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! (130 page)

I gasped when I saw Apple in the barn of the mansion. He was chained to a stake driven into the ground of the floor. A dish of moist dog food was placed just beyond his reach.

His thick shaggy fur told the story of his hunger. He was
ragged, panting, looking at me with huge pleading eyes. Who had done this? He’d clawed the ground in his futile efforts to dig free, and now, still only an overgrown puppy, he lay and panted in the barn, which had been closed and shuttered cruelly.

“It’s all right, boy,” I soothed, as I set about getting him fresh water. He lapped it up so thirstily I had to take it away. I knew a little about doctoring. Dogs, like people, had to drink sparingly after a long thirst. Next I set him free and went to his shelf of supplies and took what looked best to me from a long row of cans. Apple was starving in the midst of plenty. I could feel his ribs when I ran my hands over his pitiful shabby coat that had been so beautiful.

When he’d eaten and had his fill of water, I curry-combed his thick mat of hair. Then I sat on the dirt floor and held his huge head on my lap. “Bart’s coming home to you, Apple. He’ll have two good legs too, I promise. I don’t know who did this to you and why, but you can bet I’ll find out.” What worried me most was the awful suspicion that the very person who loved Apple most might be the very one who’d starved and punished his pet. Bart had such an odd way of reasoning. To his way of thinking, if Apple really suffered when he was gone, Apple would be ten times more grateful to see him.

Could Bart be that heartlessly cruel?

Outside, the July day was mildly hot. As I approached the great mansion I heard the low voices of two people. That old woman in black and the creepy old butler, both of them seated on a cool patio lush with colorful potted palms, and ferns planted in huge stone urns.

“John, I feel should go down again and check on Bart’s puppy. He was so happy to see me this morning, I couldn’t understand why he was so hungry. Really, do you have to keep him chained up like that? It seems so cruel on a beautiful day like this.”

“Madame, it is not a beautiful day,” said the mean-looking
butler, as he sipped a beer and sprawled in one of her chaise longues. “When you insist on wearing black, naturally you feel hotter than anyone else.”

“I don’t want your opinion on how I dress. I want to know why you keep Apple chained.”

“Because the dog might run off to look for his young master,” said John sarcastically. “I guess you didn’t think of that.”

“You could lock the barn door. I’m going down to look at him again. He seemed so thin, so desperate.”

“Madame, if you have to concern yourself, make it worthy of the bother. Be concerned for your grandson, who is about to lose his leg!”

She’d half risen from her chair, but at this announcement she sank back on the pillows. “Oh. He’s worse? Did Emma and Marta talk again this morning?”

I sighed, knowing Emma liked to gossip and she shouldn’t. Though I honestly didn’t think she’d say anything important. She never told me any secrets. And Mom never had time to listen.

“Of course they did,” grouched the butler. “Did you ever hear of a woman who didn’t? Those two use stepladders every day to gab away. Though to hear Emma talk, the doctor and his wife are perfect.”

“John, what did Marta find out about Bart? Tell me!”

“Well, Madame, it seems that kid has managed to drive a rusty nail into his knee and now he has gas gangrene—the kind of gangrene that demands amputation of the limb or the patient dies.”

I stared from my hidden place at the two who sat and talked, the one very upset, the other totally unconcerned, almost amused at the reaction of his mistress.

“You’re lying!” screamed the woman, jumping to her feet. “John, you tell me lies just to torture me more. I know Bart will be fine. His father will know what to do to help him recover. I know he will. He has to . . .” And then she broke
into tears. She took off the veil then and wiped at her tears, and I glimpsed her face, not noticing the scars so much this time, only her look of suffering. Did she really care so much for Bart? Why should she care? Could she really be Bart’s grandmother?—naw, she couldn’t be. His grandmother was in a mental institution in Virginia.

I stepped forward then to let my presence be known. She appeared surprised to see me, remembered her bare face, and hastily put on her veil again.

“Good morning,” I said addressing myself to the lady and ignoring the old man I couldn’t help but detest. “I heard what your butler said, ma’am, and he’s right only to a certain extent. My brother is very ill, but he does not have gas gangrene. And he will not lose his leg. My father is much too good a doctor to let that happen.”

“Jory, are you sure Bart will be all right?” she asked with so much concern. “He’s very dear to me . . . I can’t tell you how much.” She choked and bowed her head, working her thin, ringed hands convulsively.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “If Bart wasn’t allergic to most of the drugs the doctors have given him, they would have destroyed the infection—but that won’t matter in the long run, for my dad will know what to do to help him. My father always knows just what to do.” I turned then toward the butler and tried to put on adult authority. “As for Apple, he does not need to be kept chained in a hot barn with all the windows shuttered over. And he doesn’t need to have his food and water placed just out of his reach. I don’t know what’s going on in this place, and why you want to make a nice dog like that suffer—but you’d better take good care of him if you don’t want me to report you to the humane society.” I whipped about and started toward home.

“Jory!” called the lady in black. “Stay! Don’t leave yet. I want to know more about Bart.”

Again I turned to look at her. “If you want to help my
brother, there’s only one thing you can do—leave him alone! When he comes back, you tell him some nice reason why you can’t be bothered—but don’t you hurt his feelings.”

She spoke again, pleading for me to stay and talk, but I strode on, thinking I’d done something to protect Bart. To protect him from what, I didn’t know.

That very night Bart’s fever raged higher. His doctors ordered him to be wrapped in a thermal blanket that worked like a refrigerator. I watched my father, I watched my mother, I saw them look at each other, touch each other, giving each other strength. Strangely, both turned to pick up cubes of ice that they rubbed on Bart’s arms and legs, then his chest. Like one person with no need to speak. I choked up and bowed my head, feeling moved by their kind of love and understanding. I wanted then to speak up and tell them about the woman next door, but I’d promised Bart not to tell. He had the first friend in his life, the first pet that could tolerate him; yet the longer I withheld what I knew, the more my parents might be hurt in the long run. Why did I have to think that? How could that old lady hurt my parents?

Somehow I knew she could. Someday I knew she would. I wished I were a man, with the ability to make right decisions.

As I grew sleepier, I remembered the expression Dad used so often: “God works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform.”

Next thing I knew Dad was shaking me awake. “Bart’s better!” he cried. “Bart’s going to keep his leg and recover!”

*  *  *

Slowly, day by day, that hideous swollen leg diminished in size. Gradually it turned a normal color, though Bart seemed listless and uncaring as he stared blankly ahead, not saying anything to anybody.

We were at the breakfast table one morning when Dad rubbed his tired eyes and informed us of something incredible.
“Cathy, you’re not going to believe this, but the lab technicians found something odd in the culture they took from Bart’s wound. We suspected rust; they found rust, which caused the tetanus, but they also found the very kind of staphylococcus often associated with fresh animal feces. It’s truly a miracle Bart still had both of his legs.”

Looking pale and tired enough to be sick herself, Mom nodded before her head bowed weakly to his shoulder. “If Clover were still around, I’d easily understand how he might—”

“You know how our Bart is. If anything filthy is within a mile he’ll be the one to step on it, crawl in it, or pick it up and check it over. You know, when he kept on raving last night about apples I gave him one I’d bought and he let it fall to the floor, showing no interest.” Mom closed her eyes while he went on stroking her back and talking. “When I told him we weren’t flying East I could tell he was pleased.” He looked my way. “I hope you’re not too disappointed, Jory. We’ll have to wait until next summer to visit your grandmother, or maybe this Christmas I can get away.”

I was thinking mean thoughts. Bart always got what he wanted. He’d figured out a sure way to avoid visiting “ole” graves and “ole” grandmothers. He’d even given up Disneyland. And it wasn’t like Bart to give up anything.

*  *  *

That evening I was with Bart alone, and Mom and Dad were in the hospital corridor talking to friends. I told Bart about the conversation I’d overheard between the old lady and her butler. “There they were, Bart, both of them on her terrace. She was so worried about you.”

“She loves me,” he whispered proudly, his voice very faint. “She loves me more than anybody,” and here he looked thoughtful, “except perhaps, Apple.”

Bart, I thought, don’t think like that. But I couldn’t speak and steal his pride in having found love outside his family.
With mixed emotions I watched his expressive face, my own emotions a tumble of uncertainty. What kind of kid brother did I have? Surely he had to know his parents would love him more than anyone else.

“Grandmother is afraid of that ole butler,” he said, “but I can handle him good. I’ve got hidden powers real powerful.”

“Bart, why do you keep going over there?”

He shrugged and stared at the wall. “Don’t know. Jus’ wanna go there.”

“You know that Dad would give you a dog, any kind you want. All you have to do is ask, and he’ll give you a puppy just like Apple.”

His fierce, angry eyes drilled a hole in me. “There ain’t no other dog like my puppy-pony. Apple is special.”

I changed the subject. “How do you know that woman is scared of her butler? Did she tell you?”

“She don’t have to tell me. I can jus’ tell. He looks at her mean. She looks at him scared.”

Scared, the same way I was beginning to look at just about everything.

N
ice the way Momma kept fussing over me. Wouldn’t last. She’d change as soon as I got well. Two long long weeks in this stinking hospital that wanted to take my leg and burn it in their furnace. Made me happy to look down and see my leg still there. Boy, just wait until I went back to school and I told them how I nearly had an “amputated” leg. They’d be impressed. Was made of good stuff that refused to rot and die. And I hadn’t cried. Was brave too.

I remembered how Daddy hovered over me, looking sad and worried. Maybe he really did love me even if I wasn’t his own true son. “Daddy!” I cried when I saw him. “You got good news, I can tell.”

“It’s nice to see you bright and happy-looking.” He sat on the side of my bed and pulled me into his arms before he gave me a big kiss. Embarrassing. “Bart, I have great news. Your temperature is normal. Your knee is healing nicely. But being a doctor’s son has a few advantages. I’m signing you out today. If I don’t I fear you’ll fade away to nothing. Once you’re home I know Emma’s delicious food will soon put some meat on those bones.”

He looked at me in a kind way, like I really mattered just as much as Jory; it made me want to cry. “Where’s Momma?” I asked.

“I had to get away early, so she stayed home to arrange a special homecoming party for you—so you really can’t mind, can you?”

Could so! Wanted her here! Bet she didn’t come ’cause she had to fiddle around with that lil ole Cindy, putting ribbons in her hair. I kept my silence and allowed Daddy to carry me out to his car. Felt good to be out in the sun, going home.

In the foyer Daddy stood me on my wobbling legs. I stared at Momma, who went first to Daddy and kissed him on the cheek—when I was there, wanting to be kissed first. I knew why she’d done that. She was afraid of me now. She saw my skinny body, my ugly, bony face. She was forcing herself to smile when she looked my way. I cringed when she finally came my way to do her duty to her son who hadn’t died. Look at her fake happiness. I knew she didn’t love me, didn’t really want me anymore. And there was Jory, too, smiling and pretending he was happy for me to be home again when I knew all of them would have been glad to see me dead. I felt like Malcolm when he’d been a little boy, unwanted and unneeded, and so darn miserable.

“Bart, my darling!” said Momma. “Why do you look unhappy? Aren’t you glad to be home?” She gathered me in her arms and tried to kiss me, but I yanked away. Saw her hurt face but that didn’t count. She was only pretending, like I had to pretend all the time.

“It’s so wonderful to have you here again, sweetheart,” she went on with her lies. “Emma and I have been busy all morning planning just what we can do to make you happy. Since you complained so much about the awful hospital food, we’ve made all your favorite dishes.” She smiled again and reached once more to hug me, but I wasn’t gonna let her get under my skin with her “feminine wiles” John Amos had told me about. Good
food and smiles and kisses were all parts of “feminine wiles.”