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! (157 page)

Momma quieted down. She sank back on her heels and
stared at her mother. “Your face, why did you dig at your face?”

My grandmother bowed her head. She seemed to have aged ten years in one long-long day. “I wanted to die after Bart died. I wanted to destroy my beauty so no man would ever want me again. I didn’t want to look in a mirror and see you staring back at me, for I hated you too for a long time. It was Chris who came each summer and talked to me about you, who made me see your side of your affair with my husband. He told me you really loved Bart, that you should have had Bart’s child aborted for your own health, but you wouldn’t have it done. You wanted to keep his baby. Cathy, thank you for doing that. Thank you for giving me another Bart, for he is mine as Jory will never be.”

Oh, they both loved me! Momma had risked her health to give me life. Grandmother had stopped hating Momma on account of me. I wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought.

“Cathy, please forgive me,” pleaded my granny. “Say it, please say it at least once. I need so to hear you say it. It was Christopher who loved me, who defended me, but it was you who kept me awake at nights, tormenting me even on my honey moon with Bart—it is your face, the faces of the twins that haunt me still. Christopher will always be mine—and yours, but give me back my daughter.”

My mother screamed. Loud, shrill, crazy, she screamed over and over. She lunged at my grandmother and pounded her with her fists. “
No!
I can never say what you want!” She knocked the candle and it turned over and the hay caught on fire. Old newspaper they’d used to keep warm soon was ablaze, and my grandmother and mother were beating at the flames with their bare hands, trying to put it out.

“Bart!” screamed my grandmother, “if you’re out there listening to us, run for help! Call the fire department! Tell your father! Do something quick, Bart, or your mother will die in this blaze—and God will never forgive you if you help John Amos kill us!”

What? Was I helping John Amos or God?

I ran like mad up the cellar stairs and out into the garage where John Amos was putting his bags in the last one of the black limousines. The other was gone, driving the maids to safety.

He slammed down the trunk of the car, turned to me with a wide grin, and said, “Well, tonight is the night. At twelve o’clock sharp—remember that. Trip slowly down the stairs and into their place and light the string.”

“That smelly string?”

“Yes. It’s soaked in gasoline.”

“I didn’t like the smell, so I threw it away. Didn’t want their last meal to be eaten in a smelly place.”

“What are you talking about? Have you been feeding them?” He whirled as if to hit me and then out of nowhere Jory sprang upon John Amos. The old man fell on his back, with Jory astride, and then Daddy raced into the garage.

“Bart . . . we watched you make sandwiches and slice the pie—and take the ice cream—now where is your mother and your grandmother?”

Didn’t know what to do.

“Dad!” yelled Jory, “I smell smoke!”

“Where are they, Bart?”

John Amos yelled out at Daddy, “Take that crazy kid away from here—him and his matches! He’s started a fire. Him and his crazy stunts, like killing that dear little puppy who loved him so much. It’s no wonder Corrine panicked and ran without telling me where she was going.” He cried real tears and wiped at his runny nose. “Oh, God . . . I wish to heaven we’d never come here to live. I told Corrine no good would come of this.”

Lies!
He was telling lies on me! Wasn’t none of that true!

“You did it all! You are the crazy man, John Amos!” and like Malcolm would, I ran over to kick at him. “Die, John Amos! Die and be redeemed through death!”

My arms were caught and I was lifted away. Daddy had me in his arms and was trying to calm me. “Your mother . . . where is your mother? Where is the fire?”

A red haze was in my eyes, but I reached in my pants pocket and gave my daddy the key. “In the wine cellar,” I said dully, “waiting for the fire to end them like they ended Fox-worth Hall. Malcolm wanted it that way—all the little attic mice to burn and stop reproducing contaminated seed.”

Far away from my body I was standing, watching the stunned terror in Daddy’s eyes as he tried to delve into my eyes . . . but I knew they were blank—for I wasn’t there. Didn’t know where I was. Didn’t care.

F
ire. The mansion was on fire.

I straddled John Amos, who fought me off—or tried to, but soon he knew who had the best of the battle. “You can’t get away, old man. You’ve poisoned my brother’s mind, made him think awful things. I hope to God you rot in some jail cell for the rest of your life for what you’ve done.”

While John Amos and I had at it, Dad sped off to find Mom and his mother, with Bart at his heels screaming out how he could get to the wine cellar.

“Get off me, boy!” yelled John Amos Jackson. “That brother of yours is crazy-dangerous! He starved that poor puppy then stabbed him with a pitchfork. Is that the act of a sane child?”

“Why didn’t you stop him if you saw him do all that?”

“Why, why . . . ,” sputtered the old man, “he would have turned on me like a wild beast. The boy is insane like his grandmother. Why it was my own wife who saw him dig up the skeleton of her pet kitten. Ask her, go on, ask her.”

Some of what he said was getting to me. Bart was irrational.
Yet, yet—was he a killer? “Bart talks in his sleep, old man. He repeats everything he hears during the day like a parrot. He quotes from the Bible and pronounces words he wouldn’t be able to if someone like you wasn’t coaching him.”

“You fool boy! He doesn’t know who he is! Can’t you see that? He thinks he is his great-grandfather Malcolm Foxworth . . . and like Malcolm he’s driven to kill every last living member of the Foxworth clan!”

At that moment I saw my father stumble into the garage carrying my mother in his arms, with his mother, dirty and in rags, following behind. I jumped up and ran. “Mom, oh Mom!” I cried, overjoyed to see she was still alive. But she looked dreadful, dirty, pale, and thin . . . but alive, thank God!

She was conscious. “Where’s Bart?” she whispered.

With that question she lost consciousness and slumped in Dad’s arms. While looking around for Bart, I noticed that John Amos Jackson was no longer to be seen. “Dad,” I said to draw his attention, and just then out of the dim shadows of the garage, the butler appeared with a heavy shovel. He brought that shovel down hard on top of Dad’s head. Silently, without a groan, Dad slumped to the floor with Mom still in his arms. Again that butler raised the shovel as if to kill Dad—and maybe Mom, too. I ran, and I kicked with my right leg as I’d never kicked before. The shovel went spinning away, and as John Amos Jackson whirled to face me, I let him have it with my left foot square in his stomach. He groaned and slumped over.

But Bart—where was Bart?

“Jory,” called the mother of my parents, “get your parents out of this garage as quickly as you can! Pull them so far away they won’t be hurt if the garage blows when the fire reaches the gasoline in here.
Hurry!”
I started to object, but she took care of that. “I’ll find Bart. You just keep my son and daughter safe.”

It was easy to pick up Mom and run with her to a safe
place and lay her down, but not so easy to drag Dad by his shoulders to lie beside her under a tree—still I managed. The house now smoked from several windows. My brother was in there—and my grandmother, too.

John Amos Jackson had recovered and he too rushed inside the burning house. In the kitchen I saw John Amos struggling with my grandmother. He was battering her face with slaps. I ran to rescue her though the smoke was in my eyes. “You’ll never get away with this, John!” she yelled as he tried to choke her. I fell over a chair that had been turned over, and jumped to my feet just in time to see her bring down a heavy Venetian glass ashtray so it struck him on his temple. He slumped to the floor like a bird shot down from a rifle.

That’s when I saw Bart. He was in the parlor trying to lug that huge portrait to safety. “Momma,” he was sobbing, “gotta save Momma. Momma, I’m gonna get you out of here, don’t you fear, ’cause I’m just as brave as Jory, just as brave . . . can’t let you burn. John Amos was lying, he doesn’t know what God wants, doesn’t know . . .”

“Bart,” crooned my grandmother. Her voice was so like my Mom’s. “I’m here. You can save me—not just the portrait.” She stepped forward, limping badly, and I guessed she’d tripped and sprained her ankle, for at each step she grimaced. “Please, darling, you and I have to leave the house.”

He shook his head. “Gotta save Momma! You’re not my momma!”

“But
I
am,” said another voice in another doorway. My eyes widened to see my mother standing there, clinging weakly to the doorframe as she pleaded with Bart. “Darling, let go of the portrait and all of us will leave this house.” Bart looked from her to his grandmother, still clinging to the huge heavy portrait that he could never have the strength to drag from the house. “Gonna save my momma, even if she hates me,” muttered Bart to himself as he tugged at the huge heavy portrait. “Don’t care no more if she loves Jory and Cindy better. Gotta
do one good thing and then everybody will know I’m not bad, and not crazy.”

Mom ran to him and covered his small dirty face with kisses, as all around us the room filled with smoke.

“Jory!” called my grandmother, “call the fire department! Take Bart out of here, and I’ll lead your mother out.”

But Mom didn’t want to go; she seemed oblivious of the danger of staying in a smoke-filled house, with fire underneath. Even as I dialed O for the operator and told her what was going on, then gave her the address, Mom was down on her knees hugging Bart close. “Bart, my sweetheart, if you can’t accept Cindy as your sister and live happily with her, I’ll send her away.”

His grip loosened on the portrait as his eyes grew wider. “No you won’t . . .”

“Yes, I swear I will. You are my son, born from my love for your father . . .”

“You loved my real daddy?” he asked unbelievably. “You really did love him, even if you seduced and killed him?”

I groaned, then ran to seize hold of Bart. “Come on, let’s get out of here while we have the chance.”

“Bart, you go with Jory,” called my grandmother, “and I’ll take care of my daughter.”

There was the side door Bart used to sneak inside the house, and I dragged him toward that, looking back to see Mom was being pulled along by her mother. Mom seemed on the verge of fainting, so my grandmother almost had to carry her.

As I ran from the house, forcing Bart to join Dad under the tree where I’d left him, I saw Mom had sagged in her mother’s arms. When she did, both women tumbled over backward, and for a moment the smoke obscured them.

“Oh, my God, is Cathy still in that house?” asked Dad, still wiping at the blood which wouldn’t stop flowing from the deep gash on the side of his head.

“Momma’s gonna die, I know it!” cried Bart, racing toward
the house and forcing me to run after him. I hurled myself forward and brought him down with a tackle. He fought me like a madman. “Momma, gotta save Momma! Jory, let me, please let me!”

“You don’t have to. Her mother is going to save her,” I said, looking over my shoulder as I held him down and prevented him from entering that house of fire again.

Suddenly Emma and Madame Marisha were in the yard, holding on to me, to Bart, hurrying us both toward Dad, who had managed to stand. Blindly, with his hands groping before him he was headed toward the house, crying out, “Cathy, where are you? Come out of that house! Cathy, I’m coming!”

That’s when Momma was shoved violently through one of the French doors that opened onto the patio.

I ran forward to lift her up and carry her to Dad. “Neither one of you has to die,” I said with a sob in my throat. “Your mother has saved at least one of her children.”

But cries and screams were in the air. My grandmother’s black clothes were on fire! I saw her as one sees a nightmare, trying to beat out the flames.

“Fall down and roll on the ground!” roared Dad, releasing my mom so quickly she fell. He ran toward his mother, seized her up and rolled her on the ground. She was gasping and choking as he slapped out the fire. One long wild look of terror she gave him before some kind of peace came over her face—and stayed there. Why did that expression just stay there? Dad cried out, then leaned to put his ear to her chest. “Momma,” he sobbed, “please don’t be dead before I’ve had the chance to say what I must . . . Momma, don’t be dead . . .”

But she was dead. Even I could tell that from the glazed way her eyes kept staring up at a starry winter night sky.

“Her heart,” said Dad with a dazed look. “Just like her father had . . . it seemed her heart was about to jump from her chest as I rolled her about. And now she’s dead. But she died saving her daughter.”