“Ridiculous!” she snapped. “Not all do!” Her jet eyes were like stones of black fire.
“But I’ve never seen you wear any color but black.”
“You will never see me wear another color.”
“I don’t understand. I’ve heard my mother say you wore black before my grandfather died, before my father died. Are you in perpetual mourning?”
She sneered scornfully. “Ah, I see. You feel uncomfortable around black clothes, yah? Makes you feel sad, yah? Makes me feel glad. It makes me different. Anyone can wear pretty colors. Takes someone special to be pleased with only black clothes—and besides, it saves money.”
I laughed and drew away farther. I was sure it was more the money she saved than anything else.
“What other grandmother you know who wears black?” she asked, her eyes very narrow and suspicious.
I smiled and backed away more; she frowned and drew closer. My face took on a broader smile as I neared the door. “It’s great having you here, Grandmother Madame. Be especially nice to Melodie Richarme. I’m going to marry her someday.”
“Jory!” she yelled. “You come back here! Do you think I flew halfway around the world just to replace your mother? I came for one reason only. I am here to see that Julian’s son dances in New York, in every major city in the world, and achieves all the fame and glory that was due his father. Because of Catherine he was robbed, robbed!”
She made me angry, she made me want to hurt her as her words hurt me, when only a moment ago I’d loved her. “Will my fame and glory help a father who lies dead in his grave?” I shouted back. I wasn’t putty for her to mold—I was already a great dancer and my mother had done that for me. I didn’t need her to teach me more about dancing—I needed her to teach me more about learning to love someone hateful, old, and bitter. “I know how to dance already, Madame, my mother has taught me well.”
Her look of contempt made me blanch, but she surprised me when she got up to drop to her knees and put her hands in prayer position beneath her chin. She tilted her thin face backward and seemed to stare God straight in his face.
“Julian!” she cried passionately, “if you are up there looking down, hear the arrogance of your fourteen-year-old son. I will make a pact with you today. Before I die I will see your son is the most acclaimed dancer in the world. I will make of him what you could have been if you hadn’t cared so damned much for cars and women, to say nothing of your other vices. Your son, Julian—through him you will live to dance again!”
I stared as she fell exhausted into the swivel deskchair again, sprawling her powerful legs before her. “Damn Catherine for marrying a doctor years and years older. Where was her common sense?—where was his? Though to give credit where credit is due, he was handsome years ago and appealing enough, but she should have known he’d be old before she even reached her sexual maturity. She should have married a man nearer her own age.”
I stood before her, baffled, trembling, beginning to feel closet doors in my mind opening—creakily opening, reluctantly. No, no, my mind kept saying, keep quiet Madame. I watched her jerk upright, her dark stabbing eyes riveting me to one spot so I was unable to leave when what I wanted most was to run, and run fast.
“Why do you tremble?” she asked. “Why do you look so strange?”
“Do I look strange?”
“Don’t answer questions with questions,” she barked. “Tell me about Paul, your stepfather, how he fares, what he does. He was twenty-five years older than your mother, and she’s thirty-seven now. Doesn’t that make him sixty-two?”
I swallowed over an aching lump that came to clog my throat. “Sixty-two is not so old,” I said meekly, thinking she should know that; she was in her seventies.
“For a man it is old; for a woman life is only beginning to stretch out.”
“That is cruel,” I said, beginning to dislike her again.
“Life is cruel, Jory, very cruel. You snatch from life what you can while you are young, for if you wait for better times to come tomorrow, you wait in vain. I told Julian that time and again, to live his life and forget Catherine, who loved that older man, but he refused to believe any girl could prefer a middle-aged man to someone as handsome and vibrant as he was, and now he lies dead in his grave, as you just said. Dr. Paul Sheffield enjoys the love that rightly belonged to my son, to your father.”
I was crying tears she couldn’t see. Hot scalding tears of disbelief. Had my mother lied to Madame and made her believe Daddy Paul was still alive? Why would she lie? What was wrong about marrying Dr. Paul’s younger brother Christopher?
“You look ill, Jory. Why?”
“I feel fine, Madame.”
“Don’t lie to me, Jory. I can smell a lie a mile away, see a lie from across three thousand miles. Why is it Paul Sheffield never accompanies his family to his own hometown? Why is it your mother always brings only her children and that brother, Christopher?”
My heart was pounding. Sweat glued my shirt to my skin. “Madame, have you never met Daddy Paul’s younger brother?”
“Younger brother? What’s that you say?” She leaned forward and peered into my eyes. “Never heard of any brother even during that awful time when Paul’s first wife drowned their son. That was spread all over the newspapers, and no younger brother was mentioned. Paul Sheffield had only one sister—no brother, younger or older.”
I felt sick, ready to throw up. Ready to cry out and run and do something wild and painful to myself, like Bart did when he was hurt and disturbed. Bart—for the first time I was feeling what it was to be like Bart. I stood on unsteady ground, afraid everything might crumble if I dared to move.
Through my mind kept running the steady stream of age, years and years of age difference, and Dad wasn’t that much older than Mom, only two years and a few months. She was born in April, he was born in November. And they were so much alike in coloring, in background, they spoke without even saying a word, just a glance and they understood.
Madame was sitting coiled, ready, so it seemed, to spring upon me—or Mom? Deeper lines etched around her narrowed eyes, her grim-thin lips. She pursed her lips and reached into some hidden pocket of her drab outfit for her pack of cigarettes. “Now,” she said as if to herself, seemingly forgetting I was still there, “what was it Catherine gave as an excuse the last time Paul didn’t come? Let’s see, she called first, long distance, explaining Chris would come with her because Paul was too ill with his heart trouble to travel. She was leaving him in the care of his nurse. Thought that odd at the time, that she’d leave him when he needed a nurse, and travel with Chris.” She bit down on her lower lip, chewed it unconsciously. “And last summer no visit because Bart hated ole graves and ole ladies—and I suspect, me in particular. Spoiled brat. This summer they don’t come again because Bart has driven a rusty nail into his knee and develops blood-poisoning or something similar. Damn kid is more trouble than he’s worth—serves her right too for playing around so soon after my son’s death. And Paul has heart trouble, on and on he has heart trouble, yet he never has a fatal attack. Every summer she gives me that same worn excuse. Paul can’t travel because of his heart—but Chris, he can always travel, heart or no heart.”
Abruptly she stopped talking, for I had moved to leave. I tried to make my eyes blank and erase all the milling suspicions I didn’t want her to see. Never had I felt more afraid than I did at that moment, just watching her scheming eyes, the wheels churning, planning something I knew.
At that moment she jumped to her feet with great agility. “Put on your coat. I’m going home with you to have a long chat with your mother.”
The Terrible Truth
Jory,” began Madame when we were in her ratty old car and driving homeward. “Your parents don’t confide in you much about their past, do they?”
“They tell us enough,” I said stiffly, resenting the way she kept prying, when it didn’t matter, it didn’t. “They are very good listeners, and everyone says they make th
e best kind of conversationalists.”
She snorted. “Being a good listener is the perfect way to avoid answering questions you’d rather ignore.”
“Now you look here, Grandmother. My parents like their privacy. They have asked both Bart and me not to talk about our home life to our friends, and after all, it does make good sense for a family to stick together.”
“Really . . . ?”
“Yes!” I shouted, “I like my privacy too!”
“You are of an age to need privacy; they are not.”
“Madame, my mother was a celebrity of sorts, and Dad is a doctor, and Mom has been married three times. I don’t think she wants her former sister-in-law, Amanda, to know where we live.”
“Why not?”
“My aunt Amanda is not a very nice person, that’s all.”
“Jory, do you trust me?”
“Yes,” I said, but I didn’t.
“Then tell me all you know about Paul. Tell me if he’s as sick as she says, or if he is alive at all. Tell me why Christopher lives in your home, and is the one who acts like the father of you and Bart.”
Oh, I didn’t know what to say, and I was trying hard to be a good listener so she’d keep on talking and I’d be able to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Certainly I didn’t want her to get the picture before I did.
A long silence grew, and finally she spoke. “You know, after Julian died, your mother lived with you in Paul’s home, then she took you and her younger sister, Carrie, to the mountains of Virginia. Her mother lived there in a fine home. It seems Catherine was determined to ruin her mother’s second marriage. The husband of your mother’s mother was named Bartholomew Winslow.”
That cursed darn lump came back in my throat and ached there. I wasn’t going to tell her that Bart was the son of anyone but Daddy Paul, I wasn’t!
“Grandmother, if you want me to keep on loving you, please do not tell me ugly things about my mother.”
Her skinny hand reached to squeeze mine. “All right, I admire you for being so loyal. I just want you to know the facts.” About that time she almost careened off the road into another ditch.
“Grandmother, I know how to drive. If you are tired and can’t see the road signs very well, I can take over, and you could sit back and relax.”
“Let a fourteen-year-old kid drive me around? Are you crazy? Are you saying you don’t feel safe with me at the wheel? All my life I’ve been driven around, first in hay wagons, then carriages, then taxis or limousines, but three weeks before I came here, soon after your letter came telling about your mother’s accident, I took driver’s lessons at the age of seventy-four . . . and you see now how well I learned.”
Finally, after four near misses, we made the turn into our circular drive. And there out front was Bart stalking some invisible animal with his pocketknife held like a dagger, ready to thrust and kill.
Madame ignored him as she pulled to a stop. Briskly I jumped out and raced to open her door, but she was out before I got there, and just behind her Bart was stabbing into the air with his knife. “Death to the enemy! Death to all old ladies who wear black raggedy clothes! Death, death, death!”
Calmly, as if she didn’t hear and didn’t see, Madame strode on. I shoved Bart aside and whispered, “If you want to be locked up today, keep on with what you’re doing.”
“Black . . . hate black . . . gotta wipe out all dark black evil.”
But he put the knife in his pocket after he carefully folded it and stroked the pearl handle he admired. He should. It had cost me seven bucks for that present.
Without waiting for a response to her impatient push on the doorchimes, Madame stalked into our house and tossed her purse on the love seat in the foyer. The clack of typewriter keys came to us faintly.
“Writing,” she said, “I guess she goes at that just as passionately as she did dancing . . .”
I didn’t say anything, but I did want to run ahead and warn Mom. She wouldn’t let me. Mom looked up very startled to suddenly encounter Madame Marisha again in her bedroom.
“Catherine! Why didn’t you tell me Dr. Paul Sheffield was dead.”
Momma’s face went red, then white. She bowed her head and put her hands up to cover her face. Regaining her composure almost immediately, she raised her head, flashed angry eyes at Madame, then began to shuffle her papers into a neat pile. “How nice to see you, Madame Marisha. It would have been nicer if you had called in advance. However, I’m sure Emma can split the lamp chops unevenly and let you have two . . .”
“Don’t evade my question with silly talk of eating. Do you think for one moment I would pollute my body with your stupid lamp chops? I eat health foods, and health foods only.”
“Jory,” said Mom, “in case Emma saw Madame, run tell her not to set another place.”
“What is all this idiotic chatter about lamb chops? I drove here to ask an important question, and you talk about food. Catherine, answer my question—is Paul Sheffield dead?”
Mom looked at me and gestured I was to disappear, but I couldn’t. I stood my ground and defied her. She paled more and seemed appalled that I, her darling, would not obey. Then, as if resigned, she muttered in an indistinct way: “You never asked me about myself, about my husband, so I took it you weren’t interested in anyone but Jory.”
“Catherine!”
“Jory, please leave this room immediately. Or do I have to get up and shove you out?”
I backed out the door just before she reached to throw it shut.
Barely could I make out what she said on the other side of the door, but I pressed my ear against it and heard. “Madame, you don’t know how much I have needed someone to confide in. But you were always so cold, so remote, I didn’t think you could understand.”
Silence. A snort.
“Yes, Paul died, years ago. I try not to think of him as dead but as still alive, though invisible. We brought his marble statues and benches here and tried to make our garden grow like his. We failed. But still, when twilight comes and I’m not in the garden it seems I can sense him near, still loving me. We were married for such a short time. And he was never really well . . . so when he died, I was left feeling unfulfilled, still yearning to give him the years of happy married life I owed him. I wanted somehow to make up for Julia, his first wife.”
“Catherine,” said Madame softly, “who is this man your children call Father?”
“Madame, what I do is none of your business.” I could hear the anger building in Mom’s voice. “This is not the same kind of world you grew up in. You have not lived my life, and been inside my mind. You have not known the kind of deprivations I suffered when I was young and needed love most. Don’t you sit there and condemn me with your dark mean eyes, for you can’t understand.”
“Oh, Catherine, how little credit you give my intelligence. Do you think me dumb, blind, and insensitive? I know now very well who the man is my grandson calls Dad. And it’s no wonder you could never love my Julian enough. I used to think it was Paul, but now I see it wasn’t Paul you truly loved; it wasn’t that Bartholomew Winslow either—it was Christopher, your brother. I don’t give a damn what you and your brother do. If you sleep in his bed and you find the happiness you feel was stolen from you long ago, I can rationalize and say that much worse goes on every day than brother and sister who pretend to be husband and wife. But I must protect my grandson. He comes first. You have no right to make your children pay the price for your unlawful relationship.”
Oh!—What was she saying?
Mom, do something, say something, make me feel good again! Make me feel safe and real again—make it all go away, this talk of your brother you’ve never mentioned.
I crouched down lower, bowing my head into my hands, not wanting to hear, not daring to leave.
Mom’s voice came strained and very hoarse, as if she were having trouble keeping tears away. “I don’t know how you found out. Please try to understand . . .”
“As I sai
d before, I don’t give a damn—and I think I do understand. You couldn’t love my son, as you could never love any man more than you loved your brother. I’m bitter about that. I’m crying inside for Julian, who thought you an angel of perfection, his Catherine, his Clara, his sleeping beauty that he could never wake up. That’s what you were to him, Catherine, the personification of all the dancing dolls of the ballet, virgin and pure, sweet and chaste, and in the end you are no better than the rest of us.”
“Please!” cried Mom. “I tried to escape Chris. I tried to love Julian more. I did, I really did.”
“No, you didn’t try. If you had, you would have succeeded.”
“You can’t know!” came Mom’s distressed cry.
“Catherine, you and I have traveled the same road for many a year, and you’ve let little bits and pieces of information drop along the way. And then there is Jory, who tries his best to shield you . . .”
“He doesn’t know? Please say he doesn’t know!”
“He doesn’t know,” Madame soothed in what was a soft voice—for her. “But he talks, and spills more than he knows. The young are like that; they think the old are so senile they can’t put two and two together. They think the old can live to be seventy and still not know more than they do at fourteen. They think they have a monopoly on experience, because they see us not doing very much, while every moment of their lives are full, forgetting we too were young once. And we have turned all our mirrors into windows . . . and they are still behind the mirrors looking only at themselves.”
“Madame, please don’t speak so loud. Bart has a way of hiding and eavesdropping.”
Her strident voice toned down, making it more difficult for me to hear. “All right, I’ll have my say and go. I don’t think your home is the proper place for a boy of Jory’s sensitivities to grow up in. The atmosphere here is tense, as if a bomb might explode any moment. Your younger son is obviously in need of psychological help—why, he tried to stab me as I approached your home.”
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 109
