Echoes of Dollanganger (11 page)

He sat back, looking like a junior Sherlock Holmes, full of self-confidence. “I'm thinking the old lady told him right from the start, and he approved of keeping them under lock and key. They both believed the children were the devil's children or something, didn't they? Maybe they thought they'd grow horns and tails and confirm their nutty ideas.”

“But what about Corrine? I admit that what she's doing, what she's permitting, most mothers wouldn't, but I really believe she thinks she can pull it off, don't you?”

He shrugged. “Maybe they played her, too.”

“Played her?”

“You know, conned her into believing the plan had a chance. Granny told her she was keeping the kids a secret from the old coot until he kicked the bucket. She forced Corrine to do the things she did, convincing her that was the case. All the while, she kept the old man in the loop.”

“But why would he do it?”

“He gets his slow revenge for her running off with Christopher Sr. He puts her through all this hell first.”

“It doesn't sound like she's going through hell now.”

“Yeah, not now. Now she's back to being Daddy's little girl. She's been whipped and made to do what they want her to do with the children. He's letting out the leash little by little, her own car, money, clothes, and jewelry. He keeps her obedient, and that keeps
the children locked up. She's all he's got left, with the brothers dead. He sounds to me like someone who wants his legacy. He's probably got too much of an ego to see the end of the Foxworths. Her return, molding her into the woman he wants her to be, is satisfying, maybe even keeping him alive at this point,” he continued, obviously thinking it through as he spoke.

“Maybe,” I said. What he was saying did make some sense, at least with what we knew now. “But I still think we shouldn't jump to any conclusions.”

He smiled. “That's okay. Keep your options open. One of us should always be challenging what the other thinks, anyway. Cathy's really challenging Christopher's theories most of the time, isn't she? You challenge mine.”

“Yes, but—”

“So let's keep going. I want to see what he discovers. It's still early.”

I checked the time. “Okay.”

Pleased, he returned to the diary. As he began, I thought again about what I had considered might happen, how by reading the diary and putting ourselves as best we could in Christopher's and Cathy's place, we might expose things about ourselves that we'd told no one. He had already done it. Soon it would be my turn, I was sure. Would this all make us closer, or, in the end, would it drive us apart?

As quietly as I could, I opened the door and slipped into the room, but when I turned to look for Cathy, there was Momma. I had never seen such rage in
her face. Her whole body looked swollen with it. Before I could speak, she slapped me hard on the left cheek, and when I recuperated, she slapped me even harder on my right. Stunned, I stood there, my face stinging.

“Where were you? Where did you go? If you ever do anything like this again”—she practically spit at me—“I'll whip you. I'll whip you both the way I was whipped. Do you hear? Do you?”

I couldn't speak.

Was this the mother who had so often embraced me, petted me, and covered my face with kisses, telling me how much she needed and depended on me and how like my father I was to her in almost every way?

Was this the mother who looked to me to help her get through this crisis, because she believed I was more an adult than a child and I could understand her and what she needed more perhaps than someone her age?

Who was this woman now standing before me with such fury in her eyes?

For a long moment, it was so quiet we could hear the walls and floors creak. Then my mother's expression changed so quickly it took my breath away. It was as if she had been possessed by some demon and, realizing what had happened, driven him out.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry!” she cried. “Forgive me, please. Forgive me!”

She reached forward with soft hands now
and cupped my face as she stepped toward me, muttering how I shouldn't be so frightened or afraid of her, how her threat to whip us as she had been whipped was, of course, ridiculous. She flooded my stinging face with quick kisses, apologizing, embracing me, and bringing my face, my lips, down to the warmth of her breasts, my lips pressing to them, drawing out the warmth and love I always thought she kept safely there for me.

She released me, and I stepped back, but then she kissed me again, but this time, she kissed me on the lips the way I had seen her kiss my father so many times. It wasn't simply a smack on the lips; it was a kiss that cried for forgiveness. When she pulled away, she stroked my hair and smiled that soft, loving smile I had known so well all my life.

“Will you forgive me? Will you?”

“Yes, Momma,” I said. “I forgive you.”

She burst into a wide, ecstatic smile and reached for Cathy's hand. I could see that Cathy was trembling with fear. She had never seen our mother like she was moments ago, either. She looked at me, her face slowly hardening now more into anger than surprise or fear. I gave her a look of reassurance, but she wasn't ready to accept any. Momma could see that, too.

Momma told us she had overreacted because everything was finally going our way. That perked up Cathy.

“How?” Cathy asked. “Tell us how it's going our way.”

“I can't right now,” Momma said. “I've got to get back. Perhaps I'll have time to tell you everything tomorrow. Forgive me, Christopher,” she said, and kissed me again before going to the door. And then, before she walked out, she said something that sounded out of place, even stupid. “Merry Christmas.”

She closed and locked the door.

Cathy turned to me. “For a while there, I thought our grandmother from hell had gotten into her body,” she said, and then, slowly, she gazed at all the presents. Suddenly, everything looked out of place for both of us—these gifts, being locked away, us being our little sister and brother's parents, and a grandmother threatening us with a rainstorm of hell if we broke any of her ridiculous rules. “Merry Christmas,” Cathy said bitterly.

“She didn't mean it, Cathy. She got frightened when I wasn't here. She thought I had been discovered and it was all over,” I told her.

She moved quietly, silently, looking like her tongue had hardened into stone in her mouth, and then she got back into bed with Carrie.

I got undressed quickly and decided to lie beside her for a while. Without a word, she rested her head on my chest, and I slipped my arm around her.

To my surprise, Kane lowered the diary and looked at me. He had been reading so well and was so into it
that I truly felt as if I was there alongside Christopher. I hated for him to stop. We still had plenty of time.

“What?”

“That sofa you're on.”

“What about it?”

“It's a pull-out.”

“So?”

He rose. “Let's do it,” he said. I sat looking up at him. “Re-create the scene,” he added, and held out his hand. I took it, and he helped me up and then removed the cushions and lifted out the sofa bed. There was a cloud of dust. We waved our hands in front of our faces. “We should clean up this place a bit. They cleaned up their attic,” he said.

“Just what I need, more housework.”

“I'll help.” He looked around and went to one of the trunks, opened it, and took out an old comforter. “This will work for now,” he said, and spread it on the sofa bed. Then he put the pillows back on the bed. “Ta-daaaa.”

“What are we doing?”

“We're Christopher and Cathy lying on that mattress.” He picked up the diary. “Come on,” he said, and lay down on the sofa bed.

I remember thinking that maybe we were going too far with this, but it also intrigued me. I did what he asked. He sat up, pulled off his shirt, and lay back again, patting his chest. I knew what he wanted and laid my head against him. He held up the diary to begin reading again, his right arm slipping comfortably around my shoulders.

“Wait,” he said.

“What?”

“You've got to get more into it, get closer to the way Cathy was at this point.”

“I don't exactly have a nightgown up here, Kane.”

He looked at my mother's wardrobe. “Maybe there's something in there.”

I hesitated.

“I'm overdressed, too,” he said, and sat up to take off his pants.

My heart began to race. I could feel a warm sensation of excitement building in the pit of my stomach and spreading like tepid water just beneath my skin, into my thighs. I rose quickly and went to the wardrobe. Two nightgowns were hung on the right. I plucked one out and began to undress. He was in his underwear, lying back, watching me and waiting. With my back to him, I went down to my panties and slipped the nightgown over my head. Smoothing it down, I returned to the sofa bed and lay beside him, placing my head on his chest. He ran his fingers through my hair and then began to read.

There was no longer a doubt in my mind.

We were in the Foxworth Hall attic.

In the short silence that passed between us, I felt my sister's warmth in a way I never had felt it. It's difficult to explain, but perhaps because of our circumstances, all that had happened, the emotional roller coaster we were on, I wasn't thinking of her as my sister. I was sensing her more as a girl, young,
of course, somewhat frightened, but also desperate for my touch, my warmth. It aroused me in ways I hadn't expected.

I started babbling about everything, defending Momma again, and talking about how we had all changed. She perked up, now interested in how I thought she had changed. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her she was more mature, she was even prettier, but something kept me from saying it. I was afraid to say it.

Instead, I started to talk about what I had discovered when I had snuck out. I told her I heard the party winding down and went to spy on them and that many of them looked drunk. I saw the nurse wheel out our grandfather. Moments after, I saw Momma come up the stairs with Bartholomew Winslow, who asked to see her special bed. I thought it was just a clever way to get into her room with her. I hesitated to tell Cathy any more, but she insisted. I had to tell her about how they kissed and how he touched Momma. I knew it would make her angry but not angrier than it made me. I told her how he still insisted on seeing the famous swan bed, which I had overheard had been our great-grandmother's. To get off the topic, I described wandering into a trophy room with dozens of animal heads on the walls and the portrait of our grandfather, Malcolm Neal Foxworth. She didn't want to hear any of that.

Again, I hesitated, but I had promised I would
tell her everything I saw, so I couldn't leave it out, even though I knew it was going to disturb her. I described what I had seen of Momma's suite of rooms, with that enormous swan bed, when the door opened. There was no way not to say it; it was the bedroom of a princess.

Momma was living in luxury, while we were wallowing in a small room and an attic full of antiques, dust, and no sunshine. The air was stale. We were shut away and drawing closer to each other daily to find the comfort and the hope anyone our ages should have the moment he or she opens his or her eyes. Maybe legally we weren't orphans, but the only thing that separated us from them was a second death certificate—our mother's.

Darkness was never darker; silence was never deeper. We were in a world where it was futile even to cry. Who would hear us? Who would wipe away our tears? How different we were already from the children who had been brought here. We were frightened, and we were unhappy, but we had been dressed in hope. Momma's voice had been so full of promise. Really. Where else could we have gone but to her to find a reason to continue, to grow, to dream again of any future for ourselves?

Kane stopped reading and turned to me. “If I were really there with her in that bed, I would say, ‘More and more, it's looking like we're going to have only each other, Cathy.' ”

“Their mother does seem so deceptive, complaining about how difficult it is for her and telling them how patient they have to be.”

“I think Christopher knows that but can't say a word. You can understand how alone they must feel, locked away. I can see a mother unconcerned about them in the interim, but those two little ones.”

“Yes.” I could feel the tears coming into my eyes, and he could see them. He leaned toward me and gently kissed my eyes, his lips feeling like slightly damp tissues. Then he kissed my cheeks with small pecks, as if he was exploring and finding his way to my lips. I wasn't terribly experienced at it, but I could sense that Kane was a very good kisser. He pressed just so hard and held his lips on mine just long enough to keep the tingling lingering after we parted.

“And we can understand why they would need more from each other, more comfort, more love,” he whispered, his lips just under my ear and just close enough to graze the peach fuzz on my cheek. He caressed my breasts, lifting my left breast gently, and with his left hand, he reached down to get under the hem of my mother's nightgown, sliding it softly but quickly up my thigh to my waist and turning me to him more for another long and passionate kiss that seemed to draw the last drops of resistance from me.

When he started to draw back, I was the one who pursued, bringing my lips back to his. Then I stiffened when his hand reached my breasts, naked under the nightgown. His fingers nudged my nipple as he lowered his mouth to my neck. I was surprised at how I
suddenly stiffened and pulled back. I could feel myself sliding down that dangerous slope my aunt Barbara had described, when she had come to visit and play the role of a mother educating her daughter about her own sexuality.

“It's all right,” Kane said, kissing my forehead and trying again to bring his fingers to my erect nipples, but I moved back even farther.