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! (189 page)

Early the next morning, we heard on the radio that all roads to the village and the nearest city were snowed under. Travelers were warned to stay home. We kept the radio on all day, listening to the weathermen who seemed to control our lives. “Never before has there been a winter more dramatic than this one,” went the singsong male voice, extolling the virtues of weather. “Records are being broken . . .”

Hour by miserable hour Cindy and I stood at the windows, with Jory often joining us to stare as we did at the snow coming down with relentless determination to isolate us.

Behind my eyes I saw the four of us, locked in that room, whispering about Santa Claus and telling the twins that surely he would find us. Chris had written him a letter. Oh, the pity of those little twins waking up on Christmas morning, not even remembering the good times that had gone on before.

Hearing Jory cough brought me back to the present. Every few minutes Jory suffered through paroxysms of racking coughs. I glanced at him fearfully.

Soon he was heading his chair for his room, saying he could put himself back into bed. I wanted to go with him but knew he wanted to do all he could for himself.

“I’m beginning to hate this place,” grumbled Cindy. “Now Jory’s got a cold. That’s why I brought Lance home with me, knowing it would be this. I was hoping every night we’d have a party, and being slightly drunk would take away the pall of living under the shadows of Bart and that creepy old Joel. I was expecting Lance to keep me happy while I was here. Now I’ve got no one but you, Momma. Jory seems so aloof and alone, and he thinks I’m too young to understand his problems. Melodie never says anything to me, or anybody. Bart stalks around like the grim reaper—and that old man sends shivers up my spine. We don’t have any friends. No one ever calls unexpectedly. We’re all alone, getting on each other’s nerves. And it’s Christmas. I’m looking forward to that ball Bart says he’s throwing. At least that would give me the chance to meet some people and brush off the moss I feel creeping up my legs.”

Suddenly Bart was there, yelling at Cindy. “You don’t have to stay. You’re just the bastard my mother had to have.”

Cindy blushed deeply red. “Are you trying to hurt me again, jerk? You can’t hurt me
now
! I’m through with that!”

“Don’t you ever call me jerk again, bastard!”

“CREEP, JERK, CREEP, JERK!” she taunted, backing up and dodging behind chairs and tables, deliberately baiting him to give chase, and in this way, give her dull day a bit of excitement.

“Cindy!” I stormed, furious now. “How dare you talk to Bart that way? Now, say you’re sorry . . . say it!”

“No, I won’t say it, for I’m not sorry!” she yelled not at me but at Bart. “He’s a brute, a maniac, a crazy, and he’s trying to drive us all as batty as he is!”

“STOP!” I yelled, seeing Bart’s face go very pale. Then he lunged forward and caught her by her hair. She tried to run, but he had her held too securely. I rushed forward to prevent him from striking her by clinging onto his free arm. Above her he towered. “If you ever so much as speak to me again,
little girl, you’ll rue the day. You’re very proud of your body, of your hair, of your face. One more insult and you’ll hide in closets and break all the mirrors.”

His deadly tone of voice said he was serious. I moved to help Cindy stand. “Bart, you don’t mean that. All your life you’ve tormented Cindy. Can you blame her for wanting her revenge?”

“You take her side, after what she said to me?”

“Say you’re sorry, Cindy,” I pleaded, turning to her. Then I turned appealing eyes on Bart. “You say it, too, please.”

Indecision flashed in Bart’s fiery dark eyes as he saw how upset I was, but it vanished the moment Cindy screamed out, “NO! I’m
not
sorry! And I’m not afraid of him! You’re just as creepy and senile as that old jerk who wanders around muttering to himself. Boy, do you have a thing for old men! Maybe that’s your hang-up,
brother!”

“Cindy!” I whispered, very much shocked, “apologize to Bart.”

“Never, never, NEVER!—not after what he did to Lance!”

The anger on Bart’s face frightened me.

Just then Joel ambled into the room. He stood with his long arms crossed over his chest and met Bart’s fiery eyes. “Son . . . let it go. The Lord sees and hears all and, in time, wreaks his own justice. She’s a child like a bird chirping in the trees, led by instincts that know nothing of morality. She acts, speaks, moves, all without thinking. She’s nothing compared to you, Bart. Nothing but a hank of hair, a bone, and a rag—you are born to lead.”

As if transfixed, Bart’s anger simmered down. He followed Joel from the room without looking our way. To see Bart follow that old man so obediently and without question filled my head with fresh fears. How had Joel gained such control?

Cindy fell into my arms and began to cry. “Momma, what’s wrong with me, with Bart? Why do I say such hateful
things to hurt him? Why does he say them to me? I want to hurt Bart. I want to pay him back for every ugly thing he’s done to hurt me.”

In my arms she sobbed out her anxieties until she was limp.

In many ways Cindy reminded me of myself, so eager to love and be loved, to live a full, exciting life even before she was mature enough to accept the emotional responsibilities.

I sighed and held her closer. Someday, somehow, all family problems would be resolved. I held to that belief, praying that Chris would come home soon.

A
s it had in the past, Christmas Eve arrived with its charm and festive peace to reign over troubled spirits and gave even Foxworth Hall its own beauty. The snow still fell, but it was not so wild and wind driven. In our favorite room for getting together, Bart and Cindy, with Jory directing, were decorating the gigantic Christmas tree. Cindy was up on a ladder on one side, Bart was on the second ladder, as Jory sat in his wheelchair, fiddling with strings of lights meant for our door wreaths. Decorators were working in other rooms to make them festive enough for the hundreds of guests Bart expected to entertain at the ball. He was terribly excited. To see him happy and laughing added joy to my heart, especially when Chris came in the door loaded down with all he’d purchased at the last moment, as was his customary procrastinating way.

I ran to greet him with hungry arms and eager kisses that Bart couldn’t see from his position behind the tree. “Whatever took you so long?” I asked, and he laughed, indicating the beautifully wrapped gifts.

“Out in the car I’ve got more,” he said with a happy smile.
“I know what you’re thinking, that I should do my shopping earlier, but I never seem to find the time. Then all of a sudden it’s Christmas Eve, and I end up paying twice as much, but you’re going to be very pleased—and if you’re not, don’t tell me.”

Melodie was crouched down on a low stool near the fireplace in the salon just off the foyer, looking miserable. In fact, when I studied her more closely she appeared to be in pain. “Are you all right, Melodie?” I asked. She nodded to say she was fine, and I foolishly took her word for that. When Chris questioned her, she stood and denied anything was wrong. She threw Bart an imploring glance he didn’t see, and then she was heading for the back stairs. In her shapeless, dull-colored garment, she seemed a drab thing that had aged ten years since July. Jory, who always kept a close eye on Melodie, turned to watch her drift away, a terrible haunted sadness in his eyes that stole his pleasure from the happy occupation at hand. The string of lights slid from his lap to entangle the wheels of his chair. He didn’t notice, only sat with clenched fists, as if he’d like to smash Fate in the face for taking away the use of his marvelous body, and in so doing stealing from him the woman he loved.

On the way to the stairs, Chris stopped to clap Jory heartily on the back. “You’re looking fit and healthy. And don’t worry about Melodie. It’s normal for a woman in the last trimester to become irritable and moody. So would you if you were carrying around all that extra weight.”

“She could at least speak to me occasionally,” complained Jory, “or look at me. She doesn’t even cozy up to Bart anymore.”

I looked at him with alarm. Could he know that only a short while ago Bart and Melodie had been lovers? I didn’t believe they were anymore, and that was the true explanation of Melodie’s miserable state. I tried to read his eyes, but he lowered his lids and pretended to be interested in decorating the tree again.

Long ago Chris and I had established a tradition of opening at least one gift on Christmas Eve. When night came, Chris and I sat alone in the best of our downstairs salons, toasting one another with champagne. We lifted our glasses high. “To all our tomorrows together,” he said with his warm eyes full of love and happiness. I repeated the same words before Chris handed me my “special” gift. I opened the small jewelry box to find a two-carat pear-shaped diamond suspended on a fine gold chain.

“Now, don’t object and say you don’t like jewelry,” Chris said hastily when I just stared at the object that glittered and refracted rainbow colors. “Our mother never wore anything like this. I really wanted to buy you opera-length pearls like the ones she used to wear, because I think they are both elegant and understated. But knowing you, I forgot the pearls and settled for this beautiful diamond. It’s tear-shaped, Cathy—for all the tears I would have cried inside if you had never let me love you.”

The way he said that put tears in my eyes and swelled my heart with the guilty sadness of being us, the special joy of being us; the complications of being us sometimes were just too overwhelming. Silently I handed him my “special” gift—a fine star-sapphire ring to fit his forefinger. He laughed, saying it was ostentatious but beautiful.

No sooner were those words out of his mouth than Jory, Melodie, and Bart joined us. Jory smiled to see the glow in our eyes. Bart frowned. Melodie sank into a deep-cushioned chair and seemed to disappear in the depths. Cindy came running in with bells that she shook merrily, her pants and sweater bright red. Finally Joel slunk into the room to stand in a corner with his arms folded over his chest, casting his own pall, like a somber judge overseeing wicked and dangerous children.

It was Jory who first responded to Cindy’s charm by raising his glass of champagne high and toasting. “Hail to the joys
of Christmas Eve! May my mother and father always look at one another as they do this night, with love and tenderness, with compassion and understanding. May I find that kind of love in the eyes of my wife again . . . soon.”

He was directly challenging Melodie and in front of all of us. Sadly, his timing was bad for this kind of confrontation. She drew herself into a tighter knot and refused to meet his eyes; instead, she leaned forward to stare more intensely into the fire. The hope in Jory’s eyes faded. His shoulders sagged before he swiveled his chair so that he couldn’t see her. He put down his champagne and fixed his eyes on the fire just as intensely as his wife, as if to read what symbolism she was seeing. In a distant dim corner, Joel smiled.

Cindy tried to force gaiety. Bart, by attrition, gave in to the corroding gloominess that Melodie emitted like a gray fog. Truly our little family get-together in a gloriously festive room was a flop. Bart refused even to look at Melodie now that she was so grossly out of shape.

Soon he was pacing the room restlessly, glancing at all the gifts under the “family” tree. His eyes accidentally found Melodie staring at him hopefully, and only too quickly he looked away, as if embarrassed by her too overt pleading. In a few minutes Melodie excused herself, saying in a low voice that she didn’t feel well.

“Anything I can do?” Chris asked immediately, jumping up to assist her up the stairs. She plodded along heavily, flat footed. “I’m all right,” she snapped near one newel post. “I don’t need your help—or anyone’s!”

“And a merry Christmas was had by all,” intoned Bart, much in the manner of Joel, who still stood in the shadows, watching, always watching.

The moment Melodie was gone from the room, Jory slumped forward in his chair before he stated, too, that he was tired and not feeling too well. His next prolonged bout of coughing revealed that. “I’ve got just the medicine you need,”
said Chris, jumping up and heading for the stairs. “You can’t go to bed yet, Jory. Stay a while longer. We have to celebrate. Before I dose you with something that might not be appropriate, I need to listen to your lungs.”

Bart leaned casually against the mantel, watching this caring scene between Jory and Chris as if jealous of their relationship. Chris came to me. “Perhaps it is better if we retire now, so we can be up at dawn to eat breakfast, open our presents, and then have naps before we start getting ready for the ball tomorrow night.”

“Oh, glory hallelujah!” cried Cindy, whirling around the room in a small dance. “People, hordes of people, all dressed in their best—I can hardly wait for tomorrow night! Laughter, how I long to hear it. Jokes and small talk, how my ears crave that. I’m so tired of being serious, looking at grim faces that don’t know how to smile, hearing sad talk. I hope all those old fuddy-duds bring along their college-aged sons—or any son as long as he’s over twelve. I’m that desperate!”