Dollenganger 03 If There Be a Thorns (5 page)

is really your true grandmother."
Oh, good golly! I didn't know I had my own true grandmother. I thought my grandmothers were either dead or in the looney bin.
"Yes, Bart, she's your grandmother, and not only that, once she was married to your father. Your
real
father."
Didn't know what to think, except I was awful happy havin a genuine true grandmother of my very own, just like Jory had his own. And she wasn't dead, or crazy.
"Now you listen to me, boy, and you will never feel weak and ineffective again. You read a little of this book every day and it will teach you to be like your great-grandfather, Malcolm Neal Foxworth. Never on this earth did there live a man who was smarter than your own great-grandfather--the father of your grandmother who sits in that rocker and wears that ugly black veil."
"She's pretty underneath," I said. I didn't like what he was sayin and the way he was lookin. "Never have seen her face, but I can tell from her voice that she's pretty--prettier than you!"
He sneered, then quickly changed his expression to smilin.
"All right, have it your way. But after you read this book written by your own dear great-grandfather, you will understand that women are not to be trusted, especially pretty women. They have ways, cunning ways, of making men do what they want. You'll find that out soon enough when you become a man, A man as handsome as your own father was, and she took him and made him her slave, made him her lap dog like she's making you."
Wasn't no lap dog, wasn't!
"He was her second husband, Bartholomew Winslow, and eight years younger than her, and he didn't know any better. He thought he could use her-- but she used him. I want to save you from her so you won't end up like your father did--dead."
Dead. Almost everybody was dead in our family Wasn't really surprised by nothin he said, except I hadn't known women were that bad. Always suspected they were, but never really knew. I should warn Jory.
"Now if you want to save your everlasting soul from the fires of eternal hell, you will read this book and grow strong and powerful like your greatgrandfather. Then women will never rule you again. You will rule them."
I looked up into his long gaunt face, seem his skinny mustache and his yellowish teeth through which he not only hissed but sometimes whistled. He was uglier than anyone I'd seen before. But I'd heard Emma say more than once that pretty was as pretty did. So I guessed I might as well give my powerful great-grandfather a try, and read his little red-leather book with its sprawly handwritin.
Didn't take much to readin. Wasn't my kind of thing to do at all. But when I was in the barn near the stall that would soon be a home for my pony, I snuggled down in the hay. Wanted that pony so bad it hurt. Didn't really care if it smelled bad and was lots of trouble. I opened the book, which looked mighty old.
I am beginning this journal with the most bitter day of my life: the day my beloved mother ran away and left me for another man. She left my father too. I remember how I felt when he told me what she'd done, how much I cried, how lost I felt without her. How lonely to go to bed and have no mother to kiss me goodnight and hear my prayers. I was five years old. And until she left, she'd always said I was the most important person in her life. How could she have left me, her only son? What evil thing possessed her so she could turn her back on a loving son?
I was so innocent then, so unknowing. When I read the words of the Lord, I began to realize that ever since Eve women have betrayed men in one way or another, even mothers. Corrine, Corrine, how I began to hate that name.
Funny. Felt strange as I lifted my eyes from that red journal with its small, cramped handwriting that sometimes sprawled larger at the bottom of the page, as if he had to use every bit of space.
I too had always been scared my mamma might up and go for no reason except she didn't want to be near me anymore. And I'd be left alone with a stepfather who couldn't possibly love me as much as if I'd been his own true son. Jory would be all right, for he had his dancin and that was all that really mattered to him.
"You like that book?" asked John Amos, who had sneaked into the barn and was standing still in the shadows and watchin me with small, glittery eyes.
"Sure, it's a good book," I managed to say, though it made me feel bad inside, and so afraid Momma might run away too with some man who wasn't a doctor. All the time she was wishin Daddy wasn't a doctor and could stay home more.
"Now you keep reading that book each day," advised John Amos, who might really like me, even though his face was mean, "and you will learn all about women and how to control them." I could listen better when I couldn't see him very good. "And not only will you learn how to control women, but also all people. That small red book in your hands will save you from making the mistakes so many men make. You remember that when you grow tired of reading. You remember it is the god-given duty of men to dominate women who are basically weak and stupid."
Gee, I hadn't guessed Momma was weak and stupid. I thought she was strong and wonderful. Just like my grandmother was generous and kind. . . and in some ways, much better than my own mother, who always seemed too busy to bother with me.
"Malcolm was the kind of man other people looked up to, Bart. The kind of man everyone respected and feared. When you can inspire that kind of awe it makes you revered--like a god. You don't have to tell your grandmother about this book. It would be better if you didn't, and just went on pretending to love her as much as before. Never let women know what you're thinking. Keep your honest thoughts to yourself."
Maybe he was right. Maybe if I read this book to the very end I'd end up smarter than Jory, and the whole world would look up to me.
I smiled that night in my bed, hugging the journal of Malcolm close to my heart. Here I had the tool to use to make me the richest man in the world-- just like Malcolm Neal Foxworth, who used to live in a faraway place called Foxworth Hall.
I had two friends now. My lady grandmother in black and John Amos, who talked to me more than my daddy ever did. Boy, sure was funny how strangers came into my life and started givin me more than my parents.

Mom had purchased a ballet school that still bore the name of the original owner. She adopted that name,
Marie DuBois School of Ballet,
and led her students to think she was Marie DuBois. She explained to me and Bart later that it was easier than changing the name of the school and more profitable too. Dad seemed to agree.

Her school was located on the top floor of a two-story building in San Rafael, not far from where Dad had his medical office. Often they ate lunch together or spent the night in San Francisco so they could see a ballet or go to movies and not have to drive back and forth. Emma was with us, so we didn't really mind too much, except sometimes I felt left out to see them come home so happy and glowing. It made me think we weren't as important to them as we liked to believe.

One night when I was restless and couldn't sleep, I silently stole out of my bedroom with the idea of a midnight snack on my mind, nothing else. The second my feet hit the hall near the living room I could hear the sound of my parents voices. Loud. They were arguing, and they seldom even spoke crossly to one another.

I didn't know what to do, to stay or to return to my room. Then I remembered that scene in the attic, and for my protection and Bart's, too, I felt I had to know what this was all about.

Mom still wore the pretty blue dress she'd worn out to dinner with Dad. "I don't know why you keep objecting!" she stormed, as she paced back and forth, throwing Dad furious looks. "You know as well as I do that Nicole isn't going to get well. And if we wait until she's buried, then the state will have custody of Cindy, and we'll have a devil of a time getting her away from them! Let's move now. Possession is ninetenths of the law, and that landlady doesn't want to be bothered any longer. Chris,
please make up your mind!"

"No," he said coldly. "We have two children and that's enough. There are other young couples who will be delighted to adopt Cindy. Couples who don't have as much to lose as we do when the adoption agency starts to investigate . . ."

Mom threw her hands wide. "That's what I'm saying! If we have Cindy before Nicole dies, the agency won't have any reason to investigate. I'll go tonight and tell Nicole what I plan. I'm sure she'll agree and sign whatever legal papers are needed."

"Catherine," said my stepfather in a firm voice, "you can't have everything the way you want it. Nicole may very well recover in a few weeks, and even if she is permanently crippled, she'll still want her child."

"But what kind of mother will she make?" "That's not for us to decide."
"She can't recover! You know it, and I know

it --and what's more, Christopher Doll, I have already gone to the hospital and talked to Nicole, and she
wants me
to have her daughter. She signed the papers I took, and I had Simon Daughtry with me. He's an attorney, and had his secretary along--so what can you do now to stop me?"

Appearing shocked, my stepdad put his hands to his face, while my mother railed on and one
"Christopher, stop cringing behind your hands. Show your face, and recognize what you made me do. You were there the night Bart was born--there with your pleading eyes telling me Paul wouldn't be enough, and it would be you in the end who won. If you hadn't been there, pleading with those damned blue eyes, I wouldn't have let the doctors talk me into signing those papers and allowing the sterilization! I would have borne another child even if it did kill me. But
you
were there, and I gave in--for your sake, damn it!
For your sake!"
Sobbing, she fell to the floor and lay curled up on her side, her fingers working in the deep shag of the carpet. Her long blonde hair spread like a golden fan on the carpet and cushioned her cheek as she cried on and on, berating him and herself for what they were doing.
What were they doing?
She rolled onto her back, spreading her arms wide. Dad uncovered his face and stared at her, looking deeply wounded.
"You're right, Christopher! You are always right! There's only been one time when I was right, but that single time might have saved Cory's life." Sobbing, she jerked her head away from Dad, who knelt beside her and tried to pull her into his embrace. She hit at him, making me gasp.
"You were right again when you told me not to marry Julian! I'll bet you gloated when our marriage turned out to be a miserable failure. I'll bet you were delighted when Julian sat back and allowed Yolanda Lange to destroy everything we owned. Everything happened just the way you predicted, making you so happy. Then Bart suffocated in the fire that burned Foxworth Hall to the ground. Were you laughing inside then too?--glad to be rid of him? Did you think I'd run straight into your arms and forget about all I owed Paul? Did you doubt I loved Paul?" Her voice rose to a shrill shriek. "When Paul and I were lovers I never thought of him as too old, until you kept harping on his age. Perhaps I wouldn't have paid any attention to Amanda and what she said if you hadn't bugged me so much about marrying a man twentyfive years older."
I shrank into a tighter ball. Ashamed to stay and listen; afraid to get up and go now that I'd overheard so much. Mom was wound up, as if she'd saved this for a long time, ready to throw it into his face at the right opportunity--and here it was. He recoiled from the viciousness of her attack.
"Remember the afternoon I married Paul?" she yelled. "Remember? Think of the moment when you handed me the ring he put on my finger. You hesitated so long the minister had to urge you with a whisper. And all the time you were pleading with your eyes. I resisted you then, as I should have resisted you after he died. Did you wish for him to die soon so that you'd have YOUR chance? A self-fulfilling wish, Christopher Doll! YOU WIN! YOU ALWAYS WIN! YOU SIT BACK AND WAIT WHILE YOU DO WHAT YOU CAN TO MESS UP MY LIFE! WELL, HERE I AM! RIGHT WHERE YOU WANTED ME!--in your bed, acting as your wife. Are you enjoying yourself? ARE YOU?" She sobbed, then slapped his face hard.
He reeled backward but didn't say a word. She hadn't finished with him even then. "Don't you realize I would never have gone to Bart in the first place if you hadn't always been hanging around, coming between Paul and me; making me ashamed of what Mamma had done to you, to me? I had to take Bart away from her then--it was the only way I could punish her for what she did to us. And now, after all Paul did for us, you won't even have the decent generosity to take in a poor little girl who will soon be an orphan. Even when I have paved the way legally so there won't be any investigation by the authorities. Still you want me for yourself, thinking two sons are enough to get in the way of our privacy, and another child might bring down our house of cheating cards."
"Cathy, please . . ." he moaned.
She hit at him with small, balled fists, then yelled again, "Perhaps you even told me it was all right for Paul to have sex just so he would have another heart attack!"
Then she sank back, panting, tears streaking her face while her watery blue eyes stared up at Dad, but he only stayed still, hunkered down on his heels as if frozen by all she'd said.
I wanted to cry, for him, for her, for Bart and for me. Though I didn't understand nearly enough.
My dad began to shiver uncontrollably, as if winter had come unexpectedly into our living room. Had Mom told the truth? Was he the one who was behind all the deaths in our lives? I was scared too, for I loved him.
"Great God, Catherine," he said at last, rising to his feet and heading toward their bedroom. "I'll pack my bags and move out before the hour is over, if that's what you want. And I hope you're satisfied. This time, you win!"
In one single graceful bound, she was on her feet and running after him. She caught hold of his arm and spun him around before she flung her arms about his waist and clung. "Chris!" she cried out, "I'm sorry! So sorry. I didn't mean a word I said. It was cruel, and I know it. I love you; I've always loved you; I lie, I cheat, I say anything I want to get my way. I'll put the blame on anyone. I can't bear it as my own. Don't look so hurt, so betrayed. You're right to deny me Nicole's daughter, for I do end up hurting everyone I love. I do destroy what I care about most. If I'd been the right kind of person I would have found the right words to say to Carrie, but I didn't say anything right to her then, and nothing right to Julian either."
She still clung to him while he stood like a tall stick of wood in her embrace, doing nothing to return all the passion she lavished with her words, her kisses, her embraces. She took one of his limp hands and tried to slap her face with it, and, failing, she slapped her own face with her free hand.
"Why don't you hit me, Chris? God knows I've given you reason enough tonight. And I don't have to have Cindy, not when I have you, and my sons . . ."
I could tell my stepdad felt impotent against all the anguish she displayed. Her histrionics had driven him into a corner and he wanted to stay there long enough to reason out his position. But she was at him, demanding of him, until she was yelling out again: "What's the matter now, Christopher Doll? There you stand, wooden, saying nothing, trying to judge me by your own ethics. Recognize the truth--that
I don't have any ethics!
You want to believe I am only an actress playing a role, like our mother played hers. Even now, after all these years, you can't tell when I'm acting and when I'm not. Do you know why?" Now her voice became nasty, cynical. "Since you have never bothered to analyze my pathetic case, I'll do it for you. Christopher, you are afraid to look at me honestly. You don't want to know what I am really like. If I'm not acting, and this side I'm showing you now is the real me--then you can't face up to being a fool. You would discover then you have based your great unselfish love on a woman who is ruthless, demanding and utterly selfish. Go on, see the truth! I'm not a divine goddess and never was, never will be! Chris, you've been a fool all your adult life, trying to make me into something I'm not--so that makes you a liar too. Doesn't it?" She laughed as he paled.
"Look at me, Christopher. Who do I remind you of?" She pulled back and looked at him in silence for a long time as she waited. When he refused to answer she said, "Come on, say it--I'm like her, right? This is the way she was that last night in Foxworth Hall when the guests were there swarming about the Christmas tree in the ballroom, and in the library she was screaming as I'm screaming now!-- yelling out how her father beat her and made her do what she did. What a pity you weren't there. So yell at me, Chris! Strike out and hit me! Scream as I'm screaming and show you're human!"
Slowly, slowly he was losing his temper. I was so afraid of what might happen next. I wanted to rush in and stop what was going on, for if he did raise his hand to strike her, I'd run to her defense. I'd never let him hit my mother.
Did she hear my silent pleas? She let go of him and slid down to the floor again. I was so confused to see them fighting, really going at it. And why was the name Foxworth Hall stirring up hidden fears I didn't want to come out into the light? And who was this
her
Mom kept screaming about? And where had Daddy Paul been at this time?--at this too distant time when Mom had not yet met his younger brother?--or so they'd told me. Did parents tell lies?
Foxworth Hall, why did that have such a familiar ring?
Once more he went down on his knees beside her, and this time with great tenderness he took her in his arms and she didn't fight him off. His quick kisses rained on her pale face, his lips trying to smother her words which kept coming anyway. "Chris, how can you keep on loving me when I'm such a bitch? How can you keep on understanding why I'm ugly so often? I know I'm as much a bitch as
she
is, only I would give my life to undo the harm she's done us."
Without a word he locked eyes with her until their breathing began to come in short pants. Between them that passion that was always just below the surface ignited, caught fire, and something electric tingled my skin too.
Lest I see too much, I silently crawled back to my room with the embarrassing vision of them rolling about on the floor still on my mind. Over and over again, turning, clutching at each other, both wild-- and the last thing I heard was a zipper being pulled. His or hers, I didn't know. Though I wondered about it. Did a woman ever pull down a man's fly zipper of her own free will--even a wife?
I ran into the garden. In the dark, near the great white wall, near a pale, nude statue of marble, I fell down on the ground and cried. Rodin's statue "The Kiss" was the first thing I saw when I looked up. Just a copy, but it told me a whole lot about adults and their feelings.
I'd been a child believing my parents' integrity was flawless, their love a brilliant, smooth ribbon of unbroken satin. Now it was tattered, stained and no longer shining Had they argued many times and I just hadn't heard? I tried to remember. It seemed to me that they'd never had such a terrible argument before, only brief conflicts that had been soon resolved.
Too old to cry, I told myself. Though fourteen was almost a man's age. Already I was sprouting a few hairs above my lips and other places Sniffling, choking my sobs back, I ran to the white wall and climbed the oak tree. Once there on the wall I sat in my favorite place and stared off at the huge white mansion, which looked ghostly in the moonlight. I thought and I thought about Bart and who was his father. Why hadn't he been named after Daddy Paul? Surely a son should have his father's name. Why Bart instead of Paul?
As I watched, as I wondered, fog from the sea began to roll in, curling back upon itself, enfolding the mansion until I couldn't see it. All about me spread the thick gray mist. Eerie, frightening, mysterious.
From the grounds next door came strange muffled noises. Was that someone crying over there? Great wracking sobs that were punctuated by moans and short prayers that asked for forgiveness.
Oh, God! Was that pitiful old woman crying just like my mother had cried? What had
she
done? Did everyone have some shameful past to conceal? Would I be like them when I grew up?
"Christopher," I heard her sob. Startled, I jerked and tried to find where she was. How did she know my dad's name? Or did she have a Christopher of her own? I knew one thing. Something dark and threatening had come into our lives. Bart was acting stranger than usual. Something or someone had to be influencing him in subtle ways I couldn't quite put my finger on. Whatever was changing Bart didn't have anything to do with Mom and Dad. If I couldn't understand them, Bart wouldn't have a chance. But whatever it was between my parents, and whatever was going on with Bart, I felt I had the weight of the world on my shoulders, and they weren't that strong yet.
One afternoon I deliberately hurried home from ballet class early. I wanted to find out what Bart did with himself when I was away. He wasn't in his room, Ihe wasn't in the garden, so that left only one place he could possibly be. Next door.
I found him easily. Much to my surprise, he was inside the house and sitting on the lap of the old woman who never wore any clothes that weren't black.
I sucked in my breath. The little rascal cuddled up cozily on her black lap. I stole closer to the window of the parlor she seemed to favor above the others. She was singing softly to him as he gazed up into her veil-shrouded face. His huge dark eyes were full of innocence before his expression suddenly changed to that of someone sly and old. "You don't really love me, do you?" he asked in the strangest voice.
"Oh, yes I do," she said softly. "I love you more than I have ever loved anyone before."
"More than you could love Jory?"
Why the Devil should she love me?
She hesitated, glanced away, answered, "Yes . . . you are very, very special to me."
"You will always love me best of all?"
"Always, always . . ."
"You will give me everything I want, no matter what?"
"Always, always . . . Bart, my dear love, the next time you come over you will find waiting for you--your heart's desire."
"You'd better have it here!" said Bart in a hard way that surprised me. All of a sudden he sounded years older. But he was always changing his way of talking, walking. Playacting, always pretending.
I'd go home and tell Mom and Dad. Bart really needed friends his own age, not an old lady. It wasn't healthy for a boy not to have peers to play with. Then again, I wondered why my parents never asked any of friends to our home the way other parents had their friends over occasionally. We lived all to ourselves, isolated from neighbors--until this Moslem woman, or whatever she was, came to win my brother's affections. I should be glad for him; instead, I was uneasy.
Finally Bart got up and said, "Goodbye, Grandmother." Just his ordinary little boy voice--but what the heck did he mean by
grandmother?
I waited patiently until I was sure Bart was in our yard before I circled the huge old house and banged hard on her front door. I expected to see that old butler come shambling down the long hall to the foyer, but it was the old lady herself who put an eye to the peekhole and asked who it was.
"Jory Marquet Sheffield," I said proudly, just as my dad would.
"Jory," she whispered. In another moment she had flung open the door. "Come in," she invited happily, stepping aside to admit me. Way back in the shadows I thought I glimpsed someone who quickly dodged out of sight. "I'm so happy to have you visit. Your brother was here and has depleted our supply of ice cream, but I can offer you a cola drink and cake or cookies."