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! (46 page)

“However, our mother can be very strong-willed, and that surprised me. She’s changed, Cathy, from the way she was with Daddy. It’s like she is the boss now, and no man is going to tell her what to do. And she said to him then, ‘Like last time? Now, that was really embarrassing, Bart! You came back to get your wallet, swearing to me you’d only be gone a few minutes and what did you do but fall asleep—and there I was at that party without an escort!’

“Now our stepfather sounded somewhat irritated, both by her words, and her tone, if I judged him correctly, and there’s a lot you can read into voices even when you don’t see facial expressions. ‘Oh, how you must have suffered!’ he replied, sounding sarcastic. But that didn’t last long, for he must be basically a jovial fellow. ‘As for me, I had the sweetest dream, and I’d come back every time if I knew that for certain, a lovely young girl with the long, golden hair would steal into the room and kiss me while I dozed. Oh, she was pretty, and she looked at me so longingly, yet, when I opened my eyes she was gone, and I thought she must have been a dream.’

“What he said made me gasp, Cathy—it was you, wasn’t it? How could you be so bold, so indiscreet? I got so damned mad with you I felt ready to explode if just one more little thing happened to set me off. You think you’re the only one wound up, right? You think you’re the only one with frustrations, with doubts, suspicions, and fears. Well, take comfort from knowing I have them too—you’ve seen to that. And, boy, was I mad at you, madder than I’ve ever been before.

“And then Momma said sharply to her husband, ‘God, I am sick of hearing about the girl and her kiss—why, to hear you tell it, you’ve never been kissed before!’ And I thought that then and there they might have an argument. But Momma changed her voice, and sounded sweet and loving, like she used to sound with Daddy. But it proved she was more determined to leave this house
than a would-be lover who would use the swan bed then and there, for Momma said, ‘Come along, Bart, we’ll stay overnight in a hotel, and then you won’t have to see my mother’s face in the morning.’ And that solved my concern about how I was going to escape that room before they used that swan bed—for damned if I would stay and listen, or spy.”

This was all happening while I was up in the attic, sitting on a windowsill, waiting for Chris to reappear. I was thinking of the silver music box Daddy had given me, and wishing I had it back. I didn’t know then that the episode in Momma’s room was to have its repercussions.

Something creaked behind me! A soft step on rotting wood! I jumped, startled, scared, and turned, expecting to see—God knows what! Then I sighed, for it was only Chris standing in the gloom, silently staring at me. Why? Did I look prettier than usual? Was it the moonlight, shining through my airy clothes?

All random doubts were cleared when he said in a voice gritty and low, “You look beautiful sitting there like that.” He cleared the frog in his throat. “The moonlight is etching you with silver-blue, and I can see the shape of your body through your clothes.”

Then, bewilderingly, he seized me by the shoulders, digging in his fingers, hard! They hurt. “Damn you, Cathy! You kissed that man! He could have awakened and seen you, and demanded to know who you were! And not thought you only a part of his dream!”

Scary the way he acted, the fright I felt for no reason at all. “How do you know what I did? You weren’t there; you were sick that night.”

He shook me, glaring his eyes, and again I thought he seemed a stranger. “He saw you, Cathy—he wasn’t soundly asleep!”

“He saw me?” I cried, disbelieving. It wasn’t possible . . . wasn’t!

“Yes!” he yelled. This was Chris, who was usually in such control of his emotions. “He thought you a part of his dream! But don’t you know that Momma can guess who it was, just by
putting two and two together—just as I have? Damn you and your romantic notions! Now they’re on to us! They won’t leave money casually about as they did before. He’s counting, she’s counting, and we don’t have enough—not yet!”

He yanked me down from the window sill! He appeared wild and furious enough to slap my face—and not once in all our lives had he ever struck me, though I’d given him reason to when I was younger. But he shook me until my eyes rolled, until I was dizzy and crying out: “Stop! Momma knows we can’t pass through a locked door!”

This wasn’t Chris . . . this was someone I’d never seen before . . . primitive, savage.

He yelled out something like, “You’re mine, Cathy! Mine! You’ll always be mine! No matter who comes into your future, you’ll always belong to me! I’ll make you mine . . . tonight . . . now!”

I didn’t believe it, not Chris!

And I did not fully understand what he had in mind, nor, if I am to give him credit, do I think he really meant what he said, but passion has a way of taking over.

We fell to the floor, both of us. I tried to fight him off. We wrestled, turning over and over, writhing, silent, a frantic struggle of his strength against mine.

It wasn’t much of a battle.

I had the strong dancer’s legs; he had the biceps, the greater weight and height . . . and he had much more determination than I to use something hot, swollen and demanding, so much it stole reasoning and sanity from him.

And I loved him. I wanted what he wanted—if he wanted it
that
much, right or wrong.

Somehow we ended up on that old mattress—that filthy, smelly, stained mattress that must have known lovers long before this night. And that is where he took me, and forced in that swollen, rigid male sex part of him that had to be satisfied. It drove into my tight and resisting flesh which tore and bled.

Now we had done what we both swore we’d never do.

Now we were doomed through all eternity, damned to roast forever, hung upside down and naked over the everlasting fires of hell. Sinners, just as the grandmother had forecasted so long ago.

Now I had all the answers.

Now there might be a baby. A baby to make us pay in life and not wait for hell, and everlasting fires reserved for such as us.

We drew apart and stared at each other, our faces numb and pale from shock, and barely could we speak as we drew on our clothes.

He didn’t have to say he was sorry . . . it was all over him . . . the way he quivered, the way his hands trembled and were so clumsy with his buttons.

*  *  *

Later, we went out on the roof.

Long strings of clouds blew across the face of the full moon, so it would duck and hide, then peek out again. And on the roof, on a night that was made for lovers, we cried in each other’s arms. He hadn’t meant to do it. And I had meant never to let him. The fear of the baby that might be the result of one single kiss on moustached lips rose high in my throat, and hesitated on my tongue. It was my worst fear. More than hell, or God’s wrath, I feared giving birth to a monstrous baby, deformed, a freak, an idiot. But how could I speak of this? Already he was suffering enough. However, his thoughts were more knowledgeable than mine.

“The odds are all against a baby,” he said fervently. “Just one time—there won’t be a conception. I swear there won’t be another time—no matter what! I’ll castrate myself before I’ll let it happen again!” Then he had pulled me tightly against him so I was crushed so hard it hurt my ribs. “Don’t hate me, Cathy, please don’t hate me. I didn’t mean to rape you, I swear to God. There’s been many a time when I’ve been tempted, and I was able to turn it off. I’d leave the room, go into the bathroom, or into the attic. I’d bury my nose in a book until I felt normal again.”

Tight as I could, I wrapped my arms around him. “I don’t hate
you, Chris,” I whispered, pressing my head tightly against his chest. “You didn’t rape me. I could have stopped you if I’d really wanted to. All I had to do was bring my knee up hard, where you told me to. It was my fault, too.” Oh yes, my fault too. I should have known better than to kiss Momma’s handsome young husband. I shouldn’t have worn skimpy little see-through garments around a brother who had all a man’s strong physical needs, and a brother who was always so frustrated by everything, and everyone. I had played upon his needs, testing my femininity, having my own burning yearnings for fulfillment.

It was a peculiar kind of night, as if fate had planned this night, long ago, and this night was our destiny, right or wrong. It was darkness lit up by the moon so full and bright, and the stars seemed to flash Morse Code beams to one another . . . fate accomplished . . . .

The wind in the leaves rustled and made an eerie, melancholy music that was tuneless, yet music just the same. How could anything as human and loving be ugly on such a beautiful night as this one?

Perhaps we stayed too long on the roof.

The slate was cold, hard, rough. It was early September. Already the leaves were beginning to fall, so soon to be touched by the winter’s frosty hand. Hot as hell in the attic. On the roof, it was beginning to turn very, very cold.

Closer Chris and I huddled, clinging to each other for safety and warmth. Youthful, sinful lovers of the worst kind. We had dropped ten miles in our own esteem, done in by yearnings stretched too thin by constant closeness. Just once too often we’d tempted fate, and our own sensuous natures . . . and I hadn’t even known at the time that I was sensuous, much less that he was. I’d thought it was only beautiful music that made my heart ache and my loins crave; I hadn’t known it was something far more tangible.

Like one heart shared between us, we drummed out a terrible tune of self-punishment for what we’d done.

A colder breeze lifted a dead leaf to the roof and sent it scuttling merrily on its way to catch in my hair. It crackled dry and brittle when Chris plucked it out and held it, just staring down at a dead maple leaf as if his very life depended on reading its secret for knowing how to blow in the wind. No arms, no legs, no wings . . . but it could fly when dead.

“Cathy,” he began in a crackling, dry voice, “we now have exactly three hundred and ninety-six dollars and forty-four cents. Won’t be long before the snow starts to fall. And we don’t own winter coats or boots that fit, and the twins are already so weakened that they will catch cold easily, and might pass from colds into pneumonia. I wake up in the night, worrying about them, and I’ve seen you lying on your bed staring at Carrie, so you must be worrying, too. I doubt very much we’ll be finding money lying about in Momma’s suite of rooms now. They suspect a maid is stealing from them—or they did. Maybe now Momma suspects that it could be you . . . I don’t know . . . I hope not.

“Regardless of what either of them thinks, the next time I play thief, I’m forced to steal her jewelry. I’ll make a grand sweep, take it all—and then we’ll run. We’ll take the twins to a doctor as soon as we’re far enough away, and we’ll have enough money to pay their bills.”

Take the jewelry—what I’d begged him to do all along! Finally he would do it, agree to steal the hard-won prizes Momma had struggled so to gain, and in the process, she was going to lose us. But would she care—would she?

That old owl that might be the same one that greeted us at the train depot on the first night we came, hooted in the far distance, sounding ghostly. While we watched, thin, slow, gray mists began to rise up from the damp ground, chilled by the night’s sudden cold. The thick and billowing fog swelling up to the roof . . . undulating curling waves, rolling as a misty sea to shroud over us.

And all we could see in the murky-gray and cold, damp
clouds was that single great eye of God—shining up there in the moon.

*  *  *

I awakened before dawn. I stared over to where Cory and Chris slept. Even as my sleepy eyes opened, and my head turned, I sensed that Chris was awake, too, and had been for some time. He was already looking at me, and shiny, glistening tears sparkled the blue of his eyes and smeared the whites. The tears that rolled to fall on his pillow, I named as they fell: shame, guilt, blame.

“I love you, Christopher Doll. You don’t have to cry. For I can forget, if you can forget, and there’s nothing to forgive.”

He nodded and said nothing. But I knew him well, right down to his bone marrow. I knew his thoughts, his feelings, and all the ways to wound his ego fatally. I knew that through me he had struck back at the one woman who had betrayed him in trust, faith and love. All I had to do was look in my hand mirror with the big C. L. F. on the back, and I could see my own mother’s face, as she must have looked at my age.

And so it had come to pass, just as the grandmother predicted. Devil’s issue. Created by evil seed sown in the wrong soil, shooting up new plants to repeat the sins of the fathers.

And the mothers.

W
e were leaving. Any day. As soon as Momma gave the word that she’d be out for the evening, she’d also be out of all her valuable, transportable possessions. We would not go back to Gladstone. There the winter came and lasted until May. We would go to Sarasota, where the circus people lived. They were known for having and showing kindness to those from strange backgrounds. Since Chris and I’d grown accustomed to high places, the roof, the many ropes attached to the rafter beams, I blithely said to Chris, “We’ll be trapeze performers.” He grinned, thinking it a ridiculous idea—at first—next calling it inspired.