Authors: V.C. Andrews
“Is clever the same as being smart?”
“No, of course not! Clever is not letting people suspect just how smart you are.”
“Why didn’t Malcolm like his Momma?” I asked, though I knew she’d run away, but would that make me hate my momma?
“Like his mother? Lord God above, boy, Malcolm was wild about his mother until she ran off with her lover and left Malcolm with his father, who was too busy to pay him any attention. If you read on, boy, you’ll find out soon just what turned Malcolm against all women. Read on and increase your knowledge. Malcolm’s wisdom will become yours. He will teach you to never trust a woman to be there when you need her.”
“But my momma is a good momma,” I defended weakly, not so sure anymore that it was true. Life was so “devious.” (New word for today, devious.)
“Now, Bart,” Daddy had said early this morning when he carefully printed the word and explained to me exactly what it meant, “I want you and Jory to find a way to fit
devious
into your conversation today at least five times. It means departing from the shortest way; crooked and unfair—D-E-V-I-O-U-S.”
Spelled it for me, Golly day, I sure hated living in a “devious world.” Dratted new vocabulary words were teaching me how
devious
everyone could be.
“Now I’m going to leave you alone so you can read more of Malcolm’s words,” said John Amos before he shuffled off, bent slightly forward and to the side.
I opened the book to the page where the leather bookmark was.
* * *
Today I just wanted to try a little of my father’s tobacco, so I filled his pipe with what I found in his office, then stole outside and smoked behind the garage.
I don’t know how he found out unless one of the servants told on me, but he knew. Fire came in his hard eyes and he ordered me to strip down to naked. Cringing, I cried when he whipped me, and then he put me in the attic until I could learn the ways of the Lord and redeem my sins. While I was up there I found old photographs of my mother when she was a just a girl. How beautiful she was, so
innocent and sweet-looking. I hated her! I wanted her to die that very moment wherever she was in the world. I wanted her to be suffering as I was, with cuts bleeding down my back, while I nearly suffocated in that airless hot attic.
I found things in that attic, corsets with laces so a woman swelled out in front, deceiving men into believing she has more than what came naturally. I knew I would never be deceived by any woman, no matter how beautiful. For it was beauty that put me in the attic, and beauty that used the whip on my back, and it wasn’t really my father’s fault what he did. He was hurting too, like I was.
Now I knew what he’d said all the time was true: No woman could be trusted. And most especially those with beautiful faces and seductive bodies.
* * *
Lifting my eyes I stared into space, seeing not the barn and all the hay, but the sweet and beautiful face of my mother. Was
she
devious? Would she one day run away with her “lover” and leave me to fend for myself with a stepfather who didn’t love me nearly as much as he loved Jory and Cindy?
What would I do then? Would my grandmother take me in?
I asked her later on. “Yes, my love, I will take you in. I will care for you, fight for you, do what I can for you, for you are the true son of my second husband, Bart Winslow. Haven’t I told you that before? Trust me, believe in me, and stay away from John Amos. He is not the kind of friend you should have.”
Son of her second husband. Did that mean my momma had been married to him too? All the time marryin somebody! I closed my eyes and thought about Malcolm, who was long gone in his grave. Rock, rock, rock went her chair. Thud, thud, thud went the dirt on my grave. Dark now. Smothery. Cramped and cold. Heaven . . . where was Heaven?
“Bart, your eyes are glassy.”
“Tired, Grandmother, so tired.”
“Soon you will have your heart’s desire.”
Money, wanted money, piles and piles of greenbacks. At that moment someone banged on the front door. I jumped off her lap and quickly hid.
Jory ran in ahead of John Amos, who had admitted him. “Where is my brother?” he asked, looking around the room. “I don’t like what’s happening to him and I think it has something to do with coming over here—”
“Jory,” said my grandmother, putting out her hand with all the sparkling, jeweled fingers. “Don’t glare at me. I don’t harm him. I only give him a little ice cream after his meals. Sit down and talk for a while. I’ll send for refreshments.”
Ignoring her, with the nose of a bloodhound Jory raced straight to me and yanked me out from behind the potted palms. “No thank you, lady,” he said coldly. “My mom gives me all I need to eat—and what you’re doing over here is changing him, so please don’t let him come again.”
Her barely visible lips clamped together and I saw tears in her eyes as I was pulled away. Jory shook me in our backyard. “Don’t you ever go back there again, Bart Sheffield! She is not your grandmother! You look at her as if you like her more than Mom!”
* * *
There were some who said Bart Winslow Scott Sheffield was not as tall as other boys at nine. But I knew as soon as I hit ten I’d shoot up like a weed in the summertime. Soon as I was in Disneyland again, I’d be inspired enough to grow as tall as a giant.
“Why are you looking so solemn, darling?” asked Grandmother when I was snuggled on her lap again the next day. The pony still hadn’t come.
“Not coming to see you no more,” I said grumpily. “Daddy will give me a pony for my birthday when I tell him again I want one. Won’t need yours.”
“Bart, you haven’t told your parents about me, have you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“If you lie God will punish you.”
Sure, why not? Everybody else did. “Never tell nobody nothing,” I mumbled. “Momma and Daddy don’t like me noway. They got Jory. Now they got Cindy, too. That’s enough for them.”
She took a quick glance around, paying special attention to the pocket doors that were closed and latched tight. She whispered. “Bart, I’ve seen you talking to John, I’ve asked you to stay away from him. He’s an evil old man who can be very cruel. Keep that in mind.”
Gee, who could I trust? He said the same thing about her. Once I’d thought everyone in my family could be trusted. Now I was learning people weren’t always what they seemed to be on the surface. Weren’t loving, never cared enough, especially when it came to me. Maybe it was only Grandmother who really cared—and John Amos. Then I was bewildered again. Was John Amos my true friend? If he was, then my grandmother couldn’t be. Had to choose. Which to choose? How did I made big decisions like that? Then, when Grandmother had her arms about me, my face held to her soft breast, I knew, she was the one who loved me best. She was my own true-for-a-fact grandmother.
But . . . what if she wasn’t?
I’d seen my grandmother a dozen or more times. John Amos had been my friend only for a few days. Maybe if he waited for me seven times in a row that would tell me he was lucky and good for me. Seven times of anything meant good luck. Five times of talking to me in his spooky place had taught me already that women were sneaky and devious.
“Bart, my darling,” whispered my granny, putting her dry lips on my cheek near my ear. “Don’t look so afraid, just leave John Amos alone, and don’t believe anything he tells you.” She stroked my face, then I felt her smile. “Now, if you run
down to the barn and take a look inside, you will find something any boy would love to have, and those who don’t will envy you.”
She started to say something else, but I jumped from her lap and raced from her room and ran all the way to the barn. Oh gosh, oh gee, every day I carried an apple in my pocket, just hoping. Every day I carried lumps of Momma’s sugar, just hoping. Prayed every night for that pony I just had to have. This pony was going to love me more than anybody! I ran to the barn and didn’t fall once. Then I pulled up short and stared. THAT wasn’t a pony!
It was only a dog, A big hairy dog who stood with his tail waggin, and his eyes lookin at me adoringly already, and I hadn’t done one thing to win his love. I wanted to cry. It was leashed and tied by a rope to a stump in the barn dirt floor. The dog wiggled all over, as if happy to see me—and I hated that dog.
Behind me she came runnin up, all breathless and pantin. “Bart, darling, don’t be disappointed. I really wanted to give you a pony, but as I told you, if I did, you would go home reeking of horses, and Jory and your parents would find out, and never let you come back to visit me.”
I sank down on my knees and bowed my head. I wanted to die. I’d eaten all that ice cream, suffered through all those kisses and hugs . . . and still she hadn’t given me a pony. “You lied to me.” I choked, with tears in my eyes. “You’ve made me waste all my days visitin you when I could have done somethin better.” And there I went, dropping my G’s again. Not so grown up after all.
“Bart, darling, you don’t understand about St. Bernards at all!” she said, gathering me up in her arms. “This dog is still just a puppy, and see how big he is. He will grow up to be as big as a pony. You can saddle him and ride him around. And did you known in the mountains they use this breed of dog to rescue people who have been lost in the snow? A keg of brandy
is tied around the dog’s neck, and all by himself, a dog like this can find a lost man and save his life. A St. Bernard is the world’s most heroic dog.”
I didn’t believe her. Still, I had to stare at the puppy with more interest—that was a puppy? He strained at his leash, trying to get at me, and I liked him a little more for doing that. “Will he really grow up to be as big as a pony?”
“Bart, he’s only six months old, and already he’s almost as big as some ponies!” She laughed and caught my hand and pulled me inside the barn. “See,” she said, pointing to a red saddle with bit and bridle, and then to a little two-wheeled red cart. “You can ride him, or hitch him to the cart—and have an all-purpose dog or pony, whatever you want. All you have to do is use your imagination.”
“Will he bite me?”
“No, of course not. Darling, look at him, how happy he is to see a boy. Put out your hand and let him sniff your palm. Treat him kindly, feed him well, and keep his hair free of briars and tangles, and you will not only have the most beautiful dog in the world, but the best friend of your life.”
Fearfully I inched my hand away from my body—and the puppy licked it like ice cream. Slurpy kisses. I laughed because it tickled. “Go way, Grandmother,” I ordered.
She backed way reluctantly while I knelt in front of the pony so I could tell it what it was. “Now you look here,” I said firmly, “and you remember what I say. You
are not
a dog but a pony. You are not meant to carry brandy in kegs to people who are lost and snowed in—you are meant for carrying me only. You are my pony, and mine alone!”
He looked at me as if bewildered, cocking his big shaggy head to one side as he sat on his haunches. “Don’t you sit like that!” I yelled. “Ponies don’t sit, only dogs.”
“Bart,” came my grandmother’s soft voice, “be kind, remember.”
I ignored her. Women didn’t count in man-doings like
this. John Amos had told me that. Men ruled the world, and women had to sit back and keep quiet.
I had to cast a spell and make a puppy over into a pony. Mean witches on stage knew how to do that. I thought and thought about every stage witch I’d seen in ballets and finally I thought I knew just how it was done.
Needed a long hooked nose and a jutting long chin, and hollowed-out eyes and bony long fingers with black nails two inches long. Only thing I had right was mean, black, piercing eyes—maybe that would do the trick. Knew how to make mean eyes real good.
I flung my arms overhead, curled my fingers into claws, hunched my back, and cast my spell: “I chrisss-en thee Apple! With this magic potion I give, and with this spell I put upon thee, I make you into a pony.” I gave him the magic potion which was an apple. “Now you are mine, all mine! Never will you eat or drink if I am not the one to give you the food and water. Never will you love anyone but me. You will run to me and die when I do. MINE, APPLE, MINE! NOW AND FOR-EVERMORE . . . MINE!”
The power of my magic spell had Apple sniffing at the fruit I offered. He whimpered unhappily and turned his nose away, showing more interest in the sugar I was saving for later. “Now, don’t you whinny and try to eat everything,” I scolded, biting into the apple myself to show him how it was done. Again I held the apple out for my pony to eat. Again he turned away his giant white and golden head. Some of his fur was reddish gold and sorta pretty. I bit into the apple again and chewed, showing him what good food he was missing.
“Bart,” called Grandmother with a choke in her voice, “perhaps I made a mistake. I’ll take the puppy back to the pet shop and buy you that pony you wanted.”
I looked from her to my new pet, then toward my home, considering. They’d be sure to smell a horse, if ponies smelled horsey. And doggy smells would seem natural; they’d be
convinced Clover had finally learned to trust me—when he never would let me near him. “Grandmother, I’m going to keep this here puppy-pony. I’ll teach him all about how to play horse. If he doesn’t learn before I go to Disneyland you can take him back—and never can I come to visit you again.”
Laughing and happy then, I fell onto the hay and frolicked with my puppy-pony, the only puppy-pony in the whole wide world. And his big warm body felt good in my arms, real good.
I looked at her, then, and I knew John Amos was wrong. Women were not evil and devious, and I was so relieved to have found out at last that it was John Amos who was devious, and Momma and my grandmother were the best things in my whole life—next to Apple.
“Grandmother, are you truly my real grandmother, and my real daddy was your second husband?”
“Yes, it’s true,” she said with her head bowed. “But it’s a secret. Just between us. You must promise not to tell anyone.” She seemed to droop, looking sad, but I was so happy inside I wanted to burst. A puppy-pony and a real grandmother who had been married to my real father. Gosh, I was getting lucky at last.