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! (127 page)

One more time I looked around our yard, then decided I’d better go in the house and call the newspapers. I’d offer a reward for a missing dog—such a big reward somebody would bring Clover back. “Clover!” I yelled, “chow time!”

My call brought Bart stumbling out of the hedges, his clothes torn and filthy. His dark eyes were strangely haunted. “Why yah yellin?”

“I can’t find Clover,” I answered, “and you know he never goes anywhere. He’s a home dog. I read the other day about
people who steal dogs and sell them to science labs for experimentation. Bart, I’d want to die if somebody did something so awful to Clover.”

He stared at me, stricken-looking, “They wouldn’t do that . . . would they?”

“Bart, I’ve got to find Clover. If he doesn’t come back soon, I’ll feel sick, really sick enough to die. Suppose he’s been run over?”

I watched my brother swallow, then begin to tremble. “What’s wrong?”

“Shot me a wolf back there, I did. Shot me a big bad wolf right through his mean red eye. He came at me lickin his chops, but I was smarter and moved quick and shot him dead.”

“Oh, come off it, Bart!” I said impatiently, really getting irritated with somebody who could never tell the truth. “There aren’t any wolves in this area, and you know it.”

*  *  *

Until midnight I searched all around our neighborhood, calling for Clover. Tears kept clogging my voice, my eyes. I had the strongest premonition that Clover would never come home again.

“Jory,” said Dad, who’d been helping me hunt, “let’s hit the sack and look again in the morning if he doesn’t come home by himself. And don’t you lie in your bed and worry. Clover may be an old dog, but even the elderly can feel romantic on a moonlit night.”

Aw, heck. That didn’t make much sense. Clover had stopped chasing female dogs a long time ago. Now all he wanted was a place to lie where Bart wasn’t likely to stumble over him or step on his tail.

“You go to bed, Dad, and let me look. I don’t have to be in ballet class until ten, so I don’t need my sleep as much as you do.”

He briefly embraced me, wished me luck, and headed for
his room. An hour later, I decided it was fruitless effort. Clover was dead. That’s the only thing that would keep him away.

I decided I had to tell my parents what I suspected.

I stood beside their bed looking down at them. Moonlight streamed through the windows and fell over their bodies. Mom was half-turned on her side so she could cuddle up close to Dad, who was on his back. Her head was on his bare chest, while his left arm encircled her so his hand lay on her hip. The covers were pulled up just high enough to shield their nudity, which made me back away, feeling very guilty. I shouldn’t be here, sleep made them look vulnerable, younger, moving me but giving me a deep sense of shame too. I wondered why I felt ashamed. Dad had taught me the facts of life a long time ago, so I knew what men and women did together to make babies—or just for fun.

I sobbed and turned to go.

“Chris, is that you?” asked my mother, half-asleep and rolling over on her back.

“I’m here, darling. Go back to sleep,” he mumbled sleepily. “The grandmother can’t get us now.”

I froze, startled. They both sounded like children. And again that grandmother.

“I’m scared, Chris, so afraid. If they ever find out, what will we say? How can we explain?’

“Sssh,” came his whisper, “life will be good to us from now on. Hold fast to your faith in God. We have both been punished enough; He won’t punish us more.”

Run, run, had to run fast to my room and hurl myself down. I felt hollow inside, emptiness all around instead of the confidence and love I used to feel here. Clover was gone. My dear little harmless poodle who had never done even one bad thing. And Bart had shot a wolf.

What would Bart do next? Did he know what I did? Was that why he was behaving so strangely? Turning his mean glare on Mom like he wanted to hurt her. Tears rose in my
eyes again, for memory couldn’t be denied forever. I knew now that Bart was not the son of Dr. Paul. Bart was the son of that old lady’s second husband with the same name as my half brother—that tall, lean man who sometimes haunted my dreams along with Dr. Paul and my own real father, whom I’d seen only in photographs.

Our parents had lied to both of us. Why hadn’t they told us the truth? Was the truth so ugly they couldn’t tell us? Did they have such little faith in our love for them?

Oh, God, their secret must be something so dreadful we could never forgive them!

And Bart, he could be dangerous. I knew he could be. Day by day it was beginning to show more and more. In the morning I wanted to run up to Mom or to Dad and tell them. But when morning came I couldn’t say anything. Now I knew why Dad insisted that we learn one new word each day. It took special words to put across subtle ideas, and as yet I wasn’t as educated as I needed to be to express my troubled thoughts that wanted to reassure them. And how could I reassure them when Bart was before me, his dark eyes hard and mean?

Oh, God, if you’re up there somewhere looking down, hear my prayer. Let my parents have the peace they need so they don’t have to dream of evil grandmothers at night. Right or wrong, whatever they’ve done, I know they’ve done the best they could.

Why did I put it like that?

Safe was a word that no longer had substance. Like dead people who were only shadows in my memory, nothing as concrete as Bart’s hate, which was growing larger day by day.

J
uly. My month. “Conceived in fire, born in heat,” said John Amos when I told him it would soon be my tenth birthday. Didn’t know what he meant and didn’t care either. Disneyland would see me in a few days. Hip-hip-hooray! Drat Jory for not looking happy, spoiling my fun with his long, sad face just because some silly little ole dog wouldn’t come home when he called.

I was making plans that would see Apple through until I could steal back to him after seeing Disneyland. John Amos grabbed me when I went over and hauled me up to his room over the garage. I looked around, thinking it smelled sour, old, like medicine.

“Bart, you sit down in that chair and read aloud to me from Malcolm’s journal. For the Lord will punish you if you say you’re reading his book when you are not.”

I didn’t need John Amos as much as I used to, so I looked at him with scorn. With the kind of scorn Malcolm would show for a bent and lame old man who couldn’t speak without hissing, whistling or spitting. But I sat and I read from Malcolm’s red-leather journal.

*  *  *

My youth had been squandered in earthly pleasures, and as I approached thirty I realized what was missing in my life was a purpose other than money. Religion. I needed religion, and redemption for all my sins, for despite the vows of my childhood, I had regressed into desiring women, and the more wicked they were, the more they seemed to please me. There was no sight more pleasurable to me than to see some haughty beautiful woman, humbled and made to do obscene things that went against the rules of decency. I took pleasure in beating them, putting red welts on their fair unbroken skins. I saw blood, their blood, and it made me excited. That’s when I knew I needed God. I had to save my everlasting soul from hell.

I looked up, tired of trying to figure out all those long words that didn’t mean much to me.

“Do you see what Malcolm is telling you, boy? He’s telling you no matter how much you hate women, still there is pleasure to be had from them—
but at a cost, boy,
at a dear, dear cost. Unfortunately God built into mankind sensual desires—you must try to smother yours as you approach manhood. Plant it in your mind so deep it can never be removed: Women will be your destruction in the end. I know. They have destroyed me and kept me a servant when I could have been far more.”

I got up and walked away, sick of John Amos. I was going to my grandmother, who loved me more than God ever would. More than anyone ever would. She loved me for myself. She loved me so much she even made up lies, like me, to tell me she was my own true grandmother when I knew that just couldn’t be so.

*  *  *

Saturday was the best day of the week. My stepfather stayed home and made Momma happy. She hired some dumb assistant to help out on Saturday in her ballet class now that she had to spend so much time dolling up Cindy—like anybody
cared how she looked. Jory had to go to ballet class on Saturdays too so he could see his stupid girlfriend. By noon he’d be home to mess up all my plans. Had lots of plans to fill my time. Take care of Apple. Sit on my grandmother’s lap and let her sing to me. Why, mornings could pass quicker than a wink with all I had to do.

John Amos gave me more lessons on how to be like Malcolm, and darn if it wasn’t working. I was feeling his power growing bigger and stronger.

That afternoon Cindy was in a brand-new plastic swimming pool. The old one wasn’t good enough for
her
. Bratty kid has to have everything new, even a bathing suit with red and white stripes and little red straps that tied over her shoulders to keep the thing up. Little bows she was trying to undo!

Jory jumped up and rushed into the house for his camera, then ran back to take Cindy’s picture. Snap, snap, snap. He tossed the camera to Momma, who caught it. “Take my picture with Cindy,” he said.

Sure, she was happy to take
his
picture with Cindy. Didn’t bother to ask about me. Maybe once too often I’d made a face, ducked my head, or stuck out my tongue. Everyone was always saying Bart sure did know how to ruin a perfectly good shot.

Dratted bushes were all around me, scratching my legs, arms. Bugs crawled on me. Hated bugs! Slapped at them as I narrowed my eyes to see that sissy girl splashing in the water, having more fun than I ever had in a pool.

When they tried to take me East from Disneyland, I’d sneak away and catch a ride and come home and take care of Apple—that’s what Malcolm would do. Dead people wouldn’t miss me. They wouldn’t care if I wasn’t there to put flowers on their graves. Jory’s nasty grandmother would be glad I wasn’t there.

Ran to where I could climb the tree, the wall, and on to the barn to visit with Apple, who was growing huge. I shoved
a doggy biscuit in Apple’s mouth. It vanished in a second. He jumped and made me fall down. “Now you eat this carrot—it will be like a toothbrush to clean your teeth!” Apple sniffed at the carrot. Wagged his tail. Jumped and then swiped at the carrot with his paw. Apple still didn’t know how to play pony games at all.

Soon I had Apple hitched up to my new pony cart and we flew all over the place. “Gitty-up!” I yelled. “Catch those rustlers over yonder! Run faster, you gol-durn horse, if yer gonna get me home before chow is served!” I saw a movement in the hills. Twisted round and spied Indians comin lickity-split—scalpin Indians! Indians gave us a mad chase until we lost them in the hills that soon became desert. Tired and thirsty, my mount and I looked for an oasis. Saw a mirage.

There she was, the woman of the oasis mirage. Wearin her flutterin black rags, her bare feet sandy, glad to welcome us both back to the land of the livin . . .

“Water,” I gasped. “Need cold, clear water.” I sprawled in a fancy chair and spread out my long, thin legs that ended in dusty, worn boots. I reached to flick sand from my chaps. “Make it a beer,” I said to the saloon girl. She brought me beer, all foamy and brown, and cold, too cold. Hit my stomach like a rattler, makin me hunch over and give her the eye. “What’s a nice girl like you doin in a rotten place like this?”

“I’m the local schoolmarm. Snapping Sam, don’t you remember?” Behind her veil she cast down her eyelids and fluttered her lashes. “But when hard times come, a lady must do what she can to survive.” She was playin my game. Nobody ever played my games with me. It felt so good to have a playmate.

I smiled, real friendly like. “Took good care of Apple. He’s so clean he can’t die.”

“Darling, you play too hard. And it’s not healthy to think so much about dying. Come sit on my lap and let me sing you a song.”

Nice. Liked being treated like a baby. Cozy on her soft
lap, with my face on her breast, and her singing in my ears. Each rock of the chair put me more and more in a trance. I looked up and tried to see through her veils. Was I getting to love her more than Momma? I saw then that her veils were attached to little combs she caught in her hair, for today she had left her hair uncovered. Most of it was silver-colored with streaks of gold.

Didn’t want Momma to grow old and have gray hair. Already she was leaving me each day she cared for Cindy; leaving me for others to take over. Why did Cindy have to come and spoil my life?

“More, please,” I whispered when she stopped rocking. “Do you love me more than Madame M. loves Jory?” I asked. If she said yes, much, much more, I might move in.

“Does Jory’s grandmother love him a great deal?” Was that envy in her voice? I felt mad, mean—and she saw this and began to cover my face with kisses, dry kisses on account of that veil.

“Granny, got to tell you somethin.”

“Fine . . . but remember to sound your G’s. Tell me anything, I’ve got the rest of my life to listen.” She stroked my hair back from my face and tried to make it neat. Couldn’t.