Authors: V.C. Andrews
“Bart, don’t look so skeptical. Emma and I did fix
every one
of your favorite dishes.” I stared at her. She turned red, then said with an effort, “You know, the ones you like best.”
She went on forcing herself to be nice as Daddy came up and gave me a short cane. “Bear most of your weight on that until your knee is stronger.”
Kinda fun hobbling around like an old man, like Malcolm Foxworth. Liked having them fuss over me, worried when I wouldn’t eat. None of the presents they had for me were as good as what my grandmother next door would give. “Good gosh, Bart,” whispered Jory during dinner, “do you have to act so ungrateful? Everybody went to an awful lot of trouble to please you.”
“Hate apple pie.”
“You said before apple pie was your favorite kind.”
“Never said that! Hate chicken, too, and mashed potatoes, green salads—hate everything!”
“I believe it,” said a disgusted brother who turned his back and ignored someone as picky as me. Then he reached to take a chicken leg from my plate. “Well . . . as long as you don’t want it, it shouldn’t go to waste.” He ate every last piece of the chicken. Now I couldn’t sneak into the kitchen late at night and stuff myself when they weren’t watching. Let ’em all worry about me fading away to skin and bones, ending up in a damp, cold grave. Let ’em find out how much they missed me.
“Bart, please try and eat a little something,” pleaded Momma. “What’s wrong with the pie?”
I scowled, then slapped Jory’s hand when he reached to take my slice of pie. “Can’t eat pie without ice cream on top.”
She smiled at me brilliantly, then called, “Emma, bring in the ice cream.”
I shoved my plate away and slouched in my chair. “Don’t feel so good. Need to be alone. Don’t like people making such a fuss over me. Spoils my appetite.”
Daddy looked as if he were losing patience with me. He didn’t scold Jory for taking my pie either. That’s all it took—one hour and they were tired of me and wishing I had died.
“Cathy,” said Daddy, “don’t plead with Bart anymore. If he doesn’t want to eat he can excuse himself. He’ll eat when he’s hungry enough.”
Stomach was rumbling right now. I couldn’t eat that stuff in front of me now that Jory had taken away what I wanted most. There I sat, starving, while everyone forgot me and began to talk, laugh, and act like I was still in the hospital. I got up and hobbled toward my room. Daddy called, “Bart, I don’t want you playing outside until that leg has time to heal thoroughly. Take a nap with your leg propped up. Later on you can watch television.”
TV. What kind of homecoming treat was that? Appearing obedient, I entered my bedroom and stood near the doorway so I could shout to those in the dining room, “Don’t nobody disturb my rest!”
Kept me two weeks in that hospital, and now I was home they were gonna keep me locked inside some more. I’d show ’em! Nobody was gonna keep me inside for another rotten week! But somebody kept an eye on me night and day before finally I could escape through the window after six whole days of being kept a prisoner. Already I’d missed too much of summer, and my Disneyland trip. Wasn’t gonna miss anything else.
The big ole tree by the wall was not friendly, making it harder for me to climb. By the time I was next door my leg would ache. Pain wasn’t nearly as good as I’d thought it would be. Being “normal” wasn’t so hot. Jory sprained his ankle once and went right on dancing, ignoring the pain. I could ignore pain too.
When I was on top of the wall I looked behind to see who might be following. Nobody. Nobody cared what I did to hurt myself. Began to sniff—what was that rotten stinking
smell coming from out of the hollow oak tree? Ah, I could just remember. Something dead in the hollow tree. What was it? Couldn’t remember good anymore. Mind was fuzzy, full of mists that rolled like the fog.
Apple, better to think of Apple. Forget the stiff and aching knee by pretending it belonged to some frail ole man like Malcolm grew up to be. My young leg wanted to run, but my old one controlled all of me, taking over my mind, forcing me to lean heavily on my cane.
Ohh! What a pitiful sight it would be to see poor Apple lying dead in the barn. A pitiful bag of fur, skin, and bones. I’d cry, scream, hate those who’d tried to force me to fly East and abandon the very best friend I had. Animals were the only ones who knew how to really love with devotion.
A hundred years had come and gone since last I came this way before. More years passed, it seemed, while I limped to its doors. Get a grip on yourself, I thought. Steel your spine, like Malcolm steeled his. Prepare your eyes for a grisly sight, for Apple loved you too much, and now he had to pay the price by dying. Never, never again would I find such a true friend as the puppy-pony who’d been my Apple.
My balance, never good, swayed me right to left, from front to back, and made me feel hazy and crazy. I sensed something was behind me. I peeked over my shoulder and saw no one there. Nothing but those frightening animal shapes that were only green shrubs. Stupid gardeners should have something better to do than waste their time snipping at bushes when real money was out there waiting for real brains to pick it up. Thinking now just like Malcolm; John Amos would be pleased. Had to hunt up John Amos so he could smarten up my brains some more.
Suspecting the worst, I approached the place that Apple liked most. Now I couldn’t see. Gone blind! My cane tapped the ground ahead of me. Dark. Why was it so dark? I inched along, peering this way and that. All the barn shutters were
closed. Poor Apple, left in the dark to starve. A lump rose in my throat while I cried inside for a pet who’d loved me more than life itself.
I had to force myself to take another step forward. To see Apple dead would scar my soul, my eternal soul which John Amos said had to stay clean and pure if I was to get to heaven’s pearly gates where Malcolm had gone.
One step more. I stopped. There was my Apple—and he wasn’t dead! He was in a stall with the window open and he was chasing a red ball, swatting it with his huge pawlike hoofs—and there was plenty of food in his dish. Clean water in his bowl too. I stood there shaking all over as Apple ignored me and went on playing like I wasn’t even there.
Why, he hadn’t missed me at all!
“YOU! YOU!” I screamed. “You’ve been eating and drinking, and having a good time! And all the time I was at death’s door and you didn’t care. And I thought you loved me. I thought you’d miss me a whole lot. And now you don’t even bark-whinny to tell me you’re glad I’m back! I HATE YOU, APPLE! HATE YOU FOR NOT CARING ENOUGH!”
Apple saw me then and ran to me, leaping to put his huge paw-hoofs on my shoulders as he slurped my face. His tail wagged furiously, but he wasn’t fooling me. He’d found someone else to take care of him better—darn if
I’d
made his coat look so pretty. “Why didn’t you die from loneliness?” I shrieked. I glared hatred at him, wanting him to wither away and disappear. He sensed my anger and dropped to all fours and stood with his tail between his legs and his head hanging down, his eyes rolled slantwise.
“YOU GET AWAY FROM ME! YOU NEED TO SUFFER AS I SUFFERED! THEN YOU’LL BE GLAD TO HAVE ME BACK!” I took all his food, his water, and threw them in a wooden barrel. I picked up his red ball and hurled that so far he’d never find it. All the time Apple stood there, watching, not wagging his tail. He wanted me back, but now it was too late.
“You’ll miss me now,” I sobbed, stumbling away, locking him in the barn with all the windows closed and the shutters too. “Stay in darkness and die of hunger! I’ll never come back, never!”
No sooner was I in the sunlight than I thought of the nice soft hay he had inside to lie on. I went into the barn again, seized up a pitchfork and raked all the hay away. He was whimpering now, trying to nuzzle up to me. Wouldn’t let him. “You lie on the cold, hard floor! It will make all your bones ache, but I don’t care, for I don’t love you now!” Angry, I wiped the tears away and scratched my face.
In all my life I’d made only three friends. Apple, my grandmother, and John Amos. Apple had killed my love, and one of the other two had betrayed me by feeding him and stealing his love. John Amos wouldn’t bother—had to be Grandmother.
Drifted home in a daze. That night my leg ached so badly Daddy came in and gave me a pill. He sat on the side of my bed and held me in his arms, making me feel safe as he spoke softly about falling into sweet dreams.
Fell into ugliness. Dead ones everywhere. Blood gushing out in great rivers, taking pieces of human beings down into the oceans of fire. Dead. I was dead. Funeral flowers on the altar. People sent me flowers who didn’t know me, telling me they were glad to see me dead. Heard the sea of fire play devil music, making me hate music and dancing even more than I had.
The sun came in my window and fell on my face, stealing me from the devil’s grasp. When I opened my eyes, terrified of what I might see, I saw only Jory at the foot of my bed, looking at me with pity. Didn’t need pity. “Bart, you cried last night. I’m sorry your leg still hurts.”
“Leg don’t hurt at all!” I yelled.
Got up to go limping into the kitchen where Momma was feeding Cindy. Blasted Cindy. Emma was frying bacon for my breakfast. “Coffee and toast only,” I yelled. “That’s all I want to eat.”
Momma winced, then looked up with her face strangely pale. “Bart, please don’t yell. And you don’t drink coffee. Why would you ask for coffee?”
“Time I started acting my age!” I barked. Carefully I eased myself down into Daddy’s chair with arms. Daddy came in and saw me in his chair, but he didn’t order me out. He just used my armless chair, then poured coffee into a cup until it was half full. He filled the cup to an inch of the brim with cream and then gave it to me.
“Hate cream in my coffee!”
“How can you be so sure when you haven’t tried it?”
“Just know.” I refused to drink the coffee he’d spoiled. (Malcolm like his coffee black—and so would I from now on.) Now all I had before me was dry toast—and if I had to be like Malcolm and grow smart brains, I couldn’t spread butter and strawberry jam on my toast. Indigestion. Like Malcolm, had to worry about indigestion.
“Daddy, what’s indigestion?”
“Something you don’t need to have.”
Sure was hard trying to be like Malcolm all the time. Seconds later Daddy was down on his knees, checking over my bad leg. “It looks worse today than it did yesterday,” he said as he lifted his head, met my eyes, and scowled suspiciously. “Bart, you haven’t been crawling on this bad knee, have you?”
“No!” I yelled, “I’m not crazy! The covers rubbed off some of my skin. Rough sheets. Hate cotton sheets. Like silk ones best.” (Malcolm wouldn’t sleep on anything but silk.)
“How would you know?” asked Daddy. “You’ve never had silk sheets.” He continued to care for my knee, washing it first and then sprinkling on some white powder before covering my wound with a gauze pad held on with sticky tape. “Now, I’m serious, Bart. I warn you to stay off that knee. You stay in the house, out of the garden, or sit on the back veranda—no crawling in the dirt.”
“It’s a patio.” I scowled to let him know he didn’t know everything.
“All right, a patio—does that make you feel happy?”
No. Never was happy. Then I gave it more thought. Yes, I was happy sometimes—when I was pretending to be Malcolm, the all-powerful, the richest, the smartest. Playing the role of Malcolm was easy and better than anything or anyone else. Somehow I knew if I kept it up I’d end up just like Malcolm—rich, powerful, loved.
Longest kind of dull day dragged on endlessly with everybody keeping a close eye on me. Twilight came, and Momma got busy making herself prettier for Daddy who was due home any minute. Emma was fixing dinner. Jory was in his ballet class, and I slipped off the patio unseen. Down into the garden I hurried before anybody stopped me.
Evening time was spooky, with long, mean shadows. All the little humming, buzzing creatures of night came out and swarmed about my head. I fanned them away. I was going to John Amos. He was sitting alone in his room, reading some magazine that he hid as quickly as I entered without knocking. “You shouldn’t do that,” he said sourly, not even smiling to say he was glad I was alive, with two legs.
It was easy to put on Malcolm’s glum look and scare him. “Did you give Apple water and food while I was sick?”
“Of course not,” he said eagerly. “It was your grandmother who fed him and cared for him. I told you women can never be trusted to keep their word. Corrine Foxworth is no better than any other women with their wiles to trick men into being slaves.”
“Corrine Foxworth—is that her name?”
“Of course, I’ve told you that before. She is Malcolm’s daughter. He named her after his mother so he’d always be reminded of how false women are, how even a daughter could betray him—though he loved her well, too well, in my opinion.”
I was growing bored of tales of women and their “wiles.”
“Why don’t you get your teeth fixed?” I asked. I didn’t like the way he hissed and whistled through teeth too loose.
“Good! You said that just like Malcolm. You’re learning. Being sick has been good for your soul—as it was for his. Now, listen carefully, Bart. Corrine is your real grandmother and was once married to your real father. She was Malcolm’s most beloved child and she betrayed him by doing something so sinful she has to be punished.”
“Has to be punished?”
“Yes, punished severely, but you are not to let her know your feelings for her have changed. Pretend you still love her, still admire her. And in that way she will be made vulnerable.”
Knew what vulnerable meant. Another of those words I had to learn. Weak, bad to be weak. John Amos went for his Bible and put my hand on its worn black cover, all cracked and peeling. “Malcolm’s own Bible,” he said. “He left it to me in his will . . . though he could have left me more . . .”
I realized that John Amos was the one person in the world who had not yet disappointed me. Here was the true friend I needed. Old—but I could be old too when I wanted. Though I couldn’t take my teeth from my mouth and put them in an ivory-colored cup.