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! (125 page)

I
gobbled down my bacon, scrambled eggs with sour cream and chives, and a third slice of toast as Bart nibbled on and on as if he didn’t have any teeth at all. His toast grew cold—waiting for Bart to sip orange juice as if it were poison. An old man on his deathbed could have had more appetite.

He shot a hostile glance my way before he fixed his eyes on Mom. I was jolted. I knew he loved her—how could he look like that?

Something weird was going on in Bart’s head. Where was the shy, introverted little brother I used to have? Gradually he was changing into an aggressive, suspicious, cruel boy. Now he was staring at Dad as if he’d done something wrong—but it was Mom who drew most of his scathing looks.

Didn’t he know we had the best mother alive? I wanted to shout this out, make him go back to the way he used to be, mumbling to himself as he stumbled around hunting big game, fighting wars, riding herd on cattle. Where had all his love and admiration for Mom gone? Soon as I had the chance I backed Bart up against the garden wall. “What
the heck is wrong with you, Bart? Why do you look at Mom so mean?”

“Don’t like her no more.” He crouched over, put out his arms horizontally and turned himself into a human airplane. That was normal—for Bart. “Clear the way!” he ordered. “Make way for the jet taking off for faraway places!—it’s kangaroo shoot in time in Australia!”

“Bart Sheffield, why do you always want to kill something?”

His wings fluttered; his plane stalled; his engine died and he was staring at me in confusion. The sweet child he’d been at the beginning of summer came fleeting to his dark brown eyes. “Not gonna kill real kangaroos. Just gonna capture one of those itty-bitty ones and put it in my pocket and wait for it to grow big.”

Dumb, Dumb! “First of all, you don’t have a pocket with a nipple for the baby to suck.” I sat him down hard on a bench. “Bart, it’s time you and I had a man-to-man talk. What’s troubling you, fella?”

“In a big bright house setting on a high-high hill, while the night was on and the snow came down, the flames of red and yellow shot up higher, higher! Snowflakes turned pink. And in that big old house was an old-old lady who couldn’t walk and couldn’t talk and my real daddy who was an attorney ran to save her. He couldn’t!—and he burned!—burned!—burned!”

Spooky. Crazy. I pitied him, “Bart,” I began carefully, “you know that isn’t the way Daddy Paul died.” Why had I put it like that? Bart had been born only a few years before Daddy Paul died. How many years? Almost I could remember my thoughts back then. I could ask Momma, but somehow I didn’t want to trouble her more, so I led Bart toward our house. “Bart, your real daddy died while he was sitting on his front veranda reading the newspaper. He didn’t die in a fire. He had heart trouble that led to a coronary thrombosis. Dad told us all that, remember?”

I watched his brown eyes grow darker, his pupils dilate, before he raged with a terrible temper. “Don’t mean
that
daddy! Talking about my
real
daddy! A big strong lawyer daddy who never had a bad heart!”

“Bart, who told you that lie?”

“Burning!” he screamed, whirling around like a man blinded by smoke as he tried to find his way outside. “John Amos told me how it was. All the world was on fire, one Christmas night when the tree burned up. People screamed, ran, stepped on the ones who fell down!—and the biggest, grandest house of them all snared my true father so he died, died, died!”

Boy, I’d heard enough. I was going straight into the house and tell my parents. “Bart, you hear this. Unless you stop going next door and listening to lies and crazy stories, I’m telling Mom and Dad about you—and them next door.”

He had his eyes squinted shut, as if trying to see some scene scorched on his brain. He seemed to be looking inward as he described it in more detail to me. Then his dark eyes flew wide open. His look was wild and crazy. “Mind your own damn business, Jory Marquet, if you don’t want yours.” He swooped to pick up a discarded baseball bat, then took a wild swing that might have splattered my brains if I hadn’t ducked. “You tell on me and Grandmother and I’ll kill you while you sleep.” He said it loud, cold and flat, his eyes challenging mine.

Swallowing, I felt fear raise the hair on my neck. Was I scared of him? No. I couldn’t be. As I watched, he suddenly lost his bravado and began to gasp and clutch at his heart. I smiled, knowing his secret—his way of backing out of a real fighting encounter. “All right, Bart,” I said coldly. “Now I’m going to let you have it. I’m going next door and I am going to speak to those old people who fill your head with garbage.”

His old-man act was quickly abandoned. His lips gaped apart. He stared at me pleadingly, but I whirled on my heel and
strode off, never thinking he’d do anything. Wham! Down flat on my face I fell with a weight on my back. Bart had tackled me. Before I could congratulate him for being fast and accurate for a change, he began to pummel my face with his fists.

“You won’t look so pretty when I finish.” I warded him off as best I could before I noticed he was delivering his blows with his eyes squeezed shut, punching blindly, childishly, sobbing as he did. And I swear, as much as I wanted to I couldn’t punch out my kid brother.

“Got yah scared, huh?” He pulled back his upper lip and snarled, looking pleased with himself. “Guess yah know now who’s boss, huh? Ain’t got nearly the guts you thought you had, do yah?”

I shoved him hard. He fell backward, but darn if I could fight a baby like him, who was strong only when he was angry. “You need a good spanking, Bart Sheffield, and I might be just the one to give it to you. The next time you pull any stunt on me think twice—or
you
might be the one left without guts.”

“Yer not my brother,” he sobbed, all the fight gone out of him. “You’re only a half brother, and that’s as good as none.” He choked on his own emotions and ground his fists into his eyes as he wailed louder.

“You see! That old woman is putting nutty ideas in your head, and one thing you don’t need is more nuts in the belfry. She’s turning you against your own family—and I’m going to tell her exactly that.”

“Don’t you dare!” He shrieked, his tears gone, his rage back, “I’ll do something terrible.
I will! I swear I will! If you go you’ll be sorry!”

My smile was wry. “You and who else is gonna make me sorry?”

“I know what you want,” he said, all child again. “You want my puppy-pony. But he won’t like you, he won’t! You want my grandmother to love you more, but she won’t! You want to take everything from me—but you can’t!”

I felt sorry for him, but I’d neglected my duty long enough. “Aw, go suck your baby bottle!” and with that I was off. He screamed behind me, yelling out how he’d make me sorry by hurting something that couldn’t fight back. “And you’ll cry, Jory!” he warned. “You’ll cry more than you ever have before!”

The road was dappled with sunlight and shadows, and soon enough Bart and his temper were far behind me. The sun burned down hot on top of my head, and behind me little feet came running. I turned to see Clover racing to catch up. Waiting, I knelt to catch him as he leaped into my arms, licking my face with the same devoted adoration he’d given me since I was three.

Three years old. I remembered where Mom and I had lived then, in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, in a little cottage nestled down near the mountains. I remembered a tall man with dark eyes had given me not only Clover but also a cat named Calico, and a parakeet we called Buttercup. Calico had roamed off in the night and never came back. And Buttercup had died when I was seven. “Would you like to be my son?” I heard the man’s voice in my memory. That man who was called . . . What was his name? Bart? Bart Winslow? Oh, golly, was I just beginning to understand something that had slipped over my head until now? Was my half brother Bart the son of that man, and not Daddy Paul? Why would Mom name her baby for a man not her husband?

“You gotta go back home now, Clover,” I said, and he seemed to understand. “You’re eleven years old and not up to frisking around in the noonday sun. Go back and find your favorite cool place and wait for me, okay?”

Wagging his tail, he turned obediently and headed home, looking back often to see if I’d turn away and he could follow again. I watched until he was out of sight around the bend in the road. Then I headed once more for the huge old mansion. In my head the distant past beat like muffled drums, reminding me of events I’d forgotten. The ballet on Christmas Eve,
and the handsome man who gave me my first electric train. I shut off memories, wanting to keep my mother sacred, my love for Daddy Paul intact, my respect for Chris intact too. No, I wasn’t going to let myself remember too much.

Lovers came and went in everyone’s life, I told myself, if ballets were just true stories exaggerated a bit. And like my dad would, I strode boldly up to the iron fence and demanded into the box to be let in. The iron gates swung silently open, like jail bars to beckon me forward. I almost ran up the curving drive until I was before the double front doors, and there I jabbed at the doorbell, then banged the brass knocker as loud as I could.

Impatiently I waited for that crotchety old butler to show up. Behind me the iron gates had closed. I felt like I was walking into a trap. Gee, just like Bart and his imagination that gave him fun, I used my ballet background to write this script. I felt like some wretched, unwanted prince who didn’t possess the magic password. Only Bart knew that.

Confusion and regrets brewed and unsettled my determination. This didn’t seem the castle of some wicked fairy queen, only the big, outdated home of a lonely old woman who needed Bart just as much as he needed her. But she couldn’t be his grandmother, she just couldn’t be. That grandmother was way back in Virginia, locked up for something terrible she’d done once.

Quiet was all around me, smothering me, making me feel old. My home was full of noises from the kitchen, music, clover barking, Cindy squealing, Bart shouting, and Emma bossing. Not even a squeak came from this house. Nervously I shuffled my feet about, thinking I might give up my idea of confronting her. Then I glimpsed a dark shadow behind one of the windows draped with sheer curtains. I shivered. Almost left. But just then the door opened a crack, enough to allow the butler to put a squinty watery eye to the slit. “You can enter,” he said inhospitably, “but don’t you stay too long. Our lady is frail and tires easily.”

I asked her name, tired of calling and thinking of her as old woman, or woman in black. My request was ignored. The butler intrigued me with his shuffling gait, his suggestion of a limp, his bald pate that was pink and shiny. His thin white mustache hung in long strands on either side of his grim lips. But as old as he was, and as weak as he appeared, he still managed to convey a scary, sinister air.

He beckoned me onward, but I hesitated. Then he smiled cynically, showing his too large, too even, and too yellow teeth. I squared my shoulders and followed him bravely, thinking I could set everything straight and our lives would be as happy as they’d been before they came to live in this house that used to be ours alone.

I didn’t know suspicions were in my head. I thought it was only curiosity.

The room she always used surprised me again, though I couldn’t say exactly why. Maybe it was because she kept her drapes drawn together on such a beautiful summer day. Behind the drapes the window shutters were closed, making bars of light on the window coverings. The shutters and the drapes held the heat outside at bay, making her parlor unexpectedly chill. There was no real need for air-conditioning in our area. The nearby Pacific kept our weather cool, making sweaters in the evenings a real necessity, even in the middle of summer. But this house was unnaturally cold.

Again she was in that wooden rocker staring at me. Her thin hand made some welcoming gesture to draw me closer. I knew instinctively she was a threat to my parents, to my own security, and most of all to Bart’s mental health.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me, Jory,” she said in a sweet voice. “My home belongs to you as much as to Bart. I will always welcome you here. Sit down and chat for a while. Will you share a cup of tea with me, and a slice of cake?”