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! (123 page)

And there I was saying my “ings.” That’s what loving Apple and my grandmother did for me, taught me how to pronounce the “ings” with a G. In only one day they had succeeded, when Momma and Daddy had been trying for years and years.

Soon I found out that eating had lots to do with loving. The more food I gave Apple, the more he loved me. And without the help of more spells, he was mine, all mine. When I came in the mornings he raced to me, jumping up and spinning in circles, wagging his tail, licking my face. When I hitched him to the new pony cart he bucked just like a real horse. Tried his best to rid himself of the small saddle I put on his back too. Boy, just wait until Jory got a load of the kind of magic I could work.

“Gonna be eleven soon,” I said to Grandmother one
day, in hopes of giving her a few ideas. “Ten,” she corrected. “You will be ten on your next birthday.”

“Eleven!” I shouted, insisting. “All year I’ve been going on ten. I have to be eleven by now.”

“Bart, don’t start wishing your life away. Time goes by quickly enough. Hold on to your youth, stay as you are.”

I went on stroking Apple’s head. “Granny, tell me about your little boys.”

She looked sad again, not from her face I couldn’t see, but from the way her shoulders drooped. “One went to heaven,” she whispered hoarsely, “the other ran away.”

“Where did the other go?” I asked, thinking maybe I’d go there too.

“South,” she said simply, drooping more.

“I’m going south too. Hate that place!—full of ole graves and full of ole grandmothers. One is locked up in a looney bin. The other is a mean-faced ole witch. You’re my best grandmother,” for by now I knew she couldn’t be Daddy’s crazy mother, but the mother of my real daddy. And women changed names when they changed husbands, so that’s . . . and then I knew I didn’t even know her last or first name. “Corrine Winslow,” she said when I asked, her head still bowed. I could see a little of her face where her nose lifted the black veil from her cheeks. A bit of her hair showed too. Gray hair with streaks of gleaming gold, soft hair. I pitied her. She was really going to suffer when I was gone.

“Going to Disneyland, Grandmother. Gonna stay there one week and have a party with more gifts from Momma and Daddy and Jory and Emma, and then we’ll all fly East and spend two rotten weeks just visiting—”

“I know,” she interrupted with a smile in her voice, “two weeks wasted by visiting ole graves and ole grandmothers. But you have a good time anyway.” She leaned to kiss and hug me tight. “And while you’re gone I’ll take good care of Apple.”

“NO!” I screamed, terrified Apple would love her more
than me when I came back. “You leave my pet alone. He’s mine. Don’t you go feedin him and makin him more yours than mine.”

She agreed to do what I wanted. I told her next I was gonna find a way to go to Disneyland, then sneak back to take care of Apple. How I was gonna do this wasn’t really clear in my mind—and from the way she looked, it wasn’t clear in hers either.

Later I was in the barn with Apple. John Amos stood tall and skinny above, as I sprawled on the hay. He lectured again on how evil women were, and how they made men “sin.”

“Nobody does anything for nothing,” he said. “Don’t you think for one second she doesn’t have wicked plans for you, Bart Winslow.”

“Why’d you call me that?”

“It’s your name, isn’t it?”

I grinned, really proud to tell him I had the longest name ever.

“That’s not important,” he said with no patience. “Be attentive, boy. You asked me yesterday about sin and I wanted to tell you exactly, but I had to plan the wording. Sin is what men and women do together when they close their bedroom door.”

“What’s so bad about sin?”

He scowled, showing his teeth, and I shrank back into the hay, wishing he’d go away and leave me and Apple alone.

“Sin is what women use to make a man weak. You’ve got to face up to certain facts. Inside of every man there is a weak, spineless streak, and women know how to find it by taking off their clothes and using earthly pleasures to sap a man’s strength by desire. Watch your own mother, see how she smiles at your father, how she paints her face and nails and wears skimpy clothes, and see your stepfather’s eyes light up—both are on their way to sinning when you see that.”

I swallowed, kinda hurting inside. Didn’t want my parents
to do bad things to make God punish them.

“Now hear the words of Malcolm again. ‘I cried and cried for five years after my mother went away and left me with my father, who hated me for being hers. He told me all the time she was married to him she was unfaithful, deceiving him with many lovers. And then he couldn’t love me. Couldn’t stand for me to be near him, and it grew so lonely shut up in that big house with no one who cared. Time and again Father told me he’d never be able to remarry because of me. None of his paramours liked me. But they did fear me. You can bet I let them know what I thought. I knew they’d burn in the eternal fires of hell.’”

“What’s a paramour?” I asked, bored sometimes with Malcolm.

“A derelict soul on its way to hell.” His eyes burned into me. “And don’t you think you can go away on a vacation and leave the care of Apple to another. When you accept the love of an animal, that animal is your responsibility for its entire life. You feed him, water him, groom and exercise him—or God will see that you suffer!”

I shivered and looked at my puppy-pony, who was chasing his tail.

“There is power in your dark eyes, Bart. The same kind of power Malcolm had. God has sent you to carry out an unfinished duty. Malcolm will never rest easy in his grave until all the Devil’s spawn are sent down to roast over the fires of hell!”

“Fires of hell,” I repeated dully.

“Two are there already . . . three more to go.”

“Three more to go.”

“Evil seeds reproduce and multiply over and over.”

“Over and over.”

“And when you have done your duty, Malcolm will rest easy in his grave.”

“Rest easy in my grave.”

“What’s that you said?”

I was confused. Sometimes I pretended
I
was Malcolm. John Amos smiled for some reason and seemed pleased. I was allowed to go home then.

Jory came on the run to question me. “Where’ve you been? What do you do over there? I see you talking to that old butler. What does he tell you?”

He made me feel like a mouse facing up to a lion. Then I remembered Malcolm’s book and how he handled situations like this. I put a cold mask on my face. “John Amos and I have secrets that are none of your damn business.”

Jory stared. I strode off.

Under a huge spreading tree Momma was pushing Cindy in her baby-swing. Sissy girls had to be strapped in to keep from falling out. “Bart,” she called, “where have you been?”

“Nowhere!” I snapped.

“Bart, I don’t like smart answers.”

I stopped and decided I’d do like Malcolm and wither her small with my mean glare—instead I saw to my amazement she wore a skimpy blue halter-top that didn’t meet the top of her white shorts, showing her bellybutton. She was showing bare skin! Sin was connected to bare skin. In the Bible the Lord had commanded Adam and Eve to put on clothes and cover their wicked flesh. Was my momma just as sinful as that wicked Corrine who had run off with her “paramour”?

“Bart, don’t stare like you don’t know who I am.”

Into my mind popped one of the lines from the Bible John Amos was always quoting. Bit by bit I was learning what God expected from the people he created. “Be warned, Momma, the Lord will see when I do not, and He will punish.”

Momma almost jumped. Then she swallowed and in a dry voice asked, “Why did you say that?”

Look at her tremble, I thought. I turned my head to glare at all the naked statues in this evil garden of sin. Wicked naked people made Malcolm rest uneasy in his grave.

But I loved her; she was my mother; sometimes she came
and kissed me good night and stayed to hear my prayers. Before Cindy came she was better and spent more time with me. And she didn’t appear to be in love with a “paramour.”

Didn’t know what to do. “Sleepy, Momma,” I said and then drifted away, feeling at odds with myself and the rest of the world. What if what Malcolm wrote, and John Amos quoted, was true? Was she evil and sinful, luring men to be like animals? Was it bad to be like animals? Apple wasn’t bad, or sinful. Not even Clover was, and he didn’t like me.

Inside Jory’s room I paused before his thirty-gallon aquarium. The air made a steady stream of tiny bubbles that burbled to the surface like the champagne Momma had let me sip once.

Pretty fish wouldn’t live in my tank. Fish in Jory’s tank never died. My empty tank held nothing but water, and a toy pirate ship spilled out fake jewels on the fake ocean floor. Jory’s tank grew seaweed that snaked in and out of a small castle. His fish darted in and out of coral reefs.

Jory did everything better than me. I didn’t like being Bart anymore. Bart had to stay home and forget about Disneyland now that he had responsibilities.

A pet could be a heavy, heavy burden.

I fell on my bed and stared up at the ceiling. Malcolm didn’t need his power and strength anymore, or his clever brain that was smart too. He was dead and his talents were wasted. Nobody ever made Malcolm do anything he didn’t want to after he grew up. Didn’t want to be a boy anymore. Wanted to be a man, like Malcolm the powerful, the financial wizard.

Was gonna make people jump when I spoke. Tremble when I looked. Cower when I moved. The day was coming. Felt it.

J
ory,” said Mom as we picked up our totes and headed for her car, “I can’t understand what’s happening to Bart this summer. He’s not the same child. What do you think he does outside alone all the time?”

I felt uncomfortable. I wanted to protect Bart and let him have the old lady next door for this friend, and I couldn’t tell Mom that woman was saying she was Bart’s grandmother. “Don’t you worry about Bart, Mom,” I assured her. “You just keep on having fun with Cindy. She’s sure a cute kid, like you must have been.”

She smiled and kissed my cheek. “If my eyes aren’t deceiving me, there’s another cute kid you admire too.”

I felt a blush heat up my cheeks. I couldn’t help but look at Melodie Richarme. She was so darn pretty, with hair that was a deeper shade of blonde than Mom’s, but blue eyes that were just as soft and shining. I thought I’d never love any girl who didn’t have blue eyes. Just then Melodie showed up, running to her father’s car, making me stare at the way she was turning into a woman. Gosh, it was miraculous the way
flat-chested little girls showed up one day with bosoms, tiny waists, and swelling hips, and suddenly they were ten times more interesting.

*  *  *

The minute we hit home Mom had me hunting up Bart. “If he’s over in that other yard, you tell me. I don’t want you children bothering an old recluse, though I wish to heaven she’d stop climbing that ladder and staring at me over the wall.”

Climbing, jumping, calling, I searched until I found Bart in the old barn that had once been what was called in olden times “a carriage house.” Now it had empty stalls where horses used to live, and Bart was in one, using a rake to pull out the dirty hay. I stared, disbelieving my eyes. With him was a St. Bernard puppy. The dog was almost as big as he was. It was easy enough to tell it was only a puppy, for it had kiddish ways, frolicking and making puppy noises.

Bart threw down his rake and scolded the dog. “You stop jumping around like that, Apple! Ponies don’t jump anything but hurdles—now you eat that hay or I won’t give you clean hay tomorrow.”

“Bart . . . ,” I called softly, leaning against the barn wall and smiling to see
him
jump. “Dogs don’t eat hay.”

His face flamed. “You go way! You get out of here! You don’t belong!”

“Neither do you.”

“You get out of here,” he sobbed, hurling down his rake and pulling the huge puppy into his arms. “This is my dog; he was supposed to have been a pony—so I’m making him both a puppy and a pony. Don’t you laugh and think I’m crazy.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” I said, a lump in my throat to see him so upset. It really was a shame I had more affinity for animals than he did. They seemed to know he’d step on their tails or trip over them. In fact, even I wasn’t too comfortable lying on the floor when Bart was around.

“Who gave you the puppy?”

“My grandmother,” Bart said, with so much pride in his eyes. “She loves me, Jory, really loves me more than Momma does. And she loves me more than your ole Madame Marisha loves you!”

That was the trouble with Bart. No sooner did I feel close to him than he slapped me in my face, making me regret I’d ever let him under my skin.

I didn’t pat the beautiful puppy on his head, though he was making up to me. I let Bart have his way; maybe this time he’d make a friend after all.

He smiled at me happily as we headed for home. “You’re not mad at me?” he asked. Of course I wasn’t. “You won’t tell on me, Jory? It’s important not to tell Momma or Daddy.”

I didn’t like to keep secrets from my parents, but Bart was insistent, and what would it hurt anyway if a kind lady gave Bart a few gifts and a new puppy? She was making him feel loved and happy.