"It's love," whispered Jory. "They're still like honeymooners. Remember, Chris is our mom's third husband, and the bloom hasn't worn off."
What bloom? Didn't see any flowers.
Jory had passed on to the junior year of high school with flyin colors. I sneaked into the fifth grade by the skin of my teeth. Hated school. Hated that ole mansion that looked like new now. Gone were all the spooky, eerie times when we'd had lots of fun over there.
"We'll just bide our time until we can sneak over there and see-that old lady," Jory said, whispering so all those gardeners trimmin the shrubs and snippin at the trees wouldn't hear.
She owned acres of land, twenty or more. That made for lots of cleanup jobs, since the workmen on the roof were lettin everythin fall. Her yard was littered with papers, spills of nails, bits of lumber left over from repair jobs, plus trash that blew through the iron fence in front of the driveway that was near what Jory called "lover's lane."
That hateful construction boss was pickin up beer cans as he headed our way, scowlin just to see us when we weren't doin a thing bad. "How many times do I have to tell you boys?" he bellowed. "Now don't force me to say it again!" He put his huge fists on his hips and glared up at us. "I've warned you before to stay off that wall--now Scat!"
Jory was unwillin to move from the wall when it wasn't any harm to just sit and look.
"Are the two of you deaf?" he yelled again.
In a flash Jory's face turned from handsome to mean. "No, we are not deaf! We live here. This wall is on the property line, and just as much ours as it is hers. Our dad says so. So we will sit up here and watch just as long as we like. And don't you dare yell and tell us to 'scat' again!"
"Sassy kid, aren't yah?" and off he wandered without even lookin at me, who was just as sassy-- inside.
Introductions
. It was breakfast time. Mom was telling Dad about one of her ballerinas. Bart sat across the table from me, poking at his cold cereal and scowling. He didn't like to eat much of anything but snack foods, which Dad said were bad for him.
"Chris, I don't think Nicole is going to pull out of this," Mom was saying with a worried frown. "It's awful that cars hurt so many people, and she's got a little girl only two years old. I saw her a few weeks ago. Honestly, she reminded me so much of Carrie when she was two."
Dad nodded absently, his gaze still fixed on the morning newspaper. The scene between them in the attic still haunted me, especially at night when I couldn't sleep. Sometimes I'd just sit alone in my room and try and remember what was hidden way back in the dark recesses of my mind. Something important I was sure, but I couldn't remember what it was.
Even as I sat and listened to them talk about Nicole and her daughter, I kept thinking of that attic scene, wondering what it meant, and just who was the grandmother they were afraid of. And how could they have known each other when Mom was only fourteen?
"Chris," implored Mom, her tone trying to force him to put down the sports page. "You don't listen when I talk. Nicole has no family at all--did you hear that? Not even an uncle or an aunt to care for Cindy if she dies. And you know she has never been married to that boy she loved."
"Hrnmm," he answered before biting into his toast. "Don't forget to water our garden today."
She frowned, really annoyed. He wasn't listening as I was. "I think it was a huge mistake to sell Paul's home and move here. His statues just don't look right in this kind of setting."
That got his attention.
"Cathy, we have vowed never to have regrets about anything. And there are more important things in life than having a tropical garden where everything grows rampant."
"Rampant? Paul had the most manicured garden I've ever seen!"
"You know what I mean."
Silent for a second, she spoke again about Nicole and the two-year-old girl who would go into an orphanage if her mother died. Dad said someone was sure to adopt her quickly if she did. He stood up to pull on his sports jacket. "Stop looking on the darkest side. Nicole may recover. She's young, strong, basically healthy. But if you're so worried, I'll stop by and have a talk with her doctors."
"Daddy," piped up Bart, who'd scowled darkly all morning. "Nobody here can make me go East this summer! I won't go and can't nobody make me!"
"True," said Dad, chucking Bart under the chin and playfully rumpling his already unruly dark hair. "Nobody can make you go--I'm just hoping you'd rather go than stay home alone." He leaned to kiss Mom goodbye.
"Drive carefully." Mom had to say this every day just as he was leaving. He smiled and said he would, and their eyes met and said things I
understood, in a way.
"There was an ole lady who lived in a shoe," chanted Bart. "She had so many children she didn't know what to do."
"Bart, do you have to sit there and make a mess? If you aren't going to finish your meal, excuse yourself and leave the table."
"Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater, had a wife and couldn't keep her; put her in a pumpkin shell, and there he kept her very well." He grinned at her, got up and left the table--that was his way of excusing himself.
Great golly, almost ten and he was still chanting nursery rhymes. He picked up his favorite old sweater, tossed it over his shoulder, and, in so doing, he knocked over a carton of milk. The milk puddled to the floor, where Clover was soon lapping it up like a cat. Mom was so enthralled with a snapshot of Nicole's little girl that she didn't notice the milk.
It was Emma who wiped up the milk and glared at Bart, who stuck out his tongue and sauntered away. "Excuse me, Mom," I said, jumping up to follow Bart outside.
Again on the top of the wall, we sat and stared over, both of us wishing the lady would hurry and move in. Who knows, maybe she'd have
grandchildren.
"Missin that ole house already," complained Bart. "Hate people who move in our place."
We both fiddled away the day, planting more seeds, pulling up more weeds, and soon I was wondering how we were going to pass a whole summer without going next door even once.
At dinner Bart was grouchy because he too missed the house. He glared down at his full plate. "Eat heartily, Bart," said Dad, "or else you may not have enough strength to enjoy yourself in
Disneyland."
Bart's mouth fell open. "Disneyland?" His dark eyes widened in delight. "We're goin there really? Not goin East to visit ole graves?"
"Disneyland is part of your birthday gift," explained Dad. "You'll have your party there, and then we'll fly to South Carolina. Now don't complain Other people's needs have to be considered as well as yours. Jory's grandmother likes to see him at least once a year, and since we skipped last summer, she's doubly anticipating our visit. Then there's my mother, who needs a family too."
I found myself staring at Mom. She seemed to be smoldering. Every year she was like this when the time came to visit "his" mother. I thought it a pity she didn't understand why mothers were so very important. She's been an orphan so long maybe she'd forgotten--or maybe she was jealous.
"Boy, I'd rather have Disneyland than heaven!" said Bart. "Can never, never get enough of
Disneyland." "I know," said Dad in a dry way.
But no sooner did it sink in that Bart was getting his "heart's delight" than he was complaining again about not wanting to go East. "Momma, Daddy, I am not goin! Two weeks is too long for visitin ole graves and ole grandmothers!"
"Bart," said Mom sharply, "you show such disrespect for the dead. Your own father is one of those dead people whose grave you don't want to visit. Your aunt Carrie is there too. And you are going to visit their graves, and Madame Marisha too, whether you want to or not. And if you open your mouth again, there will be no trip to Disneyland!"
"Momma," now a subdued Bart wanted to make up. "Why did your daddy who's dead in Gladstone, Pa. . . ."
"Say Pennsylvania, not Pa."
"How come the picture of him looks so much like the daddy we have now?"
Pain flashed in her eyes. I spoke
up, hating the way Bart had of grilling everyone. "Gee,
Dollanganger is sure some whopper of a name. Bet you were glad to get rid of it."
She turned to stare at a large photograph of Dr. Paul Sheffield, then quietly said, "Yes, it was a wonderful day when I became Mrs. Sheffield."
Then Dad was looking upset. I sank deeper into the cut-velvet plush of a dining chair. All about me in the air, creeping on the floor, hiding in the shadows, were pieces of the past that they remembered and I didn't. Fourteen years old, and still I didn't know what life was all about. Or what my parents were about either.
Finally the day came when the mansion was completed. Then came the cleaning ladies to work on the windows and scrub the floors. Yard men came to rake, mow, trim again, and we were there all the time, peeking into windows, then running swiftly back to the wall and skimming up a tree, hoping not to get caught. On the top of the wall we quietly sat as if we'd never disobey any rule made by our parents. "She's a'comin!" whispered Bart, very excited. "Any moment, that ole lady, she's a'comin!"
The house was fixed up so grand we expected to see a fancy movie actress, a president's wife, somebody important. One day when Dad was at work and Mom was shopping, and Emma was still in the kitchen like always, we saw a huge long black limousine turn slowly into the long drive next door. An older car followed, but still, it was a snazzylooking car. Two weeks ago that driveway had been cracked and buckled concrete, and now it was smooth black asphalt. I nudged Bart to calm his excitement. All about us the leaves made a fine concealing canopy, and still we could see everything.
Slowly, slowly, the chauffeur pulled the long, luxurious car to a stop; then he got out and circled the car to let out the passengers. We watched breathlessly. Soon we'd see her--that rich, rich woman who could afford anything!
The chauffeur was young and had a jaunty air. Even from a distance we could tell he was handsome, but the old man who stepped from the limo wasn't handsome at all. He took me by surprise. Hadn't that workman told us a lady and servants? "Look," I whispered to Bart, "that must be the butler. I never knew butlers rode in the same car as their employer."
"Hate people who move in our house!" grumbled Bart.
The feeble old butler stretched out his hand to help an old woman out of the back seat. She ignored him and took the arm of the chauffeur instead. Oh, gosh! She wore all black, from head to toe covered over like an Arab woman. A black veil was over her head and face. Was she a widow? A Moslem? She looked so mysterious.
"Hate black dresses that drag on the ground. Hate ole ladies who want black veils over their heads. Hate spooks."
All I could do was watch, fascinated, thinking that the woman moved rather gracefully beneath the black robe. Even from our hidden place, I could tell she felt nothing but scorn for the feeble old butler. Gee-- intrigue.
She looked around at everything. For the longest time she stared our way, at the white wall, at the roof of our house. I knew she couldn't see very much. Many a time I'd stood where she was, looking homeward, and I'd seen only the peak of our roof and the chimney. Only when she was inside on her second floor could she see into some of our rooms. I'd better tell Mom to plant some more big trees near the white wall.
It occurred to me then why two workmen might have chopped down a number of her large eucalyptus trees. Maybe she wanted to look over at our house and be nosy. But it was more likely she didn't want those trees growing so near her house.
Now the second car drew up behind the first. Out of this one stepped a maid in a black uniform with a fancy white apron and cap. Following her came two servants dressed in gray uniforms. It was the servants who rushed about, carrying in many suitcases, hatboxes, live plants and such, all while the lady in black stood stock-still and looked at our chimney. I wonder what she was seeing?
A huge yellow moving van drew up and began to unload elegant furniture, and still that lady stayed outside and let the maids decide where to put each piece. Finally, when one of the maids kept running to her and asking questions, she turned away and disappeared into the mansion. All the servants vanished with her.
"Bart, would you look at that sofa those men are carrying in! Have you ever seen such a fancy sofa?"
Long ago he'd lost interest in the movers. He was now staring intently at the yellow and black caterpillar undulating along a thin branch not far below his dirty sneakers. Pretty birds were singing all around. The deep blue sky was full of fluffy white clouds. The air felt fresh, cool, fragrant with pine and eucalyptus--and Bart was staring at the one ugly thing in view. A blessed horny caterpillar!
"Hate ugly things that creep with horns on their heads," he mumbled to himself. I knew he always had a desire to know what was inside. "Becha got ickysticky green goo under all that pretty-colored fuzz. You mean little dragon on the branch, stop comin my way. Get too close and yer dead."
"Quit that silly talk. Look at that table those men are taking in now. Boy, I'll bet that chair came from a castle in Europe."
"Jus' one more inch and somethin ugly is gonna get it!"
"You know what? I'll bet that lady who's moving in is kinda nice. Anybody who has such good taste in furniture must be real quality."
"One more inch . . . and yer dead!" Bart told the caterpillar.
As the sun set, the sky turned rosy, and wide streaks of violet came to make the early evening even more beautiful.
"Bart, look at the sunset. Have you ever seen more glorious colors? Colors are like music to me. I can hear them singing. I'll bet if God struck me deaf and blind this very moment I'd go right on hearing the music of colors, and seeing them behind my eyes. And in darkness I'd dance and never know it wasn't light."
"Crazy talk," mumbled my brother, his eyes still on the fuzzy worm coming closer and closer to that deadly sneaker held above him. "Blind means black as pitch. No colors. No music. No nothin. Dead is silence."
"Deaf. . . d-e-a-f--not dead."
Just then Bart smashed down his sneaker on the caterpillar. Then he jumped from the tree to the ground, and there he wiped the sticky green goo on the lady's new lawn.
"That was a mean thing you did, Bart Winslow! Caterpillars go through a stage called metamorphosis. The kind you just killed makes the most beautiful butterfly of all. So you didn't kill a dragon but a fairy king or queen--the sweetest lover of roses."
"Stupid ballet talk," was his opinion, though he did manage to look slightly scared. "I can make up for it," he said uneasily, looking around nervously. "I'll set a trap, catch a caterpillar alive. Keep it for a pet, and wait until it turns into a fairy king, and then I'll let it go."
"Hey, I was just joking, but from now on, don't kill any insect that isn't on the roses."
"If I find some on the roses can I kill 'em all?"
Puzzling the way Bart needed to kill all insects. Once I'd caught him pulling off a spider's legs one by one before he squashed it between his thumb and forefinger. Then the black blood held his interest. "Do bugs feel pain?"
"Yeah," I said, "but don't let it worry you. Sooner or later you'll feel pain too. So don't cry. It was only a fuzzy worm, not a fairy king or queen. Let's go home now." I was feeling sorry for him because I knew he was sensitive about not being able to feel pain like I did, though gosh knows he should be glad.
"NO! Don't wanna go home! Want to see inside that house next door."
Just then Emma came out to ring her dinner bell, making us scamper home quickly.
Next day we were right back on the wall. The movers had finished up after we'd gone to bed. No more trucks coming and going. I'd spent most of my morning and early afternoon in Mom's ballet class, while Bart stayed home and played alone. And summer days were long. He smiled, happy to have me with him again. "Ready?" I asked.
"Ready!" he agreed. Having decided on our course of action earlier, we slipped over the wall and down to the other side by climbing down a sapling tree. It was ground we'd been forbidden to step on, but rightly or wrongly it was ground we considered ours,
for it had belonged to us first. Like two shadows freed, we slithered along. Bart looked at the shrubs that had been trimmed into shapes of animals! How weird. A strutting rooster beside a fat hen on a nest. Neat, really neat. Who would have guessed that old Mexican man was so clever with those snippers?
"Don't like shrubs that look like animals," complained Bart. "Don't like green eyes. Green eyes are mean eyes. Jory--they're watchin us!"
"Sssh, don't whisper. Watch where you put your feet. Step only where I step." I glanced over my shoulder to see that the sky had changed to a dark plum color streaked with crimson that looked like freshly spilled blood. Soon night would descend, and the moon wasn't always a friendly face.
"Jory," came Bart's whisper as he tugged on my shirttail, "didn't Momma tell us to be home by dark?"
"It's not dark yet." But almost. The creamy white of the mansion in daylight was bluish white in the dusk and scary looking.
"Don't like bony-lookin ole house made to look like new."
Bart and his ideas.
"Sure must be time to be gettin home now."
I resisted his tugs. Since we'd come this far we might as well go all the way. I put my finger to my lips, whispered "Stay where you are," and by myself stole to the only window that was bright in a huge house of many windows.
Instead of staying where I'd told him to, Bart followed at my heels. Again I cautioned him, then I climbed a small oak tree just strong enough to bear my weight. I climbed high enough to peek into the house. At first I couldn't see anything but a huge dim room cluttered with cartons as yet unpacked. A tall and fat lamp blocked my view, and I had to lean away from the tree to see around it. Fuzzily I could make out a black-robed figure seated in a hard wooden rocker that looked very uncomfortable, after the soft, luxurious couches and chairs I'd seen carried inside. Was that a woman under the black veil?--the same one I'd seen outside?
Arab men wore dresses, so that could be the feeble butler, but then I saw a pale, slim hand with many sparkling rings and I knew it was the mistress of this manor. Shifting my weight, I sought a better viewing position, and, as I did, the branch supporting my weight cracked. The woman inside lifted her head and stared my way.
If There Be Thorns Page 3