"YOU GET AWAY FROM ME! YOU NEED TO SUFFER AS I SUFFERED! THEN YOU'LL BE GLAD TO HAVE ME BACK!" I took all his food, his water, and threw them in a wooden barrel. I picked up his red ball and hurled that so far he'd never find it. All the time Apple stood there, watching, not wagging his tail. He wanted me back, but now it was too late.
"You'll miss me now," I sobbed, stumbling away, locking him in the barn with all the windows closed and the shutters too. "Stay in darkness and die of hunger!" I'd never come back, never!
No sooner was I in the sunlight than I thought of the nice soft hay he had inside to lie on. I went into the barn again, seized up a pitchfork and raked all the hay away. He was whimpering now, trying to nuzzle up to me. Wouldn't let him. "You lie on the cold, hard floor! It will make all your bones ache, but I don't care, for I don't love you now!" Angry, I wiped the tears away and scratched my face.
In all my life I'd made only three friends: Apple, my grandmother and John Amos. Apple had killed my love, and one of the other two had betrayed me by feeding him and stealing his love. John Amos wouldn't bother--had to be Grandmother.
Drifted home in a daze. That night my leg ached so badly Daddy came in and gave me a pill. He sat on the side of my bed and held me in his arms, making me feel safe as he spoke softly about falling into sweet dreams.
Fell into ugliness. Dead bones everywhere. Blood gushing out in great rivers, taking pieces of human beings down into the oceans of fire. Dead. I was dead. Funeral flowers on the altar. People sent me flowers who didn't know me, telling me they were glad to see me dead. Heard the sea of fire play devil music, making me hate music and dancing even more than I had.
The sun came in my window and fell on my face, stealing me from the devil's grasp. When I opened my eyes, terrified of what I might see, I saw only Jory at the foot of my bed, looking at me with pity. Didn't need pity. "Bart, you cried last night. I'm sorry your leg still hurts."
"Leg don't hurt at all!" I yelled.
Got up to go limping into the kitchen where Momma was feeding Cindy. Blasted Cindy. Emma was frying bacon for my breakfast. "Coffee and toast only," I yelled. "That's all I want to eat."
Momma winced, then looked up with her face strangely pale. "Bart, please don't yell. And you don't drink coffee. Why would you ask for coffee?"
"Time I started acting my age!" I barked. Carefully I eased myself down into Daddy's chair with arms. Daddy came in and saw me in his chair, but he didn't order me out. He just used my armless chair, then poured coffee into a cup until it was half full. He filled the cup to an inch of the brim with cream and then gave it to me.
"Hate cream in my coffee!"
"How can you be so sure when you haven't tried it?"
"Just know." I refused to drink the coffee he'd spoiled. (Malcolm liked his coffee black--and so would I from now on.) Now all I had before me was dry toast--and if I had to be like Malcolm and grow smart brains, I couldn't spread butter and strawberry jam on my toast. Indigestion. Like Malcolm, had to worry about indigestion.
"Daddy, what's indigestion?"
"Something you don't need to have."
Sure was hard trying to be like Malcolm all the time. Seconds later Daddy was down on his knees, checking over my bad leg. "It looks worse today than it did yesterday," he said as he lifted his head, met my eyes and scowled suspiciously. "Bart, you haven't been crawling on this bad knee, have you?"
"No!" I yelled, "I'm not crazy! The covers rubbed off some of my skin. Rough sheets. Hate cotton sheets. Like silk ones best." (Malcolm wouldn't sleep on anything but silk.)
"How would you know?" asked Daddy. "You've never had silk sheets." He continued to care for my knee, washing it first and then sprinkling on some white powder before covering my wound with a gauze pad held on with sticky tape. "Now I'm serious, Bart. I warn you to stay off that knee. You stay in the house, out of the garden, or sit on the back veranda-no crawling in the dirt."
"It's a patio." I scowled to let him know he didn't know everything.
"All right, a patio--does that make you feel happy?"
No. Never was happy. Then I gave it more thought. Yes, I was happy sometimes--when I was pretending to be Malcolm, the all-powerful, the richest, the smartest.
Playing the role of Malcolm was easy and better than anything or anyone else. Somehow I knew if I kept it up I'd end up just like Malcolm--rich, powerful, loved.
Longest kind of dull day dragged on endlessly with everybody keeping a close eye on me. Twilight came, and Momma got busy making herself prettier for Daddy, who was due home any minute. Emma was fixing dinner. Jory was in his ballet class, and I slipped off the patio unseen. Down into the garden I hurried before anybody stopped me.
Evening time was spooky, with long, mean shadows. All the little humming, buzzing creatures of night came out and swarmed about my head. I fanned them away. I was going to John Amos. He was sitting alone in his room, reading some magazine that he hid as quickly as I entered without knocking. "You shouldn't do that," he said sourly, not even smiling to say he was glad I was alive, with two legs.
It was easy to put on Malcolm's glum look and scare him. "Did you give Apple water and food while I was sick?"
"Of course not," he said eagerly. "It was your grandmother who fed him and cared for him. I told you women can never be trusted to keep their word. Corrine Foxworth is no better than any other women with their wiles to trick men into being slaves."
"Corrine Foxworth--is that her name?"
"Of course, I've told you that before. She is Malcolm's daughter. He named her after his mother so he'd always be reminded of how false women are, how even a daughter could betray him--though he loved her well, too well, in my opinion."
I was growing bored of tales of women and their "wiles." "Why don't you get your teeth fixed?" I asked. I didn't like the way he hissed and whistled through teeth too loose.
"Good! You said that just like Malcolm. You're learning Being sick has been good for your soul--as it was for his. Now listen carefully, Bart. Corrine is your real grandmother and was once married to your real father. She was Malcolm's most beloved child and she betrayed him by doing something so sinful she has to be punished."
"Has to be punished?"
"Yes, punished severely, but you are not to let her know your feelings for her have changed. Pretend you still love her, still admire her. And in that way she will be made vulnerable."
Knew what vulnerable meant. Another of those words I had to learn. Weak, bad to be weak. John Amos went for his Bible and put my hand on its worn black cover, all cracked and peeling. "Malcolm's own Bible," he said. "He left it to me in his will . . . though he could have left me more . . ."
I realized that John Amos was the one person in the world who had not yet disappointed me. Here was the true friend I needed. Old--but I could be old too when I wanted. Though I couldn't take my teeth from my mouth and put them in an ivory-colored cup.
I stared at the Bible, wanting to pull my hand away but afraid of what might happen if I did. "Swear on this Bible that you will do as Malcolm would have wanted his great-grandson to do--wreak vengeance against those who harmed him most."
How could I promise what he wanted, when a little of me still loved her? Maybe John Amos was lying. Maybe Jory had fed Apple.
"Bart, why do you hesitate? Are you a weakling? Have you no spine? Look again at your mother, at how she uses her body, her pretty face, her soft kisses and hugs to make your father do anything she wants. Take notice of how late he works at night, how tired he is when he comes home. Ask yourself why. Does he do it for himself--or for her, so he can buy her new clothes, fur coats, jewelry and a big fine house to live in. That's how women use men, making them work while they play."
I swallowed. Momma had a job. She taught ballet dancing. But that was more fun than work, wasn't it? Did she ever buy anything with her money? Couldn't remember.
"Now you go in to see your grandmother, and be like you were before, and soon you will find out who betra
yed you. It wasn't me. You go in and pretend you are Malcolm. Call her Corrine----watch the guilt and shame flood her face, watch her eyes show fear, and you will know which one of us is loyal and trustworthy."
I had sworn hurt on those who had betrayed Malcolm, but I wasn't happy with myself as I limped on to the front parlor she liked best of all. I stood in the doorway and stared at her, my heart pounding, for I wanted so much to run to her arms and sit on her lap. Was it right for me to pretend to be Malcolm when I hadn't given her a chance to explain?
"Corrine," I said in a gruff voice. Oh, the game was so good, I couldn't be just Bart and feel secure. When I was Malcolm I felt so strong, so right.
"Bart," she cried happily, rising to extend her arms. "You've finally come to see me! I'm so glad to see you well and strong again." Then she hesitated. "Who told you my name?"
"John Amos told me," I said, frowning at her. "He told me you fed Apple and gave him water while I was away. Is that true?"
"Yes, darling, of course I did what I could for Apple. He missed you so much I pitied him. Surely you aren't angry."
"You stole him from me," I cried like a baby. "He was the best friend I ever had; the only one who really loved me, and you stole him away so now he likes you better."
"No, he doesn't. Bart, he likes me, but he loves you."
Now she wasn't smiling and pleased looking. Just like John Amos had said, she knew I was on to her wiles. She was gonna tell me more lies. "Don't speak to me so gruffly," she begged. "It doesn't become a boy of ten years. Darling, you've been gone so long, and I've missed you so much. Can't you even show me a little affection?"
Suddenly, despite my promise, I was running into her arms and throwing my arms about her. "Grandmother! I really did hurt my knee bad! I was sweating so much my bed was wet. They wrapped me in a cold blanket and Momma and Daddy rubbed me down with ice. There was a mean doctor who wanted to cut off my leg, but Daddy wouldn't let him. That doctor said he was glad I wasn't his son." I paused to take a breath. I forgot all about Malcolm.
"Grandmother, I found out my daddy loves me after all--or else he would have been glad for that doctor to cut off my leg."
She seemed shocked. "Bart, for heaven's sake! How can you have the slightest doubt that he loves you? Of course he does. He'd have to love you, and Christopher was always a kind, loving boy . . ."
How did she know my daddy's name was Christopher? I narrowed my eyes. She was holding her hands over her mouth like she'd given away some secret. Then she was crying.
Tears. One of the ways women had to work men.
I turned away. Hated tears. Hated people who were weak. I put my hand on my shirtfront and felt the hard cover of Malcolm's book against my bare chest. That book was giving me his strength, transferring it from the pages to my blood. What if I did wear a child's weak, imperfect body? What difference did it make when soon she'd know just who was her master?
Home, had to get home before they missed me. "Good night, Corrine."
I left her crying, still wondering how she knew my daddy's name.
In my garden I checked my peach pit again. No roots yet. I dug up my sweetpeas again. Still not sprouting. I didn't have luck with flowers, with peach pits, with nothing. With nothing but playing Malcolm the powerful. At that I was getting better and better. Smiling and happy, I went to bed.
The Horns of Dilemma
. Never was Bart in our yard where he should be. I climbed the tree and sat on the wall, and then I saw Bart over in that lady's yard, down on his knees crawling. Sniffing the ground like a dog. "Bart!" I yelled, "Clover's gone, and you can't take his place."
I knew what he was doing --burying a bone and then sniffing around until he found it. He looked up, his eyes glazed and disoriented--and then he began to bark.
I yelled to set him straight, but he went on playing the frolicking puppy before he suddenly became an old man who dragged his leg. And it wasn't even the leg he'd hurt. What a nut he was. "Bart, straighten up! You're ten, not a hundred. If you keep walking crooked you'll grow that way."
"Crooked days make crooked ways."
"You don't make good sense."
"And the Lord said: 'do unto others as they have
done unto you." "
"Wrong. The correct quotation is: `Do unto
others as you would have done unto you.' " I reached
to assist what seemed to be an old man. Bart scowled,
panted, grabbed at his chest, then cried out about his
bad heart that shouldn't have to endure tree-climbing. "Bart, I'm fed up with you. All you do is make
trouble. Have some sympathy for Mom and Dad--and
me. It's going to be embarrassing having you for my
brother when we go back to school."
He limped along behind me as I headed toward
home, still panting, muttering between moans about
how already he was a master of finances. "Never was
born a brain more clever than mine," he mumbled. He has really gone bananas, was all I could
think as I listened to him. When he'd scrubbed his
filthy hands with a brush as if he really wanted to get
them clean, I gasped. That wasn't like Bart at all. He
was still pretending to be someone else. Soon he had
his teeth clean and was in bed. I ran fast to where I
could eavesdrop on my parents, who were in the
living room dancing to slow music.
As always, something sweet, soft and romantic
stole over me to see them like that. The tender way
she looked at him; the gentle way he touched her. I
cleared my throat before they did anything too
intimate. Without changing their positions, both
looked at me questioningly. "Yes, Jory," said Mom,
her blue eyes dreamy.
"I want to talk to you about Bart," I said. "I
think there are a few things you should know." Dad looked relieved. Mom seemed to shrink
into herself as she quietly sat beside Dad on the sofa.
"We've been hoping you would come to us with Bart's
secret."
None of it was easy to say. "Well," I began
slowly, hoping to find the right words, "first, you
should know Bart has lots of nightmares in which he
wakes up crying. He pretends too much, such as
hunting big game and normal kid stuff like that, but
when I catch him crawling around sniffing the ground,
then digging up a nasty old bone and carrying it
between his teeth to bury it somewhere else, that's
going too far." I paused and waited for them to say
something. Mom had her head turned as if she was
listening to hear the wind. Dad leaned forward,
watching me intensely.
"Go on, Jory," he urged. "Don't stop now.
We're not blind. We see how Bart is changing." Dreading to tell more, I hung my head and
spoke very low. "I've tried several times to tell you
before. I was afraid then too. You've both been so
worried about Bart that I couldn't speak."
"Please don't hold anything back," Dad said. I looked only at my father, unable to meet my mother's fearful gaze. "The lady next door gives Bart all sorts of expensive gifts. She's given him a St. Bernard puppy he calls Apple, two miniature electric trains along with small village and mountain settings-- the complete works. She's had one huge room of hers turned into a playroom just for him. She
would give me gifts too, but Bart won't let her." Stunned, they turned to one another. Finally
Dad said, "What else?"
I swallowed and heard my odd, husky voice.
This was the worst part, the part that really hurt.
"Yesterday I was in the backyard near the wall . . .
you know, where that hollow tree is. I had the hedge<
br />
clippers and was pruning like you showed me, Dad,
when I smelled something putrid. It seemed to come
from that hole in the tree. When I checked . . . I found
. . ." Again I had to swallow before I could say it. "I
found Clover. He was dead and decaying. I dug a
grave for him."
Hastily I turned my back to wipe away tears,
then I told them the rest. "I found a wire twisted
around his neck. Somebody deliberately murdered my
dog!"
They just sat on the sofa looking shocked and
scared. Mom blinked back her tears; she too had loved Clover. Her hands trembled when she reached for a handkerchief. Next she locked her nervous hands together and kept them on her lap. Neither she nor Dad asked who had killed Clover. I figured they
thought the same as I did.
Before he went to bed, Dad came into my room
and talked to me for an hour, asking all sorts of
questions about Bart, what he did with his time, where
he went, and about the woman next door, and that
butler too. I felt better now that I'd warned them. Now
they could plan what to do with Bart. And I cried that
night for the last time over Clover, who had been my
first and only pet. I was going on fifteen, almost a
man's age, and tears were only for little boys--not for
someone almost six feet tall.
"You leave me alone!" yelled Bart when I
asked him not to go next door. "You stop telling tales
on me or you'll be sorry."
Each day took us closer to September and
school days. As far as I could see, Bart wasn't
responding to the tender loving care my parents gave
him They were too understanding in my opinion.
"You listen to me, Bart, and stop pretending you're an
old man named Malcolm Neal Foxworth, whoever he
is!" But Bart couldn't let go of his pretend limp, his fake bad heart that made him gasp and pant. "Nobody is waiting for you to die to inherit your fortune. Dear
little brother, you don't have any fortune!"
"Got twenty billion, ten million, fifty-five
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