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.

  “You heard that? Actually heard those babies say they were Devil’s issue?” Disbelief was clear in his blue eyes.

  “Does it ring a familiar bell? Do you see Cory and Carrie on their knees by their beds, praying for God to forgive them for being born Devil’s spawn? Even when they didn’t know what that meant? Does anyone know more than you and I what harm can be done from ideas like that planted in such young minds? Chris, we have to leave soon! Not after Joel dies, but soon as possible!”

  He said exactly what I’d feared he would. We had to think of Jory, who needed special quarters, special equipment. “He’ll have to have an elevator. Doors will have to be enlarged. The halls must be wide. And there is another consideration—Jory may marry Toni. He asked me what I thought about it, wanting to know if I believed he had a chance of making Toni happy. I said yes, of course he could. I can see the love between them growing day by day. I like the way she treats him, as if she doesn’t see the wheelchair, or what he can’t do—only what he can.

  “And Cathy, it wasn’t love between Toni and Bart. It was infatuation, glands calling to glands—or call it whatever you will, but it wasn’t love. Not our kind of everlasting love.”

  “No . . . ,” I breathed, “not the kind that lasts forever . . .”

  * * *

  Two days later Chris called from Charlottesville, telling me he’d found a house.

  “Exactly how many rooms?

  “Eleven. It’s going to seem small after Foxworth Hall. But the rooms are large, airy, cheerful. It has four baths and a powder room, five bedrooms, a guest room and another bath over the garage, and also on the second floor is a huge room we can convert into a studio for Jory, and one of the extra bedrooms can be my home office. You’re going to love this house.”

  I doubted that, he’d found it too quickly, even though that’s what I’d asked him to do. He sounded so happy, and that gave me happy expectations. He laughed, then explained more. “It’s beautiful, Cathy, really just the kind of house I’ve always heard you say you wanted. Not too big, not too small, with plenty of privacy. Three acres with flowerbeds everywhere.”

  It was settled.

  As soon as we could pack our bags and many personal possessions accumulated over the years we’d lived in Foxworth Hall, we would move out.

  I felt sad in some ways as I sauntered through the grand rooms that I’d gradually made cozy with my own decorating ideas. Bart had complained more than once that I was changing what should never change. But even he, once he’d seen the improvements that made this a home rather than a museum, had finally agreed to let me have my way.

  Chris came to me Friday evening, looking at me with soft eyes. “So, my beautiful, hold on for just a few more days and let me drive back to Charlottesville and check out that house more thoroughly before we sign the contract bid. I’ve found a nice apartment we can rent until we can close on the house. Also, I have a few things to clear up at the lab, so I can take off several days and help get us settled. As I was telling you on the phone, I think two weeks of work, after the closing, and our new home will be ready for all of us—ramps, elevator, and all.”

  He graciously didn’t mention all the years he’d lived with Bart, knowing it was like living with an explosive hidden somewhere, bound to go off sooner or later. Never a word to reproach me for giving him a defiant, disrespectful son who refused to care how much love was given him.

  Oh, how much agony he’d suffered because of Bart, and still he didn’t say a word to condemn me for going with deliberate intentions after my mother’s second husband. I put my hands to my head, feeling that deep ache beginning again.

  My Christopher drove away in the early morning, leaving me to fret through yet another anxiety-ridden day. Over the years I’d grown more and more dependent on him, when once I’d prided myself for being independent, able to go my own way and not need anyone nearly as badly as they needed me. How selfishly I’d looked at life when I was younger. My needs had come first. Now it was the needs of others that came first.

  Restlessly I roamed about, checking on all those I loved, staring at Bart when he came home, dying to throw all kinds of accusations his way, yet somehow feeling so much pity for him. He sat behind his desk, looking absolutely the perfect young executive. No guilt. No shame as he bargained, manipulated, negotiated, making more and more money just by talking over the telephone, or communicating with his computer. He looked up at me and smiled. A genuine smile of welcome.

  “When Joel told me Cindy had decided to leave, it cheered my whole day, and I still feel that way.” Yet what was that oddness behind the darkness of his eyes? Why did he look at me as if soon he’d cry?

  “Bart, if ever you want to confide in me—”

  “I have nothing to confide, Mother.”

  His voice was soft. Too soft, as if he spoke to someone that would soon be gone—forever gone.

  “You may not know this, Bart, but the man you so hate, my brother and your uncle, has done the best he could to be a good father replacement.”

  Shaking his head, he denied this. “To do this best would have been abandoning his relationship with you, his sister, and he hasn’t done that. I could have loved him if he’d only stayed my uncle. You should have known better than to try to deceive me. You should know by now all children grow up to ask questions and remember well scenes you think they’ll soon forget, but those children don’t forget. They take those memories and bury them deep in their brains, to bring them out later when they can understand. And all that I can remember tells me that the two of you are bound in ways that seem unbreakable, except by death.”

  My heart quickened. On the roof of Foxworth Hall, under the sun and stars, Chris and I had sworn certain vows to see us through eternity. How young and foolish to create our own traps . . .

  Tears could so easily flood my eyes lately. “Bart—how could I live without him?”

  “Oh, Mother, you could! You know you could. Let him go, Mother. Give to me the kind of decent, God-fearing mother I’ve always needed to keep my sanity.”

  “And if I can’t say good-bye to Chris—what then, Bart?”

  His dark head bowed. “God help you, Mother. I won’t be able to. God help me, too. Even so, I do have to think of my own eternal soul.”

  I went away.

  * * *

  All through the night I dreamed of fire, of such terrible things I woke up, not clearly remembering anything but the fire, yet there had been something else, some dreadful remembered thing I kept shoving to the back of my mind. What? What? Unable to overcome the inexplicable fatigue I felt, I drifted back to sleep and fell again immediately into a continuing nightmare where I saw Jory’s twins as Cory and Carrie, carried off to be devoured. For the second time I forced myself awake. Forced myself to get up, although my head ached badly.

  I felt woozy-headed, half drunk as I set about my daily chores. At my heels the twins tagged behind, asking a thousand and one questions, in particular Deirdre. She reminded me so much of Carrie with her why? where? and whose is it? And how did it come to be his or hers or its? Jibberty-jabber, chitter-chat, on and on as Darren poked into closets, pulled open drawers, investigated envelopes, leafed through magazines and in the process ruined them for reading, making me say, “Cory, put those down! They belong to your grandfather and he likes to read the writing even if you don’t like anything but the pictures. Carrie, would you please be quiet for just five minutes? Just five?” That, of course, drew another question that wanted to know who was Cory and who was Carrie, and why was I always calling them those funny names?

  Finally Toni came to relieve me of the too inquisitive children. “Sorry, Cathy, but Jory wanted me to model for him in the garden today before all the roses die . . .”

  Before all the roses die? I stared at her, then shook my head, thinking I was reading too much into ordinary words. The roses would live until a heavy freeze came, and winter was months away.

  Around two in the afternoon, the tel
ephone in my room rang. I’d just laid down to rest. It was Chris. “Darling, I can’t stop worrying about what might happen. I think your fears are getting to me. Have patience. I’ll be seeing you in an hour. Are you all right?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be all right?”

  “Just checking. I’ve had a bad feeling. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  * * *

  The twins were restless, not wanting to play in the sandbox, not wanting to do one thing I suggested.

  “Dee-dee don’t like jump rope,” said Deirdre, who couldn’t pronounce her name correctly and didn’t really want to. The more we tried to teach her the correct way, the more she lisped. She had Carrie’s stubbornness. Just as Darren was more than willing to follow where she led, and he’d lisp when she did. And what difference did it make if a little boy his age played house?

  I put the twins down for their naps. They noisily objected and didn’t stop until Toni came in and read to them a story she’d promised she’d read—when I’d just read the same blasted story three times! Soon they were asleep in their pretty room with the draperies drawn. How sweet they looked, turned on their sides to face one another, just as Cory and Carrie had done.

  In my own room, after checking on Jory, who was busy reading a book on how to strengthen certain lower sexual muscles, I turned to my neglected manuscript and brought it up to date. When I grew tired, distracted by the absolute silence in the house, I went to waken the twins.

  They were not in their small beds!

  Jory and Toni were on the terrace, both lying on their sides on the quilted exercise mat. They were embracing, kissing long and passionately. “Sorry to interrupt,” I said, feeling ashamed I had to intrude on their privacy and ruin what had to be a wonderful experience for Jory—and for her. “Where are the twins?”

  “We thought they were with you,” said Jory, winking at me before he turned back to Toni. “Run find them, Mom . . . I’m busy with today’s lesson.”

  I used the quickest way to reach the chapel. Through all the gardens I hurried, glancing uneasily at the woods that hid the cemetery. Tree shadows on the ground were beginning to stretch out and cross one another as I neared the chapel door. A strange scent was wafted on the warm summer breezes. Incense. I ran on, reaching the chapel quite out of breath, with my heart pounding. An organ had been installed since I was here last. I stole as quietly as possible into the chapel.

  Joel was seated at the organ playing beautifully, showing that once he had been truly a professional musician with remarkable ability. Bart stood up to sing. I relaxed when I saw the twins in the front pew, looking content as they stared up at their uncle, who sang so well it almost stole my fear and gave me peace.

  The hymn ended. Automatically the twins went down on their knees and placed their small palms beneath their chins. They seemed cherubs—or lambs for the slaughter.

  Why was I thinking that? This was a holy place.

  “And lo, though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we will fear no evil . . . ,” spoke Bart, now on his knees. “Repeat after me, Darren, Deirdre.”

  “And lo, though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we will fear no evil,” obeyed Deirdre, her high-pitched, small voice leading the way for Darren to follow.

  “For thou art with me . . . ,” instructed Bart.

  “For thou art with me . . .”

  “Thy rod and thy staff shall comfort me.”

  “Thy rod and thy staff shall comfort me.”

  I stepped forward. “Bart, what the devil are you doing? This is not Sunday, nor has anyone died.”

  His bowed head raised. His dark eyes met mine and held such sorrow. “Leave, Mother, please.”

  I ran to the children, who jumped up. I gathered them into my arms. “We don’t like it here,” whispered Deirdre. “Hate here.”

  Joel had risen to his feet. He stood tall and lean in the shadows, with color from the stained glass falling on his long, gaunt face. He said not a word, just looked me up and down—scathingly.

  “Go back to your rooms, Mother, please, please.”

  “You have no right to teach these children fear of God. When you teach religion, Bart, you speak of God’s love, not his wrath.”

  “They have no fear of God, Mother. You speak of your own fear.”

  I began to back away, pulling the twins with me. “Someday you are going to understand about love, Bart, You are going to find out it doesn’t come because you want it, or need it. It’s yours only when you earn it. It comes to you when you least expect it, walks in the door and closes it quietly and when it’s right, it stays. You don’t plot to find it. Or seduce to try and make it happen. You have to deserve it, or you’ll never have anyone who will stay long enough.”

  His dark eyes looked bleak. He stood, towering up there; then he advanced, taking the three steps down.

  “We are all leaving, Bart. That should delight you. None of us will come back to bother you again. Jory and Toni will go with us. You will have come into your own. Every room of this mammoth lonely Foxworth Hall will be all yours. If you wish, Chris will turn over the trusteeship to Joel until you are thirty-five.”

  For a moment, a brief illuminating moment, fear lit up Bart’s face, just as jubilance lit up Joel’s watery eyes.

  “Have Chris turn the trusteeship over to my attorney,” Bart said quickly.

  “Yes, if that’s what you want.” I smiled at Joel, whose face then turned. He shot Bait a hard look of disappointment, confirming my suspicions—he was angry because Bart would take what might have been his . . .

  “By morning we will be gone, all of us,” I whispered hoarsely.

  “Yes, Mother. I wish you godspeed and good luck.”

  I stared at my second son, who stood three feet from me. Where had I heard that said last? Oh, oh . . . so very long ago. The tall conductor on the night train that brought us here as children. He’d stood on the steps of the sleeper train and called that back to us, and the train had sounded a mournful good-bye whistle.

  It came to me as I met Bart’s brooding gaze that I should speak my parting words now, in this chapel of his building, and forget about saying anything tomorrow when I was likely to cry.

  He spoke first. “Mothers always seem to run and leave the sons to suffer. Why are you deserting me?”

  The tone of his throaty voice, full of pain, filled me with suffering. Still I said what I had to say. “Because you deserted me years ago,” I answered brokenly. “I love you, Bart. I’ve always loved you, though you don’t want to believe that. Chris loves you. But you don’t want his love. You tell yourself each day you live that your own natural father would have been a better father—but you don’t know that he would have been. He wasn’t faithful to his wife, my mother—and I wasn’t his first dalliance. I don’t want to speak disrespectfully of a man whom I loved very much at the time, but he wasn’t the same kind of man Chris is. He wouldn’t have given you so much of himself.”

  The sun through the windows turned Bart’s face firered. His head moved from side to side. Tormented again. At his sides his hands clenched into tight fists. “Don’t say one word more!” he shouted. “He’s the father I want, have always wanted! Chris has given me nothing but shame and embarrassment. Get out! I’m glad you’re leaving. Take your filth with you and forget I exist!”

  * * *

  Hours passed, and still Chris didn’t show. I called the university lab. His secretary said he’d left three hours ago. “He should have been there, Mrs. Sheffield.”

  Immediately thoughts of my own father came to torment me. An accident on the highway. Were we duplicating our mother’s act in reverse, running away from, not to, Foxworth Hall? Tick-tock went the clocks. Thumpity-thump-thump went my heartbeats. Nursery rhymes I had to read so the twins would sleep and stop asking questions. Little Tommy Tucker, sing for your supper . . . When you wish upon a star . . . dancing in the dark . . . all our lives, dancing in the dark . . .


  “Mother, please stop pacing the floor,” ordered Jory. “You rub my nerves raw. Why this grand rush to leave? Tell me why, please say something.”

  Joel and Bart strolled in to join us.

  “You weren’t at the dinner table, Mother. I’ll tell the chef to prepare a tray.” He glanced at Toni. “YOU can stay.”

  “No, thank you, Bart. Jory has asked me to marry him.” Her chin lifted defiantly. “He loves me in a way you never can.”

  Bart turned betrayed, hurt eyes on his brother. “You can’t marry. What kind of husband can you make now?”

  “The very kind I want!” cried Toni, striding to stand beside Jory’s chair and putting her hand lightly on his shoulder.

  “If you want money, he doesn’t have one percent of what I have.”

  “I wouldn’t care if he had nothing,” she answered proudly, meeting squarely his dark, forbidding gaze. “I love him as I’ve never loved anyone before.”

  “You pity him,” stated Bart matter-of-factly.

  Jory winced but said nothing. He seemed to know Toni needed to have it out with Bart.

  “Once I did pity him,” she confessed honestly. “I thought it a terrible shame such a wonderful man with so much talent had to be handicapped. Now I don’t see him as handicapped. You see, Bart, all of us are handicapped in one way or another. Jory’s is in the open, very visible. Yours is hidden—and sick. You are so sick, and it’s pity I feel now—FOR YOU.”

  Seething emotions contorted Bart’s face. I glanced at Joel for some reason and saw him staring at Bart, as if commanding him to stay silent.

  Twisting about, Bart barked at me, “Why are you all gathered in this room? Why don’t you go to bed? It’s late.”

  “We are waiting for Chris to come home.”

  “There was an accident on the highway,” spoke up Joel. “I heard the news on the radio. A man killed.” He seemed delighted to give me this news.

  My heart seemed to drop a mile—another Foxworth downed by an accident?

  Not Chris, not my Christopher Doll. No, not yet, not yet.