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! (89 page)

“Cut!” called the director, getting to his feet and looking impatiently from one to the other.

The
corps de ballet
milled about, grumbling, throwing angry looks at the pair center stage that was wasting so much time. Obviously, from the sweaty, hot looks of all of them, this had been going on for some time, and badly. “Marquet!” called the director, well known for having little patience for those who required two, or even more takes. “What the hell is wrong with your timing? I thought you said you knew this ballet. I can’t think of one thing you’ve done right in the past three days.”

“Me?” Julian railed back. “It’s not
me
. . . it’s
her
—she jumps too soon!”

“Okay,” the director said sarcastically, “it’s always
her
fault and never yours.” He tried to control his impatience, knowing Julian would walk out in a second if criticized too much. “When is your wife going to be well enough to dance again?”

Yolanda screamed out, “Hey, wait a minute! I came all the way from Los Angeles and now you’re sounding as if you’re going to replace me with Catherine! I won’t have it! I’m written into that contract now! I’ll sue!”

“Miss Lange,” said the director smoothly, “you are the
cover
only—but while you are, let’s attempt it again. Marquet, listen for your cue—Lange, make ready—and pray to God this time it will be fit to show an audience who might expect better from professionals.”

I smiled to hear she was only the cover; I had thought I was really written out.

I perversely enjoyed watching Julian make a fool out of himself and Yolanda as well. Yet, when the dancers on stage groaned, I groaned along with them, feeling their exhaustion, and despite myself I began to feel pity for Julian who was diligently trying to balance Yolanda. Any second the director could call “take ten” and that’s when I would make my move.

Up ahead, first row, Madame Zolta suddenly turned her wizened giraffe neck to crane my way, and those sharp little beady eyes saw me sitting tensely, watching like an eagle. “Hey, you, Catherine,” she called with great enthusiasm.
Come
, she gestured,
sit by my side.

“Excuse me a minute, Chris,” I whispered. “I’ve got to go up there and save Julian before he ruins both our careers. I’ll be all right. There’s not much he can do with an audience—is there?”

Once I was seated beside Madame Zolta, she hissed, “Sooo, you not so sss-ick after all! Thank God for small favors. Your husband up there is ruining my reputation along with his and yours. I should have known better than to always let him partner you, so now he can dance with no one as well.”

“Madame,” I asked, “who arranged for Yolanda to be my stand-in?”

“Your husband, my luv,” she whispered cruelly. “You let him get control—you were a fool to do that. He is
impossible!
He is a tempest, a devil, so unreasonable! Soon he will go mad, if he doesn’t see your face—or
we
will go
mad
. Now run fast and put on dance clothes and save me from extinction!”

It was only a matter of seconds before I had on a practice outfit and, as soon as I had my hair bound up and securely fastened in place, I strapped on my
pointes
. At the dressing room barre I warmed up quickly. Doing my
pliés
, and the
rond de jambes
to pump blood into each limb. Soon enough I was ready. Not a day passed I didn’t do my exercises for several hours.

In the darkened wings I hesitated. I was prepared, I thought, for most anything when Julian saw me—what would he do? While I watched him on stage, suddenly from behind I was brutally shoved aside! “You’ve been replaced,” hissed Yolanda. “Sssooo, get out—and stay out! You had your chance and loused it up—now Julian is
mine!
You hear that—he’s
mine
! I have slept in your bed, and used your makeup and worn your jewelry—I have taken your place in everything.”

I wanted to ignore her and not believe anything she said. When the cue came for Giselle to go on, Yolanda tried to hold me—that’s when I turned savagely upon her and pushed her so hard she fell. She blanched with pain, while I went on
pointe
and glided onto the stage, making my perfect little string of pearls. . . . Each tiny step could have been measured and proven to be of an exact distance. I was the shy, young village girl, sweetly, sincerely falling in love with Loys. Others on stage gasped to see me. Relief lit up Julian’s dark eyes—for an instant. “Hi,” he said coolly as I neared him, and fluttered my dark lashes to enchant him more. “Why’d you come back? Your doctors kick you out? Sick of you already?”

“You are a nasty, inconsiderate brute, Julian, to replace me with Yolanda! You know I despise her!”

His back was to the lookers as he sneered wickedly, all the while keeping time, “Yeah, I
know
you hate her; that’s why I wanted her.” He curled his beautiful red lips so they looked ugly. “Listen to this, dancing doll.
Nobody
runs out on me, especially my wife, and comes back and thinks she can still fit in my life. My love, my dearest heart, I don’t want you now, I don’t
need
you now, and you can go and play bitch to any man you want! Get the hell out of my life!”

“You don’t mean that,” I said, as we both performed perfectly, and no one called cut. How could they when we did everything so exquisitely right?

“You don’t love me,” he said bitterly. “You’ve never loved me. No matter what I did, or what I said, and now I don’t
give a damn! I gave you the best I had to give, and it wasn’t enough. So, dear Cath-er-ine—
I give you this!”
And with those sudden words, he broke the routine, jumped high into the air, to come down forcefully and directly onto my feet. All his weight, brought down like a battering ram to crush my toes!

I uttered some small cry of pain, then Julian was whirling back to chuck me under the chin. “Now,
luv
, see who will dance Giselle with me. Certainly it won’t be you, will it?”

“Take ten!” bellowed the director, too late to save me.

Julian gripped my shoulders and shook me like a rag doll. I stared at him rattle-eyed, expecting anything. Then suddenly he whirled away leaving me center stage, alone, on two damaged feet that hurt so badly I could have screamed. Instead, I sank to the floor and sat there staring at my rapidly swelling feet.

From out of the darkened auditorium Chris came running to my assistance. “Damn him to hell for doing this!” he cried, falling on his knees to take off my
pointe
shoes and examine my feet. Tenderly he tried to move my toes, but I cried out from the awful pain. Then he picked me up easily and held me tight against him. “You’ll be all right, Cathy. I’ll see that your toes heal properly. I fear a few are broken on each foot. You’ll need an orthopedist.”

“Take Catherine to our orthopedist,” ordered Madame Zolta who teetered forward and stared at my darkening, enlarging feet. She peered more closely at Chris, having seen him only a few times before. “You’re Catherine’s brother who caused all this trouble?” she asked. “Take her quick to the doctor. We have insurance. But that fool husband, this is it. I
fire
him!”

B
oth of my feet were X-rayed, disclosing three broken toes on my left foot, and one broken small toe on my right. Thank God both my big toes were spared, or else I
might
never dance again! An hour later Chris was carrying me out of the doctor’s office with a plaster cast drying on one foot that reached to my knee, while the small toe was only taped and left to heal without such protection. Each of the toes in the cast was nestled securely in its own little padded compartment so I couldn’t move a one, and left exposed for everyone to admire the lovely shades of black, blue and purple. In my thoughts the sour lemon-drops of the doctor’s last words failed to melt and sweeten the future. “You may, or you may not dance again, it all depends.” On what it depended, he didn’t say.

So I asked Chris. “Sure,” he said confidently, “of course you’ll dance again. Sometimes a doctor likes to be overly pessimistic so you can think how great he was when everything works out fine—due to his special skill.” Clumsily he tried to support me while he used my key to open the door of the apartment Julian and I shared. Then he carefully lifted me up
again, carried me inside and kicked the door closed behind him. He tried to make me as comfortable as possible on one of the soft couches. I had my eyes squeezed tightly together, trying to suppress the pain I felt at every move.

Chris tenderly supported both legs so he could stuff pillows under and keep them elevated to reduce the swelling. Another fat pillow was carefully eased under my back and head . . . and he never said one word . . . not one word.

Because he was so silent, I opened my eyes and studied his face that loomed above me. He tried to look professional, detached, but he failed. He showed shock each time his eyes moved from one object to another. Fearful I looked around. My eyes bulged. My mouth opened. This room! The mess! Oh, God, it was awful!

Our apartment was a wreck! Every painting Julian and I had so carefully selected was torn down from the walls, smashed on the floor. Even the two watercolors Chris had painted especially for me, portraits with me in costume. All the expensive bric-a-brac lay broken on the hearth. Lamps were on the floor, the shades slashed to ribbons and the wire frames bent. Needlepoint pillows I’d made during the long tedious flights from here to there while on tour were ripped, destroyed! Houseplants had been dumped from their pots and left with roots exposed to die. Two cloisonné vases that Paul had given as a wedding gift, gone too. Everything fine and costly, and very cherished, things he and I had planned to keep all our lives and leave to our children—all beyond restoration.

“Vandals,” said Chris softly. “Just vandals.” He smiled and kissed my forehead and squeezed my hand as tears came to my eyes. “Stay calm,” he said, then he went to check the other three rooms, while I sank back on the pillows and sniffed back my sobs. Oh, how he must hate me to do this! Shortly Chris was back with his expression very composed, in that same eye-of-the-hurricane way I’d seen a few times on his face. “Cathy,”
he began, settling cautiously down on the edge of the sofa and reaching for my hand, “I don’t know what to think. All your clothes and shoes have been ruined. Your jewelry is scattered all over the bedroom floor, the chains ripped apart, the rings stepped on, bracelets hammered out of shape. It looks as if somebody set out deliberately to ruin all of your things and left Julian’s in perfect condition.” He gave me a baffled, troubled look, and maybe the tears I tried to hold back jumped from my eyes to his. With glistening blue eyes he extended his palm to show me the setting of a once exquisite diamond engagement ring, given to me by Paul. The platinum band was now a crooked oval. The prongs had released their clasp on the clear and perfect two-carat diamond.

Sedatives had been shot into my arm so I couldn’t feel the pain of my broken toes. I felt fuzzy and disoriented, and rather detached. Someone inside me was screaming, screaming—hatred was near again—the wind was blowing, and when I closed my eyes, I saw the blue-misted mountains all around me, shutting out the sun—like upstairs, like in the attic.

“Julian,” I said weakly, “he must have done this. He must have come back and vented his rage on all my belongings. See the things left whole—they are things he chose for himself.”

“Damn him to hell!” cried Chris. “How many times has he vented his rage on you? How many black eyes—I’ve seen one—but how many others?”

“Please don’t,” I said sleepily, hazily. “He never hit me that he didn’t cry afterward, and he’d say he was sorry.”
Yes, so sorry, my sweetheart, my only love . . . I don’t know what makes me act as I do when I love you so much!

“Cathy,” began Chris tentatively, tucking the platinum band in his pocket, “are you all right? You look close to fainting. I’ll go in and straighten up the bed, so you can rest in that. Soon you’ll fall asleep and forget all of this, and when you wake up, I’m taking you away. Don’t cry for the clothes and things
he
gave you, for I’ll give you better and more. As
for this ring Paul gave you, I’ll search around the bedroom until I find the diamond.”

He looked, but he didn’t find the diamond, and when I drifted into sleep, he must have carried me to the bed he’d made up with clean sheets. I was under a sheet and a thin blanket when I opened my eyes, and he was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching my face. I glanced toward the windows and saw it was getting dark. Any moment Julian would come home, and find Chris with me—and there’d be hell to pay!

“Chris . . . did you undress me and put on this gown?” I asked dully, seeing the sleeve of a blue gown that was one of my favorites.

“Yes. I thought you’d be more comfortable than wearing that pantsuit with the leg split up the seam. And I’m a doctor, remember? I’m used to seeing all there is—and I took care not to look.”