“Henny is very ill. It’s a pity you can’t give up your plans to visit her before it is too late. I wish you good luck, Catherine.” With a sigh I put that note aside and picked up the note Henny had enclosed with Paul’s written on festive red paper, with the letters made rooked because of painful arthritic knuckles.
Dear Fairy-Child,
Henny is old; Henny is tired; Henny is glad own son is by her side, but unhappy because other children far away.
I tell you now, before I go on to better place, the simple secret of living happy. All you need do is say good-bye to yesterday’s loves, and hello to the new. Look around and see who needs you most and you won’t go wrong. Forget who needed you yesterday.
You write and say you have new baby inside you made by husband of your mother. Rejoice in child, even if mother’s husband will stay married to her. Forgive your mother, even if once she did evil. Nobody all bad, and a lot of the good in her children must have come from her. When you can forgive and forget the past, peace and love will come again to you, and this time it will stay.
And if you never in this world see Henny again, remember that Henny loved you well, as her own daughter, just as I loved your angel-sister whom I expect to meet again soon.
Soon to be in heaven,
Henny
I put the note down with a heavy feeling of sadness in my chest, then shrugged my shoulders. What had to be done would be done. A long time ago I’d set my feet on this path, and I’d follow it, come what may.
How strange the wind wasn’t blowing when I stepped out the door and turned to wave to Emma who was spending the night with Jory. With boots covering my silver slippers, I headed for my car. How hushed it was, like nature was holding back in suspense as it focused on me.
Soft as eiderdown snow began to drift down. I glanced up at the gray, leaden sky, so much like the grandmother’s eyes. Resolved again, I turned the key in the ignition and headed toward Foxworth Hall, though I wasn’t an invited guest. I’d stormed at Bart for that. “Why didn’t you insist and force her to invite me?”
“Really. Cathy, isn’t that a bit too much to ask? Can I insult my wife by asking my mistress to her party? I may be a fool, Cathy. but I am not that cruel.”
* * *
That first Christmas of imprisonment when I was twelve I’d lain with my head on Chris’s boyish chest, wistfully wishing to be grown up, with curves as shapely as my mother’s, with a face as beautiful as hers, wearing clothes as stunning as hers. And most of all I’d wished to be in control of my life.
Some Christmas wishes did come true.
Revelations
Just a little after ten o’clock I used the wooden key Chris had carved so many years ago to slip unseen through a back door into Foxworth Hall. Already many guests were there and more were still arriving. The orchestra was playing a Christmas carol and faintly it drifted up to me. Music so sweetly haunting I was taken back to my childhood. Only this time I was alone in alien territory with no one to back me up as I stole quietly up the back stairs, keeping to the shadows, ready to hide quickly if necessary. I wended my solitary way to the grand central rotunda to stand near the cabinet where Chris and I had hidden to look down on another Christmas party. I gazed downward to spy upon Bart Winslow standing beside his wife who was wearing bright red lamé. His strong voice was hearty as he greeted his arriving guests warmly, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, acting the genial host in true fashion. My mother seemed somehow secondary to him, hardly needed at all in this huge mansion that was soon to be hers.
Smiling bitterly to myself, I stole on to my mother’s grand suite of rooms. It took me back in time! Oh, golly-golly! I used my little-girl exclamation of delight, of surprise, of dismay or frustration, though I had better and more accurate words at my disposal now. Tonight I had no frustrations, only a lilting sense of justification. Whatever happened, she had brought it upon herself. Look, I thought, there was the splendid swan bed, still there, with the little swan bed across the foot. I glanced around, seeing it was all the same, but for the brocade fabric on the walls—that was different.
Now it was a soft plum color, and not strawberry pink. There was a brass valet to hold a man’s suit ready, and unwrinkled, until he put it on. That was new. I hurried on into my mother’s dressing room. On my knees, I pulled out a special bottom drawer to feel around for the tiny button that had to be pushed in a certain combination of numbers to trigger the complicated lock. And would you believe it—she still used her birthday numbers of month, day and year! My! She was a trusting soul.
In no time at all I had the huge velvet tray on the floor before me, so I could help myself to the emeralds and diamonds she had worn to that Christmas party when first Chris and I beheld Bartholomew Winslow. How we’d loved her then, and how we’d resented him. We had been still in the shadow of our grief for our father, and hadn’t wanted Momma to marry again—not ever again.
As in a dream I donned the emerald and diamond jewelry that went so well with my green velvet and chiffon gown. I glanced in the mirror to see if I looked as she had way back then. I was a few years younger, but yes, I did look like her. Not exactly, but almost—and enough to convince—for were two leaves from the same tree ever duplicates? I replaced the jewelry tray, put back the drawer, leaving everything as it had been. Except now I wore several hundred thousand dollars worth of gems I didn’t own. One more look at my watch. Ten-thirty. Too soon. At twelve I wanted to make my grand entrance, like Cinderella in reverse.
With utmost caution, I crept stealthily along the long halls to the northern wing, and found that end room with the door locked. The wooden key still fitted. But my heart didn’t seem to fit my chest. It beat too fast, too fierce, too loud and my pulse raced too excitedly. I had to keep calm, self-possessed, do everything right and not be intimidated by this awesome house that had done its best to destroy us.
When I stepped into that room with the two double beds, I stepped back into childhood. The gold-colored, quilted satin spreads were still on the beds, precisely made without a wrinkle. The ten-inch TV was still in the corner. The doll house with its porcelain people and antique made-to-scale furniture waited for Carrie’s hands to bring it to life again. The old rocker that Chris had brought down from the attic, still there. Why, it was as if in here time stood still and we’d never left!
Even hell was still on the walls, gruesomely represented by three reproductions of masterpieces. Oh, God I hadn’t known this room would make me feel so—so shredded inside. I couldn’t afford to cry. That would make my mascara run. Yet I wanted to cry. All about me flitted the ghosts of Cory and Carrie, just five years old, laughing, crying, wanting outside, the sunlight, and all they could do was push tiny trucks to make-believe San Francisco or Los Angeles. There used to be train tracks that ran all over the room and under the furniture. Oh, where did the train tracks go—the coal cars, the engines? I pulled a tissue from my tiny evening bag and held it to the corner of one eye and then the other. I leaned to peer into the doll house. The porcelain maids were still cooking in the kitchen; the builder still stood near the front door to welcome the guests arriving in a coach pulled by two horses—and lo, when I looked in the nursery, the cradle was there! The missing cradle! For weeks we’d hunted to find it, fearful all the time the grandmother would notice it missing and punish Carrie—and there it was, just where it should be! But the baby wasn’t in it, nor were the parents in the front parlor. Mr. and Mrs. Parkins and baby Clara were now mine and never would they reside in this doll house again.
Had the grandmother herself stolen the cradle, so she could then see it missing, and ask Carrie where it was, and when it couldn’t be produced, she’d have good reason to punish Carrie? And Cory as well, for he would automatically, without fear for himself, run to protect his twin sister. It was like her to do something mean and cruel like that. But if she had, why had she stayed her hand, and not played out her role to the end? I laughed bitterly to myself. She had played out her role to t
he end—not just a whipping, but something better, something worse. Poison. Arsenic on four sugared doughnuts.
I jumped then. It seemed I heard a child laugh. My imagination, of course. And then, when I should have known better, I headed for the closet and the high and narrow door at the very back end and the steep and narrow dark stairs. A million times I’d ascended these stairs. A million times in the dark, without a candle, or a flashlight. Up into the dark, eerie, gigantic attic, and only when I was there did I feel around for the place where Chris and I had hidden our candles and matches.
Still there. Time did stand still in this place. We’d had several candle holders, all of pewter with small handles to grasp. Holders we’d found in an old trunk along with boxes and boxes of short, stubby, clumsily made candles. We’d always presumed them to be homemade candles, for they had smelled so rank and old when they burned.
My breath caught! Oh! It was the same! The paper flowers still dangled down, mobiles to sway in the drafts, and the giant flowers were still on the walls. Only all the colors had faded to indistinct gray—ghost flowers. The sparkling gem centers we’d glued on had loosened, and now only a few daisies had sequins, or gleaming stones, for centers. Carrie’s purple worm was there only now he too was a nothing color. Cory’s epileptic snail didn’t appear a bright, lopsided beach ball now, it was more a tepid, half-rotten squashy orange. The BEWARE signs Chris and I had painted in red were still on the walls, and the swings still dangled down from the attic rafters. Over near the record player was the barre Chris had fashioned, then nailed to the wall so I could practice my ballet positions. Even my outgrown costumes hung limply from nails, dozens of them with matching leotards and worn out pointe shoes, all faded and dusty, rotten smelling.
As in an unhappy dream I was committed to, I drifted aimlessly toward the distant schoolroom, with the candelight flickering. Ghosts were unsettled, memories and specters followed me as things began to wake up, yawn and whisper. No, I told myself, it was only the floating panels of my long chiffon wings . . . that was all. The spotted rocking-horse loomed up, scary and threatening, and my hand rose to my throat as I held back a scream. The rusty red wagon seemed to move by unseen hands pushing it, so my eyes took flight to the blackboard where I’d printed my enigmatic farewell message to those who came in the future. How was I to know it would be me?
We lived in the attic,
Christopher, Cory, Carrie and me—
Now there are only three.
Behind the small desk that had been Cory’s I scrunched down, and tried to fit my legs under. I wanted to put myself into a deep reverie that would call up Cory’s spirit that would tell me where he lay.
As I sat there waiting, the wind outside began to blow, picking up strength so it howled and hurled the snow slantwise. Another blizzard was on, full force. With the storm came the drafts to blow out my candle! The darkness shrieked, and I had to run to get out! Run fast . . . run, run, run before I became one of them!
* * *
The next hour had been choreographed to the smallest detail. As the big grandfather clock began to strike twelve, I positioned myself in the center of the second-floor balcony. I did nothing spectacular to pull all eyes my way, just stood there with my flesh warmed by the flashing jewels. In her crimson dress of lamé, so high in front it reached her throat that was encircled with a lavish choker of diamonds, my mother slightly turned. I saw the backless gown made up for the severity in front, so a hint of her buttock cleavage showed. Her blond hair was styled shorter than I’d ever seen it, and fluffed out around her face in a flattering way. From this distance she looked very young and lovely, and nowhere near her actual age. Ahh . . . the last stroke of twelve sounded . . .
Some sixth sense must have warned her, for she turned her head slowly to look my way. I began my descent. She froze in shock. Her eyes grew wide and dark as her hand that held a cocktail glass trembled so much a bit of the liquid sloshed out and fell to the floor. Because she stared, Bart followed the direction of her gaze. He gawked as if at an apparition. Now that both host and hostess were mesmerized, each guest had to look where no doubt they expected to see Santa Claus, and it was only me. Only me as once my mother had been years ago, wearing the same gown, and before many, I was sure, of those very same people who were here that other Christmas when I was twelve. I even recognized a few, older, but I knew them! Oh, the joy to have them here!
This was my moment of triumph! Moving as only a ballerina can, I meant to play my role to the utmost of my dramatic ability. As the guests stared upward, clearly caught in thrall by time moved backward, I gloated to see my mother blanch. Then I rejoiced to see Bart’s eyes widen more as they jumped from me, to her, then back to me. Slowly, in a dead silence, for the music had stopped, I descended the left side of the dual winding staircases, thinking I was Caraboose, the wicked fairy who put upon Aurora the curse of death. Then I made myself the Lilac Fairy to steal away Aurora’s prince while she slept her sleep of one hundred years. (It was clever of me not to think of myself as my mother’s daughter, and how soon I would destroy her. Very clever to make of this a stage production, when I was dealing with reality, and not fantasy and the blood that could be spilled.)
Gracefully I trailed my sparkling fingers along the rosewood railing, feeling my green chiffon wings fluttering and floating as step by step, and second by second, I neared the place where my mother and Bart were standing very close together. She was trembling all over, but managing to hold onto her poise. I thought I glimpsed a flicker of panic in the blue of her Dresden eyes. I kindly bestowed on her my most gracious smile while standing on the second step from the bottom. In this way I gave myself the height I needed to be taller than anyone else. All had to look up to me wearing four-inch silver heels on platform soles like Carrie’s, so as to be on an even height with my mother when we met eye to eye. The better to see her dismay. Her discomfort. Her utter collapse!
“Merry Christmas!” I called to one and all in a loud clear voice. It resounded like a heralding trumpet to attract others from different, rooms, and they came in by the dozens, as if drawn more by the total silence but for my voice. “Mr. Winslow,” I called invitingly, “come dance with me, just as you danced with my mother fifteen years ago, when I was twelve and hiding above, and she wore a gown just like the one I have on now.” Bart was visibly jolted. Stunned shock made his dark eyes blacken, but he refused to move from my mother’s side!
He forced me to do what I did next. As everyone stood there and waited, held in breathless suspense, expecting more explosive revelations, I gave them what they wanted.
“I’d like to introduce myself.” My voice was high-pitched so it would carry well. “I am Catherine Leigh Foxworth, the firstborn daughter of Mrs. Bartholomew Winslow, whom most of you must remember was first married to my father, Christopher Foxworth. Remember too that he was my mother’s half-uncle, the younger brother of Malcolm Neal Foxworth who disinherited his only daughter, his sole remaining heir, because she had the unholy temerity to wed his half-brother! What is more, I also have an older brother, named Christopher too—he’s a doctor now. Once I had a younger brother and sister, twins seven years younger than I—but Cory and Carrie are dead now—for they were—” I stopped short for some reason, then went on. “That Christmas party fifteen years ago, Chris and I were hiding in the chest on the balcony, while the twins slept in the end room of the northern wing. Our playground was the attic, and never, never did we go downstairs. We were attic mice, unwanted and unloved once money came into the picture.” And I would have screamed it all out, every last detail, but Bart came striding over to me.
“Bravo, Cathy!” he cried. “You play your part to perfection! Congratulations.” He put his arm about my shoulders, charmingly smiled at me, then turned to the guests who appeared not to know what to think, or whom to believe, much less how to react. “Ladies, gentlemen,” he said, “let me introduce to you Catherine Dahl, whom many of you must have seen on stage when she danced with
her husband, Julian Marquet. And as you have just witnessed, she is also an actress of merit. Cathy here is a distant relative of my wife, and if you can see any resemblance, that explains it. In fact, Mrs. Julian Marquet is one of our neighbors now, you may know that. Since her resemblance to my wife is so remarkable, we cooked up this little farce between us, and did what we could to enliven and make different this party with our little joke.”
He ruthlessly pinched my upper arm, before he caught my hand, put his arm about my waist and asked me to dance. “Come now, Cathy, certainly you want to show off your dancing ability after that fine dramatic performance.” As the music began to play, he forcefully made me dance! I turned my head to see my mother sagging against a friend, her face so pale her makeup stood out like livid blotches. Even so, she couldn’t take her eyes from me in the arms of her husband.
“You brazen little bitch!” Bart hissed at me. “How dare you come in here and pull such a stunt? I thought I loved you. I despise catty women with long claws. I won’t have you ruining my wife! You little idiot, whatever made you tell so many lies?”
“You are the idiot, Bart,” I said calmly, though I was panicked inside—what if he refused to believe? “Look at me. How would I know she wore a gown like this, if I hadn’t seen her with it on? How would I know you went with her to see her bedroom with the swan bed, if my brother, Chris, hadn’t hidden and heard and seen everything the two of you did up on the second-floor rotunda.”
He met my eyes, and he looked so strange, so distant and strange.
“Yes, Bart darling, I am your wife’s daughter, and I know if your law firm finds out your wife had four children born from the union of her first marriage, then you and she lose everything. All that money. All your investments. Everything you have bought will be taken back. Oh, the pity of that makes me want to cry.”
We danced on his cheek inches from mine. A smile was fixed to his lips. “That gown you’re wearing, how the hell did you find out she had one exactly like that the first time I came to this house to a party?”
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 81
