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! (133 page)

“Yes, of course it does.” Now she looked disturbed.

“But—but—” he stumbled, “I know someone who cries after you go away. Someone little like me who is locked in closets and other scary places by his father, who doesn’t like him anymore. Once the father put him in the attic for punishment. Big, dark, scary attic with mice and spooky shadows and spiders everywhere.”

She seemed to freeze. “Who told you all of that?”

“His stepmother had dark red hair until he found out she was only his father’s paramour.”

Even from where I hid I could hear Momma breathing hard and fast, as if that small boy she lifted on her lap had suddenly turned dangerous. “Darling, you don’t know what a paramour is, do you?”

He stared ahead into space. “There was a lady slender and fair who had red in her dark-dark hair. And she wasn’t even married to his father who didn’t care what he did, how he cried, or even if he died.”

Her lips trembled, but she forced a smile. “Bart, I believe you have some poet in you. All that has a cadence, and it rhymes, too.”

He scowled, turning dark burning eyes on her. “I despise poets, artists, musicians, dancers!”

She shivered, and I can’t say I blamed her. He scared me, too. “Bart, I have to ask you this, and you must give me a truthful answer. Remember, no matter what you say you won’t be punished. Did you hurt Clover?”

“Clover done gone away. Won’t come back to live in my doghouse now.”

She pushed him away then and quickly got up to leave the patio. Then she remembered Cindy and rushed back to pick her up. None of what she did made me feel better as I watched Bart’s eyes.

*  *  *

As always, soon after one of his mean “attacks,” Bart grew tired and sleepy and went to bed without his dinner. My mother smiled, laughed, and dressed to attend a formal celebration in honor of my father, who had been voted chief-of-staff of his hospital. I stood at the window and watched Dad lead her proudly to his car.

Late, way after two, I heard them come in. I had yet to fall asleep, and I could hear their conversation in the living room.

“Chris, I don’t understand Bart at all, the way he talks, the way he moves, or even how he looks. I feel afraid of my own son, and that’s sick.”

“Come now, darling,” he said with his arm about her shoulders, “I think you exaggerate. Bart will grow up to be a great actor if he keeps this up.”

“Chris, I know sometimes high fevers leave a child with brain damage. Did the fever destroy part of his brain?”

“Look, Cathy, Bart tested out just fine. Don’t go getting notions just because we gave him that test. All high fever patients have to undergo such examinations.”

“But did you find anything unusual?” she persisted.

“No,” Dad said firmly, “he’s just an ordinary little boy with lots of emotional problems, and we, if anyone can, should understand what he’s going through.”

What did that mean?

“But Bart has everything! He isn’t growing up as we did. He should be happy. Don’t we do everything we can?”

“Yes, but sometimes even that isn’t enough. Each child is
different, each has different needs. Obviously we are not giving Bart what he needs.”

Mom was given to hot quick answers. Yet she sat on, silent and still, as I waited for more information. Dad wanted her to go to bed immediately, which was easy enough to see from the way he kissed her neck. But she was deep in thought. Her eyes were fixed on her silver sandals as she spoke of how Clover had died.

“It couldn’t have been Bart,” she said slowly, as if to convince herself as well as Dad. “It had to be some sadist who tortures animals—you know how we read that the animals in the zoo were being crippled? One of them must have seen Clover,” and her voice died away, for so seldom did we ever see a stranger on our road.

“Chris,” she added, while that horrible look of fright was still on her face, “today Bart took me completely by surprise. He told me about a little boy who was locked in closets and in the attic. Later on he told me that little boy’s name was Malcolm. Could he know about him? Who could have told him that name? Chris, do you think somehow Bart has found out about us?”

I jerked. What was there to know about them that I didn’t already know? I knew they had some terrible secret. I crawled away, then raced to my room and threw myself on my bed. Something awful was wrong with our lives. I felt it in my bones—and Bart must have sensed it in his, too.

S
un and fog were playing games, keeping each other company. I had to sit alone in our garden. For fun I stared down at the thick scabs on my knee. I’d been warned by Daddy not to pick them off or they’d leave scars—but who cared about scars? I began to carefully lift the edges of the crust just to see what was underneath. I didn’t see a darn thing but red, tender-looking flesh, ready to bleed again.

Sun won the game in the sky and shone hot on my head. Almost heard my brains frying. Didn’t want fried brains. I moved to the shade.

Now my head was aching. I bit down on my lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Didn’t hurt but later it would swell up so big Momma would have to feel worried. That would be good. She should be worried about what was happening to me.

Used to be Momma’s little boy who got lots of attention until that dratted little girl came to take my place. Soon Mamma and Jory would return from ballet class. That’s all they cared about—dancing and Cindy. I knew about the important things in life, what really counted most—money.
Having lots of it, then you didn’t have to think about needing it or how to get it. John Amos and Malcolm’s book had taught me that.

“Bart,” said Emma, who’d stolen up behind me. “I’m so sorry you missed your birthday trip to Disneyland. To make up for that I’ve made you a little birthday cake of your very own.” She held in her hands a tiny cake with one candle in the middle of the chocolate. Was not just one year old! I struck that cake from her hands so it fell to the ground. She cried out, looking hurt enough to cry as she backed off. “That wasn’t very grateful, or very kind,” she said in a choked way. “Bart, why do you have to act so ugly? We all try to do our best.”

I stuck out my tongue. She sighed and left me alone.

Later Emma came out again with that bratty girl in her arms. Wasn’t my sister. Didn’t want any sister. I hid behind a tree and peeked around. Emma put Cindy in the plastic swimming pool. She began to kick and splash the shallow water. Dumb, dumb, dumb . . . couldn’t even swim. See how Emma laughed and enjoyed all her baby-doings when I could stand on my head. If I sat in that pool and splashed with my hands and feet she wouldn’t think it was cute.

I waited for Emma to go away, but she pulled up a chair, sat down and began to shell peas. Plop, plop, plop went the green peas into the blue bowl. “That’s it, dearie,” Emma encouraged Cindy. “Splash the water, kick your pretty legs, flap your sweet arms, and make your limbs strong so soon you’ll be swimming.”

I watched and waited, each pea she shelled telling me that soon Emma would have to get up and go into the kitchen. Cindy would be left alone. All alone. And she couldn’t swim. Cats crouched down low like me when they wanted to catch a bird. Wish I had a tail to swish.

The last green pea fell. Emma rose to leave. I tensed my muscles. Just then Momma drove up in her bright red car and pulled to a stop by the garage. Emma waited to say hello. First
it was Jory bounding over the lawn. “Hi, Emma!” he called. “What’s for dinner?”

“You’ll like my dinner no matter what,” answered Emma, all grins for him, her handsome darling.
Not
like she treated me—the brat!
“As for Bart,” she went on, “I know he’ll hate the peas, the vegetable casserole, the lamp chops, and the dessert. Lord knows that boy is hard to please.”

Momma stopped to talk to Emma like she wasn’t a servant, then she ran to play with Cindy, kissing and hugging her as if she hadn’t seen the dummy in ten years. “Mom,” sang out Jory, “why don’t we both put on swimsuits and join Cindy in her pool?”

“I’ll race you to the house, Jory!” agreed Momma, and off they ran like little kids.

“Now, you be a good little girl and keep on playing with your rubber ducky and boat,” said Emma to Cindy. “Emma will be right back.”

My head lifted before I began to wiggle on my belly on the ground. The brat in the pool stood up and took off her bathing suit. Stark naked and bold she hurled her wet suit at me, then teased and laughed and tormented me with her bare flesh. Then, as if bored with my reaction, she sat again in the shallow water and stared down at herself with a secret little smile. Wicked! Shameless! Imagine her showing her private parts to me.

Mothers should teach their daughters how to act decent, proper, modest. My mother was just like Corrine, whom John Amos had said was weak and never punished her children enough. “Yes, Bart, your grandmother ruined her children, and now they live in sin and flaunt God and his moral rules!”

I guess it was up to me to teach Cindy a lesson about modesty and shame. Forward I wiggled.
Now
I had her attention. Her blue eyes opened wide. Her rosy full lips parted. At first she seemed happy that finally I was gonna play kiddy games with her. Then, something wise put fright in her eyes. She froze and made me think of a timid rabbit scared by a vicious
snake. Snake. Much better to be a snake than a cat. Snake in The Garden of Eden doing unto Eve what should have been done in the beginning.
Lo, said the Lord when he spied Eve in her nakedness,
go forth from Eden and let the world hurl their stones.

Hissing and flicking my tongue in and out, I edged closer. Was the Lord who spoke and I who obeyed. Wicked mother who refused to punish had made me what I was, an evil snake willing to do the Lord’s bidding, even if it wasn’t my own way.

I tried to flatten my head with willpower and make it small, flat, and reptilelike. Tears came to Cindy’s huge, scared eyes, and she began to bawl as she tried to wiggle over the rounded rim of the wading pool. The water wasn’t deep enough for a little girl to drown in, or else Emma wouldn’t have left her alone.

But . . . if a boa constrictor from Brazil was on the loose—what chance did a two-year-old have?

I wiggled over the side and squirmed in the water. She screamed, “Barr-tie! Go’way, Barr-tie!”

“Hsss . . . ssss,” I went. My S’s longer than John Amos’s. I coiled my body around her small naked one and hooked my legs under her neck, dragging her down into the water. Couldn’t really drown, but the Lord above had to warn those who sinned. I’d seen jungle snakes unhinge their jaws on TV. I tried to unhinge mine. Then I could swallow Cindy whole.

All of a sudden another snake had me! I yelped and released my grip on Cindy to keep from drowning . . . or being eaten alive!
Lord, why hast thou forsaken me?

“What the Devil do you think you’re doing?” yelled Jory, red with rage as he shook me until my head rolled. “I watched you wiggle your way along to see what you had in mind. Bart—did you try to drown Cindy?”

“No!” I gasped. “Just punishing her a little, not much.”

“Yeah,” he sneered, “like you punished Clover a little.”

“Never did nothing to Clover. I take good care of Apple. I am not a bad boy . . . I’m not, not, not.”

“Why are you crying if you are so innocent? You killed him! I see it in your eyes!”

I glared hard at Jory, fury washing over me. “You hate me! I know you do!” I lunged forward and tried to hit him. Couldn’t. I lowered my head, backed up, and ran forward to butt him squarely in the stomach. Down he went, all doubled over, crying out from the pain. Before he could kill me, I kicked him but didn’t know it would end up where it did. My aim was never good. Gee . . . that must hurt a lot.

“Unfair to kick in the groin,” he groaned, his face so pale he seemed on the edge of a faint. “That’s dirty fighting, Bart. Gross, too.”

Meanwhile Cindy had recovered enough to scramble from the pool, and she tottered off naked toward the house, howling at the top of her lungs.

“Wicked sinful girl!” I screamed. “All this is her fault! Her fault!”

From the back door Emma came on the run, her white apron fluttering, her hands covered with flour. She was closely followed by Momma, who had put on a skimpy blue bikini. “Bart, what have you done?” screamed Momma. She swept Cindy up in her arms, then swooped to pick up a towel Emma had dropped.

“Mommy,” sobbed Cindy. “Big snake came . . . big snake!”

Why, imagine that. She’d known what I was. Not so dumb after all. Momma wrapped the towel about Cindy and stood her on the ground. She glared at me just as I had my foot raised to kick Jory, who was panting with pain. “Bart . . . if you dare to kick Jory again, you will regret it!”

Emma glared at me with hatred. I looked from one to the other. Everybody hated me, would be glad to see me in my grave.

Sore and full of pain, Jory tried to rise, not so graceful now. Just as awkward as me. He wasn’t so handsome now. Still he could shout: “You’re crazy, Bart! Crazy as a loon!”

“Bart, don’t you dare throw that stone at your brother!” cried Momma when she saw me swoop to pick up one.