Silence. No one could speak after this outburst.
Then, while Mom stood on looking too shocked even to breathe, Dad reached to control Bart, who jumped up to hit Cindy! Then Cindy was crying, and Emma was glaring at my brother.
“Bart, I have never heard anything so ugly and cruel,” said Dad as he lifted Bart up and sat him on his knee. Bart wiggled and squirmed and tried to get away, but he couldn’t escape. “Go to your room and stay there until you can learn to have some compassion for others. You would feel very lucky in Cindy’s place.”
Grumbling under his breath, Bart stomped to his room and slammed his door.
Turning, Dad picked up his black bag and prepared to leave. He gave my mother a chastising look. “Now do you see why I objected to adopting Cindy? You know as well as I that Bart has always had a very jealous streak. A child as lovely and young as Cindy wouldn’t have been two days in an orphanage before some lucky couple seized her up.”
“Yes, Chris, you are right, as always. If Cindy had been taken into legal custody she would have been adopted by others—and you and I would have gone daughterless all our lives. As it is I have a little girl who seems so much like Carrie to me.”
My father grimaced as if from sharp pain. Mom was left sitting at the table with Cindy on her lap, and for the first time since I could remember, he didn’t kiss her good-bye. And she didn’t call out, “Be careful.”
In no time at all Cindy had me enchanted. She toddled from here to there, wanting to touch everything and then have a taste. A nice warm feeling rushed over me to see the little girl so well cared for, so loved and pampered. The two of them together looked like mother and daughter. Both dressed in pink, with ribbons in their hair, only Cindy had on white socks with lace.
“Jory will teach you to dance when you’re old enough.” I smiled at Mom as I passed her on my way to ballet class. Quickly Mom got up to hand Cindy over to Emma, then she joined me in her car that was still parked in our wide garage. “Jory, I think Bart will soon learn to like Cindy a little more, don’t you?”
I wanted to say, no he wouldn’t, but I nodded, not letting her know how worried I was about my brother. Trouble, trouble, boil and double . . .
“Jory, what was that you just mumbled?”
Gee, I didn’t know I said it aloud. “Nothing, Mom. Just repeating something I overheard Bart saying to himself last night. He cries in his sleep, Mom. He calls for you, screaming because you’ve run away with your lover.” I grinned and tried to look lighthearted. “And I didn’t even know you play around.”
She ignored my facetious remark. “Jory, why didn’t you tell me before that Bart has nightmares?”
How could I tell her the truth?—that she was much too taken up with Cindy to pay attention to anyone else. And never, never should she give anyone more attention than Bart. Even me.
* * *
“Momma, Momma!” I heard Bart cry out in his sleep that night. “Where are you? Don’t leave me alone! Momma, please don’t leave me. I’m not bad, really not bad . . . just can’t help what I do sometimes. Momma Momma . . . !”
Only crazy people couldn’t help what they did. One crazy person in our family was enough. We didn’t need another living under our roof.
So . . . it was up to me to save Bart from himself. Up to me to straighten out something crooked that had begun a long time ago. And way back in the shadow recesses of my brain, there were vague, unsettling memories of something that had troubled me years ago when I was too young to understand. Too young to put the jigsaw pieces together.
Trouble was, I’d been doing so much thinking about the past, that now it was waking up, and I could remember a man with dark hair, a man different from Daddy Paul. A man Mom used to call Bart Winslow—and those were my half brother’s first and second names.
My Heart’s Desire
Wicked little girl, that Cindy. Didn’t care who saw her naked. Didn’t care who saw her sit on the potty. Didn’t care about being decent or clean. Took my toy cars and chewed on them.
Summer wasn’t so good no more. Nothin t’do. No where t’go but next door. Ole lady kept promising that pony and never did it show up. Leading me on, teasing me. I’d show her. Make her sit over there all alone, wouldn’t visit. Punish her. Last night I heard Momma telling Daddy how she saw that ole lady in black standing on a ladder propped against the wall. “And she was staring at me. Chris. Really staring!”
Daddy laughed. “Really, Cathy. What harm can her stares do? She’s a stranger in a strange land. Wouldn’t it have been friendly of you to wave and say hello—perhaps introduce yourself?” I snickered to myself. Grandmother wouldn’t have answered. She was shy around all strangers but me. I was the only one she trusted.
Another day of being mean to Cindy had caused everywhere to be named off-limits to me. But I was clever and stole outside and snuck quickly away, to next door, to where people liked me.
“Where’s my pony?” I screeched when I saw the barn still empty. “You promised me a pony—so if you don’t give me one I’ll tell Momma and Daddy you are trying to steal me away!”
She seemed to shrink inside her ugly black robe while those pale, thin hands of hers fluttered to the neckline so she could tug out a heavy rope of pearls she usually kept hidden.
“Tomorrow, Bart. Tomorrow you get your heart’s desire.”
Met John Amos on the way home. He led me into his secret cubbyhole and whispered of “man-doings.” “Women like her are born rich and they never need brains,” said John Amos, his watery eyes hard and slitlike. “You listen to me, boy, and never fall in love with a stupid woman. And all women are stupid. When you deal with women you have to let them know who is boss right from the start—and never let them forget it. Now, your lesson for today. Who is Malcolm Neal Foxworth?”
“My great-grandfather who is dead and gone but powerful even so,” I said, not really understanding even as I said it.
“What else was Malcolm Neal Foxworth?”
“A saint. A saint deserving of a lordly place in heaven.”
“Correct. But tell it all, leave nothing out.”
“Never was there a man born smarter than Malcolm Neal Foxworth.”
“That’s not all I’ve taught you. You should know more about him from reading his journal. Are you reading it daily? He wrote in that book faithfully all his life. I’ve read it a dozen or more times. To read is to learn and to grow. So never stop reading your great-grandfather’s journal until you are just as clever and smart as he is.”
“Is clever the same as being smart?”
“No, of course not! Clever is not letting people suspect just how smart you are.”
“Why didn’t Malcolm like his Momma?” I asked, though I knew she’d run away, but would that make me hate my momma?
“Like his mother? Lord God above, boy, Malcolm was wild about his mother until she ran off with her lover and left Malcolm with his father, who was too busy to pay him any attention. If you read on, boy, you’ll find out soon just what turned Malcolm against all women. Read on and increase your knowledge. Malcolm’s wisdom will become yours. He will teach you to never trust a woman to be there when you need her.”
“But my momma is a good momma,” I defended weakly, not so sure anymore that it was true. Life was so “devious.” (New word for today, devious.)
“Now, Bart,” Daddy had said early this morning when he carefully printed the word and explained to me exactly what it meant, “I want you and Jory to find a way to fit devious into your conversation today at least five times. It means departing from the shortest way; crooked and unfair—D-E-V-I-O-U-S.”
Spelled it for me, Golly day, I sure hated living in a “devious world.” Dratted new vocabulary words were teaching me how devious everyone could be.
“Now I’m going to leave you alone so you can read more of Malcolm’s words,” said John Amos before he shuffled off, bent slightly forward and to the side.
I opened the book to the page where
the leather bookmark was.
* * *
Today I just wanted to try a little of my father’s tobacco, so I filled his pipe with what I found in his office, then stole outside and smoked behind the garage.
I don’t know how he found out unless one of the servants told on me, but he knew. Fire came in his hard eyes and he ordered me to strip down to naked. Cringing, I cried when he whipped me, and then he put me in the attic until I could learn the ways of the Lord and redeem my sins. While I was up there I found old photographs of my mother when she was a just a girl. How beautiful she was, so innocent and sweet-looking. I hated her! I wanted her to die that very moment wherever she was in the world. I wanted her to be suffering as I was, with cuts bleeding down my back, while I nearly suffocated in that airless hot attic.
I found things in that attic, corsets with laces so a woman swelled out in front, deceiving men into believing she has more than what came naturally. I knew I would never be deceived by any woman, no matter how beautiful. For it was beauty that put me in the attic, and beauty that used the whip on my back, and it wasn’t really my father’s fault what he did. He was hurting too, like I was.
Now I knew what he’d said all the time was true: No woman could be trusted. And most especially those with beautiful faces and seductive bodies.
* * *
Lifting my eyes I stared into space, seeing not the barn and all the hay, but the sweet and beautiful face of my mother. Was she devious? Would she one day run away with her “lover” and leave me to fend for myself with a stepfather who didn’t love me nearly as much as he loved Jory and Cindy?
What would I do then? Would my grandmother take me in?
I asked her later on. “Yes, my love, I will take you in. I will care for you, fight for you, do what I can for you, for you are the true son of my second husband, Bart Winslow. Haven’t I told you that before? Trust me, believe in me, and stay away from John Amos. He is not the kind of friend you should have.”
Son of her second husband. Did that mean my momma had been married to him too? All the time marryin somebody! I closed my eyes and thought about Malcolm, who was long gone in his grave. Rock, rock, rock went her chair. Thud, thud, thud went the dirt on my grave. Dark now. Smothery. Cramped and cold. Heaven . . . where was Heaven?
“Bart, your eyes are glassy.”
“Tired, Grandmother, so tired.”
“Soon you will have your heart’s desire.”
Money, wanted money, piles and piles of greenbacks. At that moment someone banged on the front door. I jumped off her lap and quickly hid.
Jory ran in ahead of John Amos, who had admitted him. “Where is my brother?” he asked, looking around the room. “I don’t like what’s happening to him and I think it has something to do with coming over here—”
“Jory,” said my grandmother, putting out her hand with all the sparkling, jeweled fingers. “Don’t glare at me. I don’t harm him. I only give him a little ice cream after his meals. Sit down and talk for a while. I’ll send for refreshments.”
Ignoring her, with the nose of a bloodhound Jory raced straight to me and yanked me out from behind the potted palms. “No thank you, lady,” he said coldly. “My mom gives me all I need to eat—and what you’re doing over here is changing him, so please don’t let him come again.”
Her barely visible lips clamped together and I saw tears in her eyes as I was pulled away. Jory shook me in our backyard. “Don’t you ever go back there again, Bart Sheffield! She is not your grandmother! You look at her as if you like her more than Mom!”
* * *
There were some who said Bart Winslow Scott Sheffield was not as tall as other boys at nine. But I knew as soon as I hit ten I’d shoot up like a weed in the summertime. Soon as I was in Disneyland again, I’d be inspired enough to grow as tall as a giant.
“Why are you looking so solemn, darling?” asked Grandmother when I was snuggled on her lap again the next day. The pony still hadn’t come.
“Not coming to see you no more,” I said grumpily. “Daddy will give me a pony for my birthday when I tell him again I want one. Won’t need yours.”
“Bart, you haven’t told your parents about me, have you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“If you lie God will punish you.”
Sure, why not? Everybody else did. “Never tell nobody nothing,” I mumbled. “Momma and Daddy don’t like me noway. They got Jory. Now they got Cindy, too. That’s enough for them.”
She took a quick glance around, paying special attention to the pocket doors that were closed and latched tight. She whispered. “Bart, I’ve seen you talking to John, I’ve asked you to stay away from him. He’s an evil old man who can be very cruel. Keep that in mind.”
Gee, who could I trust? He said the same thing about her. Once I’d thought everyone in my family could be trusted. Now I was learning people weren’t always what they seemed to be on the surface. Weren’t loving, never cared enough, especially when it came to me. Maybe it was only Grandmother who really cared—and John Amos. Then I was bewildered again. Was John Amos my true friend? If he was, then my grandmother couldn’t be. Had to choose. Which to choose? How did I made big decisions like that? Then, when Grandmother had her arms about me, my face held to her soft breast, I knew, she was the one who loved me best. She was my own true-for-a-fact grandmother.
But . . . what if she wasn’t?
I’d seen my grandmother a dozen or more times. John Amos had been my friend only for a few days. Maybe if he waited for me seven times in a row that would tell me he was lucky and good for me. Seven times of anything meant good luck. Five times of talking to me in his spooky place had taught me already that women were sneaky and devious.
“Bart, my darling,” whispered my granny, putting her dry lips on my cheek near my ear. “Don’t look so afraid, just leave John Amos alone, and don’t believe anything he tells you.” She stroked my face, then I felt her smile. “Now, if you run down to the barn and take a look inside, you will find something any boy would love to have, and those who don’t will envy you.”
She started to say something else, but I jumped from her lap and raced from her room and ran all the way to the barn. Oh gosh, oh gee, every day I carried an apple in my pocket, just hoping. Every day I carried lumps of Momma’s sugar, just hoping. Prayed every night for that pony I just had to have. This pony was going to love me more than anybody! I ran to the barn and didn’t fall once. Then I pulled up short and stared. THAT wasn’t a pony!
It was only a dog, A big hairy dog who stood with his tail waggin, and his eyes lookin at me adoringly already, and I hadn’t done one thing to win his love. I wanted to cry. It was leashed and tied by a rope to a stump in the barn dirt floor. The dog wiggled all over, as if happy to see me—and I hated that dog.
Behind me she came runnin up, all breathless and pantin. “Bart, darling, don’t be disappointed. I really wanted to give you a pony, but as I told you, if I did, you would go home reeking of horses, and Jory and your parents would find out, and never let you come back to visit me.”
I sank down on my knees and bowed my head. I wanted to die. I’d eaten all that ice cream, suffered through all those kisses and hugs . . . and still she hadn’t given me a pony. “You lied to me.” I choked, with tears in my eyes. “You’ve made me waste all my days visitin you when I could have done somethin better.” And there I went, dropping my G’s again. Not so grown up after all.
“Bart, darling, you don’t understand about St. Bernards at all!” she said, gathering me up in her arms. “This dog is still just a puppy, and see how big he is. He will grow up to be as big as a pony. You can saddle him and ride him around. And did you known in the mountains they use this breed of dog to rescue people who have been lost in the snow? A keg of brandy is tied around the dog’s neck, and all by himself, a dog like this can find a lost man and save his life. A St. Bernard is the world’s most heroic dog.”
I didn’t believe her. Still, I had to stare at
the puppy with more interest—that was a puppy? He strained at his leash, trying to get at me, and I liked him a little more for doing that. “Will he really grow up to be as big as a pony?”
“Bart, he’s only six months old, and already he’s almost as big as some ponies!” She laughed and caught my hand and pulled me inside the barn. “See,” she said, pointing to a red saddle with bit and bridle, and then to a little two-wheeled red cart. “You can ride him, or hitch him to the cart—and have an all-purpose dog or pony, whatever you want. All you have to do is use your imagination.”
“Will he bite me?”
“No, of course not. Darling, look at him, how happy he is to see a boy. Put out your hand and let him sniff your palm. Treat him kindly, feed him well, and keep his hair free of briars and tangles, and you will not only have the most beautiful dog in the world, but the best friend of your life.”
Fearfully I inched my hand away from my body—and the puppy licked it like ice cream. Slurpy kisses. I laughed because it tickled. “Go way, Grandmother,” I ordered.
She backed way reluctantly while I knelt in front of the pony so I could tell it what it was. “Now you look here,” I said firmly, “and you remember what I say. You are not a dog but a pony. You are not meant to carry brandy in kegs to people who are lost and snowed in—you are meant for carrying me only. You are my pony, and mine alone!”
He looked at me as if bewildered, cocking his big shaggy head to one side as he sat on his haunches. “Don’t you sit like that!” I yelled. “Ponies don’t sit, only dogs.”
“Bart,” came my grandmother’s soft voice, “be kind, remember.”
I ignored her. Women didn’t count in man-doings like this. John Amos had told me that. Men ruled the world, and women had to sit back and keep quiet.
I had to cast a spell and make a puppy over into a pony. Mean witches on stage knew how to do that. I thought and thought about every stage witch I’d seen in ballets and finally I thought I knew just how it was done.
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 91
