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! (209 page)

*  *  *

Soon after this we drove to Richmond to see that Cindy caught a plane back to New York. In another week she was moving to
Hollywood to try and begin a film career. “I won’t be coming to Foxworth Hall again, Momma,” she repeated. “I love you, and I love Dad, even if he is angry with me for speaking my mind. Tell Jory again that I love him and his children. But hate and ugly thoughts come into my mind the minute I step inside that house. Leave there, Momma. Daddy. Leave before it’s too late.”

Numbly I nodded.

“Momma, remember the night when Bart beat up Victor Wade? He carried me home naked—and he took me up to Joel’s room. He held me so Joel could look me over, and that old man spat on me, cursed me. I couldn’t tell you then. The two of them scare me when they get together. Alone, Bart might straighten out. With Joel there to influence him, he could be dangerous.”

She was soon on the plane and we were on the ground watching her fly away again.

She flew toward morning. We drove home toward night.

This couldn’t go on any longer. To save Jory, Chris, the twins, and myself, we had to leave, even if it meant we’d never see Bart again.

P
oor Cindy, I was thinking, how would she fare in Hollywood? I sighed, then began to look around for the twins. They sat solemnly in their sandbox with the rainbowed canopy overhead, although in early September the weather was steadily cooling off. They sat without shoveling sand into pretty buckets, not building sand castles. Not doing anything. “Just listening to the wind blow,” said Deirdre.

“Don’t like the wind,” added Darren.

Before I could speak, Chris was striding toward us, and soon I was telling him, “Cindy just called from Hollywood. She says she has lots of friends there already. I don’t know if she does or not. But she does have plenty of money. Already I’ve called one of my friends who will check on her.”

“It’s better so,” he said with a troubled sigh. “It seems nothing can work out for Cindy here. She can’t get along with Bart, and now she’s started on Joel as well. In fact, she seems to think Joel is worse than Bart.”

“He is, Chris! Don’t you know that by now?”

He grew impatient with me, just when I thought I had
him convinced. “You’re prejudiced because he is Malcolm’s son, and that’s all it is. For a while when Cindy was berating him, too, the two of you almost convinced me, but Joel is not doing one thing to influence Bart. Bart, from all I hear, is a full-blooded young stud, having the time of his life, only you don’t know that. And Joel can’t have much longer to live. That cancer is devouring him day by day, even if he does maintain his weight. He can’t possibly hold on more than a month or two more.”

I wasn’t distressed. I didn’t even feel guilty or ashamed at that moment, I told myself with sincerity, that Joel was getting out of life exactly what he deserved. “How do you know he’s ill with cancer?” I asked.

“He told me that’s why he came back to die on home ground, so to speak. He wants to be buried in the family cemetery.”

“Chris, like Cindy said, he does look better now than when he came.”

“Because he’s well fed and well housed. He lived in poverty at that monastery. You see him in one way, I see him another. He confides in me, Catherine, and tells me how hard he’s tried to win you to his side. Tears come into his eyes. ‘And she’s so much like her dear mother, my dear sister’ he’ll say over and over again.”

Not for one minute, after witnessing Joel in that chapel, would I ever believe in that evil old man. Even when I told Chris about the chapel incident in great detail, he didn’t think it so terrible until I mentioned what had been taught to the twins.

“You heard that? Actually heard those babies say they were Devil’s issue?” Disbelief was clear in his blue eyes.

“Does it ring a familiar bell? Do you see Cory and Carrie on their knees by their beds, praying for God to forgive them for being born Devil’s spawn? Even when they didn’t know what that meant? Does anyone know more than you and I
what harm can be done from ideas like that planted in such young minds? Chris, we have to leave soon! Not after Joel dies, but soon as possible!”

He said exactly what I’d feared he would. We had to think of Jory, who needed special quarters, special equipment. “He’ll have to have an elevator. Doors will have to be enlarged. The halls must be wide. And there is another consideration—Jory may marry Toni. He asked me what I thought about it, wanting to know if I believed he had a chance of making Toni happy. I said yes, of course he could. I can see the love between them growing day by day. I like the way she treats him, as if she doesn’t see the wheelchair, or what he can’t do—only what he can.

“And Cathy, it wasn’t love between Toni and Bart. It was infatuation, glands calling to glands—or call it whatever you will, but it wasn’t love. Not our kind of everlasting love.”

“No . . . ,” I breathed, “not the kind that lasts forever . . .”

*  *  *

Two days later Chris called from Charlottesville, telling me he’d found a house.

“Exactly how many rooms?

“Eleven. It’s going to seem small after Foxworth Hall. But the rooms are large, airy, cheerful. It has four baths and a powder room, five bedrooms, a guest room and another bath over the garage, and also on the second floor is a huge room we can convert into a studio for Jory, and one of the extra bedrooms can be my home office. You’re going to love this house.”

I doubted that, he’d found it too quickly, even though that’s what I’d asked him to do. He sounded so happy, and that gave me happy expectations. He laughed, then explained more. “It’s beautiful, Cathy, really just the kind of house I’ve always heard you say you wanted. Not too big, not too small, with plenty of privacy. Three acres with flowerbeds everywhere.”

It was settled.

As soon as we could pack our bags and many personal possessions accumulated over the years we’d lived in Foxworth Hall, we would move out.

I felt sad in some ways as I sauntered through the grand rooms that I’d gradually made cozy with my own decorating ideas. Bart had complained more than once that I was changing what should never change. But even he, once he’d seen the improvements that made this a home rather than a museum, had finally agreed to let me have my way.

Chris came to me Friday evening, looking at me with soft eyes. “So, my beautiful, hold on for just a few more days and let me drive back to Charlottesville and check out that house more thoroughly before we sign the contract bid. I’ve found a nice apartment we can rent until we can close on the house. Also, I have a few things to clear up at the lab, so I can take off several days and help get us settled. As I was telling you on the phone, I think two weeks of work, after the closing, and our new home will be ready for all of us—ramps, elevator, and all.”

He graciously didn’t mention all the years he’d lived with Bart, knowing it was like living with an explosive hidden somewhere, bound to go off sooner or later. Never a word to reproach me for giving him a defiant, disrespectful son who refused to care how much love was given him.

Oh, how much agony he’d suffered because of Bart, and still he didn’t say a word to condemn me for going with deliberate intentions after my mother’s second husband. I put my hands to my head, feeling that deep ache beginning again.

My Christopher drove away in the early morning, leaving me to fret through yet another anxiety-ridden day. Over the years I’d grown more and more dependent on him, when once I’d prided myself for being independent, able to go my own way and not need anyone nearly as badly as they needed me. How selfishly I’d looked at life when I was younger. My needs
had come first. Now it was the needs of others that came first.

Restlessly I roamed about, checking on all those I loved, staring at Bart when he came home, dying to throw all kinds of accusations his way, yet somehow feeling so much pity for him. He sat behind his desk, looking absolutely the perfect young executive. No guilt. No shame as he bargained, manipulated, negotiated, making more and more money just by talking over the telephone, or communicating with his computer. He looked up at me and smiled. A genuine smile of welcome.

“When Joel told me Cindy had decided to leave, it cheered my whole day, and I still feel that way.” Yet what was that oddness behind the darkness of his eyes? Why did he look at me as if soon he’d cry?

“Bart, if ever you want to confide in me—”

“I have nothing to confide, Mother.”

His voice was soft. Too soft, as if he spoke to someone that would soon be gone—forever gone.

“You may not know this, Bart, but the man you so hate, my brother and your uncle, has done the best he could to be a good father replacement.”

Shaking his head, he denied this. “To do this best would have been abandoning his relationship with you, his sister, and he hasn’t done that. I could have loved him if he’d only stayed my uncle. You should have known better than to try to deceive me. You should know by now all children grow up to ask questions and remember well scenes you think they’ll soon forget, but those children don’t forget. They take those memories and bury them deep in their brains, to bring them out later when they can understand. And all that I can remember tells me that the two of you are bound in ways that seem unbreakable, except by death.”

My heart quickened. On the roof of Foxworth Hall, under the sun and stars, Chris and I had sworn certain vows to see us through eternity. How young and foolish to create our own traps . . .

Tears could so easily flood my eyes lately. “Bart—how could
I
live without
him
?”

“Oh, Mother, you could! You know you could.
Let him go, Mother.
Give to me the kind of decent, God-fearing mother I’ve always needed to keep my sanity.”

“And if I can’t say good-bye to Chris—what then, Bart?”

His dark head bowed. “God help you, Mother. I won’t be able to. God help me, too. Even so, I do have to think of my own eternal soul.”

I went away.

*  *  *

All through the night I dreamed of fire, of such terrible things I woke up, not clearly remembering anything but the fire, yet there had been something else, some dreadful remembered thing I kept shoving to the back of my mind. What? What? Unable to overcome the inexplicable fatigue I felt, I drifted back to sleep and fell again immediately into a continuing nightmare where I saw Jory’s twins as Cory and Carrie, carried off to be devoured. For the second time I forced myself awake. Forced myself to get up, although my head ached badly.

I felt woozy-headed, half drunk as I set about my daily chores. At my heels the twins tagged behind, asking a thousand and one questions, in particular Deirdre. She reminded me so much of Carrie with her why? where? and whose is it? And how did it come to be his or hers or its? Jibberty-jabber, chitter-chat, on and on as Darren poked into closets, pulled open drawers, investigated envelopes, leafed through magazines and in the process ruined them for reading, making me say, “Cory, put those down! They belong to your grandfather and he likes to read the writing even if you don’t like anything but the pictures. Carrie, would you please be quiet for just five minutes? Just five?” That, of course, drew another question that wanted to know who was Cory and who was Carrie,
and why was I always calling them those funny names?

Finally Toni came to relieve me of the too inquisitive children. “Sorry, Cathy, but Jory wanted me to model for him in the garden today before all the roses die . . .”

Before all the roses die?
I stared at her, then shook my head, thinking I was reading too much into ordinary words. The roses would live until a heavy freeze came, and winter was months away.

Around two in the afternoon, the telephone in my room rang. I’d just laid down to rest. It was Chris. “Darling, I can’t stop worrying about what might happen. I think your fears are getting to me. Have patience. I’ll be seeing you in an hour. Are you all right?”

“Why wouldn’t I be all right?”

“Just checking. I’ve had a bad feeling. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

*  *  *

The twins were restless, not wanting to play in the sandbox, not wanting to do one thing I suggested.

“Dee-dee don’t like jump rope,” said Deirdre, who couldn’t pronounce her name correctly and didn’t really want to. The more we tried to teach her the correct way, the more she lisped. She had Carrie’s stubbornness. Just as Darren was more than willing to follow where she led, and he’d lisp when she did. And what difference did it make if a little boy his age played house?

I put the twins down for their naps. They noisily objected and didn’t stop until Toni came in and read to them a story she’d promised she’d read—when I’d just read the same blasted story three times! Soon they were asleep in their pretty room with the draperies drawn. How sweet they looked, turned on their sides to face one another, just as Cory and Carrie had done.

In my own room, after checking on Jory, who was busy
reading a book on how to strengthen certain lower sexual muscles, I turned to my neglected manuscript and brought it up to date. When I grew tired, distracted by the absolute silence in the house, I went to waken the twins.