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! (197 page)

He swiveled his office desk chair away from the computer. “No! I don’t want a group of dancers in my house! I’m not ever going to throw another party and waste my good money on people I don’t even want to know. Do something else for him—but don’t invite them.”

“But, Bart, once I heard you say you’d like to have his ballet company entertain at your parties.”

“Not now. I’ve changed. Besides, I’ve never really approved of dancers. Never have, never will. This is the Lord’s house . . . and in the spring a temple of worship will be raised to celebrate his rule over all of us.”

“What do you mean, a temple will be raised?”

He grinned before he turned his attention back to the computer. “A chapel so near you can’t avoid it, Mother. Won’t that be nice? Every Sunday we’ll rise early to attend services.
All
of us.”

“And who will be on the podium delivering those sermons? You?”

“No, Mother, not me. As yet I am not washed clean of my sins. My uncle will be the minister. He is a very saintly, righteous man.”

“Chris enjoys sleeping late on Sunday mornings, and so do I,” I said despite my will to always keep him placated. “We like to eat breakfast in bed, and in the summers, the bedroom balcony is the perfect place to start off a happy day. As for Jory and Melodie, you should discuss the subject with them.”

“I already have. They will do as I say.”

“Bart . . . Jory’s birthday is the fourteenth. Remember, he was born on Valentine’s Day.”

Again he looked at me. “Isn’t it weird and meaningful that babies come often to our family on holidays—or very near them? Uncle Joel says it means something—something significant.”

“No doubt!” I flared. “Dear Joel thinks everything is significant—and offensive in the eyes of
his
God. It’s as if he not only owns God but controls him as well!” I whirled to confront Joel, who was never more than ten feet away from Bart. I shouted because for some reason he made me afraid. “Stop filling my son’s head with crazy notions, Joel!”

“I don’t have to fill his head with those kind of notions, dear niece. You established his brain patterns long before he was born. Out of hatred came the child. And out of need comes the angel of salvation. Think of that before you condemn me.”

*  *  *

One morning the headlines of the local paper told of a family who’d gone bankrupt. A notable family that my mother had often mentioned. I read the details, folded the newspaper and stared thoughtfully before me. Had Bart had anything to do with that man’s fortune suddenly disappearing? He’d been one of the guests who hadn’t shown up.

Another day the newspaper told of a father who killed his wife and two children because he’d put the main part of his savings into the commodity market, and wheat had dropped drastically in price. There went another of Bart’s enemies—once an invited guest to that unhappy Christmas ball. But if so, how was Bart manipulating the markets, the bankruptcy?

“I know nothing about any of that!” flared Bart when I questioned. “Those people dig their own graves with their greed. Who do you think I am, God? I said a lot of things Christmas night, but I’m not quite as crazy as you think. I have no intention of putting my soul in jeopardy. Fools always manage to trip themselves.”

*  *  *

We celebrated Jory’s birthday with a family party; Cindy flew home to stay two days, happy to celebrate with Jory. Her suitcases were full of gifts meant to keep him busy. “When I
meet a man like you, Jory, I’m going to grab him so quickly! I’m just waiting to see if any other man is half as wonderful. So far Lance Spalding hasn’t proved to be half the man you are.”

“And how would you know?” joked Jory, who had not heard the details of Lance’s sudden departure. He flashed his wife a hard look as she held Darren and I held Deirdre. We were both supporting nursing bottles as we sat before the cozy log fire. The babies gave all of us reasons for feeling the future held great promise. I think even Bart was fascinated with how swiftly they grew, how sweet and cuddly they felt when on a few occasions he held them for several uncomfortable seconds. He’d looked at me with a certain pride.

Melodie put Darren in the large cradle Chris had found in an antique shop and had refinished so it looked almost new. With one foot she rocked the baby as she glared hard at Bart before once again gazing pensively into the roaring fire. Seldom did she speak, and she showed no real interest in her children. Only negligently did she pick them up, as if for show, as she showed no interest in any one of us, or anything we did.

Jory shopped by mail for gifts that were delivered almost daily to surprise her. She’d open each box, faintly smile and say a weak thank you, and sometimes she even put the package down unopened, thanking Jory without even looking his way. It pained me to see him wince, or bow his head to hide his expression. He was trying—why couldn’t she try?

Each passing day saw Melodie withdrawing not only from her husband but, much to my amazement, also from her children. Hers was an indecisive love, without strong commitment, like the frail flutterings of moth wings beating at the candle flame of motherly love. I was the one who got up in the middle of the night to feed them. I was the one who paced the floor and tried to change two diapers at once, and it was I who raced down to the kitchen to mix their formula and held
them on my shoulder for burping, I who took the time and trouble to rock them to sleep as I sang soft lullabies while their huge blue eyes stared up at me with fascination until they grew sleepy and with great reluctance closed their eyes. Often I could tell they were still listening from their small, pleased smiles. It filled me with joy to see them growing more and more like Cory and Carrie.

If we lived isolated from society, we did not live isolated from the malicious rumors that the servants brought home with them from the local stores. Often I overheard their whispers as they chopped onions, green peppers, and made the pies and cakes and other desserts we all loved to eat. I knew our maids lingered too long in back halls and deliberately made our beds when we were still upstairs. Thinking we were alone, we’d let out many secrets for them to feed their gossip.

Much of what they speculated on I speculated on as well. Bart was so seldom home, and sometimes I was grateful for that. With him out of the house, there was no one to create arguments; Joel stayed in his room and prayed, or so I presumed.

It came to me one morning that maybe I should try the servants’ tricks and hang out near the kitchen . . . and when I did, our cook and maids filled my ears with knowledge gained from those in the village. Bart, according to them, was having many affairs with the prettiest and richest society ladies, both married and unmarried. Already he’d ruined one marriage that just happened to be one of the couples that had been on his Christmas guest list. Also, according to what I overheard, Bart often visited a brothel ten miles away, not within any city’s limits.

I had evidence that some of those tales might be true. Often I saw him come home drunk and in mild, happy moods that made me wish, regretfully, that he’d stay drunk. Only then could he smile and laugh easily.

One day I had to ask. “What are you doing all those nights you stay out so late?”

He giggled easily when he drank too much; he giggled now. “Uncle Joel says the best evangelists have been the worst sinners; he says you have to roll in the gutter filth to know what it’s like to be clean, and saved.”

“And that’s what you’re doing all those nights, rolling in the gutter filth?”

“Yes, Mother darling—for damned if I know what it’s like to feel clean, or saved.”

*  *  *

Spring approached cautiously like a timid bluebird. Blustery cold winds softened to warm southern breezes. The sky turned that certain shade of blue that made me feel young and hopeful. I was often out in the gardens raking leaves and pulling up weeds that the gardeners overlooked.

I couldn’t wait to see the crocus peek from the ground in the woods, couldn’t wait to see the tulips and daffodils and watch pink and white dogwood blossoms spring forth. Couldn’t wait for the azaleas everywhere to make my life a fairyland of many delights, for the twins, for all of us. I’d look up and admire the wonder of the trees that never seemed depressed or lonely. Nature—how much we could learn if only we would.

I took Jory with me as far as he could easily guide his sturdy electric chair with the huge balloon wheels that climbed most gradual grades. “We’ve got to find a better way to get you deeper into the woods,” I said thoughtfully. “Now, if we laid flagstones everywhere, they’d be very lovely, but if they freeze in the winter they’d poke up and could possibly snag your chair and tip you over. As much as I hate cement, we’ll have to use that or blacktop. Somehow I like blacktop better, what about you?”

He laughed at my silliness. “Red bricks, Mom. Brick
walks are so colorful, and besides, this chair of mine is a real marvel.” He looked around, smiling with pleasure, then tilted his face so the sun could warm it. “I only wish Mel would accept what’s happened to me and show more interest in the twins.”

What could I say to that, when already I’d had it out with Melodie more than a dozen times, and the more I said the more resentful she grew. “This is MY life, Cathy!” she’d shouted. “MY LIFE—not yours!” Screaming at me, her face a red mask of fury.

Jory’s physical therapist showed Jory how to lower himself to the ground without so much effort, and then he taught Jory how to get back into his chair without assistance. And all so Jory could help me plant more rose bushes. His strong hands used the trowel much better than mine.

The gardeners eagerly taught Jory how to prune our shrubbery, when to fertilize, how to mulch and with what. He and I made gardening not just a hobby but a lifestyle to save us both from going crazy. The greenhouse was enlarged so we could grow exotic flowers, and in there we had a world of our own to control, full of its own kind of quiet excitement. But it wasn’t enough for Jory, who decided he had to stay in the arts in one form or another.

“Dad is not the only one in this family who can paint a hazy sky and make you feel the humidity, or put a dewdrop on a painted rose so real you can smell it,” he said to me with a broad smile. “I’m growing as an artist, Mom.”

Even with Melodie in the same house, Jory was making a life without her. He fashioned slings to his chair that fitted over his shoulder so he could carry his twins with him. His delight to see them smile when they saw him coming touched my heart, just as it drove Melodie from the nursery. “They love me now, Mom! It’s in their eyes!”

They knew Jory better than they knew their mother. They gave her void and somehow pitifully hopeful smiles, perhaps
because her expression was so blank and thoughtful when she stared at them.

Yes, the twins not only loved and knew who was their father, they also trusted him fully. When he reached to pick them up, they didn’t flinch or fear he’d drop them. They laughed as if they knew he’d never, never drop them.

I found Melodie sulking in her room, really thin now, her once beautiful hair dull and stringy. “It take times, Melodie, to develop motherly instincts,” I said as I sat down unasked and, apparently, unwanted. “You allow me and the maids to wait upon them too much. They don’t recognize you as their mother when you stay away. The day you see their small faces light up when you come in, and they smile from the happiness they feel to see you, their mother, you’ll find the love you’re searching for. Your heart will melt. Their needs will give you something nothing else can, and never again will you feel anything but an all-encompassing love for your children, when they love you, and you love them.”

Her faint smile flashed bittersweet and was quickly gone. “When do you give me the chance to mother my children, Cathy? When I get up in the night, you are already there. When I rise early, you’ve already bathed and dressed them. They don’t need a mother when they have a grandmother like you.”

I was stunned by her unfair attack. Often I lay on my bed and heard the twins cry and cry before I got up to tend to their needs. In torment while I waited and waited for Melodie to go to them. What was I supposed to go, ignore their cries? I gave her time enough. Her room was across the hall from theirs, and mine was in another wing.

She apparently saw my thoughts, for her voice came almost like the hiss of a venomous snake. “You always come out on top, don’t you, mother-in-law? You always manage to get what you want, but there’s one thing you will never get, and that’s Bart’s love and respect. When he loved me—
and once he did love me
—he told me he hated you, really despised
you. I felt sorry for him then, and sorrier for you. Now I understand why he feels as he does. For with a mother like you, Jory doesn’t need a wife like me.”

*  *  *

The next day was Thursday. I felt heavy-hearted to think of all the ugly words Melodie had screamed and hissed at me yesterday. I sighed, sat up and swung my legs off the bed, slipping my feet into satin mules. A busy day ahead since this was the day all our servants but Trevor had off. On Thursdays I was like Momma had been, preparing myself for Friday, coming fully alive only when the man I loved strolled through the door.

Jory was quietly sobbing when I entered his room with the freshly bathed and diapered twins held one in each of my arms. In his hands he loosely held a creamy long sheet of stationery.

“Read this,” he choked, putting the paper on the table beside his chair before he reached for his children. When he had them both in his arms, he bowed his face into the soft hair of his son, then his daughter’s hair.

I picked up the creamy sheets; always bad news on cream-colored paper came from Foxworth Hall.

My dearest darling Jory,

I’m a coward. I’ve always known that, and hoped you’d never find out. You were always the one with all the strength. I love you, and no doubt will always love you, but I can’t live with a man who can never make love to me again.

I look at you in that horrible chair that you’ve grown to accept, when I cannot accept it, or your handicap. Your parents came to my room and confronted me and urged me to face up to you and say everything I feel. I’m unable to do that, for if I do,
you might say or do something that would change my mind, and I’ve got to leave, or lose my mind.