He was an awful sight. "You can trust a few some of the time, and most none of the time. Feel lucky if you have even one to trust all of the time."
What was that supposed to mean? I scowled and tried to draw away. Didn't like his false teeth that kept slippin so he had to push them back, and they clacked too, as if they didn't fit his mouth.
"You like her, don't you?" he asked, slyly smilin, noddin his head up and down, from side to side, so I could be confused if I wanted. "When you want the full truth about who you are--and who she is--come to me." The lady's steps on the stairs sent him scurryin off.
Creepy. He made me feel creepy and scared. I knew who I was--most of the time.
All alone now. Nothin to do. I sat down and crossed my legs like my daddy did, then leaned back to light up an expensive cigar, which Daddy never did. (Momma didn't like men who smoked.) Nothin wrong with smokin as far as I could tell, I thought, as I blew four perfect smoke rings into the air . . . and away they sailed toward the Pacific. They'd end up in Japan over Mt. Fugi.
"Good morning, Bart darling. I'm so glad to see you." She came in and sat in the rocker.
"You got my pony yet?"
Her voice sounded worried. "Sweetheart, I know I promised you a pony as your heart's desire, but I did that without knowing how much trouble a pony can be."
"You promised!" I cried. Was I puttin my trust in the wrong person? One who failed to deliver what she promised.
"Sweetheart, a pony needs a stall, and ponies make you smell bad. When you went home your parents and Jory would guess you had a pet over here."
Instead of answerin, I began to cry. "All my life I been wantin a pony," I sobbed. "All my livelong life, and now I've got to grow old without havin one . . ." Sobbed some more, then hung my head and headed for home, never to return.
"Bart . . . there is a beautiful big dog that won't smell and betray your secrets. A St. Bernard--a dog so big you can ride it like a pony. If you keep him clean and fluffy he won't betray you with his odors. . . ."
Slowly I turned to glare at her. "Ain't no dog as big as a pony!"
"Isn't there?"
"NO! You're tryin to make fun of me. I don't like you anymore! I'm goin home and never comin back-- not until you have a pony I can name Apple."
"Darling, you can call your puppy Apple--but he won't eat them--and just think how jealous Jory would be if you have a dog more marvelous than his."
Turned to the door. Disgusted.
"Only the super rich can afford to feed a St. Bernard, Bart!"
Like I was a pin and she was the magnet, I turned back to her unwillingly. She lifted me up on her lap and cuddled me there, and it wasn't so awful after all. "You can call me Grandmother."
"Grandmother." Felt good to have a
grandmother at last. I snugged closer and waited for her to call me Baby, but she just went right on rockin and singin a lullaby. I put my thumb in my mouth. Nice to be hugged and kissed and made to feel helpless and loved. And she didn't smell like mothballs after all.
"Are you ugly under that veil?" I asked, always curious about what she looked like. The veil was almost transparent, but not enough.
"I guess you would think so, but once I was very beautiful--like your mother."
"You know my mother?" I asked.
The door opened and my favorite pretty maid came in with a dish of ice cream and hot brownies fresh from the oven. "Now only eat one brownie, and let this little bit of ice cream be enough so you can come over after lunch." She went on to tell me not to shove in such huge mouthfuls because it was not good manners, and was also a shock to my digestive system.
I had good manners. My momma taught me all the time. For some reason I was angry enough to jump down from her lap, wonderin just what it was John Amos had to tell me. As I stumbled toward the door, all of a sudden John Amos was there in the hall, smilin at me spooky-like. He bowed a little and put a small red-leather book in my hands. "I sense you're not very confident about yourself," he whispered, making lots of hissin sounds like a snake. "It's time you knew just who you really are. That lady who told you to call her grandmother is really your true grandmother."
Oh, good golly! I didn't know I had my own true grandmother. I thought my grandmothers were either dead or in the looney bin.
"Yes, Bart, she's your grandmother, and not only that, once she was married to your father. Your real father."
Didn't know what to think, except I was awful happy havin a genuine true grandmother of my very own, just like Jory had his own. And she wasn't dead, or crazy.
"Now you listen to me, boy, and you will never feel weak and ineffective again. You read a little of this book every day and it will teach you to be like your great-grandfather, Malcolm Neal Foxworth. Never on this earth did there live a man who was smarter than your own great-grandfather--the father of your grandmother who sits in that rocker and wears that ugly black veil."
"She's pretty underneath," I said. I didn't like what he was sayin and the way he was lookin. "Never have seen her face, but I can tell from her voice that she's pretty--prettier than you!"
He sneered, then quickly changed his expression to smilin.
"All right, have it your way. But after you read this book written by your own dear great-grandfather, you will understand that women are not to be trusted, especially pretty women. They have ways, cunning ways, of making men do what they want. You'll find that out soon enough when you become a man, A man as handsome as your own father was, and she took him and made him her slave, made him her lap dog like she's making you."
Wasn't no lap dog, wasn't!
"He was her second husband, Bartholomew Winslow, and eight years younger than her, and he didn't know any better. He thought he could use her-- but she used him. I want to save you from her so you won't end up like your father did--dead."
Dead. Almost everybody was dead in our family Wasn't really surprised by nothin he said, except I hadn't known women were that bad. Always suspected they were, but never really knew. I should warn Jory.
"Now if you want to save your everlasting soul from the fires of eternal hell, you will read this book and grow strong and powerful like your greatgrandfather. Then women will never rule you again. You will rule them."
I looked up into his long gaunt face, seem his skinny mustache and his yellowish teeth through which he not only hissed but sometimes whistled. He was uglier than anyone I'd seen before. But I'd heard Emma say more than once that pretty was as pretty did. So I guessed I might as well give my powerful great-grandfather a try, and read his little red-leather book with its sprawly handwritin.
Didn't take much to readin. Wasn't my kind of thing to do at all. But when I was in the barn near the stall that would soon be a home for my pony, I snuggled down in the hay. Wanted that pony so bad it hurt. Didn't really care if it smelled bad and was lots of trouble. I opened the book, which looked mighty old.
I am beginning this journal with the most bitter day of my life: the day my beloved mother ran away and left me for another man. She left my father too. I remember how I felt when he told me what she'd done, how much I cried, how lost I felt without her. How lonely to go to bed and have no mother to kiss me goodnight and hear my prayers. I was five years old. And until she left, she'd always said I was the most important person in her life. How could she have left me, her only son? What evil thing possessed her so she could turn her back on a loving son?
I was so innocent then, so unknowing. When I read the words of the Lord, I began to realize that ever since Eve women have betrayed men in one way or another, even mothers. Corrine, Corrine, how I began to hate that name.
Funny. Felt strange as I lifted my eyes from that red journal with its small, cramped handwriting that sometimes sprawled larger at the bottom of the page, as if he had to use every bit of space.
I too had always been scared my mamma might up and go for no reason except she didn't want to be near me anymore. And I'd be left alone with a stepfather who couldn't
possibly love me as much as if I'd been his own true son. Jory would be all right, for he had his dancin and that was all that really mattered to him.
"You like that book?" asked John Amos, who had sneaked into the barn and was standing still in the shadows and watchin me with small, glittery eyes.
"Sure, it's a good book," I managed to say, though it made me feel bad inside, and so afraid Momma might run away too with some man who wasn't a doctor. All the time she was wishin Daddy wasn't a doctor and could stay home more.
"Now you keep reading that book each day," advised John Amos, who might really like me, even though his face was mean, "and you will learn all about women and how to control them." I could listen better when I couldn't see him very good. "And not only will you learn how to control women, but also all people. That small red book in your hands will save you from making the mistakes so many men make. You remember that when you grow tired of reading. You remember it is the god-given duty of men to dominate women who are basically weak and stupid."
Gee, I hadn't guessed Momma was weak and stupid. I thought she was strong and wonderful. Just like my grandmother was generous and kind. . . and in some ways, much better than my own mother, who always seemed too busy to bother with me.
"Malcolm was the kind of man other people looked up to, Bart. The kind of man everyone respected and feared. When you can inspire that kind of awe it makes you revered--like a god. You don't have to tell your grandmother about this book. It would be better if you didn't, and just went on pretending to love her as much as before. Never let women know what you're thinking. Keep your honest thoughts to yourself."
Maybe he was right. Maybe if I read this book to the very end I'd end up smarter than Jory, and the whole world would look up to me.
I smiled that night in my bed, hugging the journal of Malcolm close to my heart. Here I had the tool to use to make me the richest man in the world-- just like Malcolm Neal Foxworth, who used to live in a faraway place called Foxworth Hall.
I had two friends now. My lady grandmother in black and John Amos, who talked to me more than my daddy ever did. Boy, sure was funny how strangers came into my life and started givin me more than my parents.
Sugar and Spice
. Mom had purchased a ballet school that still bore the name of the original owner. She adopted that name, Marie DuBois School of Ballet, and led her students to think she was Marie DuBois. She explained to me and Bart later that it was easier than changing the name of the school and more profitable too. Dad seemed to agree.
Her school was located on the top floor of a two-story building in San Rafael, not far from where Dad had his medical office. Often they ate lunch together or spent the night in San Francisco so they could see a ballet or go to movies and not have to drive back and forth. Emma was with us, so we didn't really mind too much, except sometimes I felt left out to see them come home so happy and glowing. It made me think we weren't as important to them as we liked to believe.
One night when I was restless and couldn't sleep, I silently stole out of my bedroom with the idea of a midnight snack on my mind, nothing else. The second my feet hit the hall near the living room I could hear the sound of my parents voices. Loud. They were arguing, and they seldom even spoke crossly to one another.
I didn't know what to do, to stay or to return to my room. Then I remembered that scene in the attic, and for my protection and Bart's, too, I felt I had to know what this was all about.
Mom still wore the pretty blue dress she'd worn out to dinner with Dad. "I don't know why you keep objecting!" she stormed, as she paced back and forth, throwing Dad furious looks. "You know as well as I do that Nicole isn't going to get well. And if we wait until she's buried, then the state will have custody of Cindy, and we'll have a devil of a time getting her away from them! Let's move now. Possession is ninetenths of the law, and that landlady doesn't want to be bothered any longer. Chris, please make up your mind!"
"No," he said coldly. "We have two children and that's enough. There are other young couples who will be delighted to adopt Cindy. Couples who don't have as much to lose as we do when the adoption agency starts to investigate . . ."
Mom threw her hands wide. "That's what I'm saying! If we have Cindy before Nicole dies, the agency won't have any reason to investigate. I'll go tonight and tell Nicole what I plan. I'm sure she'll agree and sign whatever legal papers are needed."
"Catherine," said my stepfather in a firm voice, "you can't have everything the way you want it. Nicole may very well recover in a few weeks, and even if she is permanently crippled, she'll still want her child."
"But what kind of mother will she make?" "That's not for us to decide."
"She can't recover! You know it, and I know
it --and what's more, Christopher Doll, I have already gone to the hospital and talked to Nicole, and she wants me to have her daughter. She signed the papers I took, and I had Simon Daughtry with me. He's an attorney, and had his secretary along--so what can you do now to stop me?"
Appearing shocked, my stepdad put his hands to his face, while my mother railed on and one
"Christopher, stop cringing behind your hands. Show your face, and recognize what you made me do. You were there the night Bart was born--there with your pleading eyes telling me Paul wouldn't be enough, and it would be you in the end who won. If you hadn't been there, pleading with those damned blue eyes, I wouldn't have let the doctors talk me into signing those papers and allowing the sterilization! I would have borne another child even if it did kill me. But you were there, and I gave in--for your sake, damn it! For your sake!"
Sobbing, she fell to the floor and lay curled up on her side, her fingers working in the deep shag of the carpet. Her long blonde hair spread like a golden fan on the carpet and cushioned her cheek as she cried on and on, berating him and herself for what they were doing.
What were they doing?
She rolled onto her back, spreading her arms wide. Dad uncovered his face and stared at her, looking deeply wounded.
"You're right, Christopher! You are always right! There's only been one time when I was right, but that single time might have saved Cory's life." Sobbing, she jerked her head away from Dad, who knelt beside her and tried to pull her into his embrace. She hit at him, making me gasp.
"You were right again when you told me not to marry Julian! I'll bet you gloated when our marriage turned out to be a miserable failure. I'll bet you were delighted when Julian sat back and allowed Yolanda Lange to destroy everything we owned. Everything happened just the way you predicted, making you so happy. Then Bart suffocated in the fire that burned Foxworth Hall to the ground. Were you laughing inside then too?--glad to be rid of him? Did you think I'd run straight into your arms and forget about all I owed Paul? Did you doubt I loved Paul?" Her voice rose to a shrill shriek. "When Paul and I were lovers I never thought of him as too old, until you kept harping on his age. Perhaps I wouldn't have paid any attention to Amanda and what she said if you hadn't bugged me so much about marrying a man twentyfive years older."
I shrank into a tighter ball. Ashamed to stay and listen; afraid to get up and go now that I'd overheard so much. Mom was wound up, as if she'd saved this for a long time, ready to throw it into his face at the right opportunity--and here it was. He recoiled from the viciousness of her attack.
"Remember the afternoon I married Paul?" she yelled. "Remember? Think of the moment when you handed me the ring he put on my finger. You hesitated so long the minister had to urge you with a whisper. And all the time you were pleading with your eyes. I resisted you then, as I should have resisted you after he died. Did you wish for him to die soon so that you'd have YOUR chance? A self-fulfilling wish, Christopher Doll! YOU WIN! YOU ALWAYS WIN! YOU SIT BACK AND WAIT WHILE YOU DO WHAT YOU CAN TO MESS UP MY LIFE! WELL, HERE I AM! RIGHT WHERE YOU WANTED ME!--in your bed, acting as your wife. Are you enjoying yourself? ARE YOU?" She sobbed, then slapped his face hard.
He reeled backward but didn't say a word
. She hadn't finished with him even then. "Don't you realize I would never have gone to Bart in the first place if you hadn't always been hanging around, coming between Paul and me; making me ashamed of what Mamma had done to you, to me? I had to take Bart away from her then--it was the only way I could punish her for what she did to us. And now, after all Paul did for us, you won't even have the decent generosity to take in a poor little girl who will soon be an orphan. Even when I have paved the way legally so there won't be any investigation by the authorities. Still you want me for yourself, thinking two sons are enough to get in the way of our privacy, and another child might bring down our house of cheating cards."
"Cathy, please . . ." he moaned.
She hit at him with small, balled fists, then yelled again, "Perhaps you even told me it was all right for Paul to have sex just so he would have another heart attack!"
Then she sank back, panting, tears streaking her face while her watery blue eyes stared up at Dad, but he only stayed still, hunkered down on his heels as if frozen by all she'd said.
I wanted to cry, for him, for her, for Bart and for me. Though I didn't understand nearly enough.
My dad began to shiver uncontrollably, as if winter had come unexpectedly into our living room. Had Mom told the truth? Was he the one who was behind all the deaths in our lives? I was scared too, for I loved him.
"Great God, Catherine," he said at last, rising to his feet and heading toward their bedroom. "I'll pack my bags and move out before the hour is over, if that's what you want. And I hope you're satisfied. This time, you win!"
In one single graceful bound, she was on her feet and running after him. She caught hold of his arm and spun him around before she flung her arms about his waist and clung. "Chris!" she cried out, "I'm sorry! So sorry. I didn't mean a word I said. It was cruel, and I know it. I love you; I've always loved you; I lie, I cheat, I say anything I want to get my way. I'll put the blame on anyone. I can't bear it as my own. Don't look so hurt, so betrayed. You're right to deny me Nicole's daughter, for I do end up hurting everyone I love. I do destroy what I care about most. If I'd been the right kind of person I would have found the right words to say to Carrie, but I didn't say anything right to her then, and nothing right to Julian either."
If There Be Thorns Page 5