Web of Dreams

by V. C. Andrews

  I rose slowly from the bed and started out. When I looked back, I saw her shaking her head at her first choice. She had already put our conversation to sleep.

  Perhaps my mother did say something to Tony about our discussion, because when we returned to the cottage the next day, he refrained from touching me. In fact he became more and more intense about his work, at times giving me the feeling he wasn't actually looking at me; he was looking at some image in his mind and simply staring in my direction. We spoke little until we broke for lunch and even then, he was distracted, getting up often to check something on the canvas and then returning to the table.

  He spent almost half a day on my feet and hands, studying and measuring, often muttering to himself as he contemplated his drawings. One afternoon, I grew bored and actually fell asleep for a few minutes. If he had noticed, he said nothing. ly the end of the first week, he had drawn and painted me from all angles.

  Every night at dinner the work was the main topic of conversation, even when we had guests; although I noticed Tony and my mother left out the fact that I was posing in the nude.

  I didn't complain again to my mother about posing, but I couldn't help wishing it would all soon come to an end. Then at the beginning of the second week, Tony announced he would start the actual sculpting and create the model for the doll. Since the paintings were completed I wondered why he needed me.

  "Now we get to three-dimensional work," he explained. "I need you more than ever."

  He put the paintings up on a row of easels for reference and began what he promised would be the final stages of the process.

  I didn't understand what he meant until he began his work. Then it all started again. Those times he had touched my body to enhance his ability to draw and to paint were nothing compared to what he was doing now. It seemed he stopped every five or ten minutes after he began to work with the clay so he could come to me to feel me or, as he said,

  "experience me artistically."

  He would hold my head in his hands and stand there, his eyes closed, his head back, and then he would rush back to his table to form the clay. He traced the lines in my face, lingered over my ears and gently pressed the tips of his fingers against my closed eyes. When I looked into his face while he was doing some of this, I saw an intensity and concentration that both amazed and frightened me because his face was flushed and his eyes were maddeningly wide.

  The doll's figure began to rise out of the mound of clay on the table just the way he had described Venus rising out of the sea. I watched it taking shape and anticipated his every touch. After he finished my shoulders, he returned to trace my raised collarbone, his fingers moving softly across my body. He confirmed every inch of the way down my torso before bringing himself to outline it in the mold.

  When he reached my breasts, I stiffened. He stood before me, his eyes closed again.

  "Easy," he whispered. "It's working. My fingers are carrying you from here to the sculpture and drawing you out of it, just as I hoped they would."

  He cupped and traced my bosom, keeping his fingers on me for what seemed longer than ever. I couldn't keep myself from trembling again, but if he felt it, he didn't acknowledge it. Finally, he lifted his hands from me and returned to his sculpting. On and on it went, following the same procedure. Every time he returned to my body, I felt as if were sinking into a pool of soft, warm clay myself, rather than rising out of it.

  Toward the end of our session, he was on his knees, tracing the small of my stomach, running the palms of his hands over my thighs again and again, stroking me as if I were made of clay and he was reshaping me. I wanted to protest, to question, to end it, but I was afraid that whatever I did would only prolong the process, so I kept my eyes closed and endured.

  Finally, he told me to put on my clothes.

  "I just want to make some finishing touches and we will call it a day," he said.

  After I dressed, I looked at the sculpture. Just like in the drawings, there was strong resemblance to my face, but the doll's figure was more like my mother's.

  "I won't need you for a few days now," he said, looking away from me. "I'm going to do the fine work from my drawings and paintings and then have you back for one final session to confirm everything. All right?" His eyes cut quickly to my face, then away again just as quickly.

  I nodded. The day had left me strained, tense and exhausted. I felt confused, torn between a yearning for something I couldn't describe and a desire to get away from the cottage and never return there.

  Tony had been right that I would grow adept at moving through the maze. Now I ran down its green corridors and around the turns, bursting out of the maze on the other side, feeling as if I had just escaped from a madman. I rushed to the house. As I hurried to the stairway, Momma came out of the music room, one of her lady friends beside her.

  "Leigh, how did it go today?"

  I looked at her and shook my head, unable to speak, afraid that if I began, I would burst into tears and embarrass her. She saw the expression on my face and followed her question with her thin, silvery laugh. It chased me up the stairway to my room where I threw off my clothing quickly and ran a warm bath. I didn't feel relaxed and clean again until I had been soaking in it for at least fifteen minutes. I was almost asleep in the water when I heard my mother come in. She came to the doorway of my bathroom.

  "What is wrong with you, acting like that in front of Mrs. Wainscoat," she raved, pacing frantically before me, throwing her hands up in the air. "You don't know what kind of a gossip that woman is."

  For once I ignored her hysterics. "Oh Momma, it was worse than ever today. Tony . . . had his hands all over me, everywhere!" I cried. She shook her head and I could see she wasn't listening. WHAT would it take to get her to listen--to hear my cries for help? "Whatever he had to do to the clay, he did to me-- pressing, touching . . . for minutes at a time."

  Momma only fumed. "He just told me he's nearly finished and he won't be needing you but one more time," she said. "Is that true?"

  "Yes, but . . ."

  "Then stop crying like a baby. You did it and I'm sure it will be wonderful.

  "Anyway," she went on, "I didn't come up here because of that. You had a phone call today and you have a date tomorrow. Your father has returned. He wants to have lunch with you in Boston."

  "Daddy's back?" Oh, thank Heaven, I thought. Thank Heaven. Now there will be someone to listen to me and help me. Daddy was home.

  I was so excited the next morning that I took extra-special care in dressing and then preened before the mirror for a guilty moment. I looked in the glass, surprised at my similarity to my mother. Was that the cause of Tony's behavior--was it my fault all along? I felt shame at the thought for a while; then I decided that whatever was the true cause, I couldn't be to blame. Tony was an adult--and he was my stepfather!

  I brushed my hair down, stroking it until it shone, and tied it back with a pink ribbon the way Daddy liked it. I put on just a suggestion of lipstick and chose a light blue skirt and blouse, both in a beautiful, airy fabric. I put on the pearl earrings Daddy had brought back for me from the Caribbean.

  When I gazed at myself in the mirror, I hoped I would look more grown-up to him. It was important, for I wanted to tell him everything that had happened and especially tell him about my posing for the portrait doll. I had secret hopes that he would ask me to come with him now, get me a tutor perhaps, and take me on one of his trips. If I could only show him that I was old enough to be more on my own. He would understand my need to get away from Momma and Tony. The only thing I regretted was I would be away from little Troy, but I had to do it. I just had to.

  When we drove away from Farthy and passed under the great archway, my heart pitter-pattered in anticipation. What would Daddy look like? Would he still have his full beard? I couldn't wait to inhale his after-shave and smell the aroma of his pipe, to have him embrace me and hold me against his tweed jacket while he rained kisses on my hair arid forehead. I wanted
and needed to see him so much, I never once thought about the truth about him. Nothing seemed further from my thoughts than the knowledge he was not really my father.

  When we reached the hotel I asked the hotel receptionist to let Daddy know I was here. I was going to run into Daddy's arms and hold him as tightly as I could the moment he came downstairs. I stood waiting, watching the indicator that told what floor each elevator was presently on. I saw one moving down five, four, three, two . . . the doors opened and Daddy stepped out, but I didn't run to him as I had planned.

  He was holding a woman's hand. She was a thin woman with gray and black hair cut just below her ears, and she was very tall, as tall as my father. She wore a dark blue cardigan suit and thick-heeled shoes. Daddy smiled at me, but he didn't release the woman's hand. She smiled too and they both began walking toward me. I waited, my heart pounding. This had to be the woman he had written about in the letters, the woman he said made him happy, Mildred Pierce.

  "Leigh," Daddy said, finally holding his arms out to me. I embraced him, but I didn't hold on to him. Instead, I stepped back quickly and looked at Mildred Pierce more closely. Unlike Momma, she had pale skin, a hard, bony face and deep, dark eyes. Her thin lips looked as if they would snap like rubber bands when she smiled and stretched them. Daddy kept his hands on my shoulders.

  "You look older and more beautiful than ever," Daddy said.

  "Thank you, Daddy," I replied. They were the words I'd wanted, waited to hear, but right now they almost didn't matter. I was still staring at the woman beside him.

  "Leigh, this is Mildred," Daddy said.

  "Hello, Leigh. I've heard so much about you. I couldn't wait to meet you," she said and extended her hand. She had long, thin fingers, and her hands were not anywhere as soft and feminine as my mother's hands.

  "Hello," I said. I shook her hand quickly.

  "Are you hungry?" my father asked. "I have reservations for us here at the hotel. I thought that would be most convenient. Actually," he said taking Mildred's hand again, "Mildred thought that. She's a wonderful planner, what we call a details person."

  "Oh Cleave. I just do what seems most efficient."

  "Just like her to belittle her work. Mildred's an accountant, Leigh, so she knows about efficiency."

  "Let's not talk about me," Mildred said taking my hand and leading us toward the hotel restaurant. "Let's talk about you. I want to know all about you. I have two children of my own, you know."

  "You do?"

  "Yes. They're both in their twenties and both married with children of their own, so I don't have anyone to baby anymore."

  "I'm not a baby either," I snapped.

  "Of course you're not, dear," Mildred said. She winked at my father. "Anyone can see you're a young lady."

  We entered the restaurant and the maitre d' took us to our reserved table. Daddy pulled out Mildred's chair and the maitre d' pulled out mine. Now that we were seated, I looked at him more closely. There were no major differences in his appearance, although he looked much happier than he did the last time I had seen him. His beard was trim, his cheeks rosy. I thought his hair was cut shorter, but he wore the same suit and tie, what Momma had despairingly come to refer to as his "uniform."

  "So tell me, how was this school you attended?" Daddy asked.

  "It was all right," I said.

  "Just all right?"

  "It's a good school," I confessed. "But I like being in a public school more and none of my teachers are as good as Mr. Abrams," I added quickly.

  "Mr. Abrams was the tutor I employed whenever we took Leigh on a voyage during school session," Daddy explained to Mildred. She nodded with approval.

  "I can't wait to go on another voyage," I said. Daddy nodded, a smile around his eyes, but he didn't make the offer I had hoped he would make instantly.

  "And how is your mother doing?" he asked.

  "She's happy, I suppose. busy with her bridge and theater and friends."

  "And Mr. Tatterton? His business must be doing well."

  This was my chance to talk about the portrait doll, I thought, but I didn't want to do it in front of this woman I hardly knew. I decided I would wait until Daddy and I were alone.

  "I guess so. I missed you, Daddy," I said quickly. I didn't want to talk about anything else but him and me. Again, he nodded without saying any of the things I had hoped to hear. I wanted him to tell me how much he had missed me and how much he wanted me to be with him. I wanted him to explain how we would be together more and I wanted him to propose a trip, a plan for us to spend time together, but instead, he looked at the menu.

  "Let's order. I'm starving," he said.

  I didn't care about eating. I didn't care if we never ordered.

  "We had the London broil yesterday," Mildred said. "If you like that, they do a very good job with it here."

  "You were here yesterday?" I asked quickly, my insides twisting with surprise and disappointment.

  "Oh . . ." She looked at Daddy.

  "Yes, Leigh. We've been back a little over a week, but I didn't want to call you until I could spend time with you. We've had so much to do."

  I didn't know what to say. How could he have been here so long and not called me? What about all those words he wrote in his letters, at least the earlier ones, telling me how much he missed me. What happened to the promises and pledges of love? I didn't even try to hide my look of hurt. They looked at each other again.

  "I was a bit overwhelmed with work," Daddy continued. "I have a new and wonderful cruise planned. Actually," he said turning to Mildred and taking her hand, "it was Mildred's idea, a wonderful idea." He turned back to me. "We're going to have cruises to Alaska. To Alaska! I know you think people won't want to go there because everyone thinks it's freezing there, but the summers in Alaska are probably the most beautiful summers in the world. Mildred has been there then!" he exclaimed, "She can tell you."

  "I don't care about Alaska," I said sharply. The tears were stinging behind my eyes, but I kept them trapped.

  "Now Leigh, that's not very polite."

  "It's all right, Cleave. I understand how Leigh feels. You should tell her all of it," she said, her face tight and serious.

  "All of it?" I looked at my father. He sat up straight.

  "It wasn't all business that occupied us since our return from Europe," he said. "Two days ago Mildred and I got married."

  I wanted to get up and run out of the restaurant and the hotel. I wanted to run and run until I collapsed. My stomach felt as if it had dropped to my feet, My heart seemed to shrink in my chest and my chest become an empty chamber echoing with the tiny beats. Daddy was holding Mildred's hand to his lips and looking at her so lovingly. Then he turned back to me.

  "We thought it would be best for everyone if we just went out and did it ourselves, no public ceremony, no receptions, no extravagant affair. Mildred is so practical when it comes to things like that, and in that way, she is a lot like me," my father said. With every word he seemed to drift farther and farther away from me, like a leaf being carried away in the wind, rising and falling on an invisible sea and drawn toward the horizon until it was barely visible, a dot against the gray sky.

  "We haven't even told my children yet," Mildred explained. I imagined that was supposed to make me feel more important. I had learned about their marriage before her children had learned about it; but I didn't care.

  "We're off to Maine tomorrow," my father said. "Maine? Tomorrow?" The words bounced around in my head. They seemed unreal.

  "That's where Mildred's children live. We're just going to surprise them with the news."

  "Like you surprised me," I said bitterly. Daddy blinked. "I wrote you letters," he said softly. "You must have had some idea."

  I did, I thought, but I wouldn't admit it to myself. I refused to see it, hoping for another world, a world that just included Daddy and me, a world in which I was the most important thing in his life, a world like the happy one I once knew. But that thin d
ream had burst. It fell out of the air like a single tear.

  "I know it's hard for you, dear," Mildred said. She reached across the table to put her hand on mine. "You've been through quite an upheaval, but I assure you, I will do anything I can to help make your life easier and more pleasant. In time I hope you will think of me as a second mother, someone to whom you can come for advice and comfort."

  I looked into the eyes of this stranger, a woman so unlike my real mother. She seemed so hard and so stern. Even her smile was an efficient little movement in her face. Confide in her: the woman who had stolen my father from me, the woman who was going to take him to another family? Which children would he care more about now? With whom would he spend more time?

  "And that's one thing Mildred's good at," Daddy said turning to her again, "giving advice. She's given- me some wonderful advice these last few months. To tell you the truth, I don't know what I would have done without her."

  But why didn't you feel that way about me, Daddy? I wondered. Why didn't you ever say you wouldn't know what to do without me? Why did you let me go so easily?

  "Mildred has planned everything out carefully and wisely," Daddy continued. "So you need not worry about me any longer."

  Worry about you? Why aren't you worrying about me? I cried silently.

  "After we go to see her children, we're going to honeymoon in Alaska as a way to plan the cruise and enjoy ourselves. Isn't that efficient? Then we'll be doing some traveling again. Off to Europe on business and back to Boston just before the winter. But we won't be staying in Boston all winter. Some of it we'll spend in the Caribbean. In the spring we'll vacation in Maine with Mildred's family and then next summer . . ."

  "But what about me?" I finally cried.

  "Oh, we'll see you whenever we can," Daddy said. "Mildred will plan that out, too."

  Mildred will plan that out? Why had my father permitted this woman to take his life over completely?