"Pull down your pants, Bart."
"No!"
"Do as I say or your punishment will be much worse."
"No! You can't hurt me. You lay one hand on me and I'll wait until you're in your ole ballet class and then I'll get Cindy--and Emma won't be able to stop me! I can be in a thousand places before she can move to one--and the police won't put me in jail because I'm a minor!"
"Bart, I'm losing patience with you."
"That won't be all you'll lose if you hit me!" I bellowed.
She paused three feet from where I sat on the bed. Her small pale hands rose to her throat and she said quietly, "Oh, God . ." and it was just a hoarse whisper. "I should have known a child conceived under such circumstances would turn out like this. Bart, I'm so sorry your son is a monster."
A monster? Was I a monster?
No--she was the monster! She was doing to me just what Malcolm's mother had done, the cause of him being put in the attic and punished. I hated her then, just as much as I'd loved her before.
I screamed it out: "I hate you, Momma! I hope you drop dead!"
That's when she backed away, tears in her eyes. Then she turned and ran. But before she went down the stairs she locked the door to keep me up in that miserable dry attic that I hated and feared. She was gonna make me strong like Malcolm, and mean too. Someday she'd pay. I'd make her pay for doing this to me, when I wanted to be good, and wanted her to love me just a little more than Cindy or Jory. I began to cry. Nothing ever worked out the way I wanted it to.
It was Daddy who spanked my bare bottom after he came home and heard all they had to tell him about me. I admired him for ignoring the way I pleaded and apologized.
"Did you feel any of that?" he asked when he was finished, and I pulled up my pants.
I smiled. "No. To hurt me you gotta break my bones, and then the police would throw you in jail for child abuse." He studied me with those stern blue eyes. "You think you have the best of us, don't you?" he asked in his calm, rational way. "You think because you are a minor there is no law that can touch you, but you are wrong, Bart. We live in a civilized society where people are expected to conform to the rules. No one is ever beyond the control of the law, even the President. And one of the worst punishments for a child to endure is being locked away so he cannot come and go at his own free will." He looked sad then. "That can be a very traumatic experience."
I didn't say anything. He spoke again. "Your mother and I have decided we can no longer tolerate your behavior. So as soon as I can arrange it, you will go once a day to a psychiatrist. If we have to, if you persist in defying us, we will leave you in the care of doctors who can help you to learn how to behave normally."
"You can't make me," I gasped, terrified some shrink would have me locked away behind bars forever. "If you try and force me, I'll kill myself!"
He looked at me sternly. "Bart, you won't kill yourself. So don't you sit there and think you can outwit your mother or me. Your mother and I have faced up to bigger and better than a ten-year-old boy--remember that."
Later that evening when I was in my bed, I heard Momma and Daddy really yelling at each other, yelling like I'd never heard them before.
"Why did you send Bart into the attic, Catherine? Did you have to do that? Couldn't you just have ordered him to stay in his room and wait until I came home?"
"No! He likes being in his room. He has everything in there to make it a pleasant place to be-- and as you know well, the attic is not pleasant. I did what I had to."
"What you had to? Cathy--do you realize who you sound like?"
"Well," she said with ice in her voice, "haven't I been telling you all along that's what I am--a bitch who cares only about herself?"
They took me to a shrink the very next day, shoved me down in a chair and told me to stay there. They sat beside me until a door opened and we were called inside. A woman doctor was behind a big desk. At least they could have chosen a man. I hated her because her hair was slick and black like Madame Marisha's hair when she was young and posing for pictures. Her white blouse bulged in front so I had to turn my eyes away.
"Dr. Sheffield, you and your wife can wait outside, we will talk later." I watched my parents go out the door. Never had I felt so all alone as when that woman turned to me and looked me over with her kind eyes that were hiding mean thoughts. "You don't want to be here, do you?" she asked. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of letting her know I heard. "My name is Dr. Mary Oberman."
So what?
"There are toys over on that table . . . help yourself."
Toys . . . I wasn't a baby. I glared at her. She turned her head and I knew she was uncomfortable, though trying not to let it show. "Your parents have told me you like to play pretend games. Is that because you don't have enough playmates?"
Didn't have any. But darn if that idiot woman was gonna know. I'd be a fool to tell her John Amos was the best friend I had. Once it had been my grandmother, but she had betrayed me.
"Bart, you can sit there and be silent, but you only succeed in hurting those who love you most, and you are hurt more than anyone else. Your parents want to help you. That's why they brought you here. You have to cooperate and try. Tell me if you're happy. Tell me if you feel frustrated, and if you like the way your life is going."
Wouldn't say yes, wouldn't say no. Wouldn't say anything and she couldn't make me. Then she talked about people who kept themselves locked up, and how that could ruin them emotionally. All her words were like rain on the windowpane I made myself into.
"Do you hate your mother and father?"
Wouldn't answer.
"Your brother Jory, do you like him?"
Jory was okay. He'd be better if he was more clumsy than me, and ugly too.
"Your adopted sister Cindy . . . what do you think of her?"
Maybe my eyes told her something, for she scribbled away on her notepad. "Bart," she began when she put her pen aside, her face trying to look motherly and kind, "if you refuse to cooperate, we will have no choice but to put you in a hospital where many doctors can try to help you regain control of your emotions. You won't be mistreated, but it won't be as nice as being at home. You won't have your own room, your own things, your own parents except once a week for an hour. So don't you think it would be much nicer to try and help yourself before this goes any further? What is it that changed you from the boy you were last summer?"
Didn't want to be locked in some crazy house with lots of nuts who might be bigger and meaner than me, and I wouldn't be able to visit John Amos and Apple.
What could I do? I remembered words from Malcolm's book, and how he made people think he was "giving in," all the time going his own way.
I'd cry, I'd say how sorry I was, and when I did this, even I thought I was sincere. I said, "It's Momma . . . she loves Jory more than me. She loves Cindy better too. I don't have anybody. I hate not having anybody."
It went on and on. Even after I really blabbed, she told my parents I'd have to continue seeing her for a year or more. "He's a very confused little boy." She smiled and touched my mother's shoulder. "Don't blame yourself. Bart seems programmed for selfloathing, and though he might seem to hate you for not loving him enough, he doesn't like himself. Therefore he believes anyone who does love him is a big fool. It's a sickness all right. As real as any physical disease, and worse in many ways, for Bart cannot find himself."
I was hiding, eavesdropping, surprised to hear her say what she did.
"He loves you, Mrs. Sheffield, with a love almost religious. Therefore he expects you to be perfect, at the same time knowing he is unworthy of your attention; and still, paradoxically, he wants you to see him and acknowledge him as the best son you have."
"But I don't understand," said Momma, leaning her head on Daddy's shoulder. "How can he love me and want to hurt me so much?"
"Human nature is very complex. Your son is very complex. The good and the bad are fighting to dominate his personality. He is unconsciously awar
e of this battle and has found a very intriguing solution. He identifies the evil side of himself as an old man he's named Malcolm. Just another of the many characters who enable him to like himself better."
Both my parents sat very still with wide eyes, looking sort of helpless.
Hours later, before I said my bedtime prayers, I crept down the long hall and listened outside my parents' bedroom. Momma was saying, "It's as if we will always be in the attic and never, never set free."
What did the attic have to do with Malcolm and me? Was it only because both of us had been sent up there for punishment? On my hands and knees I stole away down the hall, crept into my bed and lay there quietly, scared of myself and my "subconscious."
Beneath my pillow was Malcolm's journal, which I was absorbing day by day, night by night. Growing stronger, and smarter.
Gathering Darkness
. In the living room the next evening. Mom and Dad settled down before the fire I'd kindled. Forgotten by them because I said so little, I crouched down on the floor near the doorway, hoping they wouldn't see there, and they'd think I'd gone away as I should have.
I didn't feel good about deliberately deceiving them, but sometimes it was better to know for certain than to keep on guessing.
At first Mom didn't say anything much, then she brought up the visit to Dr. Oberman. "Bart hates me, Chris. He hates you too, and Jory, and Cindy. I think he's got Emma on his list too, but more than anyone, it's me he despises. He resents me for not loving him exclusively." He pulled her closer to his chest and held her there as on and on they talked. When they mentioned slipping into Bart's bedroom and seeing if he was there, I quickly scurried into a nearby closet and waited for them to pass on to Bart's room.
"Has he eaten dinner?" asked Dad.
"No." She said this like she wanted him to stay asleep so she could avoid the problem he was when awake. But just them being there, staring down at him, brought Bart out of his nap, and without a word in response to their affectionate greetings, he followed them into the dining room. Meals had to be eaten, even when a ten-year-old boy sat silent and scowling, refusing to meet anyone's eyes.
It was a terribly awkward meal, with no one comfortable. Appetites were small, and even Cindy was cross. Emma didn't speak either, only performed her duties silently. Even the wind that blew
incessantly died down and the trees stood still, their leaves hanging as if frozen. All of a sudden it felt so cold, making me think of the graves Bart was always talking about.
I sat wondering how Mom and Dad could force Bart to go to Dr. Oberman's sessions. How could anyone force him to talk when he could be so darn stubborn? And Dad was busy enough without taking time from his patients--that alone should show Bart who cared enough.
"Going to bed now," said Bart coldly, standing without asking permission to leave the table. He left the dining room. We sat on, caught in some kind of spell Bart had cast.
Dad broke the silence. "Bart isn't himself. Obviously something is bothering him so much he can't even eat. We have to find out what it is."
"Mom," I said, "I think if you went in and sat on Bart's bed first tonight, and stayed a long time with him, and didn't come in to my room or Cindy's, that might make up for a lot."
She gave me a strange, long look, as if not believing it could be that simple. Dad agreed with me, saying it wouldn't do any harm.
Bart was faking sleep, it was easy to see that. I backed away and stood near Dad in the hallway, in the shadows where Bart couldn't see us. I was ready to spring forward and save Mom if Bart turned mean. Dad kept a restraining hand on my shoulder, and whispered softly, "He's just a boy, Jory, a very troubled little boy. A bit smaller than most ten-yearold boys, a bit thinner too, and maybe that's part of the problem. Bart is having more trouble growing up than most boys do."
Tensing, I waited for him to say more. "It's amazing how he could be born with so little grace, when his mother has so much."
I looked to where Mom stood gazing down on Bart, who looked darkly sullen in sleep--if he was asleep. Then she came running from his room, throwing Dad a wild, distraught look. "Chris, I'm afraid of him! You go in. If he wakes up and yells at me as he did before, I'll slap him I'll feel like putting him in the closet, or up in the attic." Both her hands rose to clamp over her mouth. "I didn't mean that," she whispered weakly.
"Of course you didn't. I hope he didn't hear you. Cathy, I think you'd better take two aspirins and go to bed, and I'll tuck Bart and Jory into bed." He gave me a big joking smile as I grinned back. Our nighttime talks were the kind of tucking in he gave me . . . advice on how to handle difficult situations. Man-toman stuff a woman didn't have to know about.
It was Dad who had the nerve to approach Bart, and he perched with ease on the side of his bed. I knew Bart always slept lightly, and when Dad sat down, the depression he made rolled Bart's slight figure onto his side. That would awaken even someone like me, who used to sleep deeply and soundly.
Cautiously I stole closer, wanting to see for myself if Bart was faking. Behind his closed lids his eyeballs were jerking spasmodically, as if he watched a tennis game or something much more terrifying.
"Bart . . . wake up."
As if Dad had fired the words from a giant cannon put near his ears, Bart jolted wide awake. He bolted upright, his dark eyes bulging and terrified. He stared at Dad.
"Son, it's not eight o'clock yet. Emma has made a lemon pie for dessert that she had to leave in the fridge to set. Don't tell me you don't want a slice. It's a beautiful evening. I used to think, when I was your age, that twilight was the best time of all to play outside. Hide and seek, or red light, green light . . ."
Bart stared at Dad as if he spoke in a foreign tongue.
"Come, Bart, don't sulk alone. I love you, and your mother loves you. It doesn't matter if sometimes you move less than gracefully. There are other things that count more, such as honor and respect. Stop trying to be what you aren't. You don't have to be anyone super-special; in our eyes, you already are super- special."
Bart just sat on his bed and stared at Dad with hostility. Why couldn't Dad see him as I did? Could a man as smart as Dad be blind when it came to seeing his son honestly? Had Bart opened his eyes when Mom was in the room, and had she seen the hatred there? She could always see more than Dad, even if he was a doctor.
"Summer's almost gone, Bart. Lemon pies get eaten by others. What you don't take today may not be there tomorrow."
Why was he being so nice to that boy who looked at him with daggers that could kill?
Obediently, when Dad turned to leave the room, Bart tagged along behind him. I was Bart's unseen shadow. Suddenly Bart ran ahead of Dad, who was on the back porch now, and skipped backwards until he nearly tumbled down the steps. "You aren't my father," he growled, "and you can't fool me. You hate me and want me dead!"
Heavily Dad sat in a chair close to the one where Mom was sitting with Cindy on her lap. Bart went to the swings to sit, not pushing with his feet, just sitting and holding fast to the ropes, as if he might fall off the wooden slat.
We all ate a slice of Emma's delicious lemon pie, all but Bart, who just sat where he was and refused to budge. Then Dad was getting up and saying he had to check on a patient in the hospital. He threw Bart a worried glance and spoke softly to Mom. "Take it easy, darling. Stop looking so troubled. I'll be home soon. Maybe Mary Oberman isn't the best psychiatrist for Bart. He seems to have a great deal of hostility toward women. I'll find another psychiatrist, a man." He leaned to kiss her upturned face. I heard the soft moist sound of their lips meeting. Then they stared deep into each other's eyes and I wondered what they saw. "I love you, Cathy. Please stop worrying. Everything will work out fine. We will all survive."
"Yes," she said dully, throwing Bart a doubtful look, "but I can't help worrying about Bart . . . he seems so confused."
Straightening, Dad cast Bart a long, hard, observant look. "Yes," he said without doubt. "Bart's a survivor too. See how fast he
clings to the ropes, and he's less than two feet from the ground. He just doesn't trust or believe in himself. I think he seeks strength in pretending to be older and wiser; security is in something other than himself. As a ten-year-old boy, he is lost. So it's up to us to find the right person to help him, even though it seems we cannot."
"Drive carefully," she said, as she always did, watching him depart with her heart in her eyes.
Very determined to stay up and protect Mom and Cindy, I still found myself growing sleepy. Every time I checked I saw Bart still on the swing, his dark eyes staring blankly into space, as very gently he moved the swing an inch or so, no more than the wind could blow his weight.
"I'm going to put Cindy to bed now, Jory," Mom
said to me, then called to Bart, "Bedtime . . . I'll be in to see you in a few minutes. Clean your teeth and wash your hands and face. We saved you a slice of lemon pie to eat before you brush your teeth."
No reply from the swing, but he did get up awkwardly, pausing to glance at his bare feet, stopping to stare at his hands, to finger his pajamas, to glance up at the sky, at the distant hills.
Inside the house Bart wandered aimlessly from object to object, picking one up, turning it over and staring at the bottom before he set it down. A small Venetian glass sailboat held his attention for a moment, and then he seemed to freeze as his eyes found a lovely porcelain ballerina in arabesque position. It was a figurine my mom had given to Dr. Paul after she married my father; in many ways the dancer was like Mom must have looked when she was very young.
Gingerly he picked up the delicate figure with its fluffy frozen froth of lace tutu and frail, pale arms and legs. He turned it over, stared at the information printed on the bottom. Limoges, it said, for I'd read it too. Next he touched the golden hair, parted in the middle and drawn softly back in waves and held in place with pink china roses.
If There Be Thorns Page 16
