Dollenganger 01 Flowers In the Attic (19 page)

a child of five.
If she noticed none of us was really excited by
that grand dollhouse, she didn't comment. With
laughter, and gay charm, she knelt on the floor and sat
back on her heels, and told us of how very much she
used to love this dollhouse.
"It is very valuable, too," she gushed. "On the
right market, a dollhouse like this would bring a
fabulous fortune. Just the miniature porcelain dolls
with the moveable joints alone are priceless, their
faces all hand-painted. The dolls are made in scale to
the house, as is the furniture, the paintings--
everything, in fact. The house was handcrafted by an
artist who lived in England. Each chair, table, bed,
lamp, chandelier--all are genuine reproductions of
antiques. I understand it took the craftsman twelve
years to complete this.
"Look at how the little doors open and close, perfectly hung--which is more than you can say for the house you're living in," she went on. "And all the drawers slide in and out. There's a tiny little key to lock the desk, and look how some of the doors slide into the walls--pocket doors, they are called. I wish this house had doors like that; I don't know why they went out of fashion. And see the hand-carved moldings near the ceiling, and the wainscoting in the dining room and library--and the teensy books on the shelves. Believe it or not, if you have a microscope,
you can read the text!"
She demonstrated with knowing, careful fingers
all the fascinations of a dollhouse only children of the
extremely wealthy could ever hope to own.
Chris, of course, had to pull out a tiny book and
hold it close to his squinting eyes, to see for himself
print so small you needed a microscope. (There was a
very special type of micro- scope he hoped to own
someday. . . and I hoped to be the one to give it to
him.)
I couldn't help but admire the skill and patience it
would take to make such small furniture. There was a
grand piano in the front parlor of the Elizabethan
house. The piano was covered with a silken paisly
shawl, with fringes of gold. Little-bitty silk flowers were centered on the dining room table. Bitsy fruit made of wax was in a silver bowl on the buffet. Two crystal chandeliers hung down, and real candles were fitted into sockets. Servants were in the kitchen, wearing aprons while they prepared dinner. A butler wore livery white while he stood near the front door to greet the arriving guests, while in the front parlor the beautifully gowned ladies stood stiffly near poker
faced men.
Upstairs in the nursery were three children, and a
baby was in the crib, arms outstretched and ready to
be lifted up. A side building was attached, somewhat
to the rear, and in there was such a coach! And two
horses were in the stables! Golly day! Who would
ever dream people could make things so small! My
eyes jumped to the windows, drinking in the dainty
white curtains and heavy drapes, and dishes were on
the dining table, and silverware, and pots and pans
were in the kitchen cupboards-- all so tiny they were
no bigger than large green peas.
"Cathy," said Momma, putting her arm around
me, "look at this little rug. It is a genuine Persian,
made of pure silk. The rug in the dining room is an
Oriental." And on and on she extolled the virtues of
this remarkable plaything
"How can it look so new, yet be so old?" I asked. A dark cloud passed over Momma and shadowed
her face. "When it belonged to my mother, it was kept
in a huge glass box. She was allowed to look at it, but
she could never touch it. When it was given to me, my
father took a hammer and broke the glass box, and he
allowed me to play with everything--on the condition
that I would swear, with my hand on the Bible, not to
break anything."
"Did you swear and did you break anything'?"
questioned Chris.
"Yes, I swore, and yes, I did break something "
Her head bowed low so we couldn't watch her eyes.
"There was another doll, a very handsome young man,
and his arm came off when I tried to take off his coat.
I was whipped, not only for breaking the doll, but for
wanting to see what was underneath the clothes." Chris and I sat silent, but Carrie perked up and
showed great interest in the funny little dolls in their
fancy, colorful costumes. She particularly favored the
baby in the crib. Because she was so interested, Cory
moved so he, too, could investigate the many
treasures of the dollhouse.
That was when Momma turned her attention on
me. "Cathy, why were you looking so solemn when I
came in? Didn't you like your gifts?"
Because I couldn't answer, Chris answered for me.
"She's unhappy because the grandmother refused the
gift we made for her." Momma patted my shoulder
but she avoided my eyes. Chris continued, "And thank
you for everything--there's nothing you didn't remind
Santa Claus to bring. Thank you most of all for the
dollhouse. I think our twins are going to have more
fun with that than anything else."
I fixed my gaze on the two tricycles for the twins
to ride in the attic and strengthen their thin, weak legs
while they pedaled. There were roller skates for Chris
and me to use in the attic schoolroom only. That room
was insulated with plastered walls, and hardwood
flooring, making it more soundproof than the rest of
the attic.
Momma got up from her knees, smiling
mysteriously before she left. Just outside the door she
said she'd be back in a second or two, and that is when
she really gave us the best gift of all--a small,
portable TV set! "My father gave this to me to use in
my bedroom. And immediately I knew just who
would enjoy it the most. Now you have a real window
through which you can view the world."
Just the right words to send my hopes flying high into the sky! "Momma!" I cried out. "Your father gave you an expensive gift? Does that mean he likes you now? Has he forgiven you for marrying Daddy? Can
we go downstairs now?"
Her blue eyes went dark and troubled again, and
there was no joy when she told us that yes, her father
was friendlier--he had forgiven her for committing a
sin against God, and society. Then she said something
that jumped my heart right up against my throat. "Next week, my father is having his lawyer write
me into his will. He is going to leave me everything;
even this house will be mine after my mother dies. He
isn't planning on leaving her money, because she has
wealth she inherited from
her
father and mother." Money--I didn't care anything about it. All I
wanted was out! And suddenly I was very happy--so
happy I flung my arms around Momma, kissed her
cheek, and hugged her tight. Golly- lolly, this was the
best day since we'd come to this house . . . and then I
remembered, Momma hadn't said we could go
downstairs yet.
But,
we were one step on our way to
freedom.
Our mother sat on the bed and smiled with her
lips, though not her eyes. She laughed at some silly
things Chris and I said, and it was laughter brittle and hard, not at all her kind of laugh. "Yes, Cathy, I have become the dutiful, obedient daughter your grandfather always wanted. He speaks, I obey. He orders, I jump. I have at last managed to please him." She stopped abruptly and looked toward the double windows and the pale light beyond. "As a matter of fact, I have pleased him so well he is giving me a party tonight to reintroduce me to my old friends, and the local society. It is to be a grand affair, for my parents do everything in a big way when they entertain. They don't imbibe themselves, but they don't mind serving liquor to those who don't fear hell. So, of course, it will be catered, and there will also be a small orchestra for dancing." A party! A Christmas party! With an orchestra for dancing! And catered! And Momma was being written into the new will.
Was there ever such a happy wonderful day? "Can we watch?" Chris and I cried out almost
simultaneously. "We'll be very quiet."
"We'll hide so no one can see us."
"Please, Momma, please, it's been so long since
we saw other people, and we've never been to a
Christmas Day party."
We pleaded and pleaded until at last she could
resist no longer. She drew Chris and me aside, to a far corner where the twins couldn't overhear, and she whispered, "There is one place where the two of you can hide and still be able to watch, but I cannot risk the twins. They're too young to be trusted and you know they can't sit still for longer than two seconds, and Carrie would probably scream out in delight, and rivet everyone's attention. So, swear on your word of
honor you will not tell them."
We promised. No, of course we wouldn't tell
them, even without a vow to keep our silence. We
loved our little twins, and we wouldn't hurt their
feelings by letting them know they were missing out. We sang Christmas carols after Momma had gone,
and the day passed cheerfully enough, though there
was nothing special in the picnic basket for us to eat
ham sandwiches, which the twins didn't like, and cold
slices of turkey that were still icy, as if they had been
taken from the freezer. Leftovers from Thanksgiving
Day.
As evening came on so early, I sat for the longest
time gazing over at the dollhouse, where Carrie and
Cory played happily with the tiny porcelain people
and the priceless miniatures.
Funny how much you can learn from inanimate
objects that a little girl had once owned, and been allowed to look at, but never touch. And then another little girl came along, and the dollhouse was given to her, and the glass box smashed just so she
could
touch the objects inside so she could be punished--when
she broke something.
A shivering thought came: I wondered just what
Carrie or Cory would break, and what their
punishment would be.
I shoved a bit of chocolate into my mouth, and
sweetened the sourness of my roving, wicked
thoughts.

True to her word, not long after the twins were sound asleep, Momma slipped into our room. She looked so beautiful my heart swelled with pride and admiration, and with some envy too. Her long formal gown had a skirt of flowing green chiffon; the bodice was of a deeper green velvet, cut low to show off a lot of cleavage. Underneath the streaming panels of lighter green chiffon were shoestring straps that glittered Diamond-and-emerald ear- rings dangled long and sparkling. Her scent reminded me of a musky, perfumed garden on a moonlit night
somewhere in the Orient. No wonder Chris stared at her as if dazzled. Wistfully I sighed.
Oh God, please let me look like that one day . . . let me have all those swelling curves that men so admire.

And when she moved, the panels of chiffon floated as wings, leading us out of our sequestered dim place for the first time. Down all the dark and wide halls of the northern wing we followed close at Momma's silver heels. She whispered, "There's a place where I used to hide when I was a child, to watch the adult parties without my parents knowing. It's going to be cramped for the two of you, but it's the only place where you can hide and still see. Now promise again to be quiet, and if you get sleepy, slip unseen back to your room--remember how to get there." She told us not to watch longer than an hour, for the twins would be frightened to wake up and find themselves alone. Then, possibly, they'd wander out into the hall, looking for us--and God alone knew what could happen if they did.

We were secreted inside a massive oblong dark table, with cabinet doors underneath. It was
uncomfortable, and very stuffy, but we could see well enough through the fine, mesh-like screen on the back side.

Silently, Momma stole away.
Far below us was a mammoth room brilliantly lit with candles fitted in the five tiers of three gigantic crystal and gold chandeliers suspended from a ceiling so high above, we couldn't see it. I never saw so many candles burning all at once! The scent of them, the way flickering lights glowed and caught in the sparkling prisms, to scatter and refract beams of iridescence from all the jewelry the women wore, made it a scene from a dream--no, better, more like a movie, sharp, clear, a ballroom where Cinderella and Prince Charming might dance!
Hundreds of richly dressed people milled about, laughing, talking. And over in the corner towered a Christmas tree that was beyond belief! It must have been more than twenty feet high, and it sparkled all over with thousands of golden lights to shine on the colorful ornaments and bedazzle your eyes!
Dozens of servants in black-and-red uniforms flowed in and out of the ballroom, bearing silver trays laden with dainty party food, and they set them on long tables where a giant crystal fountain sprayed pale amber fluid into a silver receiving bowl. Many men and women came to hold stemmed goblets and catch the sparkling liquid. There were two other
punchbowls of silver, with small matching cups-- both bowls large enough for a child to bathe in. It was beautiful, glamorous, exciting, exhilarating, . . . and so good to know that happy living was still going on outside our locked door.
"Cathy," whispered Chris into my ear, "I'd sell my soul to the Devil to have just one single sip from that crystal-and-silver fountain!"
My very same thought!
Never had I felt so hungry, so thirsty, so deprived. Yet we both were charmed, enchanted, and bedazzled by all the splendor of what great wealth could buy and display. The floor where couples danced was laid out in mosaic patterns, and was waxed so it gleamed like reflecting glass. Huge gold-framed mirrors were on the walls, reflecting back the dancers so you could hardly tell the images from the reality. The frames of the many chairs and sofas lining the walls were goldcolored, and the padded seats and backs were of red velvet, or white brocade. French chairs, of course-- they just had to be Louis XIV or XV. Fancy, goodgolly day!
Chris and I stared at the couples, who were the most beautiful and young. We commented on their clothing, their hairstyles, and speculated on what relationships they had going for them. But most of all we watched our mother, who was the center of attention. Most often she danced with a tall, handsome man with dark hair and a big moustache. He was the one who brought her stemmed goblets, and a plate of food, and they sat on a velvet couch to eat canapes and hors d'oeuvres. I thought they sat too close. Quickly I took my eyes from them, to take a look at the three chefs behind the long tables, still cooking what looked like pancakes to me, and little sausages to be stuffed with fillings. The aroma of all that drifted up to us, making our salivary glands overwork.
Our meals were monotonous, boring things sandwiches, soups, and that everlasting fried chicken and eternal potato salad. Down there was a gourniet feast of everything delicious. Food was hot down there. Ours was seldom even warm. We kept our milk on the attic stairs so it wouldn't sour--and sometimes we found ice on the top. If we kept our picnic basket of food on the attic stairs, the mice stole down to nibble on everything
From time to time, Momma disappeared with that man. Where did they go, and what did they do? Did they kiss? Was she falling in love? Even from my high and remote place in the cabinet, I could tell that man was fascinated by Momma. He couldn't take his eyes from her face, or keep his hands from touching her. And when they danced to music that was slow, he held her so his cheek pressed to hers. When they stopped dancing, he kept his arm around her shoulders, or her waist--and once he dared to even touch her breast!
I thought that now she would slap his goodlooking face--for I would! But she only turned and laughed, and pushed him away, saying something that must have been a warning not to do that in public. And he smiled and took her hand and raised it to his lips while their eyes locked long and meaningfully-- or so I thought.
"Chris, do you see Momma with that man?"
"Sure I see them. He's just as tall as Daddy was."
"Did you see what he just did?"
"They're eating and drinking, and laughing and talking, and dancing, just like everybody else. Cathy, just think, when Momma inherits all that money, we can have parties like this on Christmas, and on our birthdays. Why, in the future, we might even have some of the very same guests we see now. Let's send invitations to our friends back in Gladstone. Boy, won't they be surprised to see what we inherit!"
Just then, Momma and that man got up from the couch and left. So we fastened our charmed eyes on the second most attractive woman in the group below and watched her, and pitied her, for how could she compete with our mother?
Then into the ballroom strode our grandmother looking neither left nor right, nor smiling at anyone. Her dress wasn't gray--and that alone was enough to astonish us. Her long formal gown was of ruby-red velvet, tight in the front and flowing in the back, and her hair was piled high on her head, and curled elaborately, and ruby and diamond jewelry sparkled on her neck, ears, arms and fingers. Who would ever think that impressive, regal-looking woman down there was the menacing grand- mother who visited us each day?
Reluctantly, we had to admit in whispers back and forth: "She does look magnificent."
"Yes, very impressive. Like an Amazon, too big."
"A mean Amazon."
"Yeah, a warrior Amazon, ready to do battle with the glare of her eyes alone. She doesn't really need any other weapon."
That's when we saw him! Our unknown grandfather!
It stole my breath away to look down and see a man so very much like our father, if he had lived long enough to become old and feeble. He sat in a shiny wheelchair, dressed in a tuxedo, and his formal shirt was white with black trim. His thinning blond hair was almost white, and it shone silver under the lights. His skin was unlined, at least viewed from our far and high and hidden place. Appalled, as well as
fascinated, neither Chris nor I could move our eyes anywhere else once we spied him
He was fragile looking, but still unnaturally handsome for a man of his great age of sixty-seven, and a man who was near dead. Suddenly,
frighteningly, he raised his head and he gazed upward, directly at our hiding place! For one awful, terrifying moment, it seemed he knew we were there, hidden behind the wire screen! A small smile played on his lips. Oh, dear God, what did that smile mean?
Still, he didn't look nearly as heartless as the grandmother. Could he truly be the cruel and arbitrary tyrant we presumed him to be? From the gentle, kindly smiles he bestowed on all those who came up to greet him, and shake his hand, and pat his shoulder, he seemed benign enough. Just an old man in a wheel chair, who really didn't look very sick. Yet, he was the one who had ordered our mother to be stripped and whipped from her neck down to her heels, and he had watched. So, how could we ever forgive him for that?
"I didn't know he would look like Daddy," I whispered to Chris.
"Why not? Daddy was his much younger halfbrother. Grandfather was a grown man before our father was born, and married, too, with two sons of his own, before he had a half- brother."
That was Malcolm Neal Foxworth down there, the one who had kicked out his younger step-mother and her little son.
Poor Momma. How could we blame her for falling in love with a half-uncle when he was as young, and as handsome and charming as our father had been? With such parents as she'd described, she
did
have to have someone to love, and she
did
need to be loved in return--she did . . . he did.
Love, it came unbidden.
You couldn't help whom you fell in love with-- cupid's arrows were ill aimed. Such ran the whispered comments between Chris and me.
Then, we were suddenly hushed by the footfalls and voices of two people approaching our hiding place.
"Corrine hasn't changed at all," said a man unseen by us, "only to grow more beautiful, and even more mysterious. She's a very intriguing woman "
"Hah! That's because you always did have a yen for her, Al," responded his female companion. "Too bad she didn't have eyes for you instead of
Christopher Foxworth. Now there was a man who was really something else. But I marvel that those two narrow-minded bigots down there would allow themselves to forgive Corrine for marrying her halfuncle."
"They have to forgive her. When you have only one child left out of three, you are forced to take that one back into the fold."
"Isn't it peculiar how things work out?" asked the woman, her voice thick and guttural from too much liquor. "Three children . . . and only the despised, regretted one is left to inherit all of this."
The half-drunken man chortled. "Corrine wasn't always so despised. Remember how the old man adored her? She could do no wrong in his eyes until she eloped with Christopher. But that harridan mother of hers never had any patience with her daughter. Jealous, maybe. But what a luscious, rich plum to fall into the hands of Bartholomew Winslow. Wish it were mine," said the unseen Al, wistfully.
"I'll bet you do!" sarcastically scoffed the woman, who set something down on our table that sounded like a glass with ice inside. "A beautiful, young, and rich woman is indeed a plum for any man Much too heady for a slob like you, Albert Donne. Corrine Foxworth would never look at you, not now, not even when you were young. Besides, you're stuck with me."
The bickering pair drifted out of earshot. Other voices came and went as the long hours passed. My brother and I were tired now of watching, and we were both very much needing the bathroom. Plus we were worried about the twins, left alone in the bedroom. What if one of the guests wandered into the forbidden room and saw the sleeping twins? Then all the world-- and our grandfather--would know that our mother had four children.
A crowd gathered around our hiding place to laugh, talk, and drink. It took them forever to move away and give us the opportunity to open the cabinet door with extreme caution. Seeing no one, we scampered out, then dashed pell-mell in the direction from which we'd come. Breathless and panting, our bladders full enough to pop, we reached our quiet, cloistered place unseen, unheard.
And just as we'd left them, our twins lay deeply asleep in separate beds. They seemed identical, weaklooking pale dolls . . . like children used to look a long time ago in the pictures in history books. They weren't today's kind of children at all--but once they'd been. And they would be again, I vowed!
Next thing, Chris and I were arguing over who got to use the bathroom first--and this was easily settled. He just pushed me down on a bed and took took off, slamming the bathroom door behind him and locking it. I fumed that it seemed to take him forever to empty his bladder. Good golly, how could he hold so much?
Nature's calls eased, bickering over, we huddled together to discuss what we'd just witnessed and overheard.
"Do you think Momma plans to marry
Bartholomew Winslow?" I asked, twisting my everpresent anxieties into a knot
"How do I know?" answered Chris in an offhand manner. "Though it certainly seems everybody else thinks she will, and, of course, they know more about that side of her than we do."
What an odd thing to say. Didn't we, her children, know our mother better than anyone else?
"Chris, why did you say that?"
"What?"
"What you did--about others knowing her better than we do."
"People are multi-faceted, Cathy. To us, our mother is only our mother. To others, she is a beautiful, sexy young widow who is likely to inherit a fortune. No wonder the moths all come swarming to encircle the kind of bright flame she is."
Wow!
And he was taking all of this so casually, just as if it didn't matter to him one whit--when I knew it did. I thought I knew my brother very well. He must be suffering inside, just as I was, for I knew he didn't want our mother to marry again. I turned my most intuitive eyes upon him ah, he wasn't nearly as detached as he seemed, and that pleased me.
I sighed, though, for I would so much like to be the eternal optimist, like him Deep down I thought life was sure to always put me between Scylla and Charibdis, and give to me always Hobson's Choice. I had to make myself over, make myself better, and become like Chris--eternally cheerful. When I suffered, I had to learn to hide it, as he did. I had to learn to smile and never frown, and not be the genuine clairvoyant I was.
Already we had discussed between us the possibility that our mother might marry again, and neither one of us wanted that to happen. We thought of her as still belonging to our father; we wanted her to be faithful to his memory, ever constant to his first love. And if she remarried, just where would the four of us fit in? Would that Winslow man, with his handsome face and big moustache want four children who weren't his?
"Cathy," mused Chris aloud. "Do you realize this is the perfect time to explore this house? Our door is unlocked, the grandparents are downstairs. Momma is occupied--the perfect chance to find out all we can about this house."
"No!" I cried, frightened. "Suppose the
grandmother found out? She'd whip the skin off all of us!"
"Then you stay with the twins," he said with surprising firmness. "If I'm caught, which I won't be, I'll suffer the whipping and take all the blame Think of it this way, someday we may need to know how to escape this house." An amused smile curved his lips before he went on. "I'm going to disguise myself, anyway, just in case I'm seen."
Disguise? How?
But I'd forgotten the treasure trove of old clothes in the attic. He was up there only a few minutes before he came down, wearing an old-fashioned dark suit that wasn't much too large. Chris was big for his age. Over his blond head he'd fitted a ratty, dark wig he'd found in a trunk. Just possibly he
might
be mistaken for a small man if the lights were dim enough--a ridiculously funny-looking man?
Jauntily, he paraded back and forth in front of me. Then he leaned forward and stalked around Groucho Marx-style, holding an invisible cigar. He stopped directly in front of me, grinning self-consciously as he bowed deeply and doffed an invisble top hat in a wide and gentlemanly gesture of respect. I had to laugh, and he laughed too, and not just with his eyes, then he straightened up to say, "Now, tell me truthfully, who could recognize this dark and sinister small man as belonging to the giant Foxworth clan?"