Authors: V.C. Andrews
Outside, the wind blew my slicker against my body and
drove the rain into my face. About ten yards ahead I could see Momma was having a rough time attempting to hold Cindy, who was trying to wiggle free and run back home as she screamed: “Don’t like rain! Take me home! Momma, don’t wanna go!”
Trying to comfort her while she kept her footing and at the same time trying to keep the hood over her hair, she finally gave up efforts to keep herself dry and settled for keeping Cindy as dry as possible. Soon her hair was pasted down flat to her head, as flat to her head, as flat as my hair was by now, for never never would I slip a hood over my head—made me scared to look in a mirror.
Momma slipped on the mud that was being washed down from the hills, and she almost lost her footing. But she caught herself and rebalanced. Cindy screamed and beat at her face with small fists. “HOME! I WANT HOME!”
Ran fast, for she wasn’t looking backward. All her concentration was on the winding road ahead. “Stop fighting me, Cindy!”
High walls. Iron pickets. Strong gates. Magic boxes to speak into. Small voice coming back—and hear the wind blow. Privacy didn’t mean nothing to God and the wind, not nothing at all.
Heard my momma’s voice as she shouted to be heard above the shriek of the wind and rain: “This is Catherine Sheffield. I live next door and Bart is my son. I want to come in and talk to the lady of the house.”
Silence, only the wind.
Then my momma was calling out again: “I want to see her, and if I have to climb this fence I’ll do just that. I’m coming in, one way or another—so open the gates and save me the trouble.”
I stood back and waited, gasping as if my heart truly did hurt. Slowly, slowly, the wide black iron gates swung open.
For a moment I wanted to shriek out,
NO! Don’t walk
into a trap, Momma!
But I really didn’t know if there was a trap at all. I was just afraid that, between John Amos and the Malcolm that was inside of me, nothing good would come of Momma’s venture into my grandmother’s house. Quickly I ducked inside the gates just before they clanged softly closed. Sounded like prison doors.
She trudged on ahead, all the while Cindy was screaming and crying. By the time they reached the door both seemed soaked to the skin, for I was, and I’d had two hands to hold my slicker together.
Up the stairs Momma stumbled, clasping Cindy, who was still trying to kick free. She lifted the loose jaw of the brass lion’s head and banged loud.
John Amos had been expecting her, for he swung one side of the double doors open immediately and bowed very low, as if admitting a queen. Ran, ran then as fast as I could so I wouldn’t miss a thing. Quickly into the side door, and down the corridor to the dumbwaiter—hoping that she’d be in that room, for behind the potted palms was not such a secure place. Jory had found me there once, and it could happen again.
I crawled into the dumbwaiter after I dropped my coat on the floor, then slid open the door just a slot. Momma was probably still in the foyer taking off her wet coat and muddy white boots.
Then she appeared in the doorway, minus her coat and boots. I hadn’t even had the time to check and see if my grandmother was in her rocking chair—but she was there all right.
Stiffly she rose, facing my momma, hiding her trembling hands behind her back, the veil hiding most of her face as it hid all of her hair.
Something small, weak, and young inside of me wanted to cry as I saw Momma step into “her” room, still carrying Cindy, only Cindy’s outer clothes had been taken off. She was completely dry, while Momma’s hair stuck to her face and head like strings. Her flushed face looked so feverish I again
wanted to cry. What if God struck her dead this second? What if death by hellfires was what He really wanted?
“I’m sorry to burst in on you like this,” said my momma. I’d thought she’d pitch right into her. “But I must have a few answers to my questions. Who are you? What is it you tell my youngest son? He’s told me terrible things he claims you told him. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me, so what can you tell him but lies?”
So far my grandmother hadn’t said a word. She kept staring at Momma, then at Cindy.
My grandmother gestured toward a chair, then inclined her head as if to say she was sorry. Why didn’t she speak?
“What a lovely room,” said Momma, glancing around at all the fine furniture. There was a troubled look in her eyes, even her smile seemed forced. She put Cindy on her feet and tried to hold on to her hand, but Cindy wanted to explore and see all the pretty things.
“I’m not going to stay any longer than necessary,” Momma went on, keeping an eye on Cindy, who had to touch everything. “I have a severe cold and want to be home in bed, but I must find out just what you have been telling my son so he comes home and says terrible things. And doesn’t respect me as his mother. When you can explain, Cindy and I will leave.”
Grandmother nodded, keeping her eyes lowered, like she truly was some Arab woman. I guessed from the odd way Momma kept looking at her she was thinking this was a foreigner of some kind who didn’t understand our good English.
Momma sat down uninvited near the fire, as Cindy came to perch on the raised hearth near her legs.
“This is an isolated area, so when Bart comes home and tells me the lady next door has told him this and that, I knew it had to be you. Who are you? Why are you trying to turn my son against me? What have I ever done to you?” Her questions went on and on, for the woman in black wouldn’t speak. Momma leaned forward to peer more closely at Grandmother.
Was Momma suspicious already? Was she so smart she could tell despite the disguise of the black veil, the long loose black dress? “Come now, I’ve given you my name. Be courteous enough to tell me yours.”
No answer, just a shy nod of the black veiled head.
“Oh, I think I understand,” said Momma with a perplexed frown. “You must not speak English.”
The woman shook her head again. Momma’s frown deepened. “I truly don’t understand. You seem to understand what I say, yet you don’t answer. You can’t be mute or you wouldn’t have been able to tell my son so many lies.”
Time was ticking away loudly. Never heard the clock on the marble mantle tick so loud before. My granny just rocked on and on in her chair, like she’d never speak or raise her head.
Momma was beginning to be annoyed. Suddenly Cindy jumped up and raced to pick up a porcelain kitty. “Cindy, put that down.”
Obeying reluctantly, Cindy carefully replaced the cat on the marble table. The minute the cat was out of her hands, Cindy looked around for something else to do. She spied the archway to the next room and ran that way. Jumping to her feet, Momma hurried to prevent Cindy from roaming. Cindy had a way, like me, of wanting to examine everything—though she didn’t drop things as often as I did.
“Don’t go in there!” cried out my grandmother, as she too stood up.
As if stunned, my mother slowly turned around, Cindy forgotten. Her blue eyes widened and the color drained from her face as she kept staring at the woman in black who couldn’t keep her nervous hands from straying up to the neckline of her black dress. Soon she had the rope of pearls and was twisting them between her fingers.
“Your voice, I have heard it before.”
Grandmother didn’t speak.
“Those rings on your fingers, I’ve seen them before. Where did you get those rings?”
Helplessly my grandmother shrugged and quickly released the pearls, which dropped down out of sight under her black robe. “Pawn shop,” she said in a strange, raspy, foreign way. “Bargain.”
Momma’s eyes narrowed as she continued to stare at the woman who wasn’t a stranger. I sat breathless, wondering what would happen when she knew. Oh, Momma would find out. I knew my mother couldn’t be so easily fooled.
As if her knees were suddenly weak, Momma sank down on the nearest chair, unmindful that her clothes were still wet, unmindful that Cindy had wandered into the other room.
“You do understand a little English, I see,” she said in a quiet slow way. “The moment I walked into this room, it was as if the clock had been turned backward, and I was a child again. My mother had the same taste in furnishings, the same choice of colors. I look at your brocade chairs, your cut velvet ones, the clock on your mantelpiece, and all I can think of is how very much my mother would have approved of this room. Even those rings on your fingers look like the rings she used to wear. You found them in a pawn shop?”
“Many women like this type of room . . . and jewelry,” said that lady in black.
“You have a strange voice . . . Mrs. . . . ?”
Another shrug from the black figure.
Momma got up again and went into the other room to fetch Cindy. I held my breath. The portrait was in there. She’d see it. But she must not have looked around, for in another second she was back, pulling Cindy and standing close to the fireplace, keeping a tight hold on Cindy’s hand.
“What a remarkable home you have. If I closed my eyes I could swear I was looking at Foxworth Hall as I saw it from the balcony.”
Dark, dark were the eyes of my grandmother.
“Are you wearing pearls? I thought I saw pearls when you were fiddling around your neck. Those rings are so beautiful. You show your rings, why not your pearls?”
Again another shrug from Grandmother.
Dragging Cindy along with her, Momma stepped closer to the woman I didn’t want to think of as my grandmother anymore. “As I stand here all sorts of memories come flooding back,” said Momma. “I remember a Christmas night when Foxworth Hall burned to the ground. The night was cold and snowy, yet it lit up like the Fourth of July. I yanked all the rings from my fingers and hurled the diamond and emerald jewelry into the deep snow. I thought no one would ever find it—but Madame, you are wearing the emerald ring I threw in the snow! Later Chris picked up all that jewelry because it belonged to
his
mother!
His precious mother!”
“I am sick too. Go away,” whispered that forlorn figure in black, standing in the middle of her room, avoiding the rocking chair that might trap her.
But she was already trapped.
“YOU!” cried my mother. “I should have known! There is no other rope necklace of pearls with a diamond butterfly clasp except yours.
“Of course you are sick!” screamed my mother. “What else could you be but sick! I know who you are. Now everything makes sense. How dare you come into my life again. After all you have done to us, you come back again to do more. I hate you. I hate you for everything you have done, but I’ve never had the chance to pay you back. Taking Bart from you wasn’t enough. Now I have the chance to do more.”
Releasing Cindy’s hand, she lunged forward and caught hold of my grandmother, who tried to back away and fight her off. But my mother was stronger. Breathless and excited I watched the two women pull at one another.
My grandmother cringed away from the fierce attack. She didn’t seem to know what to do. Then Cindy let out a howl of
fear, and began to cry. “Mommy, let’s go home.”
The door opened and John Amos shambled inside the room. As my mother prepared another attack, he reached out to lay a large knobby hand on my grandmother’s shoulder. I’d never seen him touch her before.
“Mrs. Sheffield,” he began in his whiny-hissy voice, “you were graciously admitted into this house, and now you try to take advantage of my wife, who has not been well for several years. I am John Amos Jackson, and this is my wife, Mrs. Jackson.”
Stunned, Momma could only stare.
“John Amos Jackson,” repeated my mother slowly, savoring the name. “I’ve heard that name before. Why, just yesterday I was rereading my manuscript, and I had to think of a way to change that name slightly. You are the John Amos Jackson who once was a butler in Foxworth Hall! I remember your bald head and how it shone under the chandeliers.” She swiveled about and reached for Cindy’s hand, or so I thought. But instead she snatched the veil from my grandmother’s face.
“Mother!” she screamed. “I should have known months ago it was you. From the moment I entered this house I sensed your presence, your perfume, the colors, the choice of furniture. You had sense enough to cover your face and body in black, but you were stupid enough to wear your jewelry. Dumb, always so damned dumb! Is it insanity, or is it stupidity that makes you think I could forget your perfume, your jewelry?” She laughed, wild and hysterically, spinning around and around so John Amos, who was trying to prevent what she might do, was stumbling, clumsily trying to grab hold of her before she could attack again.
Look at her—she was dancing! All around my grandmother she whirled, flicking out her hand to slap at her—and even as she whipped her legs around, she screamed: “I should have known it was you. Ever since you moved in Bart has been
acting crazy. You couldn’t leave us alone, could you? You had to come here and try and ruin what Chris and I have found together—the first time we’ve been happy. And now you’ve ruined it. You’ve managed to drive Bart insane so he’ll have to be put away like you were. Oh, how I hate you for that. How I hate you for so many reasons. Cory, Carrie, and now Bart—is there no end to what you can do to hurt us?” She kicked and hooked her foot behind my grandmother’s knee and threw her off balance, and the moment my grandmother spilled to the floor in a heap of black rags, my mother was on tip of her, ripping at that rope of pearls with its diamond butterfly clasp.
Using both her hands, she forced the knotted string to part, and the pearls scattered all over the Oriental rug that silently swallowed them up.
John Amos roughly seized hold of my momma, and pulled her to her feet. He held her and shook her until Momma’s head rolled. “Pick up the pearls, Mrs. Sheffield,” he ordered in a hard, mean voice that was suddenly very strong. I was surprised that he would handle my mother so cruelly. I knew what Jory would do—he’d run to fight John Amos and save Momma. But me, I didn’t know if I should. God was up there wanting Momma to suffer for her sins, and if I saved her, what would God do to me? Besides, Jory was bigger. And Daddy was always saying everything happened for the best—so this was meant to be, despite the miserable way I felt.