Shadows 01 April Shadows

by V. C. Andrews

  something even more frightening.

  First. I thought it was just some ketchup stain or

  tomato sauce, but soon I realized he was spitting up

  blood occasionally. I saw it on tissues. and I saw it on

  his cloth handkerchief. He did his best to hide it from

  me, even though I had taken on the responsibility of

  doing our laundry. We had a small washing machine

  in the motor home, but often we took the time to stop

  at a Laundromat and do a larger washing.

  The second thing I noticed that put alarm in me

  was his trembling. I watched him practicing his

  sleight-of-hand tricks one afternoon and saw that he

  was dropping things, confusing things. His hands

  were trembling. The only way he seemed to be able to

  stop it was to take another drink. It was developing

  into a mad, destructive cycle, and I was standing by

  watching helplessly.

  Once, when I saw he had put half a bottle of

  bourbon back into the closet. I took advantage of an

  opportunity when he was out and emptied half of that,

  filling it with water back to where it was. I held my

  breath when he drank from it. He didn't seem to notice

  anything at first, but then he just drank it all faster and

  went to a new bottle.

  Perhaps worrying about him was a reason for my losing weight even faster, but one day. I suddenly noticed I looked taller and thinner. I tried on the sequin suit and saw it fit much better and actually looked flattering. Perhaps if I told him I was ready to join him onstage, he would change his behavior. I thought. When he stepped back into the motor home. I

  was still dressed in the suit and showed him how it fit. Instead of making him happy and encouraged,

  he grew sad before my eyes.

  "Seeing that costume brings back some happy

  memories, some happy lost memories," he said, and

  went to the bedroom.

  Ironically, what I had hoped would bring him

  out of the darkness had simply driven him down

  deeper into it. That night, he didn't even start our

  drive. He went right to his drinking. He was asleep on

  the sofa when I woke in the morning, his bottles

  emptied. I woke him, but he stumbled into the

  bathroom. where I heard him vomit, Later, I found he

  had spit up more blood. When he came out, he went

  directly to the bedroom and closed the door. I realized we were not going to make it to our

  next show if we didn't start out immediately. I pleaded

  with him to come out and start the drive, but all I

  heard was some sobbing and muffled speech. I had watched him drive the motor home enough to know how to do it and decided to start us on our way myself. I was nervous. A few times. I annoyed some drivers behind us. but I managed to get us onto the right highways and move us along far enough so that when he did come out, we were within striking distance of the next theater. He was surprised, and he wasn't as angry as I'd imagined he might be. He blamed himself and told me Destiny had chastised him. He claimed he was making a promise to both of

  us to reform himself.

  Somehow, despite his condition and despite his

  fumbling and tired, weary appearance, he managed to

  get through the show. When we returned to the motor

  home, he did not, as was his habit, immediately begin

  to drink. He said he would drive a little and get some

  sleep. I made him something to eat, a scrambled egg

  sandwich, and he ate and drank some coffee. Feeling

  hopeful. I went to sleep myself. Perhaps this near

  professional disaster indeed had woken him up to

  what was happening. I thought.

  However, when I rose in the morning. I found

  him like always, sprawled on the sofa, his arms

  twisted and his leg dangling, the emptied bottle of

  whiskey on the table. We had one hundred seventyfive miles or so to drive, which wasn't all that much

  considering show time, but he was just as incapable of

  driving this day as he had been the day before. Once

  again, he went into the bathroom and vomited.

  Afterward, he stumbled back to the bedroom. I cried to myself and waited, hoping he would

  rise, shower, dress, and drive, hoping he would

  somehow restore himself as he had miraculously done

  before. When he didn't come out. I reluctantly went to

  the driver's seat and started up the vehicle, hoping the

  sound of the engine and the movement of the motor

  home would raise him and bring him to his senses, but

  he didn't emerge from the bedroom.

  I was following the map we had but realized

  about a half hour into the trip that I had missed an

  important turn and had actually gone a good forty

  miles out of our way. I pulled the van over and

  studied the map, searching for the best way to repair

  the itinerary. It meant taking a side road through what

  looked like farmland and the beginning of the

  vineyards. The road wasn't as wide as the main one,

  and the macadam was broken and full of areas where

  rain had washed out sections. The motor home

  bounced so much at times that I was sure he would

  emerge to see what was happening, but he didn't. I drove as slowly as I could, but the time was worrying me. If I got lost again or broke down, he would be

  enraged for sure.

  I came to another crossroad and pulled over to

  study the map more closely and be sure I'd made the

  right decision. As it turned out. I hadn't. The road I

  chose was even worse than the road I had been on,

  and after ten miles. I saw a sign that indicated it was

  not a through road. Panic seized me, and I stopped.

  There was no place nearby to turn around. I was afraid

  that if I attempted a broken U-turn. I might get the

  motor home stuck in what looked like a soft road

  shoulder.

  It's no use, I thought. I have to wake him and

  tell hire What's happened. I left the engine running

  and went back to the bedroom door, knocking and

  calling to him. He did not respond. I knocked harder

  and listened. It was silent. He wasn't even playing his

  tapes. I tried the doorknob but found the door was

  locked.

  "Uncle Palaver, please wake up. I'm afraid

  we're lost," I called, waited, listened, and knocked so

  hard I was really pounding.

  Still, there was no response.

  I turned and twisted the doorknob and pushed and rapped on the door. Finally, the tiny lock that held it shut gave way, and the door flew open, with me stumbling awkwardly forward and into the room. I caught myself on the edge of the bed and looked at Uncle Palaver lying with his leg twisted over the Destiny doll, his eyes slightly opened, a stream of dried blood streaking down his chin from the corner

  of his mouth.

  His fingers were locked on the transmitter we

  used in the show, and the doll's head was moving

  slightly from side to side as if it were saying, No, no,

  no.

  I screamed, but he did not awaken.

  Panic submerged me in a pool of ice. For a few

  moments. I couldn't move, couldn't get my arms or

  legs to do anything. Then I reached out to shake him.

  His body shook, but his eyes didn't change. They were

  so glassy they resembled the Destiny doll's eyes.


  Slowly. I brought my fingers to his face. When I felt

  the coldness in his skin, it was as if I had swallowed a

  ball of fire that immediately exploded around my

  heart.

  "Uncle Palaver!" I shouted.

  And then I did the strangest thing I thought

  possible. I actually turned to the Destiny doll, as if I believed it could somehow help me. The head

  continued to move, but slower and slower,

  The batteries were running down, I thought. It

  might have been triggered hours and hours ago. I

  pried the transmitter out of Uncle Palaver's frozentight, hard fingers, and the doll's head stopped

  moving.

  I didn't know what to do. I just stood there

  stupidly looking at my uncle and his life-size doll entwined on the bed like two lovers who had made a

  suicide pact and carried it through. The realization of

  what had happened sank into me, or rather. I felt as

  though I were sinking into it, reality climbing up my

  stunned body until it reached my chest and clamped

  itself around my torso, making it hard for me to

  breathe.

  I stumbled back and ran out of the room, falling

  to the floor by the sofa. The motor home's engine was

  still running. I felt my stomach twist, and suddenly,

  almost without any warning at all. I began to heave. I

  crumbled on my side and lay there, nearly traumatized

  by my own hysteria. Finally, it eased. and I pulled

  myself to my feet, hovering and trembling. I cleaned

  up my mess quickly and then drank a cold glass of

  water.

  This can't be happening It just can't be

  happening I chanted to myself, but the only sound

  being the sound of the engine brought home the

  reality of the dead who don't speak. Uncle Palaver

  was gone. I was not only alone. I was lost, lost in so

  many ways.

  I took deep breaths, wiped my face with a cold

  wash cloth, and returned to the driver's seat. For a

  while, I just sat there staring out at the fields, the

  brush, and the trees on both sides of the broken road. I

  was still afraid of attempting to turn the motor home

  around. It was tricky with my car hitched behind it. so

  I started forward. I hadn't noticed, but the clouds that

  had been blending and turning darker had changed the

  sky to completely overcast. Rain was coming, and

  soon. I was nervous enough driving this big vehicle in

  good weather.

  I drove at least another two miles, and still there

  was no place to make an easy turn, Then I came

  around a long, winding curve and saw what looked

  like a very old but very big farmhouse off to my left.

  As I drew closer, my heart sank, because the three-star

  building, although very elaborate, with a triplewindow high tower, double-door front entry, large

  full- width side porch, and what looked like two-story bay windows in front, appeared deserted. The wood cladding was a very dull gray in desperate need of painting. The grounds were overgrown, and the statuary all looked unwashed, stained, and forgotten. Weeds invaded the gazebo like green parasites smelling death. This property was a shadow of what it

  once was. I thought.

  The long, straight driveway that led up to the

  house was as cracked and pitted as the road I was on. I

  was going to continue and almost did accelerate

  before I caught sight of a pickup truck parked at the

  side of the house. It looked relatively new. Someone

  was there. I thought. I slowed down and turned into

  the driveway. The motor home bounced and swayed

  so much as I made my way up that I was afraid my car

  would break loose. I saw no one at first, but as I drew

  closer. I could see that the windows were draped, and

  there was some light coming from within.

  Encouraged. I continued until I could park in front.

  Then I shut off the engine, took a deep breath, and

  stepped out of the motor home,

  Before I reached the half dozen steps that led

  up to the portico, a tall, stout black man with silvery

  gray hair came around the corner of the building. He

  was carrying a shovel and a hoe over his right shoulder and wore a pair of high rubber boots. When he saw me, he paused and wiped his forehead and his

  eyes as if he couldn't believe his sight.

  "I need help!" I cried.

  "Don't we all," he replied, and walked toward

  me.

  As he approached. I saw he had gray stubble

  over his chin and patches of it over his jawline and

  cheeks. Although his hair indicated he was along in

  age, his face was smooth, his eyes bright and friendly,

  like the eyes of someone much younger and more

  innocent trapped in an older body.

  "What's the trouble?" he asked. He wore only a

  flannel shirt open at the collar. The sleeves were

  frayed. His jeans were mud-stained and worn through

  at the knees. He wore no watch, just a silver chain

  with what looked like a silver heart.

  "It's my uncle. Something terrible has happened

  to him," I said.

  He looked up at the motor home. "Like what?" "I don't know," I said, now unable to hold back

  my tears.

  He looked at the motor home again as if it were

  somehow forbidden territory. Then he dropped the

  tools, scratched the top of his head, and slowly approached the motor home door. Just as he did, the front door of the house opened, and an elderly lady in a faded blue housecoat stepped out. Her gray hair was whiter than his but brushed and combed neatly into a bun. She had a dark brown walking stick with a pearl handle. Her thick-lensed glasses slipped down over

  the bridge of her nose as she peered out at me. "What's gain' on. Trevor?" she called, and took

  a few more steps forward. She was wearing what

  looked like a pair of fluffy white slippers.

  "This girl says she's in trouble. Mrs.

  Westington."

  "What sort of trouble?"

  "She says her uncle is in a bad way inside here.

  I was just going to look."

  "Well, we don't need no more trouble here." she

  muttered loudly enough for me to hear.

  "Yes, ma'am. I know that." Trevor said, glanced

  at me. And then entered the motor home.

  I stood outside. The elderly lady remained firrn,

  frozen, leaning on her cane and staring hard at me. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm lost."

  "Yeah." she said, nodding. "No one comes up

  here anymore less they are,"

  When Trevor came out, he looked shocked. "Well?" Mrs. Westington demanded

  immediately. She approached the top step.

  "There's a man dead in there, all right, and he's

  lying beside a giant doll."

  "What?" she asked. recoiling. "What kind of a

  nonsense story is that?"

  "I swear. Mrs, Westington," Trevor said, raising

  his hand.

  I continued to sob and embrace myself. "My

  uncle's a... performer... and... the doll is part of our

  act," I explained breathlessly.

  "How'd he kick the bucket?" Mrs. Westington

  asked Trevor.

  "Don't know as I could say. Mrs. Westington.

  Must've been pretty sick. Looks to me like he spat up

  some blood," he added, looki
ng my way.

  "He drank," I mumbled.

  "What's that?" she asked,

  "My uncle was an alcoholic," I admitted. "Oh. Well. I know a little about that. My

  husband drank himself to hell. It ain't no pretty kettle

  of fish. Well, don't stand there. It's going to rain cats

  and dogs shortly. We'll make the proper phone call.

  Leave that vehicle door open. Trevor. Air it out." "Yes. ma'am."

  She tapped her cane hard on the portico wood

  floor. "Come along. We ain't got all day," she said

  turning.

  I looked back at Trevor.

  "It's best to do what she says," he told me. I

  followed Mrs. Westington into her house.

  I didn't know it then, but it wouldn't be all that

  long before it became mine as well.

  10 Desperate for Love

  . Inside, the house looked as if it had been frozen in time, the owner stubbornly refusing to throw anything away. Whether it was a worn rug, a frayed sofa, a broken vase, or a cracked figurine on a ricketylooking pedestal, everything was obviously still cherished. The wide entryway had a mahogany coat stand and hat rack with garments on them looking as though they had been placed there fifty years ago and never touched since.

  Up close, Mrs. Westington resembled her possessions. Her pale alabaster complexion had patches of tiny, spidery veins close to the surface, making her resemble a life-size cracked porcelain doll. There were some futile attempts at cosmetics, patches of face makeup applied too thickly in spots and completely absent from other areas. Her lipstick was thicker on her bottom lip for some reason than it was on her top lip.

  However, in spite of her fragile appearance, her bony shoulders, long thin-fingered hands, and reliance on the walking stick, she had an air of firmness and grit about her, especially discernible in her dark gray but vet bright eyes.

  "Close the door!" she shouted at Trevor, who was just behind me.

  "It's closed. Mrs. Westington," he said.

  She turned and looked as if she didn't trust a word he uttered, and then nodded. "House is coming apart at the seams. Wind blows right through these days."

  "Yes, ma'am," Trevor said. "I patched up that window frame on the pantry."

  "Um," she said. She pointed at the sofa with her cane. "You sit there, girl," she told me. "Trevor, you go to the phone and call the highway patrol. The number's on the board by the phone.'

  She was obviously used to giving orders. I sat, and she stared at me a moment and then went to the window to open the drapes. The grandfather clock in the corner groaned instead of bonging the hour. She looked at her watch and shook her head.