"Then take down the mirrors."
"How easy you make it. But you are young. The young always think everything is easy. I don't want to take down the mirrors. I want them there to remind me constantly of what I've done. The closed windows, the stuffy atmosphere are my punishments, not yours. If you want, Jory," she went on as I sat silently, "open the windows, spread the shutters; let in the sunlight and I will take off my veils and let you look at the face I hide from--but you won't find it pleasant. My beauty is gone, but it is a small loss compared to everything else that has come and gone, all the things I should have held onto valiantly."
"Valiantly?" I asked. That was a word not too familiar to me in any meaningful way, just a word suggesting bravery.
"Yes, Jory, valiantly I should have protected what was mine. I was all they had, and I let them down. I thought I was right, they were wrong. I convinced myself each day I was right. I resisted their pitiful pleas, and even worse, at the time I didn't even think they were pitiful. I told myself I was doing all I could because I brought them everything. They grew to distrust me, dislike me, and that hurt, hurt more than any pain I've ever felt. I hate myself for being weak, so cowardly, so foolishly intimidated when I should have stood my ground and fought back. I should have thought only of them and forgotten what I wanted for myself. My only excuse is that I was young then, and the young are selfish, even when it comes to their own children. I thought my needs were greater than theirs. I thought their time would come and then they could have their way. I felt it was my last chance at happiness. I had to grab for it quick, before middle age made me 104 unattractive, and there was a younger man I loved. I couldn't tell him about them."
Them? Who was she talking about?
"Who?" I asked weakly, for some reason wishing she wouldn't tell me anything--or at least not too much.
"My children, Jory. My four children, fathered by my first husband, whom I married when I was only eighteen. He was forbidden to me, and yet I wanted him. I thought I never would find a man more wonderful . . . and yet I did find one just as wonderful."
I didn't want to hear her story. But she pleaded for me to stay. I sat on the edge of one of her fine chairs.
"So," she continued, "I put my fear out in front, allowed my love for a man to blind me to their needs, and I ignored what they wanted--their freedom--and now, as the result, I cry myself to sleep every night."
What could I say? I didn't understand what she was talking about. I reasoned she must be crazy, and no wonder Bart was acting just as nutty. She leaned forward to peer at me more closely.
"You are an exceptionally handsome boy. I suppose you know that already."
I nodded. All my life I'd heard remarks about my good looks, my talent, my charm. But talent was what counted, not looks. In my opinion looks without talent were useless. I knew, too, that beauty faded with the passing years, but still I loved beauty.
Looking around, I saw this woman loved beauty as much as I did, and yet . . . "What a pity she sits in the dark and refuses to enjoy all that's been done to make this place beautiful," I murmured without thought. She heard and replied tonelessly, "The better to punish myself."
I didn't reply, only sat on in the chair while she rambled on and on about her life as a poor little rich girl who made the mistake of falling in love with her half uncle, who was three years older, and for this she was disinherited. Why was she telling me her life history? I didn't care. What did her past have to do with Bart? He was my reason for being here.
"I married for a second time. My four children hated me for doing that." She stared down at her hands folded on her lap, then began to twist the sparkling gems one by one. "Children always think adults have it so easy. That's not always true. Children think a widowed mother doesn't need anyone but them." She sighed. "They think they can give her enough love, because they don't understand there are all kinds of love, and it's hard for a woman to live without a man once she's been married."
Then, almost as if she'd forgotten me, she jolted to see me there. "Oh! I've been a poor hostess. Jory, what would you like to eat and drink?"
"Nothing, thank you. I came only to tell you that you must not encourage Bart to come over here anymore. I don't know what you tell him, or what he does here, but he comes home with weird ideas, acting very disoriented."
"Disoriented? You use large words for a boy so young."
"My father insists we learn one new word each day."
Those nervous hands of hers flitted up to her throat to play with her string of large pearls with a diamond butterfly clasp. "Jory, if I ask you a hypothetical question, would you give me an answer--a truthful answer?"
I got up to go. "I'd really rather not answer questions. . . ."
"If your mother or your father ever
disappointed you, failed you in some way, even a major one--could you find it in your heart to forgive them?"
Sure, sure, I thought quickly enough, though I couldn't imagine them ever failing me, Bart or Cindy. I backed to the door that would allow me to leave while she was waiting for my answer. "Yes, Madame, I think I could forgive them anything."
"Murder?" she asked quickly, standing too. "Could you forgive them for that? Not premeditated murder, but accidental?"
She was crazy, just like her butler. I wanted to get out of there, and fast! I cautioned her one more time to send my brother home. "If you want Bart to stay sane, leave him alone!"
Her eyes teared before she nodded and inclined her head. I'd hurt her, I knew that. I had to harden my heart not to say I was sorry. Then, just as I was leaving, a deliveryman was banging on the door, and I opened it to allow him to carry in a huge oblong crate. It took two men to rip off the nailed cover.
"Don't go, Jory," she begged. "Stay! I'd like you to see what's inside this crate."
What difference did it make? But I stayed, having the same curiosity as most people about the contents of a closed box.
The old butler came tapping down the hall, but she shooed him away. "John! I didn't ring for you. Please stay in your part of the house until you're sent for."
He gave her a smoldering look of resentment and hobbled into his hole, wherever that was.
By this time the crate was open, and the two men were pulling out packing straw. Then they lifted a huge thing wrapped in a gray quilt from its nest in the crate.
It was like waiting for a ship to be launched. I grew sort of breathless in anticipation, even more so because she had such a look on her face . . . as if she couldn't wait for me to see the contents. Was she giving me a gift, like she gave Bart anything he wanted? He was the greediest little boy ever born, needing double the amount of affection most people required.
I gasped then and stepped backwards. It was an oil painting the men unwrapped.
There stood my beautiful mother in a formal white gown, pausing on the next to the bottom step with her slender hand resting on a magnificent newel post. Trailing behind her lay yards and yards of the shimmering white fabric. The curving stairs behind her rose gracefully and faded into swirling mists through which the artist had cleverly managed to give the impression of gold and glittering jewels, hinting at a palace-like mansion.
"Do you know whose portrait that is?" she asked when the men had hung it in place in one of the parlors she didn't seem to use often. I nodded, dumbfounded and speechless.
What was she doing with my mother's portrait?
She waited for the two men to go. They smiled, thrilled with the tip she gave them. I was panting, hearing my heavy breathing and wondering why I felt sort of numb. "Jory," she said softly, turning again to me, "that's a portrait of me that my second husband commissioned shortly after we were married. I was thirty-seven when I posed for that."
In the portrait the woman looked just like my mother looked today. I swallowed and wanted to run, suddenly needing the bathroom badly, but still I wanted to stay. I wanted to hear her explain, even though I was paralyzed with the fear of what she might tell me.
>
"My second husband, who was younger, was named Bartholomew Winslow, Jory," she said quickly, as if to make sure I heard before I got up and ran. "Later on, when my daughter was old enough, she seduced him, stole his love away from me, just so she could hurt me with the child she gave him. The child I couldn't have. Can you guess who that child is, can you?"
I jumped up and backed away. Holding out my hands to ward off any more information I didn't want to hear.
"Jory, Jory, Jory," she chanted, "don't you remember me at all? Think back to when you lived in the mountains of Virginia Think of that little post office, and the rich lady in the fur coat. You were about three then. You saw me and smiling, you came to stroke my coat, and you told me I was pretty-- remember?"
"No!" I cried more stoutly than I felt. "I have never seen you before in my life, not until you moved here! And all blondes with blue eyes look somewhat alike!"
"Yes," she said brokenly, "I suppose you're right. I just thought it would be amusing to see your expression. I shouldn't have played a trick on you. I'm sorry, Jory. Forgive me."
I couldn't look at those blue, blue eyes. I had to get away.
I felt miserable as I slowly trudged home. If only I hadn't stayed. If only the portrait hadn't been delivered while I was there. Why did I have to sense that that woman was more a threat to my mother than my stepfather? What had I accomplished? Was it you, Mom, who stole her second husband's love? Was it? Didn't it make good sense when Bart had the same name as him? Everything she'd said confirmed the suspicions that had been sleeping in my mind for so many years. Doors were opening, letting in fresh memories that almost seemed like enemies.
I climbed the stairs of the veranda Mom jokingly called "Paul's kind of southern veranda." Certainly it wasn't the customary California patio.
There was something different about the patio today. If I had been less troubled, perhaps I would have spotted immediately what was missing. As it was, it took me minutes to realize Clover wasn't there. I looked around, distressed, calling him.
"For heaven's sake, Jory," called Emma from the kitchen window, "don't yell so loud. I just put Cindy down for a nap and you'll wake her up. I saw Clover a few minutes ago heading into the garden, chasing a butterfly."
Of course. I felt relieved. If one thing brought out the puppy in my old poodle, it was a fluttery yellow butterfly. I joined Emma in the kitchen and asked, "Emma, I've been wanting to ask for a long time, what year did Mom marry Dr. Paul?"
She was leaning over, checking inside the refrigerator, grumbling to herself. "I could swear there was some fried chicken in here, left over from last night. Since we're having liver and onions tonight I saved what was left of the chicken for Bart. I thought your finicky brother could eat the leftover thighs."
"Don't you remember the year they were married?"
"You were just a little one then," she said, still rummaging through covered dishes.
Emma was always vague about dates. She couldn't remember her own birthday. Maybe deliberately. "Tell me again how my mother met Dr. Paul's younger brother . . . you know, the stepfather we have now."
"Yes, I remember Chris, he was so handsome, tall and tan. But not one whit better looking than Dr. Paul was in his own way . . . a wonderful man, your stepfather Paul. So kind, so soft-spoken."
"It's funny Mom didn't fall for a younger brother instead of an older one--don't you think it's odd?"
She straightened and put a hand to her back, which she said hurt all the time. Next she wiped her hands on her spotless white apron. "I sure hope your parents aren't late tonight. Now you run and hunt up Bart before it's too late for him to take a bath. I hate for your mother to see him so filthy."
"Emma, you haven't answered my questions."
Turning her back she began to chop green bellpeppers. "Jory, when you need answers, you go to your parents and ask. Don't come to me. You may think of me as a family member but I know my place is that of a friend. So run along and let me finish dinner."
"Please, Emma, not just for my sake, but Bart's too. I've got to do something to straighten out Bart, and how can I when I don't have all the facts?"
"Jory," she said, giving me a warm smile, "just be happy you have two such wonderful parents. You and Bart are very lucky boys. I hope Cindy grows up to realize how blessed she was the day your mother decided she had to have a daughter."
Outside the day was growing old. Search as I would I couldn't find Clover. I sat on the back steps and stared unhappily at the sky turning rosy with bright streaks of orange and violet. I felt
overwhelmingly sad and burdened, wishing all this mystery and confusion would go away. Clover, where was Clover? I never knew until this moment how very much he added to my life, how much I'd miss him if he was gone for good. Please don't let him be gone for good, God, please.
One more time I looked around our yard, then decided I'd better go in the house and call the newspapers. I'd offer a reward for a missing dog-- such a big reward somebody would bring Clover back. "Clover!" I yelled, "chow time!"
My call brought Bart stumbling out of the hedges, his clothes torn and filthy. His dark eyes were strangely haunted. "Why yah yellin?"
"I can't find Clover," I answered, "and you know he never goes anywhere. He's a home dog. I read the other day about people who steal dogs and sell them to science labs for experimentation. Bart, I'd want to die if somebody did something so awful to Clover."
He stared at me, stricken looking. "They wouldn't do that . . . would they?"
"Bart, I've got to find Clover. If he doesn't come back soon, I'll feel sick, really sick enough to die. Suppose he's been run over?"
I watched my brother swallow, then begin to tremble. "What's wrong?"
"Shot me a wolf back there, I did. Shot me a big bad wolf right through his mean red eye. He came at me lickin his chops, but I was smarter and moved quick and shot him dead."
"Oh, come off it, Bart!" I said impatiently, really getting irritated with somebody who could never tell the truth. "There aren't any wolves in this area, and you know it."
Until midnight I searched all around our neighborhood, calling for Clover. Tears kept clogging my voice, my eyes. I had the strongest premonition that Clover would never come home again.
"Jory," said Dad, who'd been helping me hunt, "let's hit the sack and look again in the morning if he doesn't come home by himself. And don't you lie in your bed and worry. Clover may be an old dog, but even the elderly can feel romantic on a moonlit night."
Aw, heck. That didn't make much sense. Clover had stopped chasing female dogs a long time ago. Now all he wanted was a place to lie where Bart wasn't likely to stumble over him or step on his tail.
"You go to bed, Dad, and let me look. I don't have to be in ballet class until ten, so I don't need my sleep as much as you do."
He briefly embraced me, wished me luck, and headed for his room. An hour later, I decided it was fruitless effort. Clover was dead. That's the only thing that would keep him away.
I decided I had to tell my parents what I suspected. I stood beside their bed looking down at them. Moonlight streamed through the windows and fell over their bodies. Morn was half-turned on her side so she could cuddle up close to Dad, who was on his back. Her head was on his bare chest, while his left arm encircled her so his hand lay on her hip. The covers were pulled up just high enough to shield their nudity, which made me back away, feeling very guilty. I shouldn't be here. Sleep made them look vulnerable, younger, moving me but giving me a deep sense of shame too. I wondered why I felt ashamed. Dad had taught me the facts of life a long time ago, so I knew what men and women did together to make babies--or just for fun.
I sobbed and turned to go.
"Chris, is that you?" asked my mother, halfasleep and rolling over on her back.
"I'm here, darling. Go back to sleep," he mumbled sleepily. "The grandmother can't get us now."
I froze, startled. They both sounded like children. And again that grandmother.
<
br /> "I'm scared, Chris, so afraid. If they ever find out, what will we say? How can we explain?"
"Sssh," came his whisper, "life will be good to us from now on. Hold fast to your faith in God. We have both been punished enough; He won't punish us more."
Run, run, had to run fast to my room and hurl myself down. I felt hollow inside, emptiness all around instead of the confidence and love I used to feel here. Clover was gone. My dear little harmless poodle who had never done even one bad thing. And Bart had shot a wolf.
What would Bart do next? Did he know what I did? Was that why he was behaving so strangely? Turning his mean glare on Mom like he wanted to hurt her. Tears rose in my eyes again, for memory couldn't be denied forever. I knew now that Bart was not the son of Dr. Paul. Bart was the son of that old lady's second husband with the same name as my half brother--that tall, lean man who sometimes haunted my dreams along with Dr. Paul and my own real father, whom I'd seen only in photographs.
Our parents had lied to both of us. Why hadn't they told us the truth? Was the truth so ugly they couldn't tell us? Did they have such little faith in our love for them?
Oh, God, their secret must be something so dreadful we could never forgive them!
And Bart, he could be dangerous. I knew he could be. Day by day it was beginning to show more and more. In the morning I wanted to run up to Mom or to Dad and tell them. But when morning came I couldn't say anything. Now I knew why Dad insisted that we learn one new word each day. It took special words to put across subtle ideas, and as yet I wasn't as educated as I needed to be to express my troubled thoughts that wanted to reassure them. And how could I reassure them when Bart was before me, his dark eyes hard and mean?
Oh, God, if you're up there somewhere, looking down, hear my prayer. Let my parents have the peace they need so they don't have to dream of evil grandmothers at night. Right or wrong, whatever they've done, I know they've done the best they could.
Why did I put it like that?
Safe was a word that no longer had substance Like dead people who were only shadows in my memory, nothing as concrete as Bart's hate, which was growing larger day by day.
Dollenganger 03 If There Be a Thorns Page 10
