Authors: V.C. Andrews
“He must know who I am then! And who Bart is!”
Leaning forward, she stretched to put her pale hand with all the rings on his trousered knee—I saw him shudder at her touch. “I don’t know what John knows. He thinks all my children ran off and were lost somewhere in the world. As far as
I know, he doesn’t know Bart’s middle name is Winslow . . . but then again, he’s so sly, he may know everything.” She trembled and withdrew her hand as if she knew it offended him. “All this land around here belonged to my father. So he thinks it’s only natural I would come out here and settle down on an estate that’s been in our family for years and years.”
He shook his head. “And you did arrange for me to buy my land cheaper?”
“Christopher, my father owned land everywhere. Now I own all of it. But I would give it all away just to have you and Cathy back as my family. No one knows about you and Cathy but me, and I’ll never tell anyone who you are. I promise not to shame and hurt you—just let me stay! Let me be your mother again!”
“Get rid of John!”
First she sighed, then bowed her head. “I wish to God I could.”
“What do you mean?”
“Can’t you guess?” she asked, her graying head lifted so her eyes could search his.
“Blackmail?”
“Yes. He doesn’t have any family either. He pretends not to know about you and Cathy, but I can’t be sure. He’s sworn to help me keep my whereabouts a mystery, for there are news reporters who would be hot on my heels if they knew where I was. So I give him a good home and plenty of money to keep me safe.”
“Bart is not safe. Jory has seen John Amos whispering to him. I think he knows who we are.”
“But he won’t do anything,” she cried. “I’ll talk to him, make him understand. He won’t tell . . . I’ll pay him off.”
Daddy stood up to leave. For a moment his hand rested lightly on her head. Then, looking guilty, he quickly withdrew it. “All right. You speak to John, order him to leave Bart alone. Don’t let Bart know you are his natural grandmother—let
him keep on believing you are only a kind-hearted woman who needs him for a friend. Can you do this one small thing for me?”
“Yes, of course,” she agreed weakly.
“And please start wearing that veil over your head again. Jory knows you are my mother . . . but, well, you know. And who knows when Cathy might decide to be friendly and visit her new neighbor? She was busy with her dance classes before. Now that she’s not so occupied, she’ll need to see people. That was one of the hardest things for her to bear when she was young . . . to be kept locked up for what seemed to her centuries, and only her mother and grandmother . . . That made her need even greater.”
Again her head drooped. “I know. I’ve sinned and I regret it. I pray to turn back the clock, but I wake up to another lonely day—and I have only Bart to give me hope.”
Oh, gosh, they’d known so much before I came along.
“I have to ask something,” she said in a faint whisper. “Do you love her as a man loves . . . a wife?”
He turned so she could see only his back. “That is none of your business.”
“But I’d understand. I question Bart but he doesn’t know what I mean. But he’s told me you share one bedroom.”
Angry, he flared, glaring at her: “And one bed. Now, are you satisfied?” Once more he spun on his heel, and this time he left.
Puzzling, gosh darn puzzling. Why did Momma hate his momma? And why did my grandmother ask about bedrooms and bed?
Ran home next. Didn’t stop to report to John Amos. Momma was at that dratted barre, trying to pull herself out of that ugly wheelchair. I hid and watched. Strange to see her awkward—like me. Clumsy like me, but she managed to pull herself to her feet and then she stood shaking all over. Her face in the mirror was pale, her hair a frame of gold.
Molten gold, hot as hell, burning as running lava.
“Bart, is that you?” she called. “Why do you stare at me so strangely? I won’t fall, if you’re thinking that. Each day I feel better, stronger. Come sit with me and talk to me. Tell me what you do all the time when I can’t see you. Where do you go? Teach me to play your pretend games. When I was your age I liked to pretend too. Why, I used to dream about being the world’s most famous prima ballerina, and I made that the most important thing in my whole life. Now I know it was never that important. Now I know it’s making the ones you love happy that matters most. Bart, I want to make you happy . . .”
I hated her for “seducing” my real father and taking him from my poor lonely grandmother, who was her own mother-in-law. And she must have been married then to Dr. Paul Sheffield, who was Chris’s brother but not my real father at all. Look at her, trying to make up to me for her neglect! Too late! I wanted to run and shove her down. Hear her bones break, all of them. She was unfaithful to all husbands! But I couldn’t say any of this. My legs went rubbery and weak and made me sink to the floor as all the silent screams bounced in my head. Wicked sinful evil woman! Sooner or later she’d run away with some lover—like Malcolm’s mother did. Like all mothers did.
And why hadn’t my grandmother come right out and told me who she was? Why was she keeping it a secret? Didn’t she know I needed a real grandmother? She even lied to me about who my daddy was! Only John Amos told me the truth.
“Bart—what’s wrong?”
Alarm on her face. Should be alarmed. Never, never did she tell me anything but lies. There was no one I could trust but John Amos. All the while he shuffled along, looking weird and old, he was honest, doing his best to set the world straight.
“Bart, what’s the matter? Can’t you tell me, your own mother?”
Stared at her. Saw all that mass of hair as golden snares to ruin men. Took all men and made them suffer. Her fault. All her fault. Took my real daddy from my grandmother and “seduced” him.
“Bart, don’t crawl on the floor. Stand up and use your legs. You’re not an animal.”
I threw back my head and howled. Howled all the rage and hate I felt. It wasn’t fair for God to give me her for a mother. Wasn’t fair when he burned my real daddy to death. Gotta do something. Make it all right.
“Bart, please tell me what’s wrong!”
I could barely see her. She tried to take a few steps away from the barre and her hands reached for me, as if she wanted me in her arms.
I’d never let her touch me again. Never, never, never!
“I hate you!” I screamed, jumping to my feet and backing away. “I hope you never walk again. I hope you fall down and die. I hope your house burns up and you and Cindy too!”
Ran—ran and ran until my sides hurt and my mind was empty.
In Apple’s stall I fell down to rest. I kept Malcolm’s journal there, hidden under the old hay and I fished it out to read more. Boy, he sure did hate women, especially when they were pretty. Didn’t seem to notice the ugly ones. I lifted my head and stared into space. Alicia. Nice name—wonder what made him love Alicia more than Olivia? Just because she was only sixteen when she married his old, old father of fifty-five?
Alicia slapped his face when he tried to kiss her. Maybe Malcolm wasn’t as good at kissing as his father.
The more I read the more I learned how Malcolm succeeded in everything he did, except in making women love him. Proving to me I’d better leave all women alone since I was so much like Malcolm. Over and over I was reading his words so I could turn into him, all powerful.
C names. Wonder why women like C names so much?
Catherine, Corrine, Carrie, and Cindy—whole wide world full of C names. Wish I liked my grandmother like I used to. Now that I knew she was my real grandmother it wasn’t as good. She should have told me. She was just another lying, sneaking, cunning female. Just as John Amos had warned me.
I could smell Apple faintly. My ears heard him munching his food; I felt his cold nose nuzzling my hand—and I was crying. Crying so hard I wanted to die and join him. But Apple should have missed me more. He made me do it. He was supposed to suffer when I did—and he didn’t. He was mine and he let Grandmother feed him, give him water—so it was his own fault. And there was Clover, dead too. Strangled and stuffed in the hollow oak.
Boy, I was bad.
Thinking about my badness made me sleepy. Dreamed of Apple, who loved me. I woke up and it was almost dark. John Amos was grinning down at me, smirking too. “Hello, Bart. Do you feel lonely in Apple’s stall?”
Towering above me, John Amos didn’t notice the hay that fell from the loft above and caught on his stringy mustache and made him look gruesome.
“How did Malcolm make all his money, John Amos?” I asked just to see if the hay fell off his mustache when he spoke.
“By being more clever than those who would stop him.”
“Stop him from what?” The hay didn’t fall off.
“From getting what he wanted.”
“What did he want?”
“Everything. Everything that wasn’t his he wanted—and to get everything that belongs to others you have to be ruthless and determined.”
“What’s ruthless?”
“Doing what you have to to get what you want.”
“Doing anything?”
“Anything,” he repeated. Stiffly he bent over to peer into my eyes. “And don’t hesitate to step on those who get in your
way—including members of your own family. For they would do the same to you if you stood in their way.” He smiled thinly. “You know, of course, that sooner or later that doctor who is dissecting your personality bit by bit will lock you in an institution. That’s what your parents are doing—getting ready to remove from their lives a little boy who is proving to be too much of a problem.”
Baby tears got in my eyes.
John Amos scowled. “Don’t show weakness with tears that belong to women. Be hard, like your great-grandfather Malcolm was.” He paused to eye me up and down. “Yes, you have inherited many of his genes. Someday, if you keep going as you are, you will be just as powerful as Malcolm.”
* * *
“Where’ve you been, Bart?” snapped Emma, who looked at me all the time like she was disgusted, even when I was clean. “Never in my life have I seen a boy who could get dirtier more quickly than you. Look at your shirt, your pants, your face and hands! Filthy, that’s what. What do you do, make mud puddles and wallow in them?”
Didn’t answer. Headed for the bathroom down the hall.
Momma looked up from her desk in her bedroom. “Bart, I’ve been wondering where you were. You’ve been gone for hours.”
Was my own business, none of hers.
“Bart . . . answer me.”
“Was outside.”
“I know that. Where outside?”
“Near the wall.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Digging.”
“Digging for what?”
“For worms.”
“Why do you need worms?”
“Goin’ fishin.”
She sighed. “It’s too late to go fishing, and you know I don’t like you to go off by yourself. Ask your father if he will take you fishing this Saturday.”
“He won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“He never has time.”
“He’ll take time.”
“No, he won’t. Never has, never will.”
Again she sighed. “Bart, try to be understanding. He’s a doctor, and he has many very sick patients. You wouldn’t want his patients to go unattended, would you?”
Wouldn’t care. Rather go fishing. Too many people in the world anyway . . . especially women. I ran to bury my face in her lap. “Momma, please get well quick. YOU take me fishin! Now you don’t have to dance, you can do all the things Daddy never has time for. You can spend all the time with me you used to spend with Jory dancing. Momma, Momma, I’m sorry about what I said,” I sobbed, “I don’t really hate you! I don’t want you to fall down and die. I just feel mean sometimes and I can’t stop. Momma, please don’t hate me for what I said.”
Her hands were soft and comforting in my hair as she tried to smooth it down and make it stay neat. Hairbrushes and hairspray never worked, so how could her hands? I buried my face deeper in her lap, thinking of how John Amos would scold me if he knew, though I’d already told him what I’d said to her, and he’d smiled, so pleased I was talking like Malcolm. “You shouldn’t have done that, Bart,” he said to confuse me. “You have to be clever, make her think she’s having her way. If you let her know how you feel she’ll find a way to defeat our purpose. And we do have to save her from the Devil, don’t we?”
I raised my head to stare up into her pretty face, making tears streak my face for the living lie she had to be. Been married three times, John Amos had told me. I didn’t really care if
she was good or evil. I’d make her good. I’d teach her to leave all men alone—but me.
To win I had to play my cards just right, and deal out the aces one by one, like John Amos had told me. Fool her, fool Daddy, make them think I wasn’t crazy. But I got mixed up. I wasn’t crazy, only pretending to be Malcolm.
“What are you thinking, Bart?” she asked, still stroking my hair.
“Got no playmates. Got none but what I make up. Got nothing but bad genes from inbreeding—and as for my environ—well, that’s no good either. You and Daddy don’t deserve any children. You don’t deserve anything but the hell you have already made for yourself!”
Left her sitting stunned. Glad to make her unhappy, like she was always making me. But why didn’t happiness come and make me laugh? Why did I run to my room and throw myself down on my bed and cry?
Then I remembered the one person who didn’t need anyone—Malcolm. He knew he was strong. Malcolm never hesitated in making decisions, even wrong ones, for he knew how to twist them about and make them right. So I scowled, hunched my shoulders, stood up, and shuffled down the hall, wanting what Malcolm wanted. I saw Jory dancing with Melodie and went in Momma’s room to report to her. “Stop what you’re doing!” I yelled. “Sinning is going on between Jory and Melodie—they’re kissing—making a baby.”
Her flying fingers paused over the typewriter keys. She smiled. “Bart, it takes more than hugging and kissing to make a baby. Jory is a gentleman and won’t take advantage of an innocent young girl who is decent and wise enough to know when to say stop.”
She didn’t care. All she cared about was that damn book she was writing. I didn’t have any more chance with her now than I’d had when she was a dancer. Always, always she found something better to do than play with me.