The Flowers in the Attic Series: The Dollangangers: Flowers in the Attic, Petals on the Wind, If There Be Thorns, Seeds of Yesterday, and a New Excerpt! (116 page)

Every summer Momma would ask, when Daddy came back from seein his mother, “Well, is she better?” And Daddy would look sad before he’d say, “No, not really much progress . . . but there would be if you would forgive her.”

That always shook Momma up. She acted like she wanted that grandmother to stay locked up forever.

“You listen to me, Christopher Doll” my momma had snapped, “it’s the other way around, remember! She’s the one who should go down on her knees and plead—she should ask for
our
forgiveness!”

Last summer we hadn’t gone East to visit anybody. I hated ole graves, ole Madame Marisha with her black rusty clothes, her big bun of white and black hair—and I didn’t care even now if two ole ladies back East never had a visit from us again. And as for them down in those graves—let ’em stay there without flowers! Too many dead people in our lives, messin it up.

“C’mon, Bart!” called Jory. He had already scaled the tree on our side of the wall, and he was sittin up there waitin for me. I managed the climb, then settled down next to Jory, who insisted I sit against the tree trunk—just in case. “You know what?” said Jory wistfully. “Someday I’m gonna buy Mom a house just as big. Every once in a while I overhear her and Dad talking about big houses, so I guess she wants one larger than the one we’ve already got.”

“Yeah, they sure do talk a lot about big houses.”

“I like our house better,” said Jory, while I set about drummin my heels against the wall, which had bricks under the crumblin white stucco. Momma had mentioned once she thought the bricks showin through added “interesting texture contrast.” I did what I could to make the wall more interestin’.

But it was sure true that in a big house like that one over there you could get lost in the dark and ramble on and on for days on end. None of the bathrooms worked. No water. Crazy sinks with no water and stupid fruit cellar with no fruit, and wine cellar with no wine.

“Gee, wouldn’t it be nice if a big family moved in over there?” Jory said, wishin like me we could have lots and lots of nearby friends to play with. We didn’t have anybody but each other once we came home from school.

“And if they had two boys and two girls it would be just perfect,” went on Jory dreamily. “Sure would be neat to have
all
girls living next door.”

Neat, sure. I’ll bet he was wishin Melodie Richarme would move in over there. Then he could see her every day and hug and kiss her like I’d seen him do a few times. Girls. Made me sick. “Hate girls!—want all boys!” I grouched. Jory laughed, saying I was only nine and soon enough I’d like girls more than boys.

“What makes Melodie’s arms rich?”

“Do you realize how dumb that makes you sound? That’s her last name and doesn’t mean anything.”

Just when I wanted to say he was the dumb one because all names had to mean somethin, or else why have them?—two trucks pulled up in the long driveway of the mansion. Wow! Nobody ever went over there but us.

We sat on and watched the workmen runnin around doin this and that. Some went up on the orange roof Momma said was called “pantile” and began to check it over. Others went inside the house with ladders and cans that looked like they held paint. Some had huge rolls of wallpaper under their arms. Others checked over the windows, and some looked at the shrubs and trees.

“Hey!” said Jory, very upset lookin. “Somebody must have bought that place. I’ll bet they’ll move in after it’s fixed up.”

Didn’t want no neighbors who would disturb Momma
and Daddy’s
privacy
. All the time they were talking about how nice it was not to have close neighbors to “disturb their privacy.”

We sat on until it grew dark, then went into our house and didn’t say a word to our parents—for when you said something out loud, that meant it was really true. Thoughts didn’t count.

Next day it was Sunday and we went on a picnic at Stinson Beach. Then came Monday afternoon and Jory and I were back up on the wall, starin over at all that activity. Was foggy and cold, but we could see just well enough to be bothered. We couldn’t go over there and have a place of our own anymore. Where would we play now?

“Hey, you kids!” called a burly man on another day when we were only watchin. “Whadaya doin’ up there?”

“Nothing!” yelled Jory. (I never talked to strangers. Jory was always teasin me for not talking to anybody much but myself.)

“Don’t you kids tell me you’re not doin’ nothin’ when I see you over here! This house is private property—so stay off these grounds or you’ll hear from me!”

He was real mean, and fierce lookin; his workclothes were old and dirty. When he came closer I saw the biggest feet in my life, and the dirtiest boots. I was glad the wall was ten feet high and we had the advantage over him.

“Sure we play over there a little,” said Jory, who wasn’t scared of anybody, “but we don’t hurt anything. We leave it like we found it.”

“Well, from now on stay off altogether!” he snapped, glarin first at Jory, then at me. “Some rich dame has bought this place and she won’t want kids hangin around. And don’t you think you can get by with anything because she’s an old lady livin alone. She’s bringin servants with her.”

Servants. Wow!

“Rich people can have everything their own way,” muttered
the giant on the ground as he moved off. “Do this, do that, and have it done yesterday. Money—God, what I wouldn’t do to have my share.”

We had only Emma, so we weren’t really rich. Jory said Emma was like a maiden aunt, not really a relative
or
a servant. To me she was just somebody I’d known all my life, somebody who didn’t like me nearly as much as she liked Jory. I didn’t like her either, so I didn’t care.

Weeks passed. School ended. Still those workmen were over there. By this time Momma and Daddy had noticed, and they weren’t too happy about neighbors they didn’t intend to visit and make welcome. Both me and Jory wondered why they didn’t want friends comin to our house.

“It’s love,” whispered Jory. “They’re still like honeymooners. Remember, Chris is our mom’s third husband, and the bloom hasn’t worn off.”

What bloom? Didn’t see any flowers.

Jory had passed on to the junior year of high school with flyin colors. I sneaked into the fifth grade by the skin of my teeth. Hated school. Hated that ole mansion that looked like new now. Gone were all the spooky, eerie times when we’d had lots of fun over there.

“We’ll just bide our time until we can sneak over there and see that old lady,” Jory said, whispering so all those gardeners trimming the shrubs and snippin at the trees wouldn’t hear.

She owned acres of land, twenty or more. That made for lots of cleanup jobs, since the workmen on the roof were lettin everythin fall. Her yard was littered with papers, spills of nails, bits of lumber left over from repair jobs, plus trash that blew through the iron fence in front of the driveway that was near what Jory called “lover’s lane.”

That hateful construction boss was pickin up beer cans as he headed our way, scowlin just to see us when we weren’t doin a thing bad. “How many times do I have to tell you boys?” he
bellowed. “Now, don’t force me to say it again!” He put his huge fists on his hips and glared up at us. “I’ve warned you before to stay off that wall—now
Scat!”

Jory was unwillin to move from the wall when it wasn’t any harm to just sit and look.

“Are the two of you deaf?” he yelled again.

In a flash Jory’s face turned from handsome to mean. “No, we are
not
deaf! We live here. This wall is on the property line, and just as much
ours
as it is
hers
. Our dad says so. So we will sit up here and watch just as long as we like. And don’t you dare yell and tell us to ‘scat’ again!”

“Sassy kid, aren’t yah?” and off he wandered without even lookin at me, who was just as sassy—inside.

I
t was breakfast time. Mom was telling Dad about one of her ballerinas. Bart sat across the table from me, poking at his cold cereal and scowling. He didn’t like to eat much of anything but snack foods, which Dad said were bad for him.

“Chris, I don’t think Nicole is going to pull out of this,” Mom was saying with a worried frown. “It’s awful that cars hurt so many people, and she’s got a little girl only two years old. I saw her a few weeks ago. Honestly, she reminded me so much of Carrie when she was two.”

Dad nodded absently, his gaze still fixed on the morning newspaper. The scene between them in the attic still haunted me, especially at night when I couldn’t sleep. Sometimes I’d just sit alone in my room and try and remember what was hidden way back in the dark recesses of my mind. Something important I was sure, but I couldn’t remember what it was.

Even as I sat and listened to them talk about Nicole and her daughter, I kept thinking of that attic scene, wondering what it meant, and just who was the grandmother they were
afraid of. And how could they have known each other when Mom was only fourteen?

“Chris,” implored Mom, her tone trying to force him to put down the sports page. “You don’t listen when I talk. Nicole has no family at all—did you hear that? Not even an uncle or an aunt to care for Cindy if she dies. And you know she has never been married to that boy she loved.”

“Hmmm,” he answered before biting into his toast. “Don’t forget to water our garden today.”

She frowned, really annoyed. He wasn’t listening as I was. “I think it was a huge mistake to sell Paul’s home and move here. His statues just don’t look right in this kind of setting.”

That got his attention.

“Cathy, we have vowed never to have regrets about anything. And there are more important things in life than having a tropical garden where everything grows rampant.”

“Rampant? Paul had the most manicured garden I’ve ever seen!”

“You know what I mean.”

Silent for a second, she spoke again about Nicole and the two-year-old girl who would go into an orphanage if her mother died. Dad said someone was sure to adopt her quickly if she did. He stood up to pull on his sports jacket. “Stop looking on the darkest side. Nicole may recover. She’s young, strong, basically healthy. But if you’re so worried, I’ll stop by and have a talk with her doctors.”

“Daddy,” piped up Bart, who’d scowled darkly all morning. “Nobody here can make me go East this summer! I won’t go and can’t nobody make me!”

“True,” said Dad, chucking Bart under the chin and playfully rumpling his already unruly dark hair. “Nobody can make you go—I’m just hoping you’d rather go than stay home alone.” He leaned to kiss Mom good-bye.

“Drive carefully.” Mom had to say this every day just as he was leaving. He smiled and said he would, and their eyes
met and said things I understood, in a way.

“There was an ole lady who lived in a shoe,” chanted Bart. “She had so many children she didn’t know what to do.”

“Bart, do you have to sit there and make a mess? If you aren’t going to finish your meal, excuse yourself and leave the table.”

“Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater, had a wife and couldn’t keep her; put her in a pumpkin shell, and there he kept her very well.” He grinned at her, got up and left the table—that was his way of excusing himself.

Great golly, almost ten and he was still chanting nursery rhymes. He picked up his favorite old sweater, tossed it over his shoulder, and, in so doing, he knocked over a carton of milk. The milk puddled to the floor, where Clover was soon lapping it up like a cat. Mom was so enthralled with a snapshot of Nicole’s little girl that she didn’t notice the milk.

It was Emma who wiped up the milk and glared at Bart, who stuck out his tongue and sauntered away. “Excuse me, Mom,” I said, jumping up to follow Bart outside.

Again on the top of the wall, we sat and stared over, both of us wishing the lady would hurry and move in. Who knows, maybe she’d have grandchildren.

“Missin that ole house already,” complained Bart. “Hate people who move in our place.”

We both fiddled away the day, planting more seeds, pulling up more weeds, and soon I was wondering how we were going to pass a whole summer without going next door even once.

At dinner Bart was grouchy because he too missed the house. He glared down at his full plate. “Eat heartily, Bart,” said Dad, “or else you may not have enough strength to enjoy yourself in Disneyland.”

Bart’s mouth fell open. “Disneyland?” His dark eyes widened in delight. “We’re goin there really? Not goin East to visit ole graves?”

“Disneyland is part of your birthday gift,” explained Dad.
“You’ll have your party there, and then we’ll fly to South Carolina. Now don’t complain. Other people’s needs have to be considered as well as yours. Jory’s grandmother likes to see him at least once a year, and since we skipped last summer, she’s doubly anticipating our visit. Then there’s my mother, who needs a family too.”

I found myself staring at Mom. She seemed to be smoldering. Every year she was like this when the time came to visit “his” mother. I thought it a pity she didn’t understand why mothers were so very important. She’s been an orphan so long maybe she’d forgotten—or maybe she was jealous.