Authors: V.C. Andrews
It may be conceited to say that our picture showed signs of true artistry, and a great deal of creative ingenuity. Our composition
was balanced, yet it had rhythm, style . . . and a charm that had brought tears to our mother’s eyes when we showed it to her. She had to turn her back so we, too, wouldn’t cry. Oh, yes, by far this collage was the very best piece of artwork we had as yet turned out.
Trembling, apprehensive, I waited to time my approach so her hands would be empty. Since the grandmother never looked at Chris, and the twins were so terrified of her they shriveled in her presence, it was up to me to give her the gift . . . and darned if I could make my feet move. Sharply, Chris nudged me with his elbow. “Go on,” he whispered, “she’ll go out the door in a minute.”
My feet seemed nailed to the floor. I held the long red package across both my arms. From the very positioning it seemed a sacrificial offering, for it wasn’t easy to give her anything, when she had given us nothing but hostility, and was waiting her chance to give us pain.
That Christmas morning, she succeeded very well in giving us pain, even without a whip or a word.
I wanted to greet her in the proper way and say, “Merry Christmas Day, Grandmother. We wanted to give you a little something. Really, don’t thank us; it was no trouble at all. Just a little something to show how much we appreciate the food you bring to us each day, and the shelter you have given us.” No, no, she would think me sarcastic if I put it that way. Much better to say something like this: “Merry Christmas, we hope you like this gift. We all worked on it, even Cory and Carrie, and you can keep it so when we’re gone, you’ll know we did try, we did.”
Just to see me near with the gift held before me took her by surprise.
Slowly, with my eyes lifting to bravely meet hers, I held out our Christmas offering. I didn’t want to plead with my eyes. I wanted her to take it, and like it, and say thank you, even if she said it coldly. I wanted her to go to bed this night and think about us, that maybe we weren’t so bad, after all. I wanted her to digest
and savor all the work we’d put into her gift, and I wanted her to question the right and wrong of how she treated us.
In the most withering way, her cold and scornful eyes lowered to the long box we’d wrapped in red. On the top was a sprig of artificial holly and a huge silver bow. A card was tied to the bow, and read: “To Grandmother, from Chris, Cathy, Cory, and Carrie.”
Her gray-stone eyes lingered on the card long enough to read it. Then she lifted her gaze to stare directly into my hopeful eyes, pleading, begging, wanting so much to be assured we weren’t—as I sometimes feared—evil. Back to the box her eyes skipped, then deliberately she turned her back. Without a word she stalked out of the door, slammed it hard, then locked it from the other side. I was left in the middle of the room, holding the end product of many long hours of striving for perfection and beauty.
Fools!—that’s what we’d been! Damned fools!
We’d never win her over! She’d always consider us Devil’s spawn! As far as she was concerned, we really
didn’t
exist.
And it hurt, oh, you bet, it did hurt. Right down to my bare feet I ached, and my heart became a hollow ball shooting pains through my chest. Behind me, I could hear Chris raspily breathing in and out, and the twins began to whimper.
This was my time to be adult, and keep the poise that Momma used so well and so effectively. I patterned my movements, and my expressions, after those of my mother. I used my hands the way she used hers. I smiled as she did, slow and beguiling.
And what did I do to demonstrate my maturity?
I hurled the package to the floor! I swore, using words I’d never said aloud before! I raised my foot and stomped down on it, and heard the cardboard box crunch. I screamed! Wild with fury, I jumped with both feet onto the gift, and I wildly stomped and jumped until I heard the cracking of the beautiful old frame we’d found in the attic, and reglued, and refinished and made it
look almost like new again. I hated Chris for persuading me that we could win over a woman made of stone! I hated Momma for putting us in this position! She should have known her mother better; she should have sold shoes in a department store; certainly there was something she could have done but what she did.
Beneath the assault of someone wild and frenzied, the dry frame shattered into splinters; all our labor was gone, gone.
“Stop!” cried Chris. “We can keep it for ourselves!”
Though he ran fast to prevent total destruction, the fragile painting was ruined. Forever gone. I was in tears.
Then I was bending down, crying, and picking up the silk butterflies Cory and Carrie had made so painstakingly, with so much effort wasted to color the wings gloriously. Pastel butterflies I was to keep all my life long.
Chris held me fast in his arms while I sobbed as he tried to comfort me with fatherly words: “It’s all right. It doesn’t matter what she does. We were right, and she was wrong. We tried. She never tries.”
We sat on the floor silent now amidst our gifts. The twins were quiet, their big eyes full of doubts, wanting to play with their toys, and undecided because they were our mirrors, and they would reflect our emotions—whatever they were. Oh, the pity of seeing them so made me ache again. I was twelve. I should learn at some time in my life how to act my age, and hold onto my poise, and not be a stick of dynamite always ready to explode.
* * *
Into our room Momma came, smiling and calling out her Christmas greetings. She came bearing more gifts, including a huge dollhouse that once had been hers . . . and her hateful mother’s. “This gift is
not
from Santa Claus,” she said, putting down the house on the floor with great care, and now, I swear, there wasn’t one inch of uncluttered space left. “This is my present to Cory and Carrie.” She hugged them both, and kissed their cheeks, and told them now they could “pretend house”
and “pretend parents” and “pretend host and hostess,” just as she used to do when she was a child of five.
If she noticed none of us was really excited by that grand dollhouse, she didn’t comment. With laughter, and gay charm, she knelt on the floor and sat back on her heels, and told us of how very much she used to love this dollhouse.
“It is very valuable, too,” she gushed. “On the right market, a dollhouse like this would bring a fabulous fortune. Just the miniature porcelain dolls with the moveable joints alone are priceless, their faces all hand-painted. The dolls are made in scale to the house, as is the furniture, the paintings—everything, in fact. The house was handcrafted by an artist who lived in England. Each chair, table, bed, lamp, chandelier—all are genuine reproductions of antiques. I understand it took the craftsman twelve years to complete this.
“Look at how the little doors open and close, perfectly hung—which is more than you can say for the house you’re living in,” she went on. “And all the drawers slide in and out. There’s a tiny little key to lock the desk, and look how some of the doors slide into the walls—pocket doors, they are called. I wish this house had doors like that; I don’t know why they went out of fashion. And see the hand-carved moldings near the ceiling, and the wainscoting in the dining room and library—and the teensy books on the shelves. Believe it or not, if you have a microscope, you can read the text!”
She demonstrated with knowing, careful fingers all the fascinations of a dollhouse only children of the extremely wealthy could ever hope to own.
Chris, of course, had to pull out a tiny book and hold it close to his squinting eyes, to see for himself print so small you needed a microscope. (There was a very special type of microscope he hoped to own someday . . . and I hoped to be the one to give it to him.)
I couldn’t help but admire the skill and patience it would take to make such small furniture. There was a grand piano in the
front parlor of the Elizabethan house. The piano was covered with a silken paisly shawl, with fringes of gold. Little-bitty silk flowers were centered on the dining room table. Bitsy fruit made of wax was in a silver bowl on the buffet. Two crystal chandeliers hung down, and real candles were fitted into sockets. Servants were in the kitchen, wearing aprons while they prepared dinner. A butler wore livery white while he stood near the front door to greet the arriving guests, while in the front parlor the beautifully gowned ladies stood stiffly near poker-faced men.
Upstairs in the nursery were three children, and a baby was in the crib, arms outstretched and ready to be lifted up. A side building was attached, somewhat to the rear, and in there was such a coach! And two horses were in the stables! Golly day! Who would ever dream people could make things so small! My eyes jumped to the windows, drinking in the dainty white curtains and heavy drapes, and dishes were on the dining table, and silverware, and pots and pans were in the kitchen cupboards—all so tiny they were no bigger than large green peas.
“Cathy,” said Momma, putting her arm around me, “look at this little rug. It is a genuine Persian, made of pure silk. The rug in the dining room is an Oriental.” And on and on she extolled the virtues of this remarkable plaything.
“How can it look so new, yet be so old?” I asked.
A dark cloud passed over Momma and shadowed her face. “When it belonged to my mother, it was kept in a huge glass box. She was allowed to look at it, but she could never touch it. When it was given to me, my father took a hammer and broke the glass box, and he allowed me to play with everything—on the condition that I would swear, with my hand on the Bible, not to break anything.”
“Did you swear and did you break anything?” questioned Chris.
“Yes, I swore, and yes, I did break something.” Her head bowed low so we couldn’t watch her eyes. “There was another
doll, a very handsome young man, and his arm came off when I tried to take off his coat. I was whipped, not only for breaking the doll, but for wanting to see what was underneath the clothes.”
Chris and I sat silent, but Carrie perked up and showed great interest in the funny little dolls in their fancy, colorful costumes. She particularly favored the baby in the crib. Because she was so interested, Cory moved so he, too, could investigate the many treasures of the dollhouse.
That was when Momma turned her attention on me. “Cathy, why were you looking so solemn when I came in? Didn’t you like your gifts?”
Because I couldn’t answer, Chris answered for me. “She’s unhappy because the grandmother refused the gift we made for her.” Momma patted my shoulder but she avoided my eyes. Chris continued, “And thank you for everything—there’s nothing you didn’t remind Santa Claus to bring. Thank you most of all for the dollhouse. I think our twins are going to have more fun with that than anything else.”
I fixed my gaze on the two tricycles for the twins to ride in the attic and strengthen their thin, weak legs while they pedaled. There were roller skates for Chris and me to use in the attic schoolroom only. That room was insulated with plastered walls, and hardwood flooring, making it more soundproof than the rest of the attic.
Momma got up from her knees, smiling mysteriously before she left. Just outside the door she said she’d be back in a second or two, and that is when she really gave us the best gift of all—a small, portable TV set! “My father gave this to me to use in my bedroom. And immediately I knew just who would enjoy it the most. Now you have a real window through which you can view the world.”
Just the right words to send my hopes flying high into the sky! “Momma!” I cried out. “Your father gave you an expensive gift? Does that mean he likes you now? Has he forgiven you for marrying Daddy? Can we go downstairs now?”
Her blue eyes went dark and troubled again, and there was no joy when she told us that yes, her father was friendlier—he had forgiven her for committing a sin against God, and society. Then she said something that jumped my heart right up against my throat.
“Next week, my father is having his lawyer write me into his will. He is going to leave me everything; even this house will be mine after my mother dies. He isn’t planning on leaving her money, because she has wealth she inherited from
her
father and mother.”
Money—I didn’t care anything about it. All I wanted was out! And suddenly I was very happy—so happy I flung my arms around Momma, kissed her cheek, and hugged her tight. Golly-lolly, this was the best day since we’d come to this house . . . and then I remembered, Momma hadn’t said we could go downstairs yet.
But,
we were one step on our way to freedom.
Our mother sat on the bed and smiled with her lips, though not her eyes. She laughed at some silly things Chris and I said, and it was laughter brittle and hard, not at all her kind of laugh. “Yes, Cathy, I have become the dutiful, obedient daughter your grandfather always wanted. He speaks, I obey. He orders, I jump. I have at last managed to please him.” She stopped abruptly and looked toward the double windows and the pale light beyond. “As a matter of fact, I have pleased him so well he is giving me a party tonight to reintroduce me to my old friends, and the local society. It is to be a grand affair, for my parents do everything in a big way when they entertain. They don’t imbibe themselves, but they don’t mind serving liquor to those who don’t fear hell. So, of course, it will be catered, and there will also be a small orchestra for dancing.” A party! A Christmas party! With an orchestra for dancing! And catered! And Momma was being written into the new will. Was there ever such a happy wonderful day?
“Can we watch?” Chris and I cried out almost simultaneously.
“We’ll be very quiet.”
“We’ll hide so no one can see us.”
“Please, Momma, please, it’s been so long since we saw other people, and we’ve never been to a Christmas Day party.”
We pleaded and pleaded until at last she could resist no longer. She drew Chris and me aside, to a far corner where the twins couldn’t overhear, and she whispered, “There is one place where the two of you can hide and still be able to watch, but I cannot risk the twins. They’re too young to be trusted and you know they can’t sit still for longer than two seconds, and Carrie would probably scream out in delight, and rivet everyone’s attention. So, swear on your word of honor you will not tell them.”