If There Be Thorns

by V. C. Andrews

  thousand and six hundred and forty-two cents!" He

  used his fingers to tally up. "But I can't remember

  how much I have in stocks and bonds, so I guess you

  could triple that figure. A man isn't rich if he can

  name what he owns."

  I hadn't known he could even name a figure like

  that. Just when I would say something sarcastic, Bart

  let out a yelp and doubled over. He fell to the floor

  and gasped. "Quick . . . my pills. I'm dying! My left

  arm is going numb! Save me, send for my doctors!" That's when I left the house and went outdoors.

  I sat on a lawn chair and pulled out a paperback novel

  to read. Bart was getting to me, really getting to me. It

  was like living with Jekyll and Hyde. If he had to act,

  why the heck didn't he choose some role better than a

  lame old guy with a bad heart?

  "Jory, don't you care if I die?" Bart came out

  and asked me.

  "Nope."

  "You've never liked me!"

  "I liked you better when you acted your own

  age." "Would you believe Malcolm Neal Foxworth is

  the father of that lady next door, and she is my real

  grandmother, truly my own grandmother?"

  "She told you that?"

  "No. John Amos told me some, she told me

  more. John Amos tells me lots of stuff. He told me

  Daddy Paul and Daddy Chris were not brothers, that

  my momma only said that so we wouldn't find out her

  sin. He says a man named Bartholomew Winslow was

  my real daddy and he died in a fire. Our mother

  seduced him."

  Seduced? I gave him a long searching look.

  "Do you know what that word means?"

  "Nope--but I know it's bad, real bad!" "Do you love our mother?"

  Worry tormented his dark eyes. He sat heavily

  on the ground and contemplated his sneakers. He

  should have answered quickly, spontaneously. "Bart,

  do me a big favor and yourself too--go into the house

  and tell Mom and Dad what's bothering you. They'll

  understand anything. I know you think Mom loves me

  best, but it's not so. She has room in her heart for ten

  children."

  "Ten?" he screamed. "You mean Momma is gonna adopt more?" He jumped up and ran then, haltingly, as if pretending to be old had made him lose what little agility he had. That hospital stay had

  robbed him of a great many things, in my opinion. It was sneaky of me and not quite honorable,

  but I had to hear what Bart told our mother when they

  were alone. She was on the back veranda. Cindy was

  on her lap, dozing as Mom read a book. When Bart

  ran up she quickly put the book down, then shifted

  Cindy onto a nearby chair as Bart stood staring at her,

  mutely pleading with his eyes.

  Then, of all things, he asked, "What's your

  name?"

  "You know my name," she said.

  "Does it begin with a C?"

  "Yes, of course it does." Now she looked

  disturbed.

  "But--but----" he stumbled, "I know someone

  who cries after you go away. Someone little like me

  who is locked in closets and other scary places by his

  father, who doesn't like him anymore. Once the father

  put him in the attic for punishment. Big, dark, scary

  attic with mice and spooky shadows and spiders

  everywhere."

  She seemed to freeze. "Who told you all of

  that?" "His stepmother had dark red hair until he

  found out she was only his father's paramour." Even from where I hid I could hear Momma

  breathing hard and fast, as if that small boy she lifted

  on her lap had suddenly turned dangerous. "Darling,

  you don't know what a paramour is, do you?" He stared ahead into space. "There was a lady

  slender and fair who had red in her dark-dark hair.

  And she wasn't even married to his father who didn't

  care what he did, how he cried, or even if he died." Her lips trembled, but she forced a smile. "Bart,

  I believe you have some poet in you. All that has a

  cadence, and it rhymes too."

  He scowled, turning dark burning eyes on her.

  "I despise poets, artists, musicians, dancers!" She shivered, and I can't say I blamed her. He

  scared me too. "Bart, I have to ask you this, and you

  must give me a truthful answer. Remember, no matter

  what you say you won't be punished. Did you hurt

  Clover?"

  "Clover done gone away. Won't come back to

  live in my doghouse now."

  She pushed him away then and quickly got up

  to leave the patio. Then she remembered Cindy and rushed back to pick her up. None of what she did

  made me feel better as I watched Bart's eyes. As always, soon after one of his mean

  "attacks," Bart grew tired and sleepy and went to bed

  without his dinner. My mother smiled, laughed and

  dressed to attend a formal celebration in honor of my

  father, who had been voted chief-of-staff of his

  hospital. I stood at the window and watched Dad lead

  her proudly to his car.

  Late, way after two, I heard them come in. I

  had yet to fall asleep, and I could hear their

  conversation in the living room.

  "Chris, I don't understand Bart at all, the way he

  talks, the way he moves, or even how he looks. I feel

  afraid of my own son, and that's sick."

  "Come now, darling," he said with his arm

  about her shoulders, "I think you exaggerate. Bart will

  grow up to be a great actor if he keeps this up." "Chris, I know sometimes high fevers leave a

  child with brain damage. Did the fever destroy part of

  his brain?"

  "Look, Cathy, Bart tested out just fine. Don't go

  getting notions just because we gave him that test. All

  high fever patients have to undergo such examinations."

  "But did you find anything unusual?" she

  persisted.

  "No," Dad said firmly, "he's just an ordinary

  little boy with lots of emotional problems, and we, if

  anyone can, should understand what he's going

  through."

  What did that mean?

  "But Bart has everything! He isn't growing up

  as we did. He should be happy. Don't we do

  everything we can?"

  "Yes, but sometimes even that isn't enough.

  Each child is different, each has different needs.

  Obviously we are not giving Bart what he needs." Mom was given to hot quick answers. Yet she

  sat on, silent and still, as I waited for more

  information. Dad wanted her to go to bed

  immediately, which was easy enough to see from the

  way he kissed her neck. But she was deep in thought.

  Her eyes were fixed on her silver sandals as she spoke

  of how Clover had died.

  "It couldn't have been Bart," she said slowly, as

  if to convince herself as well as Dad. "It had to be

  some sadist who tortures animals--you know how we

  read that the animals in the zoo were being crippled?

  One of them must have seen Clover," and her voice died away, for so seldom did we ever see a stranger

  on our road.

  "Chris," she added, while that horrible look of

  fright was still on her face, "today Bart took me

  completely by surprise. He told me about
a little boy

  who was locked in closets and in the attic. Later on he

  told me that little boy's name was Malcolm. Could he

  know about him? Who could have told him that

  name? Chris, do you think somehow Bart has found

  out about us?"

  I jerked. What was there to know about them

  that I didn't already know? I knew they had some

  terrible secret. I crawled away, then raced to my room

  and threw myself on my bed. Something awful was

  wrong with our lives, I felt it in my bones--and Bart

  must have sensed it in his too.

  The Snake

  .

  Sun and fog were playing games, keeping each

  other company. I had to sit alone in our garden. For fun I stared down at the thick scabs on my knee. I'd been warned by Daddy not to pick them off or they'd leave scars--but who cared about scars? I began to carefully lift the edges of the crust just to see what was underneath. I didn't see a darn thing but red, tender- looking flesh, ready to bleed again.

  Sun won the game in the sky and shone hot on my head. Almost heard my brains frying. Didn't want fried brains. I moved to the shade.

  Now my head was aching. I bit down on my lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Didn't hurt but later it would swell up so big Momma would have to feel worried. That would be good. She should be worried about what was happening to me.

  Used to be Momma's little boy who got lots of attention until that dratted little girl came to take my place. Soon Momma and Jory would return from ballet class. That's all they cared about--dancing and Cindy. I knew about the important things in life, what really counted most--money. Having lots of it, then you didn't have to think about needing it or how to get it. John Amos and Malcolm's book had taught me that.

  "Bart," said Emma, who'd stolen up behind me. "I'm so sorry you missed your birthday trip to Disneyland. To make up for that I've made you a little birthday cake of your very own." She held in her hands a tiny cake with one candle in the middle of the chocolate. Was not just one year old! I struck that cake from her hands so it fell to the ground. She cried out, looking hurt enough to cry as she backed off. "That wasn't very grateful, or very kind," she said in a choked way. "Bart, why do you have to act so ugly? We all try to do our best."

  I stuck out my tongue. She sighed and left me alone.

  Later Emma came out again with that bratty girl in her arms. Wasn't my sister. Didn't want any sister. I hid behind a tree and peeked around. Emma put Cindy in the plastic swimming pool. She began to kick and splash the shallow water. Dumb, dumb, dumb . . . couldn't even swim. See how Emma laughed and enjoyed all her baby-doings when I could stand on my head. If I sat in that pool and splashed with my hands and feet she wouldn't think it was cute.

  I waited for Emma to go away, but she pulled up a chair, sat down and began to shell peas. Plop, plop, plop went the green peas into the blue bowl. "That's it, dearie," Emma encouraged Cindy. "Splash the water, kick your pretty legs, flap your sweet arms and make your limbs strong so soon you'll be swimming."

  I watched and waited, each pea she shelled telling me that soon Emma would have to get up and go into the kitchen. Cindy would be left alone. All alone. And she couldn't swim. Cats crouched down low like me when they wanted to catch a bird. Wish I had a tail to swish.

  The last green pea fell. Emma rose to leave. I tensed my muscles. Just then Momma drove up in her bright red car and pulled to a stop by the garage. Emma waited to say hello. First it was Jory bounding over the lawn. "Hi, Emma!" he called. "What's for dinner?"

  "You'll like my dinner no matter what," answered Emma, all grins for him, her handsome darling. Not like she treated me--the brat! "As for Bart," she went on, "I know he'll hate the peas, the vegetable casserole, the lamb chops and the dessert. Lord knows that boy is hard to please."

  Momma stopped to talk to Emma like she wasn't a servant, then she ran to play with Cindy, kissing and hugging her as if she hadn't seen the dummy in ten years. "Mom," sang out Jory, "why don't we both put on swim suits and join Cindy in her pool?"

  "I'll race you to the house, Jory!" agreed Momma, and off they ran like little kids.

  "Now you be a good little girl and keep on playing with your rubber ducky and boat," said Emma to Cindy. "Emma will be right back."

  My head lifted before I began to wiggle on my belly on the ground. The brat in the pool stood up and took off her bathing suit. Stark naked and bold she hurled her wet suit at me, then teased and laughed and tormented me with her bare flesh. Then, as if bored with my reaction, she sat again in the shallow water and stared down at herself with a secret little smile. Wicked! Shameless! Imagine her showing her private parts to me.

  Mothers should treat their daughters how to act decent, proper, modest. My mother was just like Corrine, whom John Amos had said was weak and never punished her children enough. "Yes, Bart, your grandmother ruined her children, and now they live in sin and flaunt God and his moral rules!"

  I guess it was up to me to teach Cindy a lesson about modesty and shame. Forward I wiggled. Now I had her attention. Her blue eyes opened wide. Her rosy full lips parted. At first she seemed happy that finally I was gonna play kiddy games with her. Then, something wise put fright in her eyes. She froze and made me think of a timid rabbit scared by a vicious snake. Snake. Much better to be a snake than a cat Snake in The Garden of Eden doing unto Eve what should have been done in the beginning. Lo, said the Lord when he spied Eve in her nakedness, go forth from Eden and let the world hurl their stones.

  Hissing and flicking my tongue in and out, I edged closer. Was the Lord who spoke and I who obeyed. Wicked mother who refused to punish had made me what I was, an evil snake willing to do the Lord's bidding, even if it wasn't my own way.

  I tried to flatten my head with willpower and make it small, flat and reptilelike. Tears came to Cindy's huge, scared eyes, and she began to bawl as she tried to wiggle over the rounded rim of the wading pool. The water wasn't deep enough for a little girl to drown in, or else Emma wouldn't have left her alone.

  But . . . if a boa constrictor from Brazil was on the loose--what chance did a two-year-old have?

  I wiggled over the side and squirmed in the water. She screamed, "Barr-tie! Go'way, Barr-tie!"

  "Hsss . . . ssss," I went. My S's longer than John Amos's. I coiled my body around her small naked one and hooked my legs under her neck, dragging her down into the water. Couldn't really drown, but the Lord above had to warn those who sinned. I'd seen jungle snakes unhinge their jaws on TV. I tried to unhinge mine. Then I could swallow Cindy whole.

  All of a sudden another snake had me! I yelped and released my grip on Cindy to keep from drowning . . . or being eaten alive! Lord, why hast thou forsaken me?

  "What the Devil do you think you're doing?" yelled Jory, red with rage as he shook me until my head rolled. "I watched you wiggle your way along to see what you had in mind. Bart--did you try to drown Cindy?"

  "No!" I gasped. "Just punishing her a little, not much."

  "Yeah," he sneered, "like you punished Clover a little."

  "Never did nothing to Clover. I take good care of Apple. I am not a bad boy . . . I'm not, not, not."

  "Why are you crying if you are so innocent? You killed him! I see it in your eyes!"

  I glared hard at Jory, fury washing over me. "You hate me! I know you do!" I lunged forward and tried to hit him Couldn't. I lowered my head, backed up and ran forward to butt him squarely in the stomach. Down he went, all doubled over, crying out from the pain. Before he could kill me, I kicked him but didn't know it would end up where it did. My aim was never good. Gee . . . that must hurt a lot.

  "Unfair to kick in the groin," he groaned, his face so pale he seemed on the edge of a faint. "That's dirty fighting, Bart. Gross, too."

  Meanwhile Cindy had recovered enough to scramble from the pool, and she tottered off naked toward the house, howling at the top of her lungs.

/>   "Wicked sinful girl!" I screamed. "All this is her fault! Her fault!"

  From the back door Emma came on the run, her white apron fluttering, her hands covered with flour. She was closely followed by Momma, who had put on a skimpy blue bikini. "Bart, what have you done?" screamed Momma. She swept Cindy up in her arms, then swooped to pick up a towel Emma had dropped.

  "Mommy," sobbed Cindy. "Big snake came . . . big snake!"

  Why, imagine that. She'd known what I was. Not so dumb after all. Momma wrapped the towel about Cindy and stood her on the ground. She glared at me just as I had my foot raised to kick Jory, who was panting with pain. "Bart . . . if you dare to kick Jory again, you will regret it!"

  Emma glared at me with hatred. I looked from one to the other. Everybody hated me, would be glad to see me in my grave.

  Sore and full of pain, Jory tried to rise, not so graceful now. Just as awkward as me. He wasn't so handsome now. Still he could shout: "You're crazy, Bart! Crazy as a loon!"

  "Bart, don't you dare throw that stone at your brother!" cried Momma when she saw me swoop to pick up one.

  "You dreadful boy! Don't you throw that!" screamed Emma.

  I whipped around and ran to pound on Emma with my fists. "You stop calling me names!" I yelled. "I'm not dreadful! I'm not bad!"

  Momma raced toward me and grabbed me and threw me down. "Don't you ever throw another stone as long as you live, or use your fists on another woman!" Momma shouted as she pinned my shoulders to the ground.

  Red rage entered my mind, making me see her as all women with "beguiling" curves and wiles. Malcolm knew about them all, told everything about how he'd wanted to pound all their breasts flat. I filled my eyes with Malcolm's malicious hatred, and it worked. Momma trembled as she held me down. "Bart, what's wrong with you? You don't know what you're saying or doing. You don't even look like yourself."

  I bared my teeth as if to bite her--then I tried to. She slapped me, hard, repeatedly, until I began to cry.

  "You go up into the attic and stay there, Bart Sheffield, until I come up and see what has to be done to set you straight!"

  Scary in the attic. I sat on the edge of, one of those little beds and waited for her to come in. She'd never spanked me. A few slaps besides the ones on my face today were all the punishment I'd had up until now . . and now she was doing to me just what had been done to Malcolm. I was just like Malcolm.

  The door into the attic opened and I heard her climbing the steep, narrow stairs. Her mouth was set in a grim line as she towered above me, staring downward, as if forcing herself to look at me. I never thought she could look so mean.