Echoes of Dollanganger (31 page)

“As it turns out, there's a close example of the
architect's work that I've been encouraged to visit. There's also been a serious modification to the plans.”

“What do you mean? What modification?”

“We're going to install an elevator,” he said.

“But it's only two levels, right?”

“Right, but if someone can't navigate the stairway, it doesn't matter if it's two, three, or four levels.”

“Who's going to live in this house? Don't you know that yet?”

He shook his head.

I paused and sat back. “That's weird, Dad. How can you build a house for someone you don't know? I mean, someone who doesn't watch it going up and make comments? Is it an investment property after all? A house built to sell? Are they asking you for an elevator so it could sell to anyone, even a very elderly person or something? I don't get it.”

He shrugged. “I ask and am basically told not to be concerned, just do the work and follow the plans. Hey, workers in car factories don't worry about who will eventually be driving them.”

“You're not a factory worker. You're a personal builder,” I said, perhaps too sharply.

“What can I do? I'm not walking off the job because I don't know the personal stuff. I'll build the house they want, make sure the landscaping is what they want, and hand over the keys to whomever when the time comes. What happens next is none of my business. I will say, Foxworth will be gone. Maybe people will stop asking us about it.”

“You never told me about the fight you had over it,” I said.

“Your aunt can gossip like a hen in heat,” he said.

“Why didn't you ever tell me about that?”

“Roosters don't gossip.”

“Chicken,” I said, and he laughed.

“I might not be back for dinner,” he revealed. “There's a ribeye in the freezer and some chicken cutlets and—”

“Don't worry about me. Where are you going for dinner?”

“Not sure yet. I figure since I'm close to Richmond, there's an old navy buddy of mine I might meet, he and his wife.”

“That's nice,” I said.

“If you want me to get back, I can—”

“Dad, just have a good time, will you? I'll be on my own most of the time very soon.”

He nodded, and we finished breakfast.

I told him I'd take care of all the cleaning up so he could get going.

“I hope Laura's ready,” he muttered. “Been a while since I waited on a woman to get herself ready.”

“You've waited for me,” I said, and immediately regretted it. “But I know you're as patient as a Venus flytrap.”

“I'm afraid she knows that, too,” he said. “All right if I take your car?”

“Sure. I've got my own chauffeur now.”

So does Laura Osterhouse
, I wanted to add, but I didn't. There it was again, that nugget of jealousy
bouncing beneath my breasts. I tried to shut it down quickly, smiled, and gave him a hug, wishing him a good trip and a nice time.

“And if you worry about me just once . . .” I warned.

He held up his hands. “Keep that shark out of my water,” he said, and walked off.

When I heard the door close behind him, I couldn't stop my eyes from tearing up.

It was all happening quickly, the future. Most of the time, people talked about how sad parents were to see their children grow up and away from them. Maybe there was something wrong with me, but unlike my friends, I wasn't eager to rush into adulthood and get away from everything that tied me to my life as it was now. There was that inevitable conflict of emotions coming on graduation day. We'd party and congratulate one another on cutting the ties that bound us to parental authority and all the rules that made us feel too young. But sometime during that celebrating, we were all sure to pause and feel not only a little sadness about putting away our childhood but also a little more fear than we'd be willing to admit or show. Nevertheless, it would all be there. I was simply anticipating it sooner than my friends, probably because of what I had already lost when my mother died, and where the future would take both my father and me, on different paths to different places.

I was in such deep thought about it that I didn't realize how much time had gone by until the phone rang. It was Kane.

“What's happening?” he asked.

“You can come now,” I said.

“I'm on my way,” he replied.

I hung up and gazed toward the attic, where I knew Christopher Dollanganger was waiting to finish his story. What would happen after that or because of it was actually somewhat terrifying for all the reasons I had conjured up along the way.

Somehow, despite what my father believed, I was convinced that Foxworth would not be gone.

Not ever.

*  *  *

Kane was here in record time.

“We're going to have all day,” I said, revealing my father's plans as we walked up to my room. “No need to rush along.”

“Okay. I've put aside all my other important appointments,” he kidded.

I thought it was time to tell him about the house. I got out the diary but held on to it and sat on my bed.

“What's up?”

“There's another mystery at work here,” I began.

He joined me on the bed. “Really? What?”

“It's about the new house my father is building. Apparently, the man who hired him is not the man who's going to live there. The title to the property is under a trust or something, and the one who is really involved in this turns out to be who we believe was Corrine Dollanganger's psychiatrist when she was taken to that clinic after the fire she caused in the original mansion.”

“Your father told you all this?”

“Yes, but he doesn't know much more than that and doesn't care to know.”

“The answers to that won't be in the diary, will they?”

“Probably not.”

He nodded and then stood. I hesitated. “Something else you want to tell me?”

“No.”

He knew what I was thinking. “It won't be the same reading it anywhere else,” he said. “It's too . . .”

“Bright and happy down here,” I finished for him.

He nodded.

“Okay.” I rose, and we walked up to the attic.

“I couldn't sleep last night,” he said when we had settled in, him on his chair and me on the opened sofa.

“Dreams?”

“Yes, but mine were mostly about you,” he said. “Just as I know Christopher's dreams have become mostly about Cathy at this point.”

“Would they be about me if we weren't reading the diary?” I asked.

The question threw him for a moment. It was obviously something that hadn't ever occurred to him. He smiled. “Of course. Remember, I was after you before you told me about the diary, Kristin.”

“Good answer,” I said, and he laughed.

“I will say, however, that my dreams about you are a lot more vivid.”

“I hope I'm not undressed in every one of them.”

“You must be spying on my dreams.”

I lay back and closed my eyes. I was doing that whenever he read now. The words were playing like a movie on the insides of my eyelids.

He took a deep breath and opened the diary, delving into it like a deep-sea diver.

Cathy was constantly talking about her dreams, mostly nightmares involving either our grandmother or our mother. I was having nightmares, too, but I didn't want to harp on them. I knew we couldn't go on like this much longer, and one day soon, I promised her, we would escape, all four of us. The first problem was the key that unlocked the doors, a key I now knew was a master key for most other doors, too. My promise excited Cathy and filled her with renewed hope. I told her we had to keep this plan secret, and to do that, it was best to let Momma believe we appreciated every little thing she was doing for us, buying for us. We even pretended to enjoy her stories about her own happiness.

On one of those occasions, Cathy kept Momma busy, asking her about her parties, her clothes, everything, while I slipped her key into my pocket, went into the bathroom, and pressed it into a bar of soap to get the impression. It took me three days after that to carve a successful hardwood version of it, but I did, and it worked.

But I told Cathy that an opening of the doors wasn't enough. We would need money once we got out, money to travel and live on. There was only one way now to get it, to venture out when
I could. I spent most of the winter pilfering from Bart Winslow's pants and sometimes his wallet whenever I found it in their bedroom. I wanted us to have as much as possible, at least five hundred dollars. Of course, Cathy was impatient. She counted and recounted what we had, pressing me to say it was enough. But it wasn't, and I had to convince her that it would be worse for us out there with two little children and no money. Oddly, our grandmother was taking relatively good care of us now, always there with the food, even some dessert, powdered sugar doughnuts. Cathy was still impatient. Finally, I asked her to come along on a money mission. I thought she should see the house, too, in all its grandeur. Our house in Gladstone would fit at least three times in this house. I especially wanted her to see our mother's bedroom.

The truth was, I wanted to see her reaction to the opulence, the sight of our mother's clothes and jewelry and that swan bed. I wanted Cathy to see how well Momma was living with us stashed away like forgotten old clothes in an attic and a bedroom one-quarter of the size of hers, and ours for four of us. Her eyes nearly exploded at the sight of it. She tested the bed and then went into the walk-in closet. “There are more clothes here than in a department store!” she cried. I smiled to myself and began my search for money, rifling through drawers, while she explored and then began to experiment with Momma's makeup, just
the way she had when we lived in Gladstone. I wasn't paying attention to her now. I concentrated on searching every possible place, collecting even small change.

When I turned to her again, she had put on one of Momma's bras and stuffed it with tissues, was wearing high heels, all that makeup, and a ridiculous amount of jewelry, dozens of bracelets and rings. In my mind, it was like someone turning my mother into a cartoon. “Take all that off!” I told her. “You look like a streetwalker. Ridiculous.”

Her joy collapsed like a balloon with a hole in it, but she took everything off.

“And put it all back neatly enough so no one will know it was used, Cathy. That's very important.”

I didn't notice what she was doing next, but when I turned to her, I saw she was engrossed in a book. I stepped up behind her and looked at what she was reading. It was a book depicting couples having sex, showing a variety of positions, even pictures of multiple people having sex. For a moment, I couldn't breathe or take my eyes from the pages. She turned and looked up at me.

“We've got to get out of here now,” I told her, and took the book out of her hands. “Put this where you found it!”

She said nothing, and I said nothing. I took her hand and quickly led her out of the room, through the halls, and back to our small bedroom.

“Chris, that book.”

“Don't think about it,” I said. “Go take your bath.”

She checked on the twins and then went into the bathroom. I sat there, my body still trembling from seeing those vivid and explicit sex pictures. I was unaware of how much variety there was to what I thought was the simple act of intercourse, and those women, with their firm and large breasts, the curves in their waists, and what my father used to call “butts,” quickened my heartbeat. I felt myself getting more and more aroused, and when Cathy finally emerged, looking soft, lithe, and graceful, her robe opened just enough for me to see most of her breasts, I quickly turned away and tried counting and multiplying numbers. Then I rose quickly and went into the bathroom to take my bath, but I couldn't help it. I had to relieve myself first. I was afraid I would appear again with my erection still firm, and Cathy would see. Now that she had seen those pictures, she would know exactly what was happening. She was still brushing her hair when I came out. I avoided looking at her until we were both in our beds. She was staring at me strangely. My mind was reeling with images and thoughts. I could simply slip in beside her, just to feel her against me. Maybe . . .

I was arousing myself again.

“Good night,” I said quickly. She said good night, and we turned away from each other. Sleep
couldn't come fast enough for me this night, I thought.

“Should I tell you how often this has happened to me since we started going together?” Kane asked, pausing.

“No,” I said quickly. “Don't talk about it. Just read,” I ordered, and he laughed.

“Yes, boss,” he said. He stared at me a moment and then opened the diary again.

I had tried to look angry and bossy to keep him from seeing how riled up inside I was, too. Aside from my friend Suzette, who I always believed was the most promiscuous of all of us, none of us openly admitted to being sexually aroused at what we would all consider the most innocent occasions, like simply standing in the hall talking and watching some boys horse around with each other. One might grab at the other's crotch. She would openly admit to having orgasms at that sight and even having them when she went to try on jeans and they were too tight in her crotch. Most of us stared at her with amusement when she said things like this, half believing, but some of us, especially me, wondered if we were missing something by not being as sexually sensitive as she was. I almost asked my aunt Barbara about it, but I hesitated in the end.

Suzette swore that she had overheard her mother and a few of her friends talking about all this, confessing to having orgasms just looking at pictures of male models or something. Kyra told me Suzette's mother
was “a bit trampy,” but I had never seen her do or heard her say anything I'd consider off-color. As far as I could tell, she was critical of Suzette's loose ways, the sexy clothes she wore, and the late hours she kept whenever she did go out on a date. I told Kyra that, and she just shook her head, confident she was right, and said, “It takes one to know one. Her mother is one.”