“You’re very pretty, maybe even beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“You dance exceptionally well—that surprised me. Though of course you would have to dance well to be with this company which I’ve heard is fast becoming an important one.”
“Thank you again,” I said, thinking she’d never come to the point.
She took a long time before she spoke again, keeping me in suspense, on edge. I picked up my coat, trying to signal to her that I was trying to leave.
“Nice fur coat,” she commented. “I suppose my brother gave you that. I’ve heard he’s throwing away his money like a drunken sailor. Giving all he’s saved to three nobodies who came on a bus and took over his life.” She laughed low and sarcastically, the way women of culture know how to laugh. “Now I know why, seeing you; though I’ve heard from others you were pretty enough to make any man foolish. Still, I had no idea a child such as you could look so voluptuous, so sensual and skinny all at the same time. You’re a peculiar blend, Miss Dahl. All innocence and sophistication too. Such a brew must be heady intoxication for a man of my brother’s type.” She chortled. “There’s nothing like the combination of youth, long blond hair, a beautiful face and full breasts to bring out the beast even in the best of men.” She sighed, as if pitying me. “Yes, that’s the trouble with being too young and beautiful. Men are made their worst selves. Paul’s made an ass of himself before, you know. You’re not his first little playmate; though he’s never given one a fur coat before, and a diamond ring. Just as if he could possibly marry you.”
So this was Paul’s sister, Amanda—the queer sister who knitted him sweaters and mailed them off Parcel Post, but refused to speak to him on the streets.
Amanda got up and prowled around me. A cat on the stalk, ready to spring. Her perfume was Oriental, musky, heavy, as she moved in on what she must think a timid prey. “Such flawless skin you have,” she said, reaching to stroke my cheek, “so firm, like porcelain. You won’t keep that skin, or all that hair once you’re thirty-five or so, and long before then he’ll have tired of you. He likes his women young, very young. He likes them pretty, intelligent and talented. I have to acknowledge he has good taste, if not good sense. You see,” she smiled again that hateful smile, “I really don’t give a damn what he does as long as it stays within the limits of decency and doesn’t reflect on my life.”
“Get out of here,” I managed to say. “You don’t know your brother at all. He’s an honorable, generous man and in no way could he harm your life.” Pityingly she smiled.
“My dear child, don’t you realize you are ruining his career? Are you fool enough to think this affair has gone unnoticed? In a town the size of Clairmont everybody knows everything. Though Henny can’t talk, the neighbors do have eyes and ears. Gossip, that’s all I hear, gossip—throwing away his money on juvenile delinquents who take advantage of his good nature, and soon enough he’ll be broke, and he won’t have a medical practice left!” She was heating up now, and I feared any moment she’d rake my face with her long red nails.
“Get out of here!” I ordered hotly. “I know all about you, Amanda, for gossip has reached my ears too! Your trouble is you think your brother owes you the rest of his life because you worked to help put him through college and medical school. But I used to keep his books, and he’s paid you back, plus ten percent interest—so he doesn’t owe you anything! You’re a liar to try and make him seem small in my eyes—for you can’t do that! I love him, and he loves me, and nothing you say can stop our marriage!”
She laughed again, hard and mirthless, then her face turned hard, determined. “Don’t order me to do anything! When I’m ready to go, I’ll leave—and that’s when I’ve had my say! I flew up here just to see his newest little paramour, his dancing doll . . . and believe me you won’t be his last. Why Julia used to tell me he—”
I hotly interrupted, “Get out! Don’t you dare say one word more about him! I know about Julia. He’s told me. If she drove him to others, I don’t blame him; she wasn’t a real wife; she was a housekeeper, a cook—not a wife!”
Merrily she laughed—God how she liked to laugh! She was enjoying this, someone competitive enough to fight back, someone she could claw. “Fool girl! That’s the same old line every married man passes on to his newest conquest. Julia was one of the dearest, sweetest, kindest and most wonderful women who ever lived. She did everything she could to please him. Her one fault lay in the fact she couldn’t give him all the sex he wanted, or the kind of sex he demanded, so yes, in a way, he did have to turn to others—like you. I’ll admit most married men fool around, but they still don’t do what he did!”
I hated the spiteful witch now, really detested her. “What’s he done that was so terrible? Julia drowned his three-year-old son—there’s nothing on earth that would make me take the life of my child! I don’t need revenge that much!”
“I agree,” she said, back to mild tone now. “That was an insane thing for Julia to do. Scotty was such a handsome, lovely boy—but Paul drove her to do what she did. I understand her reasoning. Scotty was the thing Paul loved most. When you seek to destroy someone emotionally, you kill what he loves best.”
Oh! The horror of her!
“He wears a hair shirt, doesn’t he?” she asked in a gloating way, her dark, pretty eyes glowing with satisfaction. “He tortures himself, blames himself, longs for his son, and then you came along, and he put a baby in you. Don’t think the whole town doesn’t know about your abortion! We know! We know everything!”
“You lie!” I shrieked. “It wasn’t an abortion! I had a D & C because my periods weren’t regular!”
“It’s on the hospital records,” she said to me smugly. “You miscarried a two-headed embryo with three legs—twins who didn’t separate properly. You poor thing, don’t you know a D & C is an abortion procedure?”
Drowning, drowning, I was going under, black swirls of water all around . . . two headed? Three legs? Oh, God—the monster baby I so dreaded! But Paul hadn’t touched me then, not Paul. “Don’t cry,” she soothed, and I yanked from the touch of her large hand that flashed with diamonds, “all men are beasts, and I guess he didn’t tell you. But don’t you see, you can’t marry him. I’m doing this for your own good. You’re beautiful, young, gifted, and to live in sin with a married man is a pure waste. Save yourself while you can.”
Tears blurred my vision. I rubbed at my eyes as a child would, feeling a child in a crazy adult world as I stared dully at her bland, smooth face. “Paul’s not a married man. Paul’s a widower. Julia’s dead. She killed herself the day she drowned Scotty.”
Like a mother she patted my shoulder. “No, child, Julia is not dead. Julia lives in an institution where my brother put her after she drowned Scotty. She’s still his legal wife, insane or not.”
She thrust into my slack hand several snapshots, pictures of a thin, pitiful-looking woman lying on a hospital bed, her face in profile in both. A woman ravaged by suffering. Her eyes wide open and staring blankly into space, and her dark hair lay like strings on the pillows. Yet I’d seen too many pictures of Julia not to recognize her, even as changed as she was.
“By the way,” said Paul’s sister, leaving me with the snapshots, “I enjoyed the performance. You’re a marvelous dancer. And that young man—he’s spectacular. Take him. He’s obviously in love with you.” She left then. Left me in a daze of broken dreams and floundering in despair. How was I ever going to learn to swim in an ocean of deceit?
* * *
Julian took me to the big bash which was being thrown in our honor. Hordes of people surrounded us, congratulated us, said so many flattering words. They meant nothing to me. All I could think was Paul had lied to me, lied to me, took me when he knew he was married—lies, I hated lies!
Never had Julian been sweeter or more considerate. He held me close in one of those slow, old-fashioned dances, so close I could feel every hard muscle of his lean body, and the maleness of him p
ressed hard, hard. “I love you, Cathy,” he whispered. “I want you so much I can’t sleep at night. I want to hold you, make love to you. If you don’t let me soon, I’ll go mad.” He buried his face in my piled up hair. “I’ve never had anyone brand new, like you. Cathy, please, please love me, love me.”
His face swam before me. He seemed dream-godlike, perfect, and yet, and yet . . . “Julian, what if I told you I wasn’t brand new?”
“But you are! I know you are!”
“How can you tell?” I giggled drunkenly. “Is there something written on my face that says I am still a virgin?”
“Yes,” he said firmly. “Your eyes. Your eyes tell me you don’t know what it’s like to be loved.”
“Julian, I fear you don’t know much.”
“You underestimate me, Cathy. You treat me like a little boy one minute, and the next like some hungry wolf who will eat you up. Let me make love to you, then you’ll know no man has ever touched you before.”
I laughed. “All right—but one night only.”
“If you have me for one night, you will never, never want me to go,” he warned, and his eyes glowed and sparkled, black as coal.
“Julian . . . I don’t love you.”
“But you will—after tonight.”
“Oh, Julian,” I said with a long yawn, “I’m tired, and partially drunk—go away, leave me alone.”
“Not on your life, kiddo. You said yes, and I’m holding you to it. It’s me tonight . . . and every night for the rest of your life—or mine.”
* * *
On a rainy Saturday morning, with all our luggage already piled into the taxies that would take our company to the airport, Julian and I stood in the city hall with our best friends to support us, and a judge said the words that would bind us together until “death do you part.” When it came my turn to speak my vows, I hesitated, wanting to run away and fly to Paul. He would be crushed when he found out. Then there was Chris. But Chris would rather see me marry Julian than Paul; that’s what he’d told me.
Julian held tight to me, his dark eyes soft and shining with love and pride. I couldn’t run. I could only say what I was supposed to, and then I was married to the one man I’d sworn I would never allow to touch me intimately. Not only Julian was happy and proud, but also Madame Zolta who beamed at us and gave us her blessings, kissed our cheeks and shed motherly tears. “You’ve done the right thing, Catherine. You will be so happy together, such a beautiful couple . . . but remember not to make any babies!”
“Darling, sweetheart, love,” Julian whispered when we were on the plane flying over the Atlantic, “don’t look so sad. This is our day for rejoicing! I swear you will never be sorry. I’ll make you a fantastic husband. I’ll never love anyone but you.”
My head bowed down on his shoulder, then I bawled! Crying for everything that should have been mine on my wedding day. Where were my birdsongs, the bells that should chime? Where was the green grass, and the love that was mine? And where was my mother who was the cause of everything gone wrong? Where? Did she cry when she thought of us? Or did she, more likely, just take my notes with the news-clippings and tear them up? Yes, that would be like her, never to face up to what she’d done. How easily she tripped away on her second honeymoon and left us in the care of a merciless grandmother, and back she came, all smiling and happy, telling us of what a wonderful time she had. While we, locked up, had been brutalized and starved, and she’d never even looked at Cory and Carrie who didn’t grow. Never noticed how shadowed their hollow eyes, how thin their weak legs and arms. Never noticed anything she didn’t want to see.
The rain kept coming down, down, forecasting what was ahead. That cold blasting torrent of freezing water put ice on the wings of the plane that was carrying me farther and farther from all those I loved. That ice was in my heart too. And tonight I had to sleep with a man I didn’t even like when he wasn’t on stage, and dressed in costume, and playing the role of a prince.
But to give Julian his due, he was all he boasted of being in bed. I forgot who he was, and pretended he was someone else as his kisses played over my body, and not one inch went unexplored, unkissed or un-caressed. Before he finished, I wanted him. I was more than willing to have him take me . . . and try to erase the persistent thought that I had just made the worst mistake of my life.
And I had made many mistakes.
Labyrinth of Lies
Before our bodies had adjusted to jet lag, we went into rehearsals with The Royal Ballet looking on, comparing our style to theirs. Already Madame Z. had told us their way was strictly classical, but we were to do everything in our own way, and were not to be intimidated. “Stick to your guns, keep it pure, but make each dance your very own. Julian, Catherine, as newlyweds, all eyes will be upon you two—so make every scene as romantic as you can. The two of you together touch my heart and make it cry . . . and if you keep it up, what you’re doing, you may make ballet history.”
She smiled, and tears filled the deep furrows about her tiny eyes. “Let us all prove that America too can produce the very best!” She broke then and turned her back, so we couldn’t see her face crumple. “I luv all of you so much,” she sobbed. “Now go away . . . leave me be . . . and make me proud of you.”
We were determined to do our very damndest to make Madame Zolta’s name famous once more, not as a dancer, but as a teacher. We practiced until we fell exhausted into our beds.
The Royal Opera House, Covent Gardens shared its space with the ballet company, and when I first saw it I sucked in my breath and held fast to Julian’s hand. The red and gold auditorium seated more than two thousand people. Its sparkling swirl of balconies that rose up to a high dome with a sunburst design in the middle stunned me with its old-fashioned splendor. Soon we were to find out that backstage was far less opulent, with no charm in its crowded dressing rooms and a rabbit warren of tiny offices and workrooms; worst of all, no rehearsal studios at all! Try as I would to find something admirable about British plumbing and heating facilities, I failed utterly. I was forever cold, except under the duress of dancing. I hated the stingy supply of hot water in the bathrooms, forcing me to take the quickest bath possible before I froze to death.
And all the time Julian stayed glued to my side. Privacy was something he’d never heard of and had no respect for. Even when I was in the bathroom he had to be there, so I’d race to lock the door and leave him pounding. “Let me in! I know what you’re doing, why all the secrecy?”
Not only that, he wanted to crawl into my mind and know all my past, all my thoughts, everything I’d done. “And so your mother and father were killed in an auto crash, what happened next?” he asked, holding me in an iron embrace. Why did he have to hear it again? I swallowed. By now I had concocted a believable story about the law wanting to put us in an orphanage, so Chris, Carrie and I had to run away. “We had a little money saved up, you know, from birthdays, Christmas, and such. We caught a bus that would take us to Florida, but Carrie was sick and threw up, and this huge fat black lady came and took us to her ‘doctor son.’ I guess he felt sorry for us; he took us in . . . and that’s all there is to it.”
“All there is to it,” he repeated slowly. “There’s a hell of a lot you’re not telling me! Though I can guess the rest. He saw a rich plum in a young beautiful girl, and that’s why he was so damned generous. Cathy—just how intimate were you with him?”
“I loved him, and I planned to marry him.”
“Then why didn’t you?” he shot out. “Why did you finally say yes to me?”
Tact and subtlety were never among my virtues. I grew angry because he was making me explain, when I didn’t want to explain. “You were at me all the time!” I stormed. “You made me believe I could learn to love you—but I don’t think I can! We’ve made a mistake, Julian! A horrible mistake!”
“Don’t you say anything like that again, you hear!” Julian sobbed as if I’d wounded him terribly, and I was reminded of Chris. I couldn’t go thro
ugh my life damaging everyone I met, so my rage vanished as I allowed him to take me in his arms. His dark head lowered so he could kiss my neck. “Cathy, I love you so much. More than I ever wanted to love any woman. I’ve never had anyone love me for myself. Thank you for trying to love me, even though you say you don’t.”
It hurt to hear the quiver in his voice. He seemed a small boy who was pleading for the impossible to happen, and perhaps I was doing him an injustice. I turned and wrapped my arms around his neck. “I do want to love you, Jule. I did marry you, and I am committed, so I’ll try and make you the best wife I can. But don’t push at me! Don’t make demands—just let love come as I learn more about you. You’re almost a stranger to me, even though we’ve known each other for three years.”
He winced, as if I ever really knew him, then love would be, indeed, impossible. He doubted himself so much. Oh, God, what had I done? What kind of person was I, that I could turn from an honest, sincere, honorable man and rush headlong into the arms of someone I suspected was a brute?
Momma had a way of acting impulsively, and being sorry when it was too late. I wasn’t like her underneath; I couldn’t be! I had too many talents to be like someone who had none . . . none but for making every man fall in love with her, and that wasn’t intelligence. No, I wanted to be like Chris . . . and then I floundered again, caught, as always, in the quicksand of her making. All of it was her fault, even my marriage to Julian!
“Cathy, you’re going to have to learn to overlook a lot of flaws,” said Julian. “Don’t put me up on a pedestal, don’t expect perfection. I have feet of clay, as you already know, and if you try to make me into the Prince Charming I think you want . . . you are going to fail. You have that doctor of yours on a pedestal too; I think you might be the kind to put all the men you love up so high they are bound to come tumbling down. Just love me and try not to see what doesn’t please you.”
I wasn’t good at overlooking faults. I’d always seen Momma’s when Chris never had. I always flipped over the brightest coin and looked for the tarnish. Funny. Paul’s tarnish had seemed all Julia’s fault until Amanda came with her horror story. Another reason to hate Momma, making me doubt my instinct!
The Flowers in the Attic Series: The Dollangangers: Flowers in the Attic, Petals on the Wind, If There Be Thorns, Seeds of Yesterday, and a New Excerpt! Page 61
