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! (124 page)

In the kitchen Emma was spooning cereal into Cindy’s open mouth. Cindy had been dressed by Mom in new baby-blue coveralls with a white blouse embroidered with pink rabbits. Mom had done that embroidery work herself. Cindy’s hair had been brushed until it gleamed like silvery gold; a blue satin ribbon held her ponytail high on the back of her head. She was so clean and fresh I wanted to hug her, but I only smiled. I knew better than to be demonstrative when Bart was around to get jealous. Strangely, it was Bart who fascinated Cindy far more than me. Perhaps because he wasn’t so much larger than she was.

My brother hurled himself down into a kitchen chair that almost toppled over backward from the force. Emma looked his way and frowned. “Go wash your hands and face, Bart Winslow, if you expect to eat at my table.”

“Not your table,” he grouched as he headed for the bathroom. He pulled his dirty hands along the walls to leave long smudges.

“Bart! Take your filthy hands off the walls!” called Emma sternly.

“Not her walls,” he mumbled. It took him forever to wash his hands, and when he was back only his palms were clean. He stared with disgust at the soup and sandwiches Emma had prepared.

“Eat up, Bart, or you’ll fade away to nothing,” said Emma.

Already I was on my second sandwich, my second bowl of homemade vegetable soup, and ready for dessert while Bart still nibbled on half of his sandwich, his soup as yet untouched.

“What do you think of your new sister?” asked Emma, wiping Cindy’s messy mouth, taking off the soiled bib. “Isn’t she a living doll?”

“Yeah, she’s sure cute,” I agreed.

“Cindy’s not our sister!” flared Bart. “She’s just another messy little baby that nobody but our mother would want!”

“Bartholomew Winslow . . . don’t you ever let me hear you talk like that again.” Emma gave him a long, chastising look. “Cindy is a lovely child who resembles your mother so much she could be her own daughter.”

Bart continued to scowl at Cindy, at me, at Emma, even at the wall. “Hate blonde hair and red lips that are wet all the time,” he mumbled under his breath before he stuck out his tongue at Cindy, who laughed and patty-caked. “If Momma didn’t fuss around her so much, curling her hair and buying her new clothes, she’d be ugly.”

“Cindy will never be ugly,” denied Emma, looking at the little girl with admiration. Then she leaned to kiss the child’s pretty small face.

That kiss drew another of Bart’s darkest frowns.

I sat there, uptight, frightened. Each morning I woke up knowing I’d have to face a brother who was growing more and more strange. And I loved him; I loved my parents, and darn if I wasn’t beginning to love Cindy too. Somehow I knew I had to protect everyone—but from what I didn’t know and couldn’t even guess.

D
rat Jory and Emma, I was thinking as I slipped through the hot Arizona desert. Good thing I had Apple to love me as well as my grandmother, or I’d be in a sorry state. There stood my lady in black with her arms wide open to welcome me and I was kissed and hugged much more than Cindy ever was.

She served me a bowl of soup. It was so good, with cheese on top. “Why can’t I tell my parents how much I like you, and how much you love me? That would be so neat.” I didn’t tell her I thought she wasn’t really my own true grandmother, but only said that to please me. In a way that made her love better, for families had to love each other. Strangers didn’t.

Square in the middle of one of her tables she put a large dump truck before she answered my question. Odd she seemed so sad, and in a way scared, when a moment ago she’d seemed happy enough.

“Your parents hate me now, Bart,” she whispered thinly. “Please don’t tell them anything about me. Keep me your secret.”

My eyes widened. “Did you know them once?”

“Yes, a long, long time ago, when they were very young.”

Gee. “What did you do to make them hate you?” Everyone hated me, almost, so I wasn’t surprised someone might hate her.

Her hand reached for mine. “Bart, sometimes even adults make mistakes. I made a terrible mistake that I’m paying for dearly. Every night I pray for God to forgive me; I pray for my children to forgive me. I find no peace when I look in the mirror, so I hide my face from myself, from others, and sit in uncomfortable rockers so I’ll never forget for one second all the harm I did to those I loved most.”

“Where did your children go?”

“Have you forgotten?” she sobbed, tears in her eyes now. “They ran away from me. Bart, that hurts so much. Don’t you ever run away from your parents.”

Gosh, hadn’t intended to run. World out there was too big. Too scary. Safe, had to stay where it was safe. I ran to embrace her, then turned to play with my truck—and that’s when John Amos limped into the room, his watery eyes angry. “Madame! You do not develop strength in young children by indulging their every whim. You should know that by now.”

“John,” she said haughtily, “don’t you ever come in this room again without knocking—stay in your place.”

Tough. My grandmother was tough. I smiled at John Amos, who backed away, mumbling under his breath about how she wasn’t giving him
any
place, or not the place he deserved. I forgot him the moment he was out of sight as I fell under the spell of my enchanting new dump truck and why it worked like it did. Soon I’d find out—and maybe my curiosity was the same thing as being mean, for everything given to me ended up broken within an hour.

My grandmother sighed and looked unhappy as my truck came apart.

*  *  *

Long summer days passed slowly, with John Amos teaching me lots of important things about being powerful and fearsome like Malcolm, who knew all about being sneaky and clever. In his own kind of way John Amos was fascinating, with his queer shuffling walk, his skinny legs more knobby than mine, his whistling breath, his hissing words, his stringy mustache and bald head where one white hair grew. One day I was gonna pull it out. Wonder why my grandmother didn’t like him. She was the boss, she could fire him, and yet she didn’t. Something hard and mean was between them.

I was happy living between them, blessed on one side by my grandmother, with all her nice gifts, her hugs and kisses, and on the other side by John Amos, who was teaching me how to be a powerful man who could make women do his bidding. And now that I had someone who loved me for myself, no matter how mean or clumsy I was, I began to feel that special kind of magic that Momma and Jory shared. I thought I, too, could hear the music of sunset colors. I thought the lemon tree made little harp chords sound. I had Apple, my puppy-pony. And, best of all, Disneyland was waiting for me and my birthday was coming up soon.

Now that I was getting brilliant like Malcolm, I tried to figure out a way to keep Apple’s love while I went away for three weeks. It woke me up at night. Worried me all day. Who would feed Apple and steal his love while I was gone? Who?

I went back to the wall and checked on a peach pit that hadn’t sprouted any roots as yet. It was supposed to be growing—and it wasn’t. Next I checked my sweetpea seeds. Dumb things were just lying there, not doing anything.

Cursed. I was cursed. I glared at the part of the garden Jory cared for. All his flowers were in full bloom. Wasn’t fair how even flowers wouldn’t grow for me. I crawled to where Jory’s hollyhocks grew. My knees crushed petunias, squashed portulaca. What would Malcolm do if he was me? He’d rip
up all of Jory’s flowers, dig holes with his thumbs in his own garden, and stick in the blossoms.

One by one I filled my thumb holes with Jory’s hollyhocks. They refused to stand up straight, but I arranged them so they could lean against one another and now I had blooming flowers in my garden too. Clever. Devious and sneaky—smart too.

Glanced down at my filthy knees and saw I’d ripped my new pants on the doghouse I’d started building for Clover. It was my way of asking forgiveness for tripping over him so often. Right now he was up on that “veranda” keeping a keen eye on me, afraid to sleep while I was in sight. I didn’t need him now. Once I had, but now I had a better pet.

Bugs were biting my face. I rubbed at my eyes, not caring if my hands were covered with grease from fooling around in my dad’s garage workshop. Emma wouldn’t like seeing my new white tank-top that had grease all over, and even Momma couldn’t repair the rip from neck to shirttail. I chewed on my lip.

Saturdays were for having fun and I wasn’t having any. Nothing special to do like Jory. Wasn’t born to dance, only to get dirty and have scratches. Momma had Cindy. Daddy had patients. Emma had cooking and cleaning. Nobody cared if I was bored. I threw Clover a hateful look. “I gotta dog better than you!” I yelled. Clover backed up closer to the house, then hid under a chair. “You’re just a miniature French poodle!” I screamed. “You don’t know how to save people lost in the snow! You don’t know how to wear a red saddle or eat hay either!” Every day I was giving Apple a little more hay that I mixed up in his dogfood just so he’d get to like hay better than meat.

Clover looked ashamed. He inched himself under the chair more and gave me another of his sad looks that got on my nerves. Apple never did that.

I sighed, got up, brushed off my knees, my hands. Time to visit Apple. On my way over I got distracted by the white wall, which needed more texture. Picking up a stone, I began
to pound on the wall in order to chip off more of the white stucco. Gosh, what if this wall went on forever? It might even end up in China, keeping out the Mongol hordes. Wonder what Mongols were? Apes? Yeah, sounded like apes—mean kind of big apes that ate people who were in the
throes
of something. Would be nice to be as huge as King Kong so I could step on things I hated.

I’d step on teachers first, schools next—and step over churches. Malcolm respected God, and I didn’t want to make God mad with me. I’d pluck the stars from the sky and stick them on my fingers for diamond rings, like my grandmother’s. I’d wear the moon for my cap. I’d leave the sun alone because it might burn my hand—but if I picked up the Empire State Building I could use it as a bat and swat that sun right out of our universe! Then everything would go black as tar. There’d be no daytime and only forever night. Black was like being blind, or dead.

“Bart,” came a soft voice, making me jump.

“Go ’way!” I ordered. I was having fun all by myself. And what was she doing up on that ladder again? Spying on me? I sat on the ground again and poked at it with a stick.

“Bart,” she called again. “Apple is waiting for you to feed him, and he needs fresh water. You promised to be a good master. Once you make an animal love and trust you, you are obligated to it.”

Today her eyes weren’t covered over; the veil only covered from her nose downward. “I want cowboy boots, a new genuine cowboy saddle of real leather, not fake, and a hat, buckskins, chaps, spurs, and beans to cook over campfires.”

“What is that you just dug up?” She poked her head up higher to see better. She looked funny, like a head on the wall with no body underneath.

Gosh . . . look what was buried in the dirt. Dead bones. Where had the fur gone? And the soft white ears?

I began to tremble, very scared as I tried to explain. “Tiger.
There I was the other night, helpless, wearing only my pajamas, when out of the dark came this man-eating tiger with the green eyes. He snarled, then jumped me. He meant to eat me. But I grabbed up my rifle in the nick of time and shot him through his eye!”

Silence. Silence meant she didn’t believe me. Pity was in her voice when she spoke. “Bart, that’s not the skeleton of a tiger. I see a bit of the fur. Is that the kitten I used to have? The stray one I took in and cared for? Bart, why did you kill my kitten?

“NOOO!” I yelled. “Wouldn’t kill a kitty! Wouldn’t ever do that! I like kitties. This is a tiger, a not so big one. Old bones been here a mighty long time, way before I was born.” Yet, they looked like kitty bones, they did. I rubbed at my eyes so she wouldn’t see the tears.

Malcolm wouldn’t cry like this. He’d be tough. Didn’t know what to do. Ole John Amos over there kept telling me to be like Malcolm, and hate all women. I decided it was better to act like Malcolm than like me who was a sorry thing. Wasn’t no good trying to be King Kong, Tarzan, or even superman; being Malcolm was better, for I had his book of instructions of how to do it right.

“Bart, it’s growing very late. Apple is hungry and waiting for you.”

Tired, so tired. “I’m coming,” I said wearily. Gee, pretending to be an old man was tiring. Bad to act so old, better to be a boy again. Old meant no time off from work and trying to make money with no fun at all. Took all my time getting there now that I made my legs walk slow. Foggy all around. Summer wasn’t so hot when you were old.
Momma, Momma, where are you? Why don’t you come when I need you? When I call, why don’t you answer? Don’t you love me anymore, Momma? Momma, why aren’t you helping me?

I stumbled on, trying to think. Then I found the answer. Nobody
could
like me, for I didn’t belong here, and I didn’t belong there. I didn’t belong anywhere.