Flowers in the Attic

by V. C. Andrews

  We live and learn. . . and love is gone, Ballerina, gone. . ."

  Eventually, Chris could do the waltz and the foxtrot. When I tried to teach him the Charleston, he refused: "I don't need to learn every kind of dance, like you do. I'm not going to be on stage; all I want to learn is how to get out on the dance floor with a girl in my arms, and not make a jackass of myself."

  I'd always been dancing. There wasn't any kind of dance I couldn't do, and didn't want to do.

  "Chris, there's one thing you've got to know: you cannot waltz your whole life through, or do the foxtrot. Every year brings about changes, like in clothes. You've got to keep up with the times, and adapt. Come on, let's jazz it up a bit, so you can limber up your creaky joints that must be going stiff from so much sitting and reading."

  I stopped waltzing and ran to put on another record: "You ain't nothin' but a hound dog."

  I raised my arms, and began to gyrate my hips.

  "Rock 'n' roll, Chris, you've got to learn how. Listen to the beat, let go, and learn to swivel your hips like Elvis. Come on, half-close your eyes, look sleepy, sexy, and pout your lips, for if you don't, no girl is ever going to love you."

  "Then no girl is ever gonna love me."

  That's the way he said it, dead flat, and dead serious. He would never let anyone force him to do anything that didn't fit his image of himself, and in a way I liked him for being what he was, strong, resolute, determined to be his own person, even if his kind of person had long ago gone out of style. My Sir Christopher, the knight gallant.

  .

  God-like, we changed the seasons in the attic. We took down the flowers and hung up autumn leaves of brown, russet, scarlet and gold. If we were still here when winter's snowflakes fell, we'd then substitute lacy white designs that we were all four cutting out in preparation, just in case. We made wild ducks and geese from white, gray, and black craft paper, and aimed our mobile birds in wide-arrowed skeins, heading them south. Birds were easy to make: just elongated ovals with spheres for heads, teardrops with wings.

  When Chris wasn't sitting with his head stuck in a book, he was painting watercolor scenes of snowcovered hills with lakes where ice skaters skimmed He put small houses of yellow and pink deeply buried in snow, and smoke curled from the chimneys, and in the distance rose a misty church steeple. And when he was done, he painted all around this a dark windowframe. When this was hung on the wall, we had a room with a view!

  Once Chris had been a tease I could never please. An older brother. . . . But, we changed up there, he and I, just as much as we altered our attic world. We lay side by side on an old mattress, stained and smelly, for hours on end, and talked and talked, making plans for the kind of lives we'd live once we were free and rich as Midas. We'd travel around the world. He would meet and fall in love with the most beautiful, sexy woman who was brilliant,

  understanding, charming, witty and enormous fun to be with; she'd be the perfect housekeeper, the most faithful of devoted wives, the best of mothers, and she'd never nag, or complain, or cry, or doubt his judgment, or be disappointed or discouraged if he made stupid mistakes on the stock market and lost all of their money. She'd understand he'd done his best, and soon he'd make a fortune again with his wits and clever brains.

  Boy, did he leave me feeling low. How in the world was I ever going to fill the needs of a man like Chris? Somehow or other, I knew he was setting the standard from which I'd judge all my future suitors.

  "Chris, this intelligent, charming, witty, gorgeous woman, can't she have even one little flaw?"

  "Why should she have flaws?"

  "Take our mother, for instance, you think she is all of those things, except, perhaps, brilliant."

  "Momma's not stupid!" he defended vehemently. "She's just grown up in the wrong kind of

  environment! She was put down as a child, and made to feel inferior because she was a girl."

  As for me, after I'd been a prima ballerina for a number of years and was ready to marry and settle down, I didn't know what kind of man I wanted if he didn't measure up to Chris, or my father. I wanted him handsome, I knew that, for I wanted beautiful children. And I wanted him brilliant, or I might not respect him. Before I accepted his diamond

  engagement ring, I'd sit him down to play games, and if I won time and again, I'd smile, shake my head, and tell him to take his ring back to the store.

  And as we made our plans for the future, our pots of philodendron drooped limp; our ivy leaves turned yellow before they died. We bustled about, giving our plants tender loving care, talking to them, pleading with them, asking them to please stop looking sick, and perk up and straighten up their necks. After all, they were getting the healthiest of all sunlight--that eastern morning light.

  In a few more weeks Cory and Carrie stopped pleading to go outside. No longer did Carrie beat her small fists against the oak door, and Cory stopped trying to kick it down with his ineffectual small feet, wearing only soft sneakers that didn't keep his small toes from bruising.

  They now docilely accepted what before they'd denied--the attic "garden" was the only "outside" available to them. And in time, pitiful as it was, they soon forgot there was a world other than the one we were locked up in.

  Chris and I had dragged several old mattresses close to the eastern windows, so we could open the windows wide and sunbathe in the beneficial rays that didn't have to pass through dirty window glass first. Children needed sunlight in order to grow. All we had to do was look at our dying plants, and register what the attic air was doing to our greenery.

  Unabashedly, we stripped off all our clothes and sun-bathed in the short time the sun visited our windows. We saw each other's differences, and thought little about them, and frankly told Momma what we did, so we, too, wouldn't die from lack of sunlight. She glanced from Chris to me and weakly smiled. "It's all right, but don't let your grandmother know. She wouldn't approve, as you well know."

  I know now that she looked at Chris, and then at me for signs to indicate our innocence, or our awakening sexuality. And what she saw must have given her some assurance we were still only children, though she should have known better.

  The twins loved to be naked and play as babies. They laughed and giggled when they used terms such as "do-do" and "twiddle-dee" and, enjoyed looking at the places where do-do came from, and wondered why Cory's twiddle-dee maker was so different from Carrie's.

  "Why, Chris?" asked Carrie, pointing at what he had, and Cory had, and she and I didn't have.

  I went right on reading Wuthering Heights and tried to ignore such silly talk.

  But Chris tried to give an answer that was correct as well as truthful: "All male creatures have their sexual organs on the outside, and females have theirs tucked away inside."

  "Neatly inside," I said.

  "Yes, Cathy, I know you approve of your neat body and I approve of my un-neat body, so let all of us rejoice that we have what we do. Our parents accepted our bare skins just as they did our eyes and hair, and so shall we. And I forgot, male birds have their organs 'neatly' tucked away inside, too, like females."

  Intrigued, I asked, "How do you know?"

  "I just know."

  "You read it in a book?"

  "What else--do you think I caught a bird and examined it?"

  "I wouldn't put it past you."

  "At least I read to improve my brain, not just to entertain it."

  "You are going to make a very dull man, I'm warning--and if a male bird has tucked away sexual organs, doesn't that make him a her?"

  "No!"

  "But, Christopher, I don't understand: Why are birds different?"

  "They have to be streamlined in order to fly."

  It was another of those puzzlements, and he had the answers. I just knew the brain of brains had the answers.

  "All right, but why are male birds made the way they are? And leave out the streamlined part."

  He floundered, his face turned deeply red, and he sought a way to say
something delicately. "Male birds can be aroused, and that makes what is in, come out."

  "How are they aroused?"

  "Shut up and read your book--and let me read mine!"

  Some days were too chilly for sunbathing. Then it grew frigid, so even wearing our heaviest and warmest clothes, we still shivered unless we ran. Too soon the morning sun stole away from the east, leaving us desolate and wishing there were windows on the southern side. But the windows were shuttered over and locked.

  "It doesn't matter," said Momma, "the morning sun is the healthiest."

  Words that didn't cheer us, since our plants were dying one by one while living in the healthiest sunlight of all.

  As November began, the attic began to turn Arctic cold. Our teeth chattered, our noses ran, we sneezed often and complained to Momma that we needed a stove with a chimney, since the two stoves in the schoolroom had been disconnected. Momma spoke of bringing up an electric or gas heater. But she feared an electric stove might start a fire if connected to many extension cords. And a chimney was also needed for a gas heater.

  She brought us long heavy underwear, and thick ski jackets with attached hoods, and bright ski pants with wool fleece lining. Wearing these clothes, we went daily into the attic where we could run free and escape the grandmother's ever observant eyes.

  In our cluttered bedroom we barely had room to walk without colliding into something to bruise our shins In the attic we went frantic, screaming as we chased one another: hiding, finding, putting on small plays with frenzied activity. We fought sometimes, argued, cried, then went back to fierce play. We had a passion for hide and seek. Chris and I enjoyed making this game terribly threatening but only mildly so for the twins, who were already terrified enough of the many "bad things" that lingered in the dark attic shadows. Carrie earnestly said she saw monsters hiding behind the shrouded furniture.

  One day, we were up in the attic polar zone, and searching to find Cory. "I'm going downstairs," said Carrie, her small face resentful, her lips pouted. No good to try and make her stay and exercise--she was too stubborn. She sashayed off in her little red ski outfit, leaving me and Chris to hunt around to find Cory. Customarily, he was just too easy to find. His way was to choose the last place Chris had hidden. So it was our belief we could go straight to the third massive armoire and there would be Cory, crouched down on the floor, hiding under the old clothes, and grinning up at us. We indulged him, avoiding this particular wardrobe for a specific length of time. Then we decided to "find" him. And lo, when we looked-- he wasn't there!

  "Well, I'll be damned!" exclaimed Chris. "He's finally going to be innovative and find an original place to hide."

  That's what came of reading so many books. Big words stuck to his brains. I swiped at my leaky nose, and then took another look around. If truly innovative, there were a million good hiding places in this multiwinged attic. Why, it might take us hours and hours to find Cory. And I was cold, tired and irritable, sick of playing this game Chris insisted on daily to keep us active.

  "Cory!" I yelled. "Come out from wherever you are! It's time to eat lunch!" Now, that should bring him. Meals were a cozy and homey thing to do, and they broke up our long days into separate portions.

  Still, he didn't answer. I flashed angry eyes at Chris. "Peanut-butter-and-grape-jelly sandwiches," I added. Cory's favorite meal, which should bring him running. Still, not a sound, not a cry, nothing

  Suddenly I was scared. I couldn't believe Cory had overcome his fear of the immense, shadowy attic, and was at last taking the game seriously--but just suppose he was trying to imitate Chris or me? Oh, God! "Chris!" I cried. "We've got to find Cory, and fast!"

  He caught my panic, and whirled about to run, crying out Cory's name, ordering him to come out, stop hiding! Both of us ran and hunted, calling Cory repeatedly. Hide-and-seek-time was over--lunchtime now! No answer, and I was nearly freezing, despite all my clothes. Even my hands looked blue.

  "Oh, my God," murmured Chris, pulling up short, "just suppose he hid in one of the trunks, and the lid came down and accidently latched?"

  Cory would suffocate. He'd die!

  Like crazy we ran and looked, throwing open the lids of every old trunk. We tossed out pantaloons, shifts, camisoles, petticoats, stays, suits, all with insane, distressed terror. And while I ran and searched, I prayed over and over again for God not to let Cory die.

  "Cathy, I've found him!" shouted Chris. I spun around to see Chris lifting Cory's small, inert form from a trunk that had latched and kept him inside. Weak with relief, I stumbled over and kissed Cory's small, pale face, turned a funny color from lack of oxygen. His slitted eyes were unfocused. He was very nearly unconscious. "Momma," he whispered, "I want my momma."

  But Momma was miles away, learning how to type and take shorthand. There was only a pitiless grandmother we didn't know how to reach in an emergency.

  "Run quick and fill the bathtub with hot water," said Chris, "but not too hot. We don't want to scald him" Then he was racing with Cory in his arms toward the stairwell.

  I reached the bedroom first, then sped on toward the bath. I glanced backward to see Chris lay Cory down on his bed. Then he bent above, held Cory's nostrils, and then Chris lowered his head until his mouth covered Cory's blue lips, which were spread apart. My heart jumped! Was he dead? Had he stopped breathing?

  Carrie took one glance at what was going on--her small twin blue and not moving--and she began to scream.

  In the bathroom I turned on both faucets as far as they would go; full blast they gushed. Cory was going to die! Always I was dreaming of death and dying . . . and most of the times my dreams came true! And as always, just when I thought God had turned his back on us and didn't care, I whirled to grab hold of my faith, and prayed, demanding Him not to let Cory die . . . please God, please God, please, please, please. . ."

  Maybe my desperate prayers did as much to help Cory back to life as the artificial resuscitation Chris performed.

  "He's breathing again," said Chris, pale-faced and trembling as he carried Cory to the tub. "Now all we have to do is warm him up."

  In no time at all we had Cory undressed and in the tub of warm water.

  "Momma," whispered Cory as he came to, "I want Momma." Over and over again he kept saying it, and I could have pounded my fists through the walls it was so damned unfair! He should have his mother, and not just a pretend mother who didn't know what to do. I wanted out of this, even if I had to beg in the streets!

  But I said in a calm way that made Chris lift his head and smile at me with approval, "Why can't you pretend I'm Momma? I'll do everything for you that she would. I'll hold you on my lap, and rock you to sleep while I sing you a lullaby, just as soon as you eat a little lunch, and drink some milk"

  Both Chris and I were kneeling as I said this. He was massaging Cory's small feet, while I rubbed his cold hands and made them warm again. When his flesh was colored normally again, we dried Cory off, put on his warmest pajamas, wrapped him in a blanket, and, in the old rocker Chris had brought down from the attic, I sat down and cuddled my small brother on my lap. I covered his wan face with kisses, and whispered sweet nothings in his ear that made him giggle.

  If he could laugh, he could eat, and I fed him tiny bits of sandwich, and gave him sips of lukewarm soup, and long drinks of milk And as I did this, I grew older. Ten years I aged in ten minutes. I glanced over at Chris as he sat down to eat his lunch, and saw that he, too, had changed. Now we knew there was real danger in the attic beyond that of slow withering from lack of sunlight and fresh air. We all faced threats much worse than the mice and spiders that insisted on living, despite all we did to kill every last one.

  All alone Chris stalked up the narrow, steep stairs to the attic, his face grim as he entered the closet. I rocked on and on, holding both Carrie and Cory on my lap, and singing "Rock-a-bye, Baby." Suddenly there was a fierce hammering coming from above, a terrible clamor the servants might hear.

  "Cathy," said Cory in
a small whisper while Carrie nodded off into sleep, "I don't like not having a momma anymore." "You do have a momma--you have me."

  "Are you as good as a real momma?"

  "Yes, I think I am. I love you very much, Cory, and that's what makes a real mother."

  Cory stared up at me with wide blue eyes, to see if I was sincere, or if I were only mocking his need. Then his small arms crept up around my neck, and he cuddled his head on my shoulder. "I'm so sleepy, Momma, but don't stop singing."

  I was still rocking, still singing softly, when Chris came back wearing a satisfied expression. "Never again will a trunk lock inadvertently," he said, "for I smashed every last lock and the wardrobes, now they won't lock, either!"

  I nodded.

  He sat on the nearest bed and watched the slow rhythm of the rocking chair, listening to the childish tune I kept right on singing. A slow flush heated his face so he seemed embarrassed. "I feel so left out, Cathy. Would it be all right if I sat in the rocker first, and then the three of you piled on?"

  Daddy used to do that. He'd hold all of us on his lap, even Momma. His arms had been long enough, and strong enough, to embrace us all, and give us the nicest, warmest feeling of security and love. I wondered if Chris could do the same.

  As we sat in the rocker with Chris underneath, I caught a glimpse of us in the dresser mirror across the way. An eerie feeling stole over me, making all of this seem so unreal. He and I looked like doll parents, younger editions of Momma and Daddy.

  "The Bible says there is a time for everything," whispered Chris so as not to awaken the twins, "a time to be born, a time to plant, a time to harvest, a time to die, and so on, and this is our time to sacrifice. Later on will come our time to live and enjoy."

  I turned my head and nestled it down on his boyish shoulder, grateful he was always so optimistic, always so cheerful. It felt good to have his strong young arms about me--almost as pro- tective and good as Daddy's arms had been.

  Chris was right, too. Our happy time would come the day we left this room and went downstairs to attend a funeral.