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! (180 page)

Bart’s mumbling boyhood wishes, said so many times I’d grown indifferent to them. Then when he was older . . .

Who is gonna love me, like Melodie loves Jory? Nobody. Nobody.

I shook my head to rid myself of unwelcome memories of a little boy wanting to equal the stature of his older and more talented brother.

But why was he looking now at Melodie with such significance? Her blue eyes lifted to meet his briefly; then she looked away, blushing again, positioning her hands in the ballet position all dancers used to keep from drawing attention away from the main performer—her feed toed out. On stage, Melodie was on stage, playing a role.

Bart strode off, his legs confident and sure, as they’d never been when he was a young boy. I felt sad and sorry he had to wait until he was out of Jory’s shadow before he could find even the ability to use his body coordination with skill. Sighing, I decided to think of the present and all that had been done to give Jory’s convalescence the perfect environment.

A large color TV was at the foot of his bed, and he had a remote control unit to change channels and turn it off and on from his bed. An electrician had arranged a way for Jory to open and close his draperies when he chose. A stereo was within his reach. Books lined the back of his adjustable bed, which would sit him up and turn him into almost any position he wanted. Melodie and I, with Chris’s help, had wracked our brains to come up with every modern convenience that would enable him to do what he could for himself. Now all we
had to do was to see he stayed busy with some occupation of real interest, enough to absorb his energies and challenge his innate talents.

A long time ago I’d started reading books on psychology, my poor attempt to try and help Bart. Now I could help Jory with his “racehorse” personality that had to compete and win. He couldn’t endure boredom, lying about doing nothing. There was already a barre along the wall without windows, put there recently, to give him the promise that one day he’d stand up, even if he would have to wear a back brace connected to leg braces. I sighed to think of my beautiful, graceful son stumbling along like a horse in a harness; then tears were streaking my face. Tears I quickly blinked away so Melodie wouldn’t see them.

Soon Melodie was tired and left to lie down and rest. I finished up in the room, then hurried to oversee the ramps being constructed to take Jory down to the terraces and the gardens. No effort was being spared to see he would not be confined to his room. There was also a newly installed elevator put where once there had been a butler’s pantry.

*  *  *

At last came the wonderful day when Jory was allowed to leave the hospital and come home. The cast was still on his back, but he was eating and drinking normally and had gained back his color and a little of the weight he’d lost. My heart ached with pity to see him flat on a stretcher, being rolled to the elevator, when once he’d taken the stairs three at a time. I saw him turn his head to stare at the stairs as if he’d sell his soul to use them again.

But, smiling, he looked around the grand suite of rooms all refurbished and his eyes sparkled. “It’s great, what you’ve done, really great. My favorite color combination, white and blue. You’ve given me the seashore—why, I can almost smell the surf, hear the seagulls. It’s wonderful, truly wonderful
what paint and pictures, green plants and planning can do.”

His wife stood at the foot of the narrow bed he’d have to use until the cast came off, but she took pains not to meet his eyes. “Thanks for liking what we’ve done. Your mother and I, and Chris, too, really tried to please you.”

His blue eyes turned navy as he stared at her, sensing something I, too, felt. He looked toward the windows, his full lips thinning, before he drew back into his shell.

Immediately I stepped forward to hand him a huge box, saved for this kind of uncomfortable moment. “Jory, something meaningful for you to do while you’re still confined to the bed. Don’t want you staring at that boob tube all the time.”

Seeming relieved not to have to trouble his wife with words she didn’t want to hear, he feigned childish eagerness by shaking the huge box. “A compressed elephant? An unsinkable surfboard?” he guessed, looking only at me. I ruffled his curly hair, leaned to hug and kiss him and ordered him to hurry and open that box. I was dying to hear what he thought of my gift that had traveled all the way from New England.

Soon he had the ribbons and pretty wrapping off and was staring down at the long box containing what appeared to be neat bundles of super-long matchsticks. Tiny bottles of paint, larger bottles of glue, with spools of thin cording, carefully packaged cloth. “A kit to make a clipper ship,” he said with both wonder and dismay. “Mom, there are ten pages of instructions! This thing is so complicated it will take me the better part of my life to complete. And when it’s done—if ever—what will I have?”

“What will you have? My son, you will have when you are finished an heirloom that will be priceless, to leave to your son or daughter.” All said so proudly, so sure he could follow the difficult directions. “You have steady hands, a good eye for details, a ready understanding of the written word and such
determination. Besides, take a look at that empty mantel that demands a ship smack in the middle.”

Laughing, he laid his head back on the pillow, already exhausted. He closed his eyes. “Okay, you’ve convinced me. I’ll give it a go—but I’ve not had much experience with any craft since I was a kid gluing airplane parts together.”

Oh, yes, I remembered clearly. They’d dangled down from his ceiling, infuriating Bart, who couldn’t glue anything together properly at that time.

“Mom . . . I’m tired. Give me a chance to nap before the lawyers come to read that will. I don’t know if I’m up to all the excitement of Bart’s ‘coming into his own’—at last.”

It was at this moment that Bart stepped into the room. Jory sensed him there and opened his eyes. The dark brown and dark blue brotherly eyes met, locked, challenging the other for a dreadfully long time. The silence grew and grew until I became aware of my own heart throbs; the clock behind me ticked too loud, and Melodie was breathing heavily. I heard the birds outside twittering before Melodie began to rearrange another vase of flowers just for something to do.

On and on they clashed eyes, wills, when Bart should speak and welcome home the brother he’d visited only once. Still he just stood there, as if he’d keep his eyes locked on Jory until Jory broke the spell and lost the silent battle of wills.

I had my lips parted to stop this contest when Jory smiled and said warmly, without lowering his eyes or breaking the bind, “Hi, brother. I know how much you hate hospitals, so it was doubly nice for you to visit me. Since I’m here, in your home . . . isn’t it easier to say hello? I’m glad my accident didn’t spoil your birthday party. I heard from Cindy that my fall only momentarily lulled the hilarity, and the party went on as if nothing had happened.”

Still Bart stood there saying nothing. Melodie put the last rose in the vase and lifted her head. A few tendrils of her fair
hair had escaped the tight confinement of her ballerina bun to make her look charmingly casual and antiquely fragile. There was an air of weariness about her as if she’d surrendered to life and all its vicissitudes. Was I imagining that she sent some silent warning to Bart—and he understood? Suddenly he was smiling, even if it was stiff.

“I’m glad you’re back. Welcome home, Jory.” He strode forward to clasp his brother’s hand. “If there’s anything I can do, just let me know.” Then he left the room, and I was staring after him, wondering . . .

*  *  *

At four exactly, that very afternoon, shortly after Jory woke up and Chris and Bart lifted him onto a stretcher, three attorneys came to take over Bart’s grand home office. We sat in fine milk-chocolate-colored leather chairs, all but Jory, who lay on a rolling stretcher very still and quiet. His tired eyes were half opened, showing his interest was small. Cindy had flown home to be here, as was required, for she, too, was mentioned in the will. She perched on the arm of my chair, swinging her shapely leg back and forth, treating all of this as a joke while Joel glared to see that blue high-heeled shoe moving constantly and calling attention to those remarkably lovely legs. We all sat as if at a funeral, as papers were shuffled, spectacles were put on and whisperings between the lawyers made us all uneasy.

Bart was particularly nervous, exalted-looking, but suspicious of the way the attorneys kept glancing at him. The eldest of the three acted as spokesman as word by careful word the main portion of my mother’s will was read once again. We’d heard it all before.

“. . . when my grandson, Bartholomew Winslow Scott Sheffield, who will eventually claim his rightful surname of Foxworth, reaches the age of twenty-five,” read the man in his late sixties with the glasses perched low on his nose,
“he will be given the annual sum of five hundred thousand dollars, until he reaches the age of thirty-five. At this stated age, the remainder of my estate, hereafter called The Corrine Foxworth Winslow Trust, will be turned over in entirety to my grandson, Bartholomew Winslow Scott Sheffield Foxworth. My firstborn son, Christopher Garland Sheffield Foxworth, will remain in his position as trustee until the aforesaid time. If he, the trustee, should not survive until the time when my grandson Bartholomew Winslow Scott Sheffield Foxworth reaches the age of thirty-five, then my daughter, Catherine Sheffield Foxworth, shall be named as replacement trustee until my aforesaid grandson reaches his thirty-fifth birthday.”

There was more, much more, but I didn’t hear anything else. I filled with shock and glanced at Chris, who seemed dumbfounded. Then my eyes rested on Bart.

His face was pale, registering a kaleidoscope of changing expressions. His color waxed and waned. He raked his long, strong fingers through his perfect hairstyle and left it rumpled. Helplessly he looked at Joel as if for guidance, but Joel only shrugged and crooked his lips as if to say, “I told you so.”

Next Bart was glaring at Cindy as if her presence had magically changed his grandmother’s will. His eyes flitted to Jory, who was lying sleepily on the stretcher, appearing disinterested in everything going on but Melodie, who stared at Bart with her pale, woebegone face flickering like a weak candle flame in the strong wind of Bart’s disappointment.

Quickly Bart jerked his sizzling gaze away when her head lowered to Jory’s chest. Almost silently she was crying.

An eternity seemed to pass before that elderly lawyer folded the long will, replaced it in a blue folder, then put that on Bart’s desk. He stood with folded arms to wait for Bart’s questions.

“What the hell is going on?” shouted Bart.

He jumped to his feet, stalked to his desk, and seized up the will, which he thumbed through quickly with the eye of an expert. Finished, he hurled down the will. “Damn her to hell! She promised me everything, everything! Now I have to wait ten more years . . . why wasn’t that part read before? I was there. I was ten years old, but I remember her will stating I’d come into my own when I was twenty-five. I’m twenty-five and one month old—where is my reward?”

Chris stood. “Bart,” he said calmly, “you have five hundred thousand dollars a year—that kind of money isn’t to be shrugged off. And didn’t you hear that all your living expenses, and the cost of running this house and maintaining it, will be taken care of by the bulk of monies still in trust? All your taxes will be prepaid. And five hundred thousand a year for ten years is more money than ninety-nine point nine percent of the world will ever know in an entire lifetime. How much can you spend on supporting your own lifestyle after all other expenses are taken care of? Besides, those ten years will fly by, and then everything will be yours to do with as you want.”

“How much more is there in toto?” Bart fired, his dark eyes rapacious and so intense they seemed to burn. His face was magenta-colored from his rage.

“Five million paid to me over a period of ten years, but what will be left? Ten million more? Twenty, fifty, a billion—how much?”

“I really don’t know,” replied Chris coolly as the lawyers stared at Bart. “But I’d say, with honesty, that day when you finally do come into your own, all of it, you will be, beyond a doubt, one of the richest men in the world.”

“But until then—you are!” screamed Bart. “YOU! Of all people, you! The very one who’s sinned the most! It isn’t fair, not fair at all! I’ve been misled, tricked!” His eyes glared at all of us first as he slammed out of his office, only to stick his head in a second later.

“You’ll be sorry, Chris,” he blazed fiercely. “You must have talked her into having that codicil added—and instructed the attorneys not to read it aloud the day I heard it first, when I was ten.
It
’
s your fault I haven
’
t come into everything due me!
”

As always it had been Chris’s fault—or mine.

M
ost of the miserably hot month of August had come and gone while Jory stayed in the hospital, and September arrived with its cooler nights, only too soon starting the colorful process of autumn. Chris and I raked leaves after the gardeners had come and gone, thinking they carelessly overlooked so many. The leaves never stopped falling, and it was something we both liked to do.