Authors: V.C. Andrews
G
one as deaf and stony as one of Paul’s marble statues, I sat on the veranda and stared up at the night sky that was turning stormy and black with clouds. Julian came out to sit beside me and in his embrace I began to softly cry. “Why?” he asked. “You do love me a little, don’t you? Your doctor can’t be really hurt; he was very kind to me, and told me to come out and comfort you.”
It was then that Henny came out to signal with her lightning-fast signs that her doctor-son was packing for a trip and I was to stay here. “What’s she saying to you?” asked Julian with annoyance. “Damn, it’s like hearing someone talk in a foreign tongue. I feel so left out.”
“Stay here and wait!” I ordered, then jumped up to race into the house and fly up the back stairs, then on into Paul’s room where he was flinging his clothes into an open suitcase on his bed. “Look,” I cried in distress, “there’s no reason why you have to leave! This is your home.
I’ll
go. I’ll take Carrie with me, so you need never see my face again!” He turned to give me a long and bitter look as he went on putting shirts in his bag.
“Cathy, you’ve taken the wife I expected to have, and now you want to take away my daughter. Carrie is like my own flesh and blood, and she wouldn’t fit into your kind of life. Let her stay with me and Henny. Let me have something to call my own. I’ll be back before you go . . . and you should know that Julian’s father is very, very ill.”
“Georges is ill?”
“Yes. Perhaps you don’t know that he’s had kidney disease for several years, and has been on a dialysis machine for months. I don’t think he’ll live much longer. He’s not my patient, but I stop in to visit him as often as I can, more or less to hear about you and Julian. Now will you please get out, Cathy, and not force me to say things I’d regret.”
I cried face down on my bed until Henny came into my room.
Strong, motherly, dark hands patted my back. Henny’s misting, liquid brown eyes spoke when her tongue couldn’t. She talked to me with her gestures, and then took from her apron pocket a clipping from the local newspaper. An announcement of my marriage to Julian! “Henny,” I wailed, “what am I going to do? I’m married to Julian, and I can’t demand a divorce; he depends on me, believes in me!”
Henny shrugged her broad shoulders, expressing that people were as complex to her as they were to me. Then quickly she signaled, “Big sister always been big trouble maker. One man already hurt, no good hurting two. Doctor good man, strong man, will survive disappointment, but young dancing man might not. Wipe away tears, cry no more, put on big smile and go downstairs and take hand of new husband. For everything work out for the best. You see.”
I did as Henny directed, and joined Julian in the living room, and there I told him about his father being in the hospital, and not expected to live. His pale face went even whiter. Nervously he chewed on his lower lip. “It’s really that serious?”
It had been my opinion that Julian didn’t care much for his father, so I was surprised to see his reaction. At that moment Paul came into the living room with his suitcase and offered to drive us to the hospital. “And remember, my house has plenty of rooms, and there is no reason at all why the two of you should even consider a hotel. Stay as long as you like. I’ll be back in a few days.”
He backed his car out of the garage so Julian and I could join him on the front seat. Hardly a word was said until he let us out in front of the hospital, and sadly I hesitated before the steps, watching Paul drive away into the night.
* * *
They had Georges in a private room, and with him was Madame Marisha. When I saw Georges in the bed, I drew in my breath! Oh! To be like that! He was so thin he seemed already dead. His face had a grayish pallor, and every bone he had jutted forward to make jagged peaks beneath the thin skin. Madame M. was crouched at his side, staring down into his gaunt face pleading with her eyes, commanding him to hold on and live! “My love, my love, my love,” she crooned as to a baby, “do not go, do not leave me alone. We have so much to do yet, to experience yet. . . . Our son has to reach fame before you die. . . . Hold on, my love, hold on.”
Only then did Madame Marisha glance up to see us there, and with her same old authority she snapped,
“Well, Julian. You did finally come!
And after all the cables I sent you! What did you do, tear them up and dance on, as if nothing matters?”
I blanched, very surprised, and looked from him to Madame. “My dear mother,” he said coldly, “we were on tour, you know that. We had engagements and contracts, so my wife and I kept our commitments.”
“You heartless brute!” she snarled, then gestured for him to come closer. “Now you say something kind and loving to that man on the bed,” she hissed in a whisper, “or so help me
God I’ll make you wish you were never born!”
Julian had a great deal of trouble making the effort to approach the bed, so much so I had to give him a shove, while his mother sobbed into a handful of pink tissues. “Hello, Father,” was all he could manage, along with, “I’m sorry you are so ill.” Quickly he came back to me, and held me hard against him. I felt his whole body trembling.
“See, my love, my sweetheart, my darling,” crooned Madame Marisha again, once more bending above her husband and smoothing back his damp, dark hair. “Open your dear eyes and see who has flown thousands of miles to be at your side. Your own Julian and his wife. All the way from London they flew the moment they knew you were so sick. Open your eyes, my heart, see him again, see them together, such a beautiful pair of newlyweds—please open your eyes, please look.”
On the bed the pale, thin wraith of a man slitted his dark eyes and they moved slowly, trying to focus on Julian and me. We were at the foot of his bed, but he didn’t seem to see us. Madame got up to push us closer, and then held Julian there so he couldn’t back off. Georges opened his eyes a bit wider and thinly smiled. “Ah, Julian,” he sighed. “Thank you for coming. I have so much to say to you—things I should have said before. . . .” He faltered, stammered, “I should have—” and then he broke off. I waited for him to continue—and I waited. I saw his wide open eyes glaze and go blank and his head stayed so still. Madame screamed! A doctor and nurse came on the run, and shooed us out as they began to work over Georges.
We formed a pitiful group in the hall outside his room, and in only a short while the gray-haired doctor came out to say he was sorry, all had been done that could be done. It was over. “It is better so,” he added. “Death can be a good friend to those in extreme pain. I wondered how he held on so long. . . .”
I stared and stared at Julian, for we could have come back
sooner. But Julian made his eyes blank and refused to speak. “He was your father!” screamed Madame as tears streaked her cheeks. “For two weeks he suffered, waiting to see you before he could let himself die and escape the hell of living on!”
Julian whirled, his pale skin flamed with bright red fury, as he lashed out at his mother, “Madame Mother, just what
did
my father give me? All I was to him was an extension of himself! All he was to me was a dance instructor! Work, dance, that’s all he ever said! He never discussed what I wanted besides the dance; he didn’t give a damn what else I wanted, or what else I needed! I wanted him to love me for myself; I wanted him to see me as his son, not just as a dancer. I loved him; I wanted him to see I loved him, and say he loved me in return . . . but he never did! And try as I would to dance perfectly, he never gave me a compliment—for I didn’t do anything nearly as well as he could have done it when he was my age! So, that is what I was to him, somebody to step into his shoes and carry on his name! But, damn him, and you, I’ve got my own legal name . . . Julian Marquet, not Georges Rosencoff, and his name will not live on and steal from me what fame I achieve!”
I held Julian in my arms that night, understanding him as I hadn’t before. When he broke and cried, I cried along with him, for a father he’d professed to despise, when underneath he loved him. And I thought of Georges, and how sad it was that he tried, too late, to say what he should have years and years ago.
So we’d come from a honeymoon where we had achieved a certain amount of fame and publicity, and given many, many hours of hard work, only to attend the funeral of a father who wouldn’t live to know about his son’s accomplishments. All the glory of London now seemed shrouded in funeral mists.
Madame Marisha held out her arms to me when the graveside ceremony was over. She held me in her thin arms, as she might have once held Julian, and in a sort of hypnotic trance
we rocked back and forth, both of us crying. “Be good to my son, Catherine,” she sobbed and sniffled. “Have patience with him when he acts wild. His has not been an easy life, for much of what he says is true. Always he felt himself in competition with his father, and never could he surpass his father’s abilities. Now I will tell you something. My Julian has a love for you that is almost holy. He thinks you are the best thing that has ever happened in his life, and to him you are without flaw. If you have flaws, hide them. He won’t understand. A hundred times he’s been in then out of love, all within the space of a few months. For years you frustrated him. So now that he’s your husband, give to him generously all the love that’s been denied, for I am not a demonstrative woman. I have always wanted to be, but somehow I could never humble myself to touch first. Touch him often, Catherine. Take his hand when he would pull from you and go off and sulk alone. Understand why he’s moody, and love him three times as much. That way you will bring out the best in him, for he does have admirable qualities. He has to, for he is Georges’s son.”
She kissed me, and said good-bye for a while, and made me swear to come with Julian often on visits. “Fit me in the corners of your life,” she said with sadness making her face long and hollow eyed. But when I promised, and turned to look, Julian was glaring hard at the both of us.
* * *
Chris came home for his Easter vacation, and less than eagerly he greeted Julian. I noticed Julian glaring at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes.
No sooner were Chris and I alone when he bellowed, “You married
him?
Why couldn’t you wait? How could you be so intuitive when we were locked away and so damned dumb now that we’re out! I was wrong not wanting you to marry Paul only because he is so much older. And I admit it, I was jealous, and didn’t want you to marry anyone. I had a dream of you and me . . . someday. Well . . . you know what I dreamed.
But if it had to be a choice between Paul and Julian, then it should have been Paul! He’s the one who took us in, and fed and clothed us, and gave us the best of everything. I don’t like Julian. He’ll destroy you.”
He hesitated, turning his back so I couldn’t see his face. He was twenty-one and beginning to take on the virile strength of a man. In him I could see so much of our father—and our mother. And when I wanted to, I could take things and twist them to suit my purpose, and so I thought he was more like Momma in some ways than like Daddy. I started to say this, and then I too floundered, for I couldn’t. He wasn’t anything at all like our mother!
Chris was strong . . . she was weak. He was noble, she was without any honor at all. “Chris . . . don’t make it harder for me. Let’s be friends again. Julian is hot-headed and arrogant and a lot of things that irritate on the surface, but underneath he’s a little boy.”
“But you don’t love him,” he said without meeting my eyes.
In a few hours Julian and I would be leaving. I asked Carrie if she would like to come and live in New York with us, but I had lost her trust; I had betrayed her too many times already and she let me know it. “You go on back to New York, Cathy, where it snows all the time, and muggers get you in the park, and killers get you in the subway—
but you leave me here!
I used to want to be with you,
now I don’t care!
You went and married that ole Julian with the black eyes when you could have been Dr. Paul’s wife, and my real mother.
I’ll marry him!
You think he won’t want me ’cause I’m too little—but he will. You think he’s too old for me, but I won’t be able to get anybody else, so he’ll feel sorry and marry me, and we’ll have six children—
you just wait and see!”
“Carrie—”
“Shut up! I don’t like you now!
Go away! Stay away! Dance until you die! Chris and me don’t want you! Nobody here wants you!”
Those screamed words hurt! My Carrie, yelling at me to go away, when I’d been like a mother to her most of her life. Then I looked over to where Chris was standing before the pink sweetheart roses, his shoulders sagging, and in his eyes, oh, those blue, blue eyes . . . that look would always follow me. Never, never was his love going to set me free to love anyone without reservations as long as he kept loving me.
* * *
Just an hour before we had to leave for the airport Paul’s car turned into the drive. He smiled at me as he always smiled, as if nothing between us had changed. He had some tale to tell Julian of a medical convention that had kept him away, and he was terribly sad and sorry to hear his father had died. He shook hands with Chris, then slapped him heartily on the back, the way men so commonly showed affection to one another. He greeted Henny, kissed Carrie and gave her a little box of candy, and only then did he look at me.
“Hello, Cathy.”
That told me so much. I was no longer Catherine, a woman he could love as an equal, I had been moved back to only a daughter. “And, Cathy, you can’t take Carrie with you to New York. She belongs with me and Henny so she can see her brother from time to time, and I’d hate for her to change schools too.”
“I wouldn’t leave you for nothing,” said Carrie staunchly. Julian went upstairs to finish packing his things, and I dared to follow Paul out into the garden, despite the forbidding look Chris gave me. He was down on his knees, still wearing a good suit, pulling up a few weeds someone had overlooked. He got up quickly when he heard my steps and brushed the grass from his trousers, then he stared off into space as if the last thing he wanted to do was to look at me.