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! (118 page)

“Jory darling, what’s wrong?”

Nothing was wrong. I didn’t know what bothered me, not really. I’d seen old age before, my own grandmother Marisha, but she’d always been old.

That night Momma came in my dreams and was a lovely angel who put an enchanted spell over all the world to stop people from growing older. I saw two-hundred-year-old ladies as young and pretty as when they’d been twenty—all but one old woman in black, all alone, rocking in her chair.

Toward morning Bart slipped into my bed and cuddled up behind my back, watching with me the gray fog that obliterated the trees, erased the golden grass, smothered all signs of life, and made the world out there seem dead.

Bart rattled on to himself. “Earth is full of dead people. Dead animals and plants too. Makes all that stuff Daddy calls mulch.”

Death. My half-brother Bart was obsessed by death, and I pitied him. I felt him cuddle closer as we both stared out at the fog that was so much a part of our lives.

“Jory, nobody ever likes me,” he complained.

“Yes, they do.”

“No, they don’t. They like you better.”

“That’s because you don’t like them and it shows.”

“Why do you like everybody?”

“I don’t. But I can put on a smile and pretend even when I don’t. Perhaps you’d better learn to put on a false face sometimes.”

“Why? It’s not Halloween.”

He troubled me. Like those beds in the attic troubled me. Like that strange thing between my parents that rose up every so often, reminding me that they knew something that I didn’t.

I closed my eyes and decided everything always worked out for the best.

T
hey looked at me, but they didn’t see me. They didn’t know who I was. To them I was just a thing to sit at their table and try to swallow the stuff they put on my plate. My thoughts were all around, but they didn’t read my mind, couldn’t figure me out at all. I was goin next door to the mansion to where I’d been invited. And when I went I’d remember to pronounce my “ings”—always they were telling me to say the G’s. I’d do it right, everything, for the old lady next door.

Gonna go alone and not tell Jory. Jory didn’t need new friends anyway. He had his ole ballet classes, with pretty girls all around and that was enough. With Melodie, more than enough. Me—I didn’t have nobody but parents who didn’t understand. Soon as I was excused from breakfast I’d make it quickly to our garden while Jory was still inside eatin his stack of pancakes with melted maple sugar poured all over. Pig, that’s what he was . . . a darn hog!

Day was hot. Sun was too bright. Shadows long on the ground. White wall rose up so dratted high—had that wall known in advance I was comin, and I’d be clumsy, and
“they” wanted to make it difficult? Tree I climbed wasn’t so bad.

Yard was so big it tired my short legs. Wish I had long pretty legs like Jory. Always fallin, always hurtin myself, but never felt no pain. Daddy had been amazed when he first found that out. “Bart, because your nerve endings don’t reach your skin, you will have to be doubly careful of infections. You could seriously hurt yourself and not even know it. So always wash all your cuts and scratches with soap and water, then tell your mother and me so we can put on disinfectant.”

Washing with soap kept away germs. Wonder where they went?—up to heaven, down to hell? Wonder what a germ looked like? Monsters, Jory had said, ugly itty-bitty monsters. A billion of them could sit on the point of a pin. Wish I had eyes like a microscope.

I gave her yard another long-long look, then jumped, closed my eyes so I couldn’t see the ground smack me. Landed square in a clump of her rose bushes. More cuts and scratches to add to my collection. More germs too. Didn’t care. Crouched down low, squinted my eyes against the sun, and tried to spot all the dangerous wild animals that lurked in dark, mysterious places—like this.

Look over there. Behind that big bush—a tiger! I raised my rifle and took careful aim. It swished its long tail and sparked its yellow eyes, then licked its chops, thinking soon it would have me for lunch. I squeezed hard on the trigger. BANG! BANG! BANG! Got yah! Dead as a doornail!

Slingin my rifle over my shoulder, I wended a careful way along all the dangerous jungle paths. Ignorin an orange and white kitten that mewed “plaintively” (Plaintively was one of the new words I had to use. One new word each day, and Daddy gave a list of seven words to both Jory and me, insistin we use today’s word at least five times in our conversation. Didn’t need a bigger vocabulary. Knew how to talk good enough already.)

A tune popped into my head. Came from a movie I saw last night on TV about West Point. That song was right:

There was somethin about a soldier . . .

that is fine, fine, fine . . .

Marchin to the tune in my head, I carried my rifle smartly on my shoulder, my chest out, my chin in. Straight up to her front door I marched. Then I banged hard, usin the brass knocker that was a lion’s head with a loose jaw.

My perfect military bearin was so admirable I just knew that ole lady would be impressed. Doctors weren’t so special. Dancers either. But a five-star general—that was impressive! Nobody had a name longer than mine: General Bartholomew Scott Winslow Sheffield. Even Jory Janus Marquet Sheffield was not so long, not so good soundin. Just wait until the enemy knew who was in charge of the war.

Should have been that creepy ole butler who opened the door, but it was the ole lady herself. I’d seen her a few times in her yard. She held the door open a slot and stingily allowed a long wedge of sunlight to shine on her floor. “Bart . . . ?” she whispered, her voice surprised and happy. Was she really so glad to see me? Gee, and she didn’t even know me yet.

“Bart, how wonderful! I was hoping you’d come.”

“Step aside, Madame!” I commanded. “My men got you surrounded.” Made my voice deep and gruff to scare the living lights out of her. “No use resistin. Better to give up and raise yer white flag. The odds are all against you.”

“Oh, Bart,” she said with silly giggles. “It’s so sweet of you to accept my invitation. Sit down and talk to me. Tell me about yourself, your life. Tell me if you’re happy; if your brother is happy, if you like where you live, and love your parents. I want to know everything!”

Forcefully I kicked the door to behind me, as all good generals did. BANG! To see her blue eyes smiling while her lips were covered by that dratted black veil was very weird. My tough military composure vanished. Why’d she have to wear that scary veil? “Lady,” I said weakly, feeling young and timid again, “you did call over the wall yesterday. You said you wanted me to come over when I was lonely. I sneaked over . . .”

“Sneaked?” she asked in an odd voice. “Do you have to slip away from your parents? Do they punish you often?”

“Naw,” I said. “Wouldn’t do them no good. Couldn’t hurt me with spankins; couldn’t starve me for I don’t like food anyway.” I hung my head and whispered, “Momma and Daddy tole me not to pester rich ole ladies who live in big spooky houses next door.”

“Oh!” she said with a sigh. “Do you have a great many big spooky houses next door with rich old ladies inside?”

“Heck no, ma’am,” I drawled, then sauntered over to a wall in a pretty parlor where I could look out and see who was comin, who was goin. I slouched against the wall and took the makins for a good smoke from my pocket and rolled my own as she sat down in a rocker to watch. She kept watchin me blow smoke rings in her air, faintly smiling as they wreathed around her head. Stupid veil puffed in and out as she breathed. Wonder if she slept with that thing over her head and face.

“Bart, often I hear you and your brother talking in your yard. I use a stepladder sometimes to look over the wall—I hope you don’t mind.” Wouldn’t answer. Blew smoke rings right in her face. “Please talk, Bart . . . sit down and relax, feel comfortable, feel at home. I want my house to feel like your home, open to you and Jory. My own life is so lonely, all I have is myself and John Amos, my butler. To have a real family living next door is so comforting. You can say anything you want to me, anything at all.”

Wasn’t nothin to say—but here was an adult who wanted
to listen. What could we talk about? “People shouldn’t spy on me and my brother.”

“I wasn’t spying,” she said in hurry, “just taking care of my roses that climb the wall and need pruning—and I can’t help if I overhear, can I?”

Spy. That’s what she was. Ground out the butt of my cigarette with my dusty boot heel. Sun was getting in my eyes again, makin me tilt the brim of my hat. Ole Devil sun makin me thirsty. “Ma’am, ya’ll done asked me over and here ah is . . . so get t’ the point.”

“Bart, if you take a chair, we’ll have refreshments soon. See that bell-pull? My maid will bring in ice cream and cake. It is a long time until lunch, so your appetite shouldn’t be spoiled.”

Might as well stay a bit longer. Fell into a soft chair and fixed my eyes on her feet, which could barely be seen. Was she wearing high heels?—fancy sandals?—painted toenails? Then in the door came a pretty Mexican maid with a tray full of goodies. Wow-wow! The maid smiled at me, nodded to the lady, then disappeared. I politely accepted what she gave me—not enough of anything—and set to. Didn’t like food that was good for me; it tasted so bad. I stood up to go as soon as I polished off my treats.

“Thank you, ma’am, for takin kindly to an ole cowpoke who just ain’t used to yer kind of hospitality. I’ve got to be ambling on now. . . .”

“All right, if you have to go,” she said sadly, and I felt sorry for her livin with servants only, no kids like me. “Come back tomorrow if you want, and bring Jory with you. I’ll have whatever you want. . . .”

“Don’t want to bring Jory!”

“Why not?”

“You’re
my
secret! He gets to do everything. I never get to do nothin! Nobody ever likes me.”

“I like you.”

Gee, she made me feel good. I peeked at her face, but couldn’t see anything but her blue eyes. “Why do you like me?” I asked with so much wonder—nobody else did.

“I don’t just like you, Bart Winslow,” she said queerly, “I love you.”

“Why?” I didn’t believe her. Ladies fell at first sight for Jory, never for me.

“Once I had two sons, now I don’t,” she said with her eyes cast down and her voice sad and tight. “Then I wanted to have another son by my second husband, and I couldn’t.” She looked up and met my eyes. “So I want
you
to take the place of the third son I couldn’t have. I’m very rich, Bart. I can give you anything you want.”

“My heart’s desire—my real heart’s desire?”

“Yes, anything that can be bought with money, I can give you.”

“Can’t everything be bought?”

“Sadly, it can’t. I used to think it could, but now I know money can’t buy the most important things. Things I used to take for granted and treated lightly—oh, if I had my life to live over, how different I would be! I’ve made so many mistakes, Bart. I want to do everything right for you, with you . . . and if you have to keep me as your secret, perhaps one day . . . well, let’s save that for later. You will come again?”

She sounded so pitiful and made me feel so uneasy. I shuffled my feet about and decided I’d better get away quick before she tried to kiss me. “Ma’am, gotta get back to camp. My men will be wonderin if I’m wounded or dead. But remember this—I got you surrounded and you cannot win this war!”

“I know,” she said, her voice so sad sounding. “I’ve never won any game I’ve tried to play. I’ve always gone down in defeat even when I thought I held the winning cards.”

Just like me! Made me feel sorry for her. “Lady, you play your cards right and I’ll come over every day and pay you a visit—or even two or three.”

“Thank you, Bart. You just tell me what cards to play and I’ll have them on the table waiting for you.”

Had me an idea then. Lots and lots of things I wanted and never got. Didn’t want books, games, toys, or other ordinary stuff. One thing I had to have, and hopefully I stared at her . . . maybe she’d be the one to give it to me. “What’s your name?”

“Come again and I’ll tell you.”

I’d be comin again. Darn if I could stay away now.

*  *  *

Went home and nobody even noticed I was there. Momma went right on talking about that baby girl she had to have if her favorite student Nicole died.
God, don’t let Nicole die,
I silently prayed.

“Jory, let’s play ball.”

“Can’t. Mom’s driving me to afternoon class. Melodie’s parents are taking me to dinner tonight, then to a movie.”

Nobody ever took me anywhere—except my parents. No friends. No pet of my own. Dratted Clover liked Jory better, squealin like he was hurt when I stepped on his tail by accident, or stumbled over him, and he was always underfoot.

A few days later I again headed for the back door. “Where are you going?” asked Momma, who had been starin at a picture of that little girl she wanted for her own. Weren’t enough she had two boys—had to have a daughter too. Sissy-silly girl.

“Bart, answer me. Where are you going?”

“Nowhere.”

“Every time I ask you what you do, and where you go, you say you haven’t been anywhere and haven’t done anything. Now I want to hear the truth.”