Dollenganger 06 My Sweet Audrina (11 page)

But what did rocking chair dreams mean, except that the First and Best Audrina had worn a ruffled white dress to her party. All those visions of birthday parties were her parties. Where could I go to find the truth? Who was there who was totally honest with me? There was no one who would tell me the truth because I might be hurt if they did.
Papa drew me down on the grassy slope beside him. The sun was high overhead and burning hot through my hair as I sat on and on with Papa. Every word he said washed clear images from my brain and replaced them with smeary blots. I watched the geese and the ducks that were using unseen paddle feet to swim like mad to where Momma liked to feed them. They had a fondness for eating her tulips and daffodils in the spring.
"Let's talk about what you dreamed last night," Papa said after we had been silent for a long time. "Last night I heard you moaning and groaning, and when I went to check on you, you
were
tossing in your bed, mumbling incoherently in your sleep."
Feeling panicky, I looked around to see a redheaded woodpecker working on one of our best old hickory trees. "Go 'way!" I cried. "Eat the worms on the camellia bushes!"
"Audrina," said Papa impatiently, "forget about the trees. The trees will be here long after you and I have come and gone. Tell me what you saw in the rocking chair."
If Papa believed in Mrs. Allismore's string-andring trick, it seemed only right that I could use the same method to please him. I was about to speak and tell him when I felt the hackles on my neck rise. Turning my head quickly, I glimpsed Vera in the room where the rocking chair was. Still up there, still rocking. Let her rock on and on forever; there was no gift but the one imagination concocted to please somebody who wanted magic in his life. And maybe in the long run imagination was a special gift.
"Okay, darling. I'm not going to plead further. Just tell me what you dreamed last night."
I spoke the name of the stock my pin had touched on twice, and then twice again. Papa looked incredulous, then angry. Immediately from his reaction I guessed I'd done the wrong thing.
"Audrina, did I ask you for a stock tip?" he asked with annoyance. "No, I did not. I asked you to give me your dreams. I'm trying to help you restore your memory. Don't you realize yet that's why I put you in the rocking chair? I've tried to make it seem your loss of memory is natural, but it isn't. All I wanted you to do was regain what you've forgotten."
I didn't believe him. I knew what he wanted. He wan .va me to turn into the First Audrina! That's why he had all those books about black magic and psychic powers hidden away in his study.
Pulling away, I stared back at the house again, terribly upset now. Back and forth Vera was still rocking. Oh, God, suppose she had the only dream the chair ever gave me? Would she scream? Would Papa go running to save her?
Or just suppose everything Papa had told me was true, and there was a gift to be gained. Then, any second, she might replace me in his heart.
Breathlessly I gushed, undecided no longer. "There I was, Papa, a grown-up woman, working in a huge place with business machines all around. They glowed, changed colors, talked in strange voices and sent messages through the air. I was up front instructing a large class how to use them. So that's why I thought--but, of course, I should have let you decide what it meant. The letters I told you were on all the machines, every last one, Papa."
IBM.
For a reward, his smile came tight and thin, though he did embrace me. "All right, you've tried to help me financially, but that's not what I wanted. Memories, Audrina, fill the holes in your brain with the
right
memories. We'll try the rocking chair again later and see if the next time doesn't skip the woods and put you down in the right place." I was about to cry, for I had had a funny dream about machines, and the pin had wanted to stop on those initials four times. "Don't cry, my love," he said, kissing me again. "I understand, and I might even put some money on that stock, even though it has had a thirty
percent
run-up and is due for a sell-off. Still," he went on
thoughtfully, "it wouldn't hurt to wait for the profittaking to end, and then buy in heavily before another climb. She is intuitive and her heart is pure even if---"
Jumping to my feet, I ran to escape his embarrassing ruminations. Now he was going to put money on that stock. What if it continued to go down after the profit-taking? Poor Momma was slaving in the kitchen, preparing for a stupid party she didn't need to have when she was feeling so rotten. I ran to a window where I could watch Papa still down by the river, standing now and skipping pebbles across the water as if he didn't have a care in the world.
Momma didn't say a word about tomorrow being my ninth birthday. Was that because tomorrow truly wasn't my birthday? I went to the closet under the back stairs and checked the newspapers. Tomorrow was September the ninth, and just like me, I forgot today was the eighth. Was reaching the age of nine really so meaningful? Yes, I decided as the day wore on and no one but Papa mentioned my birthday, reaching nine was dangerous.
The party began at nine-thirty, not long after I was sent to bed. The noise made by the crowd of twenty of Papa's best friends drifted up to me even though my room was far from the party rooms. I knew there were bankers down there, and lawyers, doctors and other affluent people with aspirations to become richer. They liked our parties; the food was elegant, the liquor plentiful and, the best thing of all, the moment Momma sat down to play the piano the party came alive. Because she was a musician, she drew other musicians who liked to perform with her, so that the doctors and lawyers would bring their teenage sons or daughters who knew how to play some musical instrument, with considerable skill. And together, with Momma as inspiration, they'd have a "jam session."
In my nightgown, on bare feet, I raced to peek at her sitting on the piano bench. She was wearing a red silk gown that had a cowl neckline that drooped so low it showed more than Papa would approve. All the men gathered around the piano, leaning over Momma's shoulders, staring down into her bodice as they encouraged her to play on, play faster, put more jazz into what seemed to me jazzy enough. Her fingers flew; she bounced with the tempo that quickened. Smiling and laughing in response to whispers in her ear, Momma played with one hand and sipped the champagne her other hand held. She put down the empty glass, signaled a boy of about twenty to play his accordion, and they both began some wild version of a polka that no one could resist dancing to. According to Papa, Momma was all things to all people and true to no one, not even herself. If her audience wanted classical music, she gave them that; if they wanted popular ballads, she could give them those, too. If you asked her what kind of music she liked best, she'd answer, "I like all kinds." I thought it was wonderful to be so open-minded and so versatile. Aunt Ellsbeth didn't like any music that wasn't by Grieg.
From all the fun Momma seemed to be having, who would ever guess she'd complained all day about having to slave for people she didn't even like? "Really, Damian, you expect too much of me. I'm in my sixth month, really showing, and you want them to see me like this?"
"You're gorgeous and you know it, pregnant or not. You always look sensational when you put on your makeup and wear a bright color and smile."
"You told me this morning I looked awful." Fatigue had made her sound hoarse.
"And it worked, didn't it? You jumped out of bed, shampooed your hair, polished your nails, and I've never seen you look lovelier."
"Damian, Damian," my momma had whispered then, her voice choked with emotion, and then the door had banged shut. I'd stood alone in the hallway outside their bedroom, wondering what they did after Papa kicked the door to.
All of the words exchanged between them echoed in my head as I watched Momma at the piano. She was so beautiful. My aunt looked dowdy in comparison in her print dress that seemed right for the kitchen but nowhere else.
I yelped from the pain of a pinch on my arm. There was Vera in her nightgown, and she was not supposed to come downstairs until Papa told her she could--and so far he hadn't. Vera never came near me that she didn't hurt me in some minor way. "Your mother is nothing but a big show-off," she whispered. "A woman as pregnant as she is shouldn't show herself." Yet, when I glanced at Vera, I saw
admiration in her eyes as she, too, caught the rhythm of Momma's music.
"The First Audrina could play piano just like that," said Vera in my ear. "She could read music, too, and the watercolors she painted! You can't do anything in comparison."
"Neither can you!" I flared back, but I was hurt again. "Good night, Vera. You'd better disappear when I do, or else Papa might see you and punish you again."
I headed back for my room. Halfway up the stairs, I looked back to see Vera still hiding behind the beaded portieres, clinging to them for balance as her feet shuffled in rhythm to the music; watching until the very end.
It wasn't until the noise below stopped that I was able to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep. It was my way to toss restlessly, and Vera's way to sleep soundly. I was wishing I had that knack when I drifted off, only to be awakened what seemed only seconds later. My parents were arguing violently.
No wonder Momma didn't like parties with Papa. Every time we had a party it ended this way. Lord, I prayed as I slipped out of bed, today is my ninth birthday and this isn't a good way for it to start. Please let it be like March and go out like a lamb.
Vera was already kneeling on the hall carpet, peeking through the keyhole. She held a cautioning finger before her lips and silently gestured for me to go away. I didn't like her spying on my parents and I refused to leave. Instead, I knelt beside her and tried to shove her away. Papa's strong voice came right through the solid oak door. "And in your condition, too, you danced like some cheap little tramp. You made a fool of yourself, Lucietta."
"Leave me alone, Damian!" cried Momma, as I must have heard her cry a hundred times or more. "You invite guests without telling me in advance. You go out and buy liquor we can't afford, and flowers, and champagne for them to drink, and even hand me a glass, and when I get drunk you become enraged. What am I supposed to do at a party? Sit around and watch you perform?"
"You never know how to do anything properly," Papa shouted. He had the kind of voice that could hurt your eardrums when he was angry, and a sweet soft voice to use when he wanted something from you. Why wasn't he considerate of Momma when she was so obviously in need of his
understanding? Didn't he think at all of that little baby that might be hearing his rage?
Inside I was all aquiver, trembling with fear for Momma's health. Was this the way love went, on and off like an electric switch? I went back to my bedroom and pulled a down pillow over my ears, and still I could hear them fighting. Sickened, I didn't know what to do but get up again and get back to where Vera still leaned against the door. She, too, was trembling, but with suppressed laughter. Furious, I wanted to slap her.
"You flirted, Lucietta. Flirted and in your condition, too. You cuddled so close to that teenage piano player on the bench you seemed blended into one person. You jiggled! Your nipples could be seen."
"Shut up!" she yelled. My hands rose to cover my mouth. I wanted to scream out and stop them.
"Damian, you're a brute! An inconsiderate, selfish, contradictory boor. You want me to play, but you are enraged when you lose the spotlight. I've said it before, and say it again and again: you have no talent but the ability to run your mouth! And you're jealous of mine."
Now she'd done it! He'd show her no mercy now. Slowly, slowly, as in a nightmare trance, I sank to my knees beside Vera. She allowed me to peek through the keyhole just in time to see his stinging slap wham against Momma's face. I cried out just as my mother did. Feeling her pain and humiliation as my own.
Vera started to laugh as she shoved me away and put her
eye
to the keyhole. "Audrina," she whispered, "he's taking off his belt. Now your mother is going to get what she deserves. And I'm glad, really glad! It's time he punished her--as he ought to punish you!"
Furiously I slapped at her, my rage as great as Papa's as I shoved her aside and clawed the door open. I fell into my parents' bedroom, tripping over Vera's sprawled form. Papa whirled around, shirtless, his trousers half unzipped. His face was a mask of rage. Momma was curled up on the bed, her arms hugged protectively over her protruding middle.
"What the hell are you two doing here?" roared Papa, throwing his belt to the floor and pointing to the door. "Get out! And don't you ever spy on us again!"
Jumping to my feet and trying to make my voice as powerful
as
his, I yelled, "Don't you dare hit my mother again, or use that belt to whip her! Don't you dare!"
He glared at me. His dark eyes were wild and wide. He reeked of liquor. As I glared back, my eyes wide and wild, too, he began to simmer down. He wiped his huge hand over his face, glanced at his reflection in a mirror and seemed shocked. "I'd never strike your mother, you should know that," he said weakly, as if afraid I'd seen, or ashamed that I'd seen, I didn't know which. Out in the hall Vera tittered. He spun around to yell, "How many times have I told you that this part of the house belongs to me? Get the hell out of here, Vera!"
"Oh, Papa, please don't yell at me. None of it was my fault. It was Audrina who came into my room and woke me out of a sound sleep and made me come with her. She's always spying through your keyhole, Papa, when she can't sleep."
His head snapped around. I could tell he considered me too honorable to spy. "Go to your room, Audrina," he ordered coldly. "And don't you ever spy on me again. I thought better of you than that. It may seem to you that I'm a brute, but that's only because I'm the only man in a house of women bent on destroying me. Even you try in your own way. Now, out! Both of you, out!"
"You won't hurt Momma?" I held my ground and waited for an answer, though he took a step forward.
"Of course I won't hurt Momma." Sarcasm was in his voice. "If I hit her and hurt her, then I'd have to pay her doctor's bills, wouldn't I? My son is inside her, and I am thinking of him."
Weakly my mother sat up to call me to her. Her arms opened as I approached. Her kisses felt wet on my face. "Do as your father says, darling. He won't hurt me. He's never really hurt me--in physical ways."