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!

by Andrews, V. C.

  Foolishly I smiled, when I should have known better than to challenge him when he was feeling less than confident. “What’s the matter, Jule? Didn’t your sex break satisfy your lust for perversion? Why don’t you go out and find a schoolgirl, for I’m not going to cooperate.”

  I’d never before thrown in his face that I knew about his debaucheries with very young girls. It had hurt at first when I found out, but now I knew he used those girls like he used paper napkins, to casually toss away when soiled, and back he’d come to me, to say he loved me, needed me, and I was the only one.

  Slowly he advanced, using his pantherlike stalk that told me he would be ruthless, but I held my head high, knowing I could escape by shutting off my mind, and he couldn’t afford to hit me. He paused one foot away. I heard the clock on the nightstand ticking.

  “Cathy, you will do as I say if you know what’s good for you.”

  He was cruel that night, evil and spiteful; he forced upon me what should only be given in love. He dared me to bite. And this time I wouldn’t have just one black eye, but two, and maybe worse. “And I’ll tell everybody you are sick. Your period has you so badly cramped you can’t dance—and you won’t skip out on me, or make any phone calls, for I’ll bind you to the bed and hide your passport.” He grinned and slapped my face lightly. “Now, honey-chile, whatcha gonna do this time?”

  * * *

  Smiling and himself again, Julian sauntered naked to the breakfast table, flung himself down, sprawled out his long, beautifully shaped legs and asked casually, “What’s for breakfast?” He held out his arms so I could come and kiss his lips, which I did. I smiled, brushed the lock of dangling hair from his forehead, poured his coffee, and then said, “Good morning, darling. Same old breakfast for you. Fried eggs and fried ham. I’m having a cheese omelet.”

  “I’m sorry, Cathy,” he murmured. “Why do you try to bring out the worst in me? I only use those girls to spare you.”

  “If they don’t mind, then I don’t mind . . . but don’t ever force me to do what I did last night. I’m very good at hating, Julian. Just as good as you are at forcing. And at harboring revenge I’m an expert!”

  I slid onto his plate two fried eggs and two slices of ham. No toast and no butter. Both of us ate in silence. He sat across the checkered red and white tablecloth, closely shaven, clean and smelling of soap and shaving lotion. In his own dark and light exotic way he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.

  “Cathy . . . you haven’t said you love me today.”

  “I love you, Julian.”

  An hour after breakfast I was madly searching every room to find my passport, while Julian slept on the bed, where I’d dragged him from the kitchen after he fell asleep from all the sedatives I’d dumped in his coffee.

  He wasn’t nearly as good at hiding as I was at finding. Under the bed, and under the blue rug, I found my passport. Quickly I threw clothes into my suitcases. When I was packed, dressed and ready to go, I leaned above him and kissed him good-bye. He was breathing deep and regularly, and smiling slightly; perhaps the drugs were giving him pleasant dreams. Though I’d drugged him, I hesitated, wondering if I’d done the right thing. Shrugging off my indecision, I headed toward the garage. Yes, I did what I had to do. If he were awake now, he’d be burred to my side all through the day, with my passport in his pocket. I’d left a note telling him where I was going.

  * * *

  Paul and Carrie met me at the airport in North Carolina. I hadn’t seen Paul in three years. Down the ramp I went, my eyes locked with his. His face tilted up to mine, the sun in his eyes so he had to squint. “I’m glad you could come,” he said, “though I’m sorry Julian couldn’t make it.”

  “He’s sorry too,” I said, looking up into his face. He was the type of man who improved with age. The mustache I’d persuaded him to grow was still there, and when he smiled dimples showed in both his cheeks.

  “Are you searching to find gray hair?” he teased when I stared too long and perhaps with too much admiration. “If you see any let me know and I’ll have my barber touch them up. I’m not ready for gray hair yet. I like your new hair style; it makes you even more beautiful. But you’re much too thin. What you need is lots of Henny’s home cooking. She’s here, you know, in a motel’s small kitchen, whipping up homemade rolls your brother so loves. It’s her gift to him for becoming another doctor-son.”

  “Did Chris get my telegram? He does know I’m coming?”

  “Oh, indeed yes! He was fretting through every moment, afraid Julian would refuse to let you leave him, and knowing Julian wouldn’t come. Honestly, Cathy, if you hadn’t shown up, I don’t think Chris would accept his degree.”

  To sit beside Paul, with Henny on his far side and Carrie next to me, and watch my Christopher stride down the aisle and up the steps to accept his diploma, and then stand behind the podium and make the valedictory speech, put tears in my eyes and a swelling happiness in my heart. He did it so beautifully I cried. Paul, Henny and Carrie also had tears to shed. Even my success on stage couldn’t compare to the pride I felt now. And Julian, he should be here too, making himself a part of my family and not stubbornly resisting all the time.

  I thought of our mother too, who should be here to witness this. I knew she was in London, for I was still following her movements about the world. Waiting, always waiting to see her again. What would I do when I did? Would I chicken out and let her get away again? I knew one thing, she’d learn that her eldest son was now a doctor—for I’d be sure she knew—just as I kept her informed about what Julian and I were doing.

  Of course I knew by now why my mother kept always on the move—she was afraid, so afraid I’d catch up with her! She’d been in Spain when Julian and I arrived. The news had been published in several papers, and not long after that I picked up a Spanish paper to see the lovely face of Mrs. Bartholomew Winslow, flying to London as fast as she could.

  Tearing my thoughts from her, I glanced around at the thousands of relatives crowded into the huge auditorium. When I looked back at the stage I saw Chris up there, ready to step behind the podium. I don’t know how he managed to find me, but somehow he did. Our gazes met and locked, and across all the heads of those who sat between us, we met in silent communication and shared an overwhelming jubilation! We’d done it! Both of us! Reached our goals; become what we’d set out to be when we were children. It wouldn’t have mattered at all about those years and months we’d lost—if Cory hadn’t died, if our mother hadn’t betrayed us, if Carrie had gained the height that should have been hers, and would have been if Momma had found another solution. Maybe I wasn’t a prima ballerina yet—but I would be one day, and Chris would be the finest doctor alive.

  Watching Chris, I believed we shared the same thoughts. I saw him swinging a bat when he was ten to smash a ball over the fence, and then he’d run like mad to touch all bases in the quickest possible time, when he could have walked and made his home run. But that wasn’t his way, to make it look too easy. I saw him racing on his bike yards ahead of me, then slowing down deliberately so I could catch up and we’d both reach home at the same time. I saw him in the locked room, in his bed three feet from mine, smiling encouragingly. I saw him again in the attic shadows, almost hidden in the immense space, looking so lost and bewildered as he turned away from the mother he loved . . . to me. Vicariously we’d shared so many romances while lying on a dirty old mattress in the attic while the rain pelted down and separated us from all humanity. Was that what did it? Was that why he couldn’t see any girl but me? How sad for him, for me.

  The university planned a huge luncheon celebration, and at our table Carrie babbled away, but Chris and I could only stare at each other, each of us trying to find the right words to say.

  “Dr. Paul has moved into a new office building, Cathy,” gushed Carrie breathlessly. “I’d hate him being so far away, but I am going to be his secretary! I am going to have a brand new electric typewriter colored red! Dr. Paul thought a c
ustom-painted typewriter of purple might look a little garish, but I didn’t think it would, so I settled for second best. And nobody ever is gonna have a better secretary than I’ll be! I’ll answer his phone, make his appointments, keep his filing system, do his bookkeeping, and every day he and I will eat lunch together!” She beamed on Paul a bright smile. It seemed he’d given her the security to regain the exuberant self-confidence that she’d lost. But I was to find out later, sadly, this was Carrie’s false facade, one for Paul, Chris and me to see, and when she was alone, it was far different.

  Then Chris frowned and asked why Julian hadn’t come. “He wanted to come, Chris, really he did,” I lied. “But he has obligations that keep him so busy he couldn’t spare the time. He asked me to give you his congratulations. We do have very tight schedules. Actually, I can only stay two days. We’re going to do a TV production of Giselle next month.”

  Later we celebrated again in a fine hotel restaurant. This was our chance to give Chris the gifts each of us had for him. It had been our childish habit to always shake a present before it was opened, but the big box Paul gave Chris was too heavy to shake. “Books!” said Chris rightly. Six huge, fat medical reference volumes to represent an entire set that must have cost Paul a fortune. “I couldn’t carry more than six,” he explained. “The remainder of the set will be waiting for you at home.” I stared at him, realizing his home was the only real home we had.

  Deliberately Chris saved my gift for last, anticipating this would be the best and in that way, just as we used to, we could stretch out the enjoyment. It was too large and much too heavy to shake and besides I cautioned him it was fragile, but he laughed, for we used to always try and trick the other, “No, it’s more books—nothing else could be as heavy.” He gave me a funny, wistful smile that made him seem a boy again.

  “I give you one guess, my Christopher Doll, and one hint. Inside that box is the one thing you said you wanted more than anything else—and our father said he would give it to you the day you got your black doctor’s bag.” Why had I used that kind of soft voice, to make Paul turn his eyes and narrow them, and see the blood that rose to stain my brother’s cheeks? Were we never to forget, and change? Were we forever going to feel too much? Chris fiddled with the ribbons, careful not to tear the fancy paper. When he stripped off the paper, tears of remembrance welled in his eyes. His hands trembled as he carefully lifted from the cushioned box a French mahogany case with a gleaming brass lock, key and carrying handle. He gave me a tortured look even as his lips quivered, seeming incredulous that after all these years I’d remembered.

  “Oh, damn it, Cathy,” he said all choked up with emotion, “I never really hoped to own one of these. You shouldn’t have spent so much . . . it must have cost a fortune . . . and you shouldn’t have!”

  “But I wanted to, and it’s not an original, Chris, only a replica of a John Cuff Side Pillar Microscope. But the man in the shop said it was an exact duplicate of the original and a collector’s item nevertheless. And it works too.” He shook his head as he handled the solid brass and ivory accessory instruments, and the optical lens, the tweezers, and the leather-bound book titled Antique Microscopes, 1675-1840.

  I said faintly, “In case you decide to play around in your spare time, you can do your own research on germs and viruses.”

  “Some toy you give,” he said, gritty-voiced, and now the two tears in the corners of his eyes began to slide down his cheeks. “You remembered the day Daddy said he would give me this when I became a doctor.”

  “How could I forget? That little catalog was the one thing you took of yours that wasn’t clothes, when we went to Foxworth Hall. And every time he swatted a fly, or killed a spider, Paul, Chris would long to have a John Cuff microscope. And once he said he wanted to be the Mouseman of the Attic, and discover for himself why mice die so young.”

  “Do mice die young?” asked Paul seriously. “How did you know they were young? Did you capture baby ones, and mark them in some way?”

  Chris and I met eyes. Yeah, we’d lived in another world back when we were young and imprisoned, so that we could look at the mice who came to steal and nibble on our food, especially the one named Mickey.

  * * *

  Now I had to go back to New York and face Julian’s wrath. But first I had to have a little time alone with my brother. Paul took Henny and Carrie to a movie while Chris and I strolled the campus of his university. “And you see that window up there on the second floor, the fifth from the end there—that was my room I shared with Hank. We had a study group of eight guys, and all through college and med school we stuck together, and studied together, and when we dated, we dated together.”

  “Oh,” I sighed. “Did you date a lot?”

  “Only on the weekends. The study schedule was too heavy for socializing during the week. None of it was easy, Cathy. There’s so much to know, physics, biology, anatomy, chemistry, and I could go on and on.”

  “You’re not telling me what I want to hear. Who did you date? Was there, or is there, someone special?”

  He caught my hand and drew me closer to his side. “Well, should I begin to list them one by one, and by name? If I did it would take several hours. If there had been someone special, all I would do is name one—and I can’t do that. I liked them all . . . but I didn’t like any well enough to love, if that’s what you want to know.”

  Yes, that was exactly what I wanted to know. “I’m sure you didn’t live a celibate life, even though you didn’t fall in love . . . ?”

  “That’s none of your business,” he said lightly.

  “I think it is. It would give me peace to know you had a girl you loved.”

  “I do have a girl I love,” he answered. “I’ve known her all my life. When I go to sleep at night, I dream of her, dancing overhead, calling my name, kissing my cheek, screaming when she has nightmares, and I wake up to take the tar from her hair. There are times when I wake up to ache all over, as she aches all over, and I dream I kiss the marks the whip made . . . and I dream of a certain night when she and I went out on the cold slate roof and stared up at the sky, and she said the moon was the eye of God looking down and condemning us for what we were. So there, Cathy, is the girl who haunts me and rules me, and fills me with frustrations, and darkens all the hours I spend with other girls who just can’t live up to the standards she set. And I hope to God you’re satisfied.”

  I turned to move as in a dream, and in that dream I put my arms about him and stared up into his face, his beautiful face that haunted me too. “Don’t love me, Chris. Forget about me. Do as I do, take whomever knocks first on your door, and let her in.”

  He smiled ironically and put me quickly from him. “I did exactly what you did, Catherine Doll, the first who knocked on my door was let in—and now I can’t drive her out. But that’s my problem—not yours.”

  “I don’t deserve to be there. I’m not an angel, not a saint . . . you should know that.”

  “Angel, saint, Devil’s spawn, good or evil, you’ve got me pinned to the wall and labeled as yours until the day I die. And if you die first, then it won’t be long before I follow.”

  Gathering Shadows

  Both Chris and Paul, to say nothing of Carrie, persuaded me to go back to Clairmont and spend a few days with my family. When I was there, surrounded by all the cozy comforts, the charm of the house and the gardens had their chance to beguile me again. I told myself this was the way it would have been if I’d married Paul. No problems. A sweet, easy life. Then, when I let myself wonder how Julian was faring, I thought of all the mean and spiteful ways he had of annoying me by opening my mail from Paul or Chris, as if he were looking for incriminating evidence. No doubt when he flew back from Spain, he’d deliberately let my house plants die as a way to punish me.

  There must be something weird about me, I was thinking as I stood on the balcony overlooking Paul’s magnificent gardens. I wasn’t that beautiful, or that unforgettable, or that indispensable, to
any man. I stayed there and let Chris come up behind me and put his arm about my shoulders. I leaned my head against him and sighed, staring up at the moon. The same old moon that had known our shame before, still there to witness more. I didn’t do anything; I swear I didn’t, just let his arm stay about me. Maybe I moved a little to contour myself against him when he had me in a tight embrace. “Cathy, Cathy,” he groaned, pressing his lips down into my hair, “sometimes life just doesn’t have any meaning without you. I’d throw away my M.D. and set out for the South Pacific if you’d go with me. . . .”

  “And leave Carrie?”

  “We could take her with us.” I thought he was playing a game of wishing, like we had when children. “I’d buy a sail boat and take out tourists, and if they cut themselves I’d have all the training to bandage their cuts.” He kissed me then with the fervor of a man gone wild from denial. I didn’t want to respond, yet I did, making him gasp as he tried to coax me into his room.

  “Stop!” I cried. “I don’t want you except as a brother! Leave me alone! Go find someone else!”

  Dazed and hurt-looking, he backed off. “What kind of woman are you anyway, Cathy? You returned my kisses—you responded in every way you could—and now you draw away and pull the virtuous act!”

  “Hate me then!”

  “Cathy, I could never hate you.” He smiled at me bitterly. “There are times when I want to hate you, times when I think you are just the same as our mother, but I don’t ever stop loving once I start!” He entered his room and slammed the door, leaving me speechless, staring after him.

  No! I wasn’t like Momma, I wasn’t! I’d responded only because I was still seeking my lost identity. Julian stole my reflection and made it his. Julian wanted to steal my strength and call it his own; he wanted me to make all the decisions, so he couldn’t be blamed when a mistake was made. I was still trying to prove my worth, so in the end I could disprove the grandmother’s condemnation. See, Grandmother, I am not bad or evil. Or else everyone wouldn’t love me so much. I was still that selfish, ravenous, demanding attic mouse who had to have it proven time and time again that I was worthy enough to live in the sunlight.