I got up to leave. It was in my heart to be kind to her, to let her share in Jory’s life . . . but the meanness in her hard eyes changed my mind. She would take my son and make of him what she’d made of Julian, someone who could never find fulfillment because life offered to him but one choice.
“I didn’t expect to say this today, Madame, but you force me. You made Julian believe if he couldn’t dance, then life held nothing. He would have recovered from that broken neck and his internal injuries, except you said he would never dance again—and he overheard you. He wasn’t sleeping. So, he chose to die! The very fact that he could move the arm that wasn’t strapped down, enough to steal the scissors from that nurse’s pocket, proved he was already recovering but all he could see was a bleak desert where the ballet didn’t exist! Well, Madame . . . you are not doing that to my son! My son will have the chance to choose for himself what kind of life he wants—and I hope to God it is not the ballet!”
“You fool!” she spat at me, jumping up to pace back and forth in front of her old, beat-up desk, “there is nothing better than adulation from your fans, the sound of thundering applause, the feel of roses in your arms! And soon enough you will find that out for yourself! You think to take my husband’s grandson away, and hide him from the stage? Jory will dance, and before I die I will live to see him on stage—doing what he must—or he too will die!
“You wanna play ‘mommy,’” she sneered, curling her lip scornfully, “and ‘wifey’ to that big handsome doctor too, perhaps? And make another child for him, yah? Well . . . to hell with you, Catherine, if that is all you want out of life.” She broke then, and sobs came from deep down in her depths, to make her voice when she spoke again harsh and husky, when before it had been high and shrill. “Yess, go on . . . marry that big doctor you’ve had a yen for since you came starry-eyed and fresh faced as a kid to me—and ruin his life too!”
“Ruin his life too?” I repeated dully.
She spun about. “You got something eating at you, Catherine, Something gnawing at your guts. Something so bitter it simmers in your eyes and grits your teeth together! I know your kind. You ruin everyone who touches your life and God help the next man who loves you as much as my son did!”
Unexpectedly, some enigmatic, invisible cloak dropped down to wrap me in my mother’s cool, detached poise. Never before had I felt so untouchable. “Thank you for enlightening me, Madame. Good-bye and good luck. You won’t be seeing me again, or Jory.” I turned and left. Left for good.
* * *
Tuesday night Bart Winslow showed up at my cottage door. He was dressed in his best, and I was wearing blue; he smiled, pleased I’d obeyed. He took me to a Chinese restaurant where we ate with chopsticks, and everything was black or red.
“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, with the exception of my wife,” he said while I read my fortune cookie slip. “Beware of impulsive actions.”
“Most men don’t mention their wives when they take another woman out—”
He interrupted: “I am not an ordinary man. I’m just letting you know, you are not the most beautiful woman I know.”
I smiled at him sweetly, closely watching his eyes. I saw I irritated him, charmed him, but most of all intrigued him, and when we danced, I also learned I excited him. “What is beauty without brains?” I asked, my lips brushing his ear as I stood on tiptoes. “What is beauty that is growing old, and overweight, and no challenge at all?”
“You are the damndest female I’ve ever known!” His dark eyes flashed. “How dare you imply my wife is stupid, old and fat? She looks very young for her age!”
“So do you,” I said with a small mocking laugh. His face reddened. “But don’t worry, Mr. Attorney . . . I’m not competing with her—I don’t want a pet poodle.”
“Lady,” he said coldly, “you won’t have one, not in me. I’m leaving soon to set up my offices in Virginia. My wife’s mother isn’t well and needs some attendants. As soon as you’ve settled your account with me, you can say good-bye to a man who obviously brings out the worst in you.”
“You haven’t mentioned your fee.”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
* * *
Now I knew where I was going—back to Virginia to live somewhere near Foxworth Hall.
Now I could begin the real revenge.
“But Cathy,” wailed Carrie tearfully, very upset because we were leaving Paul and Henny. “I don’t want to leave! I love Dr. Paul and Henny! You go anywhere you want to, but leave me here! Can’t you see Dr. Paul doesn’t want us to go? Don’t you care when you hurt him? You’re always hurting him! I don’t want to!”
“I care very much about Dr. Paul, Carrie, and I don’t want to hurt him. However, there are certain things I must do, and I must do now. And Carrie, you belong with me and Jory. Paul needs his chance to find a wife without so many dependents. Don’t you see, we are an encumbrance to him?”
She backed off and glared at me. “Cathy, he wants you for his wife!”
“He hasn’t said so in a long, long time.”
“That’s because you got your mind set on going and doing something else. He told me he wants you to have what you want. He loves you too much. If I were him, I’d make you stay, and wouldn’t care what you wanted!” She sobbed then, and ran from me to slam her bedroom door.
I went to Paul and told him where I was going and why. His happy expression turned sad, and then his eyes went vague. “Yes, I suspected all along you would feel it necessary to go back there and confront your mother face to face. I’ve seen you making your plans and I hoped you’d ask me to go with you.”
“It’s something I have to do myself,” I said, holding to both his hands now. “Understand, please understand I still love you and always will.”
“I understand,” he said simply. “I wish you luck, my Catherine. I wish you happiness. I wish all your days are bright and sunny and you get what you want—whether or not I am included in your plans. When you need me, if you ever need me, I’ll be here, waiting to do what I can. Every minute I’ll be loving you and missing you. . . . Just remember, when you want me I’ll be there.”
I didn’t deserve him. He was much too fine for the likes of me.
I didn’t want Chris or Carrie to know what part of Virginia I was headed for. Chris wrote to me once or twice a week and I responded letter for letter—but not one word did I tell him . . . he’d find out when he saw the change of address.
* * *
The month was May, and the day after Carrie’s twentieth birthday party, celebrated without Chris there, Carrie, Jory and I set off in my car, backing out of Paul’s driveway where we had come to say good-bye. Paul waved and when I looked in the rear-view mirror I saw him reach in his breast pocket for his handkerchief. He touched the tears in the corners of his eyes even as he kept on waving.
Henny stared after us. I thought I saw written in her expressive brown eyes. Fool, fool, fool to go away and leave good man!
Nothing proved more what a fool I was than the sunny day I set out for the mountains of Virginia with my small sister and son in the front seat next to me. But I had to do it—compelled by my own nature to seek the revenge in the place of our incarceration.
The Siren Call of the Mountains
At the last moment I decided I couldn’t risk seeing Bart Winslow even long enough to pay his fee, so I dropped a check for two hundred dollars in a mailbox and considered that enough—whether or not it was.
With Carrie beside me and Jory on her lap I headed straight for the Blue Ridge Mountains. Carrie was very excited now that we were on our way, her big blue eyes wide as she commented on everything we passed. “Oh, I love to travel!” she said happily. When Jory grew sleepy, she carefully made a bed for him on the back seat and sat with him to be sure he didn’t roll off and fall to the floor. “He’s so beautiful, Cathy. I am going to have at least six children, or maybe even more. I want half to look just like Jory, and half like you and Chri
s, and two or three like Paul.”
“I love you, Carrie, and I pity you too. You’re planning on a dozen children, not just six.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, settling back to take a nap herself. “Nobody is gonna want me, so I won’t ever have any children but yours to love.”
“That’s not true. I’ve got the feeling, once we are in our new home, Miss Carrie Dollanganger Sheffield is going to have a love of her own. I’ll even bet you five dollars—is it a bet?” She smiled, but she refused to take on the bet.
As I drove on northwest and the night began to descend Carrie grew very quiet. She stared out the windows and then back at me, and her large blue eyes held a look of fear. “Cathy, are we going back there ?”
“No, not exactly.” That’s all I’d say until we’d found a hotel and settled in for the night.
The first thing in the morning a real estate woman I’d contacted in advance came to drive us in her car to look over the “properties for sale.” She was a large, mannish woman and all business. “What you need is something compact, utilitarian and not too expensive. In this neighborhood all the houses run into big money. But there are a few small houses that the rich people used to use for guest homes, or they housed their servants in some. There’s one that’s very pretty with a nice flower garden.”
She showed us that five-room cottage first and immediately I was won over. I think Carrie was too, but I’d warned her to show no signs of approval. I picked at small details to lead the agent astray. “The chimney looks like it won’t work.”
“It’s a fine chimney, a good draft.”
“The furnace—does it use oil or gas?”
“Natural gas was installed five years ago and the bath has been remodeled, the kitchen too. A couple used to live here who worked for the Foxworths on the hill, but they sold out and went down to Florida. But you can tell they loved this house.”
Of course they had. Only a house that had been very beloved would have all the nice little details that made it exceptional. I bought it and signed all the papers without a lawyer, though I’d read up on the subject and insisted on having the deed checked.
“We’ll have a wall oven put in with a glass door,” I said to Carrie who loved to cook—thank God, for I’d hardly have the time. “And we’ll repaint the whole interior of the house ourselves and save the money.”
Already I was finding out that one hundred thousand, after paying all the accounts I had to settle and putting the down payment on the cottage, was not going to last long. But I hadn’t gone into this venture blindfolded. While Carrie stayed with Jory in a motel, I visited the ballet instructor who was selling her school and retiring. She was blond and very small, and nearing seventy. She seemed pleased to see me as we shook hands and settled on the amount she wanted. “I’ve seen you and your husband dance and really, Miss Dahl, though I’m delighted you want my school, it’s a shame you are retiring at such an early age. I couldn’t have given up performing at twenty-seven, never!”
She wasn’t me. She didn’t have my past or my kind of childhood. When she saw my determination to go through with the deal, she gave me the list of her students. “Most of these children belong to the wealthy people who live around here, and I don’t think any of them seriously intend to become professional dancers. They come to please their parents who like to see them looking pretty in little tutus during the recitals. I have failed to turn out one gifted performer.”
All three bedrooms in our cottage were very small, but the living room was L-shaped and of reasonable proportions, with a fireplace sided by bookcases. The short part of the L could be used as a dining room. Carrie and I set to with paint brushes and in one week we had painted every room a soft green. With the white woodwork it looked delicious. The space opened up and everything seemed larger. Carrie, of course, would have to have red and purple accessories for “her” room.
In three weeks we had both settled into a new routine, with me teaching the ballet school located over the local pharmacy and Carrie doing the housework and most of the cooking while she looked out for Jory. As often as possible I took Jory with me to class, not only to relieve Carrie of the responsibility, but also to have him near me. I was remembering Madame Marisha’s talk of letting him look and listen and get the feel of the dance.
I sat one Saturday morning in early June staring out the windows at the blue-misted mountains that never changed. The Foxworth mansion was still the same. I could have turned back the clock to 1957 and on this night taken Jory and Carrie by the hand and followed those meandering trails from the train depot. It would have been the same as when Momma led her four children up to their prison of hope and despair, then left them to be tortured, whipped and starved. I went over and over everything that had happened: the wooden key we’d made to escape our prison room, the money we’d stolen from our mother’s grand bedroom, that night when we found a large book of sexual pleasures in the nightstand drawer. Maybe if we’d never seen that book . . . maybe then things would have turned out differently.
“What are you thinking of?” asked Carrie. “Are you thinking we should go back to visit Dr. Paul and Henny—I hope that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Really, Carrie, you know I can’t do that. It’s recital time and the little girls and boys in my class will be rehearsing every day. It’s the recitals the parents pay to see. Without them they have nothing to boast of to their friends. But maybe we could ask Paul and Henny to visit us.”
Carrie pouted and then for some reason brightened. “You know, Cathy, the day the man came to put in the new oven he was young and good looking, and when he saw me with Jory he asked if that was my son. That made me giggle, and he smiled too. His name was Theodore Alexander Rockingham, but he asked me to call him Alex.” Here she paused and looked at me fearfully, with hope trembling her all over. “Cathy, he asked me for a date.”
“Did you accept?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know him well enough. He said he’s going to college and works part-time doing electrical work to help pay his tuition. He says he’s going to be an electrical engineer or maybe a minister. . . . He hasn’t decided yet which one.” She gave me a small smile of both pride and embarrassment. “Cathy, he didn’t seem to notice how little I am.”
The way she said that made me smile too. “Carrie—you’re blushing! You tell me one moment you don’t know this fella very well, and then you come up with all sorts of pertinent facts. Let’s invite him to dinner. Then I can find out if he’s good enough for my sister.”
“But, but . . .” she stammered, her small face flushed red. “Alex asked me to go home with him to Maryland for a weekend. He told his parents about me . . . but Cathy, I’m not ready to meet his parents!” Her blue eyes were full of panic. That’s when I realized that Carrie must have seen this young man many, many times while I was teaching my ballet classes.
“Look, darling, invite Alex here to dinner and let him fly home alone. I think I should know him better before you go off with him alone.”
She gave me the strangest long look, then lowered her eyes to the floor. “Will you be here if he comes to dinner?”
“Why, of course I will.” Only then did it dawn on me. Oh God! I drew her into my arms. “Look, sweetheart, I’ll ask Paul to come up this weekend, so when Alex sees I go for older men he won’t even glance my way. Besides, you saw him first and he saw you first. He won’t want an older woman with a child.”
Happily she threw her thin arms about my neck. “Cathy, I love you! And Alex can fix toasters, steam irons. Alex can fix anything!”
* * *
One week later Alex and Paul were at our dinner table. Alex was a nice-looking young man of twenty-three who complimented my cooking. I was quick to point out that Carrie had prepared most of the meal. “No,” she denied modestly, “Cathy did most of it. I only stuffed the chicken, made the dressing, mashed the potatoes, made the hot rolls and the lemon mering
ue pie—Cathy did the rest.” Suddenly I felt I’d done nothing but set the table. Paul winked to show he understood.
When Alex took Carrie to the movies and Jory was snug in bed with his favorite stuffed toys, Paul and I settled down before the fire like an old married couple.
“Have you seen your mother yet?” he asked.
“They’re here, my mother and her husband,” I said quietly. “Staying in Foxworth Hall. The local newspaper is full of their comings and goings. It seems my dear, stone-eyed grandmother has suffered a slight stroke, so the Bartholomew Winslows will now make their home with her—that is, until she is dead.”
Paul didn’t say anything for the longest time. We sat before the fire and watched the red coals burn down to gray ashes. “I like what you’ve done with this house,” he said finally. “It’s very cozy.”
He got up then and came to sit close by my side on the sofa. Tenderly he drew me into his arms. He just held me, with our eyes locked. “Where do I fit in?” he whispered. “Or don’t I fit anywhere now?”
My arms tightened about him. I’d never stopped loving him, even when Julian was my husband. It seemed there wasn’t any one man who could give me everything.
“I want to make love with you, Catherine, before Carrie comes back.”
Quickly we shed our clothes. Our passion for each other had not lessened in all the years since we’d first met in this most intimate way. It didn’t seem wrong. Not when he could murmer, “Oh, Catherine, if there is one thing I wish for, it is to have you as mine all my life through, and when I die, let it be after such as this, with you in my arms, your arms about me, and you will be looking at me as you are now.”
“How beautiful and poetic,” I said. “But you won’t be fifty-two until September. I know you’ll live to be eighty or ninety. And when you are, I pray passion will still rule both of us as it does now.”
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 71
