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! (68 page)

“Chris told me about the music box your father gave you and I tried to find one just like it. Did I succeed?”

“Yes,” I said, though it wasn’t the same.

“Good. Now go to bed. Forget the mess—Henny will clean up. You look sleepy.”

I was soon up the stairs and into my room, where to my surprise Chris was waiting for me.

“What is going on between you and Julian?” he shot out fiercely.

“Nothing is going on!”

“Don’t lie to me, Cathy! He doesn’t fly down here so often for
nothing!
”

“Mind your own damned business, Christopher!” I said viciously. “I don’t try to tell you what to do and I demand the same from you! You are not a saint and I am not an angel! The trouble is you’re just another man who thinks you can do anything
you
want while I have to sit prim and prissy on the
sidelines and wait for someone to come along and marry me! Well, I’m not that kind of woman! Nobody is going to push me around and make me do what I don’t want to—never again! Not Paul! Not Madame! Not Julian—and not you either!” His face paled as he listened and restrained himself from interrupting. “I want you to stay out of my life, Christopher. I’ll do what I have to, anything I have to, to get to the top!”

He glared at me with his heavenly blue eyes shooting devilish electric sparks. “I take it you’ll sleep with just any man if that’s necessary.”

“I’ll do what I have to!” I raged back, though I hadn’t given that any thought.

He seemed on the verge of slapping me, and the control it took to keep his hands at his sides made him clench them into fists. A white line etched about his tightened lips. “Cathy,” he began in a hurt voice, “what’s come over you? I didn’t think you’d ever become another opportunist.”

Bitterly I met his eyes. What did
he
think he was doing? We’d stumbled fortunately upon an unhappy, lonely man and we were using him, and sooner or later there’d be a price to pay. Our grandmother had always told us nobody did anything for nothing. But somehow I couldn’t hurt him more, and I couldn’t speak a word against Paul who’d taken us in and was doing everything he could. Truthfully, I had reason enough for knowing he didn’t expect any reward.

“Cathy,” he pleaded, “I hate every word you just said. How can you talk to me like that when you know how much I love and respect you? There isn’t a day that passes that I don’t long for you. I live for the weekends when I can see you and Carrie. Don’t turn from me, Cathy, I need you. I’ll always need you. It scares the hell out of me to think I’m not nearly that necessary in
your
life.” He had hold of my arms and would have pulled me against his chest, but I yanked away and turned my back. How could I tell what was wrong and what was right when nobody seemed to care anymore?

“Chris,” I began brokenly, “I’m sorry I spoke like that. It matters to me very much what you think. But I’m all torn up inside. I think I have to have everything immediately to help make up for all I’ve lost and suffered. Julian wants me to go with him to New York. I don’t think I’m ready yet and I don’t have the discipline I need—Madame tells me that all the time and she’s right. Julian says he loves me and will take care of me. But I’m not sure what love is, or if he loves me at all or only wants me to help him reach his goal. But his goal is my goal. So tell me how I can tell if he loves me or if he only wants to use me?”

“Have you let him make love to you?” he asked flatly, his eyes dead looking.

“
No!
Of course not!”

His arms encircled me and held me fast. “Wait at least one more year, Cathy. Trust Madame Marisha, not Julian. She knows more than he does.” He paused and forced me to lift my bowed head. I studied his handsome face and wondered why he hesitated and didn’t go on.

I was an instrument of yearning, filled with a ravenous desire for romantic fulfillment. I was scared too of what was inside me. So scared I was like Momma. When I looked in the mirrors I saw my mother’s face beginning to emerge more definitely. I was exalted that I looked like her, and paradoxically I hated myself for being her reflection. No, no, I wasn’t like her inside, only on the outside. My beauty was not only skin deep.

I kept telling myself this as I made a special trip to Greenglenna downtown. In the city hall there I made some flimsy excuse about looking up my mother’s birth certificate just so I could look up the birth certificate of Bart Winslow. I found out he was eight years younger than my mother and I also discovered exactly where he lived. I walked fifteen blocks until I came to a quiet, elm-lined street where old mansions were in a state of decaying disrepair. All but the home of Bart Winslow! His home had scaffolding all around. Dozens of
workmen were putting up storm windows on a freshly painted brick home with white trim around the windows and a white portico.

Another day found me in the Greenglenna library where I read up on the Winslow family. Much to my delight, when I searched back through the old newspapers I found a society editor who seemed to devote most of her column to Bart Winslow and his fabulously wealthy and very beautiful wife with her aristocratic background. “The heiress to one of the country’s greatest fortunes.”

That column I snipped out furtively and sneaked home to Chris. I didn’t want him to know Momma would live in Greenglenna. He showed some distress as he scanned the column. “Cathy, where did you find this article?”

I shrugged. “Oh, it was in some Virginia paper they sell in a newsstand.”

“She’s in Europe again,” he said in a queer way. “I wonder why she keeps going to Europe.” He turned his blue eyes my way and a dreamy expression softened his features. “Remember the summer she went on her honeymoon?”

Remember? As if I could ever forget. As if I would ever
let
myself forget. Someday, someday when I was rich and famous too, Momma was going to hear from me and when she did, she’d better be well prepared, for bit by bit I was forming my strategy.

Julian didn’t come to Greenglenna as much as he had before my sixteenth birthday party. I figured Chris had scared him off. I didn’t know if that made me happy or not. When he did visit his parents he ignored me. He began to pay attention to Lorraine DuVal, my best friend. For some reason I felt hurt and resentment, not only against him but also against Lorraine. In the wings I half-hid myself and watched them dance a passionate
pas de deux
. That was when I determined I’d study twice as hard as I had before, for I was going to show Julian too! I was going to show everyone just what I was made of!

Steel, covered over with frilly, silly tulle tutus!

N
ow I’m going to recount an event in Carrie’s life, for this is her story and Chris’s as well as mine. When I look back now and reflect on how life turned out for Carrie, I truthfully believe what happened to Carrie in Miss Emily Dean Calhoun’s School for Properly Bred Young Ladies had a great deal to do with how she thought of herself in the future.

Ah, dig me a well to cry in before I begin, for I loved her so, and what pain she had to bear I bear, even now.

From the jigsaw pieces that I’ve gathered from Carrie herself and from Miss Dewhurst, and from several other students at that school, this was Carrie’s nightmare to endure, and I will report it as honestly as possible.

Carrie spent her weekends with us but she had retreated into that quiet, little apathetic creature who’d grieved so when her twin died. Everything about Carrie worried me. Though when I asked her questions she insisted everything was all right and refused to say anything against that school or the student body or the faculty. She said one thing, and one thing only, to express her feelings—and what a clue it was. “I like
the carpet—it’s colored like grass.” That was it. She left me wondering, worried, trying to guess what was troubling her. Something was wrong, I knew it, and she wouldn’t tell me what it was.

Each Friday at about four Paul would drive to fetch Carrie and Chris and bring them back home. He did his best to make all our weekends memorable. Though Carrie appeared happy enough with us, she seldom laughed. Try as we would, all we could pull from her was a weak smile.

“What’s wrong with Carrie?” whispered Chris. I could only shrug. Somewhere along the way I’d lost Carrie’s confidence. Her big, blue eyes fastened on Paul. They mutely pleaded with him. But he was looking at me, not Carrie.

As the time approached for her to be driven back to school Carrie would grow very quiet; her eyes would become blank and resigned. We’d kiss her good-bye and tell her to be good, make friends, “and if you need us, you know how to call.”

“Yes,” she said weakly, her eyes downcast. I pressed her against me telling her again how much I loved her, and if she was unhappy she had to speak up and say so. “I’m not unhappy,” she answered with her eyes fixed sadly on Paul.

It was truly a beautiful school. I’d have loved to attend such a school. Each girl was allowed to decorate her side of a double room as she saw fit. Miss Dewhurst had only one restriction, and that was each girl had to choose “proper, ladylike” appointments. Soft, passive femininity was greatly stressed in the South. Soft, whispering clothes, drifting chiffon, dulcet voices, shy, downcast eyes, weak, fluttery hands to express helplessness, and absolutely no opinions that would conflict with male ones—and never, never let a man know you had a brain that might be better than his. And I’m afraid, after reconsidering, it wouldn’t be the proper school for me after all.

Carrie’s bed was twin size, covered by a bright purple spread. On it she had decorator pillows of rose, red, purple,
violet and green. Beside her bed was a night-stand with the milk-glass vase filled with plastic violets given to her by Paul. Whenever he could he brought her real flowers. Strangely, she adored that little pot of violets more than the real flowers that soon withered and died.

Since Carrie was the smallest girl in the school of one hundred students, she was given as a roommate the next smallest girl, named Sissy Towers. Sissy had brick-red hair, emerald eyes that were long and narrow, thin, paper-white skin, and a spiteful, mean temper which she never displayed to any adult, but saved for the girls she knew how to intimidate. Worst of all, though she was the second smallest, she towered over Carrie by six inches!

Carrie had celebrated her ninth birthday with a party the week before her ordeal began. It was May, and it began on a Thursday.

The school days ended at three. The girls had two hours to play outside before dinner at five-thirty. All the students wore uniforms of colors determined by what grade they were in. Carrie was in the third grade; her uniform was of yellow broadcloth with a dainty- white organdy pinafore to top it off. Carrie had a strong dislike for the color yellow. Yellow represented to her, as it did to Chris and me, the color of all the best things we couldn’t have when we’d been locked away and made to feel unwholesome, unwanted and unloved. Yellow was also the color of the sun that was denied us. The sun was what Cory had wanted most to see, and now that all yellow things were so easily accessible, and Cory wasn’t, yellow was a hateful thing.

Sissy Towers adored yellow. She envied Carrie’s long, golden locks and despised her own head of crinkly rust. Perhaps too she envied the beauty of Carrie’s doll-like face, and those big, blue eyes with the long, dark, curling lashes, and her lips ripe as strawberries.

Oh, yes, our Carrie was a doll with an exquisite face,
sensational Goldilocks hair and, the pity of it all, this beauty hovered above a body much too thin, too small, and a neck too delicate to support a head that belonged on someone bigger and taller.

Yellow dominated Sissy’s side of the room; yellow spread, yellow slip-covered chairs; her dolls were blondes wearing yellow, her books wore yellow jackets, homemade. Sissy even wore yellow sweaters and skirts when she went home. The fact that Sissy looked unbecomingly sallow in yellow did not lessen her determination to annoy Carrie with the color—come what may. And on this day, for some trifling reason that was never explained, she began to taunt Carrie in a mean, spiteful way.

“Carrie is a dwarf . . . a dwarf . . . a dwarf,” sang Sissy in a sing-song chant.

“Carrie should be in a circus . . . a circus . . . a circus,” Sissy chanted on and on. Then she jumped up on the top of her desk and in the loud, brassy manner of a barker touting a freak show at a carnival Sissy really began to shout,
“Come one! Come all! Come pay your quarter to see the living sister of Tom Thumb! Come see the world’s smallest woman! Come, pay your money and see the little one with the huge, huge eyes—like an owl’s! Come view the huge, huge head on the little, scrawny neck! Come pay your quarter to see our little freak naked!”

Dozens of little girls crowded into the room to stare at Carrie who crouched in a corner on the floor, with her head hanging low and her long hair hiding her shamed, terrified face.

Sissy opened up her small purse to receive the quarters the affluent little girls dropped in willingly. “Now take off your clothes, little dwarf-freak,” ordered Sissy. “Give the customers their money’s worth!”