Logan 05 Olivia

by V. C. Andrews

  "How can anyone sleep after this?" I muttered. If Mother heard, she chose to ignore me.

  Daddy came to the door and looked in at us. "Well?" he asked.

  "She's doing fine, Winston," Mother said.

  "That's good. It's better we behave as if this didn't happen," he advised.

  "You might as well pretend there's no ocean out there," I declared.

  "Your father's right, Olivia. It won't do any good to talk about it, even amongst ourselves. Let's close our eyes and imagine it was a nightmare," she suggested.

  It didn't surprise me to hear her say such a thing. It was the way Mother handled most of the unpleasantness in her life. Not even an event like this would be any different.

  She leaned over to kiss Belinda who smiled at her, and then she left the room. Daddy stood there a moment gazing in at me, at the floor and then at Belinda.

  "Everyone just go to sleep," he said and left.

  I looked at Belinda. She offered me her small smile, but I just shook my head at her.

  "I'm so tired, Olivia," she said. "I feel so weak inside, too, but I didn't want to alarm anyone. Daddy wouldn't want me to have to go to a doctor."

  "You'll live," I said. "Just go to sleep."

  I checked the room once more and then started out, pausing in the doorway to look back at her. She looked small, like a little girl again. In moments she was asleep.

  I lay awake in my bed thinking not of Belinda, or of my parents. I thought about that dead infant whose spark of life went out so quickly and who was interred someplace on our grounds so soon afterward, he surely had no memory of ever being born into this family.

  At the moment, I thought, he was the lucky one.

  Belinda remained at home for the rest of the week. We told everyone she had the flu. I thought that Carmelita knew something far more serious had occurred. She brought Belinda her meals so she saw that Belinda wasn't coughing or sneezing. However, Mother pampered her and behaved as if our lies were really the truth. I heard her talking to her friends on the telephone, telling them how sick Belinda was.

  "One day she was fine and the next, she was as sick as a dog," she rambled, describing the symptoms, even claiming she had phoned the doctor for instructions.

  It all disgusted me. I was especially amazed at how quickly Daddy had adjusted to the facade he and Mother had created. The following morning he was up and dressed at his usual hour, already seated at the breakfast table, reading his newspaper as though the night before really had been just a bad dream. The only indication in his face was a quick but sharp look at me when Carmelita came into the dining room and inquired as to Belinda's health. That was when Mother went into her long, detailed explanation, pouring out her brook of bubbling white lies. Daddy looked pleased.

  Since I had returned from finishing school, I had gone to work for him as an apprentice accountant. Daddy decided that it would be a waste to send me to some liberal arts college, "just to fill the time, until you find a decent and proper man to marry, Olivia. Any man you marry will appreciate you more for doing something practical," he added.

  I wasn't excited about going to college anyway, and I had always been very good with numbers. Daddy claimed I had a good mind for business. He said he knew that even when I was just a little girl selling cranberries from our bog. I set up a stand on the street that ran by our property. Tourists thought it was sweet seeing a little girl behave so seriously about money. What impressed Daddy was that I took my money and had him put it into an interest-bearing savings account rather than spend it in the candy or toy stores.

  "At least I have someone in the family to inherit my business," he declared. He had come to accept that he wouldn't have a son, but in time, I believed he no longer thought of me as an inferior substitute. He gave me too many compliments at the office for me to believe that.

  Daddy was truly a self-made millionaire, a success story that illustrated the American dream: a small entrepreneur who made good business decisions and gradually but firmly built a bigger and bigger business. He was written up in many regional magazines and once in the Boston papers.

  He had begun with a single fishing boat and then bought a second and a third. Before long, he had a fleet of vessels providing seafood for an evergrowing national market. He expanded into the canning of shrimp in Boston and built an impressive financial chain of related businesses, making the shrewd move to get a commanding interest in the trucking facilities so he could control his overhead. By his own admission, he was at times a ruthless businessman, smothering competition, dropping prices to drive them out of his territories. He became more and more influential in politics, picked up government contracts and continued to expand his reach and hold on his markets.

  After less than six months, I knew our mother company inside and out, and Daddy even permitted me to sit in on some of his business meetings to listen and learn more. After they ended, he often turned to me to get my opinions, and a number of times, he took my advice.

  Belinda, on the other hand, didn't know the first thing about our business. According to the way she behaved and thought, money came into our lives like rain. When we needed it, it was there, and there was never a drought, never a time when she ever heard the words, "We can't afford that, Belinda."

  I often lectured her about being ungrateful and unappreciative.

  "You take everything for granted as though it's owed to you," I accused.

  She gave me that sweet smile of hers and shrugged. I could accuse her of murder and she would do the same. She rarely argued or denied anything. It was as if she believed she would be immune from responsibility and guilt, that she had been given some holy dispensation and could do whatever her little heart desired, no matter what the consequences.

  It was even true now, I thought disgustedly, with our parents claiming it was better to pretend nothing happened. Belinda just had the flu. I almost believed Daddy had convinced himself he hadn't buried a premature infant.

  The day after when I returned from the office, I wandered out behind our house, curious as to whether I could find the unmarked grave site. Our land behind the house ran nearly a full acre before it reached the cliff that looked out over the Atlantic Ocean. It was a sharp descent to the rocky beach below. There were some safe pathways that led down to the small private beach we had, only a clam shell's toss away. Our yard had sprawling maples and some oak trees, and a large part of it remained uncultivated. Poison ivy grew among the brambles and wild roses and more than once, Belinda had wandered too close, suffering the results for weeks after.

  A large lawn was bordered by crocus clusters, Emperor tulips, jonquils and daffodils. There was a gazebo and a pond with benches around it, and I found it so restful to sit there and look out to sea.

  Sometimes, I would walk out to the edge of the cliff and watch the tide, mesmerized by the rhythmic movement of the waves, the breakers, the spray shooting up from the rocks, listening to the seagulls scream as they plummeted for clams. I would go to the very edge and close my eyes. I could feel my body sway as if it were tempted to fly off the cliff and crash on the rocks below.

  When she was younger, Belinda was frightened by the ocean. She was not fond of sailing, hated the danger of man-of-wars and the smell of seaweed. She rarely, if ever, went hunting for driftwood. The only reason she could see for going to the beach was to have a party and then to stay far enough away from the water so as not to even be sprayed by the waves crashing against the shore. Once, when I was nine and she was seven, I took her out to the edge of the cliff with me and asked her to close her eyes. It frightened her so much she turned and ran back to the house. I thought about that now and wondered what I would have done if she had fallen.

  Jerome had just finished doing some weeding when I stepped out back to find the grave. He nodded and headed for the shed. With my arms folded across my body, I walked as casually as I could down the slate rock pathway, my eyes flitting from side to side, searching for signs of dirt that had been distu
rbed. I walked all the way out to the edge of the cliff without seeing anything. Where could Daddy have put the carton and other things? It wouldn't be just a little hole, would it?

  I went around toward the maples and paused when I thought I had found an area under one of the trees that looked like it had been dug up. I stepped closer and when I knelt and inspected the ground, I decided this was the place. It put a shudder in me and I rose as if I expected the dead infant to cry for help, even with its muted voice.

  Years later, I would come here again and find the place overgrown, but in the midst of the crab grass and flat emerald weeds, would be a patch of juniper swaying in the ocean wind, reminding me of that horrible night.

  At the moment I was angry about it, though. I didn't like feeling creepy and morose. I didn't like burying Belinda's sins because I didn't like lies. When you lie, I thought, you make yourself vulnerable and weak. Daddy was a much weaker man in my eyes because of what he had done, though I was sure that he had his nightmares, too.

  I fled from the spot, hating Belinda for putting us all in this horrible place.

  Daddy should have made Belinda suffer her consequences and not leave her to be pampered upstairs all week, I thought. I believed he would never bring it up again, but he surprised me one night toward the end of that week. He was in his den going over the family accounts when I walked by and he called to me.

  "Close the door, Olivia," he ordered as soon as I entered. I did so and then turned to him. He sat behind his desk stiffly. "We've got to put all this behind us, Olivia. I notice you've been different all this week, looking at me as if you expected me to say or do something more."

  "I don't mean to be your conscience, Daddy," I said and he winced as though I had spit at him. "I'm sorry. It's just hard for me to pretend nothing happened."

  "Listen to me, Olivia. The most important quality is loyalty. Every family is a world unto itself and every member of that little world must protect it at any cost. Only then can individual liberty, interests and talents be pursued. Build the family first, Olivia. The only rule for morality is what's good for the family is good," he said, his eyes firm. "It's the lesson my father taught me and the lesson I hope you will take to heart.

  "Among ourselves, we can criticize and regret, but we have to put it aside when it threatens the family. It's the credo I live by, Olivia. It's the only flag I salute and the only cause for which I will give my life."

  I stared a moment. Daddy looked like he was about to cry now. His lips were pressed together so hard, his cheeks bulged.

  "Don't condemn me for loving all of you, loving my family name and reputation so much, Olivia. Learn from it," he pleaded.

  I took a deep breath. Daddy and I had had many conversations in the past, but I rarely if ever saw his eyes fill with tears. I felt bad for him, felt sorry I had made him feel any guilt.

  "I understand, Daddy," I said. "I really do."

  "That's good, Olivia, because you're my hope. You will have many decisions to make for our family after I'm gone, and I hope you will always remember this week and remember what I told you to use as your guiding principle."

  "I will, Daddy," I promised.

  He smiled and rose. Then he walked around the desk and put his arm around me.

  "I'm proud of you, Olivia." He kissed me on the forehead. "Very proud," he said.

  I watched him return to his desk. He looked tired, like a man carrying too many burdens. I remained a moment until he lowered his eyes to his papers, and then I left him.

  His words clung to me even after I had put out the lights that night and lowered my head to the pillow. They lingered with the memory of his tearfilled eyes.

  There is a terrible price to pay for being a leader, I thought, a terrible burden.

  Maybe Belinda was better off than any of us, especially me.

  Look at what she had done and yet tonight, like most nights, she embraced her stuffed animals, closed her eyes, and dreamed of parties, of tinkling bells, of ribbons and music and boyfriends dangling on her smiles.

  Whereas my dreams were about a patch of dirt behind the house and my father, lowering the carton into the ground while through his tears he chanted, "For the family. It's all for the family."

  2

  It's My Party

  .

  For the first few days, Belinda was truly an

  invalid. She didn't eat well and what she ate, she often didn't keep down. Her usual rosy complexion evaporated and didn't return until toward the end of the week, which was just in time for what she had planned. On Saturday, three boys from her highschool class arrived at the house after lunch to visit her. They brought flowers and candy. Carmelita appeared in the doorway of the sitting room where Mother, Daddy and I were.

  "There are three young men here to see Belinda," she announced with little emotion. "Three?" Daddy asked, his eyebrows lifting. "Yes, sir."

  "Boys?"

  "Yes, Mr. Gordon."

  Daddy shifted his gaze to me and I frowned. "That's very nice," Mother declared. She smiled

  my way even though I continued to scowl.

  "Show them in," Daddy declared and stiffened

  up the way he usually did for a business meeting he

  anticipated would be difficult. He had a way of bringing up his shoulders and lowering his neck until he resembled a bird of prey. Daddy was barrelchested, stout and very intimidating when he swelled

  up and put a glint of steel in his eyes.

  I knew each of the boys Carmelita showed in.

  They had all been here to take Belinda on a date at

  one time or another this year. There was Arnold

  Miller, who had been my prime suspect only because

  Belinda had spent so much time with him recently. He

  was very tall, easily six feet four, good-looking with

  light brown hair and green eyes speckled with brown.

  From what Belinda had told me, she fancied him

  because he was something of a school sports hero,

  their star basketball player and star baseball pitcher.

  Most of the girls wanted him for a boyfriend. Belinda

  enjoyed being envied more than she enjoyed being

  loved.

  Arnold's parents owned a lumber mill and

  garden equipment store, one of the biggest retail

  outlets in Provincetown. Arnold was the oldest of

  three children, all boys. I thought he was a little shy,

  but I couldn't be sure if that was an act he put on in

  front of me. Belinda only giggled when I had first

  asked her about him months ago.

  Next to Arnold stood Quin Lothar, who kept his amber hair long, nearly to his shoulders, which was something Daddy detested in young men. Quin was also very popular because he had his own band at school, but in my opinion he wasn't anywhere as good-looking as Arnold. Quin's features were too large and he had a narrow forehead with eyebrows that hung too far over his brown eyes. The right corner of his mouth always seemed tucked into his cheek, giving him an habitual smart-aleck smirk. Now that I gazed at him, I thought he had to be the father. He looked capable of making Belinda pregnant and

  not caring.

  He was dressed sloppily, in worn trousers and a

  faded pullover, and obviously didn't care about his

  appearance or making a good impression on my

  parents.

  The third young man was Peter Wilkes, a short,

  chubby boy with a round, soft face. His father was

  President of the Cape Coast Savings. Belinda said he

  always had money to spend and the others kept him

  around and called him Pocketbook, even to his face.

  Belinda bragged that she just had to look at something

  and wish it was hers and he would go buy it for her. He wore a button-down white dress shirt, slacks

  and laced dress shoes, but somehow, maybe because of the way his
clothes hung on his obese body, he

  didn't look any better than the other two.

  Quin was their spokesman.

  "Good afternoon," he said. "We came to see

  how Belinda is doing. We thought we could cheer her

  up," he added.

  Peter folded his cheeks into a smile and lifted

  the box of candy in his hands.

  "If it's okay, I'd like to give her this," he said.

  "Imported chocolates."

  Arnold carried the flowers. He just nodded,

  holding them up like the Statue of Liberty holding the

  torch.

  Daddy said nothing. He had a way of holding

  his words back just a moment longer than anyone

  anticipated. It was something he did to put people off

  rhythm, a way of testing them. The silence, as short as

  it was, made the three boys uncomfortable. They

  gazed quickly at each other, squirmed in their clothes

  and looked from me to my mother to the floor and

  then back to Daddy.

  "I brought her some notes from classes she's

  missed, too," Peter added reaching into his pants

  pocket to produce some papers.

  "That's very thoughtful," Mother finally said. "Aren't you boys afraid of getting sick

  yourselves so close to the end of the school year?"

  Daddy questioned, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "No sir," Arnold replied quickly.

  "We won't get that close to her," Quin added,

  digging the corner of his mouth deeper into his cheek.

  Peter widened his smile.

  "I hope not," Daddy muttered. "Olivia," he said

  turning to me. I knew what that meant. He wanted me

  to show them to Belinda's room and remain as a chaperone.

  I rose with obvious reluctance.

  "Maybe she's asleep," I said.

  "She knows we're coming," Quin quickly

  inserted. "We called earlier and told her we'd be here

  about now."

  "She should have told us, too," I muttered,

  gazing at Daddy. He nodded his agreement but said

  nothing more. Instead, he went to his newspaper and