If There Be Thorns

by V. C. Andrews

  "Like Bart," mumbled Momma, so funny sounding. "Bart's always pretending he's old and feeble, but powerful and rich. Poor Bart. What about Jory--has he got Jory? Where is Jory?"

  Why did she pity me and not Jory? Got up and left.

  Was I crazy too--like him? Was I a killer at heart-- like him? Didn't know nothing about myself. Was foggy-minded, hazy seeing, but I did manage to move my heavy legs and somehow I climbed up all those old stairs.

  Waiting

  . He was the only father I could remember well, and I loved him even more in that relationship. He held out his hand and told me what we had to do, and I followed, as I would have followed blindly anywhere he led. For out of every terrible situation something good had to come, and I knew now how much he meant to me.

  With Dad leading the way, we went once more to the house next door. We hadn't seen Bart all afternoon. How stupid of me to let him outsmart me, and sneak away when I had my head turned, watching some cute thing Cindy did as she tried to dance like me.

  Mom had been missing a full twenty-four hours.

  That old butler let us in, standing back to scowl at us. "My mother has not flown to Hawaii," stated Dad, his blue eyes hard and cold.

  "So? She is not an organized woman. She may have gone on to visit friends for the holidays. She has no friends here."

  "You smoke expensive cigarettes," said my father dryly. "I remember that night when I was seventeen lying behind the sofa while you and Livvy the maid were there . . . and you smoked the same cigarettes--.- French?"

  "Right," said John Amos Jackson with a sneering grin. "Old Malcolm Neal Foxworth's tastes gave me the habit . . ."

  "You pattern yourself after my grandfather, don't you?"

  "Do I?"

  "Yes, I believe you do. When I checked this house the last time, I opened a closet full of expensive men's clothes--yours?"

  "I am married to Corrine Foxworth. She is my wife."

  "How did you blackmail her to marry you?"

  Again the old man smiled. "Some women have to have a man in the house or they don't feel safe. She married me for a companion. As you can see, she treats me like a servant still."

  "I think not," said my father with his narrowed eyes sweeping over the butler who was wearing a new suit. "I think you were thinking of your future when, or if, my mother should die."

  "How interesting," replied John Amos Jackson, grinding out his stub of quickly smoked cigarette. "I've made my departure plans. I'm flying back to Virginia where I expect my wife will join me when she becomes tiresome to her hosts. Her daughter ruined her socially in Virginia years ago, which you must know, but still she will go there."

  "Why?"

  John Amos Jackson grinned widely. "She is having Foxworth Hall reconstructed, Dr. Sheffield. From out of the ashes, Foxworth Hall shall rise again--like the fabled Phoenix!"

  Dad faltered, still staring at the cigarette. "Foxworth Hall," he said in a haunted voice, "how far along is it?"

  "Almost finished," answered John Amos Jackson smugly. "Soon I shall reign as king where Malcolm ruled, and his arrogant beautiful daughter will reign at my side." He laughed crazily, seeming to enjoy my father's discomfort. "She'll have her facial scars reconstructed, her face lifted again. She'll color her hair and make it blonde again, and she'll sit at the foot of my dining table. Behind me will stand one of my own cousins, where I used to stand. It will all be as it was before, except this time I shall be the lord and master."

  Wheels were churning in Dad's head. "You will never rule anywhere but in prison," he said before he turned and left.

  "Dad," I said when we were home, "did you believe what that butler told us?"

  "I don't know yet. I do know he's more clever than I thought. When I was a boy in Foxworth Hall looking down on his bald head, I never suspected he had any power. He seemed just another servant. However, I can see now he laid his plan a long time ago and is now fulfilling his schedule for revenge."

  "For revenge?"

  "Jory, can't you see that man is insane? You have told me that Bart imitates a man he calls Malcolm who has been dead for years. But the man Bart is really imitating is John Amos Jackson, who is himself imitating my grandfather. Malcolm Foxworth, dead and gone, but still influencing our lives."

  "How do you know? Did you ever see your grandfather?"

  "I saw him one time only, Jory," he said in a sad reflective way. "I was fourteen, your age. Your mother and I hid in a huge chest on the second floor and looked down in the ballroom, and Malcolm Foxworth was in a wheelchair. He was a far distance away, and I never heard his voice. But our mother used to come to us with descriptions of how he talked about sin and hell, quoting from the Bible, talking about Hell and Judgment Day."

  Night came. We turned on all the lights hoping that would light Mom home and Bart too. Emma and Madame put Cindy to bed early. Emma went from Cindy's room back into the kitchen, but Madame came into the family room and slouched in a chair across from Dad. Just about that time Bart came in the door and crouched down in a corner. "Where have you been so long?" asked Dad, sitting up straighter and fixing Bart with a strange long look. Madame M. riveted her dark ebony eyes on Bart too. Bart ignored them, and continued to make shadow pictures on the wall by holding his hands in contorted positions.

  The TV set behind me was turned on though no one was watching. A choir of boys were singing Christmas carols. I felt exhausted from trying to follow Bart around all day. Exhausted more from worrying about Mom, to say nothing about what would happen to all of us . . .

  I decided I had to escape by going to bed, and rose to say good night, but Madame put her finger before her lips and gestured to Dad so he too would pay attention to what Bart was muttering to himself as he made the eerie picture of an old man talking to a child.

  "Bad things happen to those who defy the laws of God," he crooned in a hypnotizing way. "Bad people who don't go to church on Sundays, who don't take their children, who commit incestuous acts, will all go to hell and burn over the everlasting fires as demons torment their eternal souls. Bad people can be redeemed only by fire, saved from hell and the Devil and his pitchfork only by fire, fire."

  Weird, really weird.

  Dad could control his impatience and rage no longer. "Bart! Who told you all that hocus-pocus?"

  My brother jerked upright, his dark brown eyes went blank. "Speak when spoken to, said the wise man to the innocent child. The child says in return, unholy people who commit sins will come to a fiery end."

  "Who told you that?"

  "Old man from his grave. Old man likes me better than Jory, who does sinful dancing. Old man hates dancers. Old man says only I am fit to rule in his place."

  Dad was listening intently. I was remembering what Bart's shrink had advised. "Play along with the boy; pretend to believe everything he says, no matter how ridiculous. Remember he's only ten and at that age a child can believe in almost anything, so let him express himself in the only safe way he's found so far. When the 'old man' speaks, you are hearing your son speaking of what bothers him most."

  "Bart," said Dad, "listen to me carefully. If your mother didn't know how to swim, and she was drowning, and I was there but looking the other way-- would you tell me so I could jump in and save her?"

  Any son should have said yes immediately, but Bart considered this heavily, frowning, weighing his answer when it should have come spontaneously.

  Finally he answered. "You wouldn't have to do anything to save Momma from drowning, Daddy, if Momma was pure and without sin. God would save her."

  Judgment Day

  . Nobody understood me and what I was trying to do. Wasn't no good trying to explain. Had to do it all on my own. I slipped away from Daddy, from Jory, from all those people who saw me as bad and unnecessary in their lives. I had come, and I could go, and it would make no difference to anyone. They didn't know I was trying to help right all the wrongs they'd done before I was even born, and all those done after I was born.


  Sin. The world was full of sin and sinners. Wasn't my fault if Momma had to be punished. Though it did worry me some why God didn't want Daddy included in the punishment.

  John Amos had told me that men were meant for better things. Heroic things like going off to war and doing brave deeds. No matter if legs and arms were shot off--was a far-far better way to suffer than what God had in mind for women.

  Got to thinking hard on the subject, What if the pearly gates of heaven didn't open to receive my momma's purified soul? "Go forth and sin no more" I'd say if I were God. I stamped my golden staff on heaven's golden floor and struck a huge boulder far below so it split wide open and I could write on it my twenty commandments. (Ten weren't enough.) Wonder how I could split open the Pacific and let all the righteous escape the heathens that were fast on their heels?

  Gee, thinking like this made me feel bad in my head, in my legs, and it made my hands and feet cold. Momma, why did you have to be so bad? Why did you have to go and live with your brother and put the burden of your death on me?

  Jory was outside my door. Spying on me. Knew it was him. Was always him sneaking around, trying to find out what I was up to. I'd ignore him and concentrate on my momma's last hours. She and Grandmother oughta have good food for their last meal. Every prisoner had her favorite meal before the end. Had to do right by my momma and grandmother. What did they like to eat most? I liked sandwiches best, so maybe they did too. Sandwiches, pie and ice cream should be just fine. Just as soon as everyone was in bed, I'd slip their last meal over to them.

  Black night came. All the lights were turned off. Soon everything was very, very quiet. What was that? Was it snoring I heard across the hall, in the guest room next to Jory's room? Old Madame Marisha snored. Disgusting.

  I slapped turkey between slabs of Emma's homemade cheese bread. With two slices of cherry pie and a quart of ice cream in my sack, I made my way to the white whale of a house, moving as quiet as a mouse.

  Down, down, down all the steep stairs into the cellar where rats, mice and spiders roamed, and two women were moaning and groaning and calling for me. Made me feel important. I lifted the kitty door that was under the wine shelves and shoved in the sack with all the goodies.

  The light from the candle stub I'd given them was very dim, flickering, showing pale forms that didn't seem solid at all. My grandmother was trying to calm used to keep warm soon was ablaze, and my grandmother and mother were beating at the flames with their bare hands, trying to put it out.

  "Bart!" screamed my grandmother, "if you're out there listening to us, run for help! Call the fire department! Tell your father! Do something quick, Bart, or your mother will die in this blaze--and God will never forgive you if you help John Amos kill us!"

  What? Was I helping John Amos or God?

  I ran like mad up the cellar stairs and out into the garage where John Amos was putting his bags in the last one of the black limousines. The other was gone, driving the maids to safety.

  He slammed down the trunk of the car, turned to me with a wide grin, and said, "Well, tonight is the night. At twelve o'clock sharp--remember that. Trip slowly down the stairs and into their place and light the string."

  "That smelly string?"

  "Yes. It's soaked in gasoline."

  "I didn't like the smell, so I threw it away. Didn't want their last meal to be eaten in a smelly place."

  "What are you talking about? Have you been feeding them?" He whirled as if to hit me and then out of nowhere Jory sprang upon John Amos. The old man fell on his back, with Jory astride, and then Daddy raced into the garage.

  "Bart . . . we watched you make sandwiches and slice the pie--and take the ice cream--now where is your mother and your grandmother?"

  Didn't know what to do.

  "Dad!" yelled Jory, "I smell smoke!"

  "Where are they, Bart?"

  John Amos yelled out at Daddy, "Take that crazy kid away from here--him and his matches! He's started a fire. Him and his crazy stunts, like killing that dear little puppy who loved him so much. It's no wonder Corrine panicked and ran without telling me where she was going." He cried real tears and wiped at his runny nose. "Oh, God . . . I wish to heaven we'd never come here to live. I told Corrine no good would come of this."

  Lies! He was telling lies on me! Wasn't none of that true!

  "You did it all! You are the crazy man, John Amos!" and like Malcolm would, I ran over to kick at him. "Die, John Amos! Die and be redeemed through death!"

  My arms were caught and I was lifted away. Daddy had me in his arms and was trying to calm me. "Your mother . . . where is your mother? Where is the fire?"

  A red haze was in my eyes, but I reached in my pants pocket and gave my daddy the key. "In the wine cellar," I said dully, "waiting for the fire to end them like they ended Foxworth Hall. Malcolm wanted it that way--all the little attic mice to burn and stop reproducing contaminated seed."

  Far away from my body I was standing, watching the stunned terror in Daddy's eyes as he tried to delve into my eyes. . but I knew they were blank--for I wasn't there. Didn't know where I was. Didn't care.

  Redemption

  .

  Fire. The mansion was on fire.

  I straddled John Amos, who fought me off--or

  tried to, but soon he knew who had the best of the battle. "You can't get away, old man. You've poisoned my brother's mind, made him think awful things. I hope to God you rot in some jail cell for the rest of your life for what you've done."

  While John Amos and I had at it, Dad sped off to find Mom and his mother, with Bart at his heels screaming out how he could get to the wine cellar.

  "Get off me, boy!" yelled John Amos Jackson. "That brother of yours is crazy--dangerous! He starved that poor puppy then stabbed him with a pitchfork. Is that the act of a sane child?"

  "Why didn't you stop him if you saw him do all that?"

  "Why, why . . ." sputtered the old man, "he would have turned on me like a wild beast. The boy is insane like his grandmother. Why it was my own wife who saw him dig up the skeleton of her pet kitten. Ask her, go on, ask her."

  Some of what he said was getting to me. Bart was irrational. Yet, yet--was he a killer? "Bart talks in his sleep, old man. He repeats everything he hears during the day like a parrot. He quotes from the Bible and pronounces words he wouldn't be able to if someone like you wasn't coaching him."

  "You fool boy! He doesn't know who he is! Can't you see that? He thinks he is his greatgrandfather Malcolm Foxworth . . . and like Malcolm he's driven to kill every last living member of the Foxworth clan!"

  At that moment I saw my father stumble into the garage carrying my mother in his arms, with his mother, dirty and in rags, following behind. I jumped up and ran. "Mom, oh Mom!" I cried, overjoyed to see she was still alive. But she looked dreadful, dirty, pale and thin . . . but alive, thank God!

  She was conscious. "Where's Bart?" she whispered. With that question she lost consciousness and slumped in Dad's arms. While looking around for Bart, I noticed that John Amos Jackson was no longer to be seen. "Dad," I said to draw his attention, and just then out of the dim shadows of the garage, the butler appeared with a heavy shovel. He brought that shovel down hard on top of Dad's head. Silently, without a groan, Dad slumped to the floor with Mom still in his arms. Again that butler raised the shovel as if to kill Dad--and maybe Mom too. I ran, and I kicked with my right leg as I'd never kicked before. The shovel went spinning away, and as John Amos Jackson whirled to face me, I let him have it with my left foot square in his stomach. He groaned and slumped over.

  But Bart--where was Bart?

  "Jory," called the mother of my parents, "get your parents out of this garage as quickly as you can! Pull them so far away they won't be hurt if the garage blows when the fire reaches the gasoline in here. Hurry!" I started to object, but she took care of that. "I'll find Bart. You just keep my son and daughter safe."

  It was easy to pick up Mom and run with her to a safe place and lay her do
wn, but not so easy to drag Dad by his shoulders to lie beside her under a tree-still I managed. The house now smoked from several windows. My brother was in there--and my grandmother too.

  John Amos Jackson had recovered and he too rushed inside the burning house. In the kitchen I saw John Amos struggling with my grandmother. He was battering her face with slaps. I ran to rescue her though the smoke was in my eyes. "You'll never get away with this, John!" she yelled as he tried to choke her. I fell over a chair that had been turned over, and jumped to my feet just in time to see her bring down a heavy Venetian glass ashtray so it struck him on his temple. He slumped to the floor like a bird shot down from a rifle. That's when I saw Bart. He was in the parlor trying to lug that huge portrait to safety. "Momma," he was sobbing, "gotta save Momma. Momma, I'm gonna get you out of here, don't you fear, 'cause I'm just as brave as Jory, just as brave . . . can't let you burn. John Amos was lying, he doesn't know what God wants, doesn't know . . ."

  "Bart," crooned my grandmother. Her voice was so like my Mom's. "I'm here. You can save me-- not just the portrait." She stepped forward, limping badly, and I guessed she'd tripped and sprained her ankle, for at each step she grimaced. "Please, darling, you and I have to leave the house."

  He shook his head. "Gotta save Momma! You're not my momma!"

  "But I am," said another voice in another doorway. My eyes widened to see my mother standing there, clinging weakly to the doorframe as she pleaded with Bart. "Darling, let go of the portrait and all of us will leave this house." Bart looked from her to his grandmother, still clinging to the huge heavy portrait that he could never have the strength to drag from the house. "Gonna save my momma, even if she hates me," muttered Bart to himself as he tugged at the huge heavy portrait. "Don't care no more if she loves Jory and Cindy better. Gotta do one good thing and then everybody will know I'm not bad, and not crazy."