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! (67 page)

“Oh.” He made me feel sick with disappointment.

“Look here, Catherine,” he said from the doorway. He was so large he blocked out the light from the hall. “You’re playing a dangerous game. You’re trying to seduce me and you’re very lovely and very hard to resist. But your place in my life is as my daughter—nothing else.”

“Was it raining that day in June when you put Julia and Scotty in the ground?”

“What difference does that make?
Any day
you put someone you love underground it’s raining!” And he was gone from my door, striding quickly down the hall to his room where he slammed the door hard.

So, I’d tried twice and he’d rejected me twice. Now I was free to go on my merry, destructive way to dance and dance until I reached the top. And that would show Momma, who could do nothing but embroider and knit, just who had the most talent and brains. She would see who could make a fortune on her own without selling her body, and without stooping to murder to inherit it!

The whole world was going to know about me! They’d compare me to Anna Pavlova and say I was better. She’d come to a party they threw in my honor, and with her would be her husband. She’d look old, jaded, tired, while I’d be fresh and young, and her darling Bart would come straight to me, his eyes dazzled as he kissed my hand. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he’d say, “and the most talented.” And with his eyes alone I’d know he loved me, loved me ten times more than he had ever loved her. And then when I had him and she was alone, I’d tell him who I was, and he’d not believe at first. Then he would. And he’d hate her! He’d take all her money from her. Where would it go? I paused, stumped. Where would the money go if it were taken from Momma? Would it go back to the grandmother? It wouldn’t come to us, not Chris, Carrie or me, for we just didn’t exist as Foxworths. Then I smiled to myself, thinking of the four birth certificates I’d found sewn under the lining of one of our old
suitcases. I began to laugh. Oh, Momma, what stupid things you do! Imagine, hiding the birth certificates. With those I could prove Cory existed, and without them it would be her word against mine, unless the police went back to Gladstone and found the doctor who had delivered the twins. And then there was our old babysitter, Mrs. Simpson—and Jim Johnston. Oh, I hoped none had moved away and that they could still remember the four Dresden dolls.

I knew I was evil, just like the grandmother said from the beginning, born to be bad. I’d been punished before I’d even done anything evil, so why not let the punishment fit the crime that was to be? There was no reason why I should be haunted and ruined just because once upon a miserable time, I had turned for refuge into the arms of my brother. I’d go to the man who needed me most. If that was evil, to give what his words denied and his eyes pleaded for, then let me be evil!

I began, as I grew sleepy, to plan how it would be. He wouldn’t turn away and put me off, for I’d make it impossible. He wouldn’t want to hurt me. He’d take me and then he’d think to himself he had to, and then he wouldn’t feel guilty, not guilty at all.

The guilt would all be mine. And Chris would hate me and turn, as he had to, to someone else.

I
was sixteen in April of 1961. There I was, at the blossoming, ripe age when all men, young and old, and most of all those past forty, turned to stare at me on the streets. When I waited on the corner for a bus, cars slowed because male drivers couldn’t keep from gaping at me.

And if they were enraptured, I was even more so. I preened before the many mirrors in Paul’s home and saw, sometimes by surprise, a lovely, even breathtakingly beautiful girl—and then that glorious revelation—that was
me!
I was dazzling and I knew it. Julian flew down often to turn his desiring eyes upon me, telling me he knew what he wanted even if I didn’t. I saw Chris only on the weekends and I knew he still wanted me, still loved me more than he’d ever love anyone again.

Chris and Carrie came home for my birthday weekend and we laughed and hugged and talked so fast, as if we’d never have the time to say enough, especially Chris and I. I wanted to tell Chris that Momma would be living in Greenglenna soon but I was afraid he’d try to stop me from doing what I had planned so I never mentioned it. After a
while Carrie drew away to sit with big, sad eyes and stare at our kind benefactor. That big, handsome man who ordered me to dress up in my very best. “Why not wear that dress you’ve been saving for a special occasion? For your birthday I’m treating all of you to a gourmet feast at my favorite restaurant The Plantation House.”

Right away I had to rush upstairs and begin dressing. I was going to make the most of my birthday. My face didn’t really need makeup, yet I put it on, the whole works, including mascara black as ink, and then I used tongs to curl my lashes. My nails gleamed like lustrous pearls and the gown I wore was Paris pink. Oh, did I feel pretty as I preened and primped before a cheval glass bought for my vanity.

“My lady Catherine,” said Chris from the open doorway. “You do look gorgeous but it is in appallingly bad taste to admire yourself so much you have to kiss your own reflection. Really, Cathy, wait for compliments from others—don’t give them to yourself.”

“I’m afraid no one will tell me,” I said defensively, “so I tell it to myself to give myself more confidence. Do I look beautiful and not just pretty?”

“Yeah,” he said in a funny, tight voice, “I doubt I’ll ever see another girl as beautiful as you look right now.”

“Would you say I’m improving with age?”

“I’m not going to compliment you anymore! It’s no wonder the grandmother broke all the mirrors. I’ve got a good mind to do that myself. Such conceit!”

I frowned, not liking to be reminded of that old woman. “
You
look fantastic, Chris,” I said, giving him a big, warm smile. “I’m not ashamed or embarrassed to hand out compliments when they’re deserved. You’re as handsome as Daddy.”

Every time he came home from his school he looked more mature and more handsome. Though, when I peered closer, wisdom was putting something strange in his eyes, something that made him seem much, much older than I was. He also appeared
sadder than me, more vulnerable, and the combination was extremely appealing. “Why aren’t you happy, Chris?” I asked. “Is life disappointing you? Is it less than you thought it would be when we were locked away and we had so many dreams for the future? Are you sorry now that you decided on being a doctor? Are you wishing instead to be a dancer like me?”

I had neared to watch his oh, so revealing eyes, but he lowered them to hide away and his hands tried to span my waist, but my waist wasn’t that small or his hands weren’t that large. Or was he just doing something to touch me? Making a game out of what was serious. Was that it? I ducked to peer into his face and I saw the love I was looking for and then wished I didn’t know.

“Chris, you haven’t answered.”

“What did you ask?”

“Life, medical training, is it living up to your expectations?”

“What does?”

“That sounds cynical. My style, not yours.”

He raised his head and smiled brightly.
Oh, God!
“Yes,” he said, “life on the outside is what I thought it would be. I was realistic, unlike you. I like school and the friends I’ve made. But I still miss you; it’s hard being separated from you, always wondering what you’re up to.” His eyes shifted again and became shadowed as he yearned for the impossible. “Happy birthday, my lady Cath-er-ine,” he softly said, and then brushed my lips with his. Just a feathery little kiss that didn’t dare much. “Let’s go,” he said resolutely, taking hold of my hand. “Everyone is ready but fussy, prissy you.”

We descended the stairs hand in hand. Paul and Carrie were all dressed and waiting, with Henny too.

The house felt strange, so hushed and expectant—so weirdly dark, with all the lights off but in the hall. How funny.

Then, suddenly, out of the dark came,
“Sur-prise! Sur-prise
!” Screamed by a chorus of voices as the lights all came on, and members of my ballet class, thronging about Chris and me.

Henny carried in a birthday cake of three layers, each smaller than the one underneath and proudly said she’d I made it and decorated it herself.
Let me always succeed at what I set out to do
, I wished with my eyes closed when I blew out all the candles.
I’m gaining on you, Momma—getting older and wiser each day, so when the time comes, I’ll be ready—your match.

I blew so well the melted pink wax smeared the sugary pink roses nestled sweetly on pale green leaves. Across from me was Julian. His ebony eyes riveted as mutely he asked the same question over and over.

Whenever I tried to meet eyes with Chris he had his turned another way or lowered to stare at the floor. Carrie crowded close beside Paul, who sat some distance away from the boisterous revelry and tried not to look stern. As soon as I had all the presents opened Paul got up, picked Carrie up in his arms, and both disappeared up the stairs.

“Good night, Cathy,” called Carrie, her small face happy and flushed with sleepiness, “this is the best birthday party I’ve ever been to.”

I could have cried from the pain of that, for she was almost nine years old and the birthday parties she could remember, except Chris’s last November, had been pitiful attempts to make much out of little.

“Why are you looking sad?” asked Julian who came up and swung me into his embrace. “Rejoice—for now you have me at your feet, ready to set your heart on fire along with your body.”

Truly I hated him when he acted like that. He tried to demonstrate in every way possible that I belonged to him and him alone. His gift had been a leather tote to carry my ballet leotards, shoes, etc. I danced away from him, not wanting to be claimed tonight. All the girls who weren’t already infatuated with Julian immediately fell for Chris, and this in no way enhanced Julian’s liking for my brother. I don’t know what happened to put the match to the grass but suddenly Chris and Julian were in a corner arguing and about to exchange
blows. “I don’t give a damn what you think!” stormed Chris in his eye-of-the-hurricane calm way. “My sister is too young for a lover and not ready for New York!”

“You! You—” fired Julian back. “What do you know about the dance? You know nothing! You can’t even manage to move your feet without stepping on yourself!”

“That may be true,” said Chris in an icy voice, “but I have other skills. And we’re talking about my sister and the fact that she is still underaged. I won’t have you persuading her to accompany you to New York when she hasn’t even finished high school yet!”

My head swiveled from one to the other and between the two it was hard to say which was the better looking. I felt sick that they would show everyone their hostility, and sick because I wanted so much for them to like each other. I trembled on the brink of crying out,
stop,
don’t do this!
But I said nothing.

“Cathy,” called Chris, not moving his eyes for one second from Julian who appeared ready to throw a blow or deliver a kick, “do you honestly believe you are ready to make your debut in New York?”

“No . . .” I said in a near whisper.

Julian’s eyes raged my way, for he was at me, demanding of me every second we were together, wanting me to accompany him to New York and be his mistress and dance partner. I knew why he wanted me—my weight, my height, my balance suited his abilities perfectly. It was of utmost importance to find the perfect partner when you wanted to impress in a
pas de deux.

“May all your birthdays be hell on earth!” Julian said as he headed for the front door, and he slammed it hard behind him. That’s how my party ended, with everyone going home looking embarrassed. Chris stalked up to his room without wishing me good night. With tears in my eyes I began to pick up the trash from the living room carpet. I found a hole burned in the plushy green from a carelessly held cigarette. Someone had broken one of Paul’s prized pieces of hand-blown glass—
a transparent rose of shimmering crystal. I held it, thinking about buying glue that would put it back I together again, even as I planned a way, for there had to be a way, to cover up the holes in the carpet and take the white rings from the tables.

“Don’t worry about the rose,” Paul’s voice came from behind me, “it’s just a cheap knickknack. I can always buy another.”

I turned to look at him. He was standing so casually in the archway of the foyer, meeting my teary look with his soft, kind eyes. “It was a beautiful rose,” I choked, “and I know it was expensive. I’ll buy you another if I can find a duplicate, and if I can’t I’ll buy you something better when I can. . . .”

“Forget it.”

“Thank you again for the beautiful music box.” Nervously my hands fluttered to my daring decolletage and sought to hide the cleavage. “My father gave me a silver music box with a ballerina inside once but I had to leave it. . . .” My voice trailed off and I could speak no more, for thoughts of my father always left me in childish ruins of bleakness without hope.