free meal, cheap clothes, an' a lil scrap of money!"

  She angered me. Fanny had never given me a kind word in her life, much less anything material. "Why don't you ask me about Tom, or Keith and Our Jane?"

  "I kin't worry 'bout nobody but myself!" she yelled, moving to block my way so I couldn't reach the door without shoving her aside. "Ya owe me, Heaven, owe me! When Ma went away ya were supposed t'do yer best fer me--an ya didn't! Ya let Pa sell me t'that Reverend an his wife, an' now they got my baby! An' when ya knew I shouldn't have sold her! Ya could have stopped me, but ya didn't try hard enough!"

  My lips gaped open! I had done my very best to bring reality into Fanny's decision to give up her baby for ten thousand dollars. "I tried, Fanny, I tried," I said with weary impatience. "Now it's too late."

  "It's neva too late! An' ya didn't try hard enough! Ya shoulda found t'right words t'say an' I woulda known betta! Now I got nothin'! No money an' no baby! An I want my baby! I want my baby so much it hurts! I kin't sleep fer thinkin' they got her, an' I'll neva have her . . . an' I love her, need her, want her. Neva held ray own baby but once, for they took her away an' give her t'ole lady Wise."

  Dumbfounded by Fanny and her irrational swings of temperament, I tried to express sympathy, but she wanted none of that.

  "Don't ya try an' tell me I should have known betta. I didn't know betta, an' now I'm sorry. So here's what ya kin do with all that moola ya got stashed somewheres . . . ya go back t'Winnerrow an' ya give t'Reverend an his wife that ten thousand they paid me fer her! Or pay 'em twice that much, but ya buy back my baby!"

  I couldn't speak. What she asked was impossible. Her dark eyes burned into mine. "Ya hear me? Ya've got t'buy back my baby!"

  "You can't mean what you say! There's no way I can buy back your baby! You told me when you entered that hospital you signed release papers of adoption--"

  "No, I didn't! I jus' signed papers that said Mrs. Wise could keep my baby till I was old enough t'take kerr of her."

  I couldn't tell whether or not she was lying; I'd never been able to read Fanny as I had Tom. Still, I tried to rationalize. "I can't go back there and take a baby away from parents who adore her and take good care of her. You showed me the photographs, Fanny. I can see they love her enough to give her everything, and what can you give her? I can't turn a helpless baby over to you and your kind of life." I flung my arms wide, indicating the hopeless room where a baby crib wouldn't fit. "What would you do with a child so young and demanding? Where would you keep her while you go out to earn a living? Can you tell me that?"

  "I don't have eta ya nothin'!" she cried, her eyes flashing before they watered. "Ya jus' do as I say or I'll use this thousand bucks t'fly up t'Boston! An' when I'm wid yer grandmother Jillian, who looks like some freakytid, I'll tell her all about her hi angel gal who ran away from Boston. I'll spill it all out, that mountain shack wid no inside plumbing, an' Pa an' his moonshining, and his five brothers all in jail, an' when Jillian hears everythin' about how her lil angel girl lived 'fore she died, she won't look so young no more.

  I'll tell her about Pa an' how he visited Shirley's Place even when he were married Cher. An' I'll tell her about t'revenue men, an t' outhouse an t'stinks, an t'hunger her rich lil girl suffered through. An' I'll polish her little girl off jus' as it happened, givin' birth with no doctor, jus Granny t'help. An' when I'm done tellin her all kinds of rotten thins about ya, she'll end up hatin' ya!--if she don't lose what mind she's got left first!"

  Again stunned, I could only stare at Fanny, overwhelmed that she could hate me so much, when all my life I'd done the best I could for her. I didn't know how to confront someone as obsessed as she appeared to be. Nervously I ran my hands over my hair, then I headed for the door.

  "Don't ya go yet, Heaven Leigh Casteel!" Her twangy sarcasm rang familiar bells of shame in my ears. Oh she knew all the ways to hurt me most, reminding me of who I was and where I'd come from.

  I felt colder than I'd ever felt, and it was midsummer, and the summer storm had only freshened the hot day, not chilled it.

  "I'll do anythin' I kin think of t'hurt ya--unless ya go an' get my baby an' bring her back t'me!"

  "You know I can't do that," I said again, so tired of Fanny and her shrill voice I wished I'd never come.

  "Then what kin ya do fer me? Huh? Can ya give me everythin' ya've got fer yer own? Give me a room in that huge house, so I kin enjoy what ya have? If ya loved me, like yer always sayin', ya'd want me where ya kin see me every day."

  Colder and colder I was growing. The last person I needed to see every day of my life was Fanny. "I'm sorry, Fanny," I began in icy tones, "I don't want you in my life. I'll send you money once a month, enough to see you through comfortably, but you'll never be invited to live where I do. You see, my grandmother's husband made me promise I'd never allow any Casteel relative of mine to mar the perfection of his days, and if you're plotting now on blackmailing me by threatening to tell him I've seen you, and Torn, then forget it. For he would cut me out of his life without a cent, as easily as you can bat your eyes--and then there would be no money for you-- and no money left with which to buy your baby back."

  Her slitlike dark eyes narrowed even more. "How much ya gonna send me each month?"

  "Enough!" I bit back.

  "Then send twice as much, fer when I have my baby girl, I'll need every cent ya kin spare. An if ya disappoint me, Heaven Casteel, I'll find my way inta yer life, an I won't give a damn if ya lose everythin'! Ya don't deserve it anyway!"

  The wind from the Willies reached out and chilled me even more. I thought I heard the distant wolves howling; I thought I saw the snow banking high around the mountain shack, closing me in. With difficulty I tried to focus on what to do and what to say, as long seconds ticked slowly toward eternity and the dirty, tattered curtains billowed out into the room like wraiths of God.

  Not for a moment did I doubt that Fanny would do exactly what-she said she'd do, just to strike back at me for being born first, and having what she considered some sort of invisible advantage, when I'd never had anything advantageous happen to me until Logan chose me instead of her.

  And only then did it slap me directly in the face. I hadn't believed her when she said it. Logan was the reason she hated me! All along she'd wanted him and he'd never really looked at her despite all she'd done to draw him her way.
I put my hands to my fevered cheeks, wondering just what was wrong with mountain girls who grew up too soon--and

  determined way before their time just what man was right for them, when none of us could possibly know.

  Sarah and her miserable choice. Loving a man like Luke Casteel. Kitty Setterton and her insane love for a man who had only used her to scratch his itch. But Fanny standing there with her dark, hating eyes, trying to glare me into extinction, when Logan wasn't mine anymore--but damned if I'd turn him over to her to ruin!

  "All right, Fanny, calm down," I said with as much authority as possible. "I'll go to Winnerrow. I'll talk to the Wises about buying back your baby that you sold. But while I'm gone, you sit down and you think long and hard about just what you are going to do to take care of that little girl, and see to it that she has a healthy and good life. It takes more than money to make a good mother. It takes devotion and caring more for your daughter than for yourself. You'll have to give up your stage aspirations and stay home to take care of Darcy."

  "Ain't got what it takes t'hit it big at t'Opry, like always thought I could," she wailed pitifully, and for a moment I felt pity. "So I might as well give up. There's a guy here who's asked me t'marry up wid him, an I might as well go on an do it. He's fifty-two years ole, an I don't really love him, but he has a good job an kin support me an my kid--wid yer help, that is. I'll wait here fer ya t'come back, an by t'time ya do, him an' me will be hitched fer life. An .I won't spend no more of this here money ya gave me than I have ta."

  Maybe I said something smart, or something dumb then, but I said it out of desperation. "Don't be so stupid as to marry a man so much older. Find a young man, near your own age, then get married, and keep quiet, and when I'm back with your baby I'll see you through until you no longer need me."

  Her brilliant and pleased smile shone. "Sure, I'll stay. I won't say a word. Not even t'Mallory. He's t'guy who loves me. Ya jus' go on an' do what ya kin . . . an' you'll win . . . don't ya always win, Heaven, don't ya?"

  And once more she swept her greedy eyes over my clothes and the jewelry I'd grown so accustomed to wearing I had forgotten I had it on.

  But it wasn't Winnerrow I headed for when I left Fanny lying on her bed in Nashville. It was Tom I called. "Fanny wants me to buy her baby back, Tom. Use some of the money I left with Grandpa and fly to Winnerrow and come with me when I confront the Wises."

  "Heavenly, you know I can't do that! You were a dope to give Grandpa all that money, for now he can't even find it! You know he's never had more than a buck in his pocket--whatever possessed you to give him cash?" --'

  "Because you wouldn't take it!" I cried, near tears from his stubbornness.

  "I want to earn my way, not have it bought for me," Tom said stubbornly. "And if you're smart you'll forget about keeping that promise to Fanny, and let the Wises have the little girl everyone thinks is their own. Fanny won't make a fit mother, even if you feed her a million a month--and you know it."

  "Goodbye, Tom," I whispered with a certain feeling of finality. Time and circumstances had robbed me of the brother who had once been my champion. Now I had only Troy, and he wasn't feeling exceptionally well when I called.

  "I wish you'd hurry back, Heaven," he said in an odd voice. "Sometimes when I wake up at night I think you are only a dream and I'll never see you again."

  "I love you, Troy! I'm not a dream! After I've seen the Wises I'm flying back to be your wife."

  "But you sound distant and different"

  "It's the wind on the telephone lines. I always hear it. I'm glad someone else does, too."

  "Heaven . . ." He paused, then said, "Never mind, I don't want to beg."

  I waited on stand-by for a flight to take me to West Virginia, to Winnerrow, to Main Street where Logan lived in the apartment over Stonewall's Pharmacy.

  Oh, I was tempting fate to do its worst, but I didn't know that at the time. I only knew I wanted to win at one game of chance I played . . and maybe money could buy back one little girl who might be grateful in the future . . .

  Seventeen Against All Odds

  . THEY WERE SINGING IN THE CHURCH WHEN I ENTERED, singing with pious faces upraised, the glorious, spiritual songs that reminded me of my youth when Sarah had been my mother, when home had been the cabin in the Willies; and the sweetest things in my life had been my love for Logan Stonewall, and the hours we both spent on Sundays in this church.

  And their voices, so uplifted in celebration of the best part of their lives that came on Sundays, were incredibly clear on this sizzling hot summer's evening. Electric heat bolts lit up the sky every so often. Following the last of the stragglers into the church, where hand-held fans fluttered the air, as if the central air conditioning was off, I was again transported back in time to when I was just a scumbag Casteel.

  Oh, those sweet and wholesome angel voices were the same ones that could rant and rave and curse, but who could believe that now? Not any stranger who didn't know them intimately, as all residents of the valley and hills knew each other. I quietly sat in the last side pew of the last row and was surprised to see that quite a number of hill folks were in church, when customarily they didn't attend evening services in overwhelming numbers, especially on a scorching night like this one. The town folks wore their newest and best, and didn't bother to turn their heads, only their eyes to stare my way. Look down their noses over my clothes, in their combined hypocrisy they united to form mindless judgments seldom based on facts, only on suspicions and herd instinct.

  They knew me despite my fine raiment. Despite my clothes, they didn't want me in their midst. They didn't even have to speak a word; their animosity was sharp and needling, and if I hadn't been in such a determined mood, I might have been driven away, knowing that, no matter how rich or famous I might become, I'd never win their respect, or their admiration, or what I wanted more than anything else, their envy. Nothing had changed in the order of what they considered right and wrong and suitable--for such as me.

  The hill folk still took the back benches, the valley folk still reigned supreme in the middle, and those deemed worthiest sat closest to God in the first rows, center aisle, those on the front pews were also those who contributed most to whatever charity or building fund that was currently popular. There, prim and proper, was Rosalynn Wise, staring up at her husband with blank eyes as he stepped up to his podium. His slick, black, custom-made suit fitted him so beautifully he appeared as slim as he had when first I saw him when I was ten. And everybody knew Reverend Wayland Wise had such a gluttonous appetite he gained at least ten pounds each year.

  It had been my intention when I entered to stay, as always, in my place, but that was also where it was warmest from the hot blasts of air coming in the door that opened and closed every few minutes. To my own surprise I didn't stay seated. Soon I found myself standing, and in the third row, center aisle, while all eyes riveted on my audacity, I found an empty pew and there I plucked a hymn book from the pocket of the seat ahead, and automatically turned to page 216 and began to sing. Really sing--loud, clear, high. For all the Casteels could sing, even when they had nothing to sing about.

  I had gained their attention now, shockingly gained it. They stared at me, open-mouthed, wideeyed, stunned and alarmed, that I, a Casteel, would dare so much! And I didn't try to ignore them. I met each pair of accusing eyes and never faltered as I sang the old familiar hymn that Our Jane had loved so very much. "Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves, we shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves."

  As I sang I could almost snatch their thoughts from the air. Another crummy Casteel had come again into their sanctified midst! Their hostile eyes swept again over my face, over my clothes, sneered at the jewelry I wore in ostentatious excess just to show them what I had now--everything!

  A murmur of disapproval rippled through the crowd, but I didn't care. I had given them all a good chance to look me over in my jewels and my expensive suit.

  But those eyes still weren
't impressed, or if they were, they didn't widen with admiration or narrow with surprise. To them a porkbelly had more of a chance of transforming into ten billion bats of gold than I had of becoming respectable.

  As abruptly as the heads had swiveled to see me advance to the front, now each and every one of those heads turned away, almost like a fan of faces folding. The hillbillies to the sides of me and behind me did as the valley folk did, and that was to turn slightly from me. I squared my shoulders, sat down, and waited. Waited for whatever cue would come along from whatever sermon the good and holy Reverend chose this particular Sunday night. There was suspense in the air, a silence pregnant with ill will. Perched uneasily in the pew, I thought of Logan and his parents, wondering if they had chosen tonight to come to church. I slipped my eyes around as best I could without turning my head, hoping and fearing to see the Stonewalls.

  Then, suddenly, heads were again turning to stare at an old man who was hobbling with a stiffkneed gait down the center aisle. I kept my eyes straight ahead, but I saw him nevertheless in my peripheral vision--coming to sit beside me!

  It was Grandpa!

  My own grandpa, whom I had seen only two days ago! Grandpa, who had pocketed the hundreddollar bills, promising vacantly to give the money to Tom. And here he was, far from Florida and Georgia, grinning at me shyly, showing the sad state of his toothless mouth. Then he whispered, "Good t'see ya. Heaven girl."

  "Grandpa," I whispered. "What are you doing back here?" 1 slipped my arm about his waist and hugged him as best I could. "Did you give the money I gave you to Tom?"

  "Don't like flat places," he mumbled in way of explanation, casting down his pale eyes that seemed to shed tears, though I knew they often watered.

  "What about the money?"

  "Tom don't want it."

  I frowned, not knowing how to pursue something in the brain of an old man who didn't know how to separate reality from fantasy. "Did Pa ask you to leave?"