Flowers in the Attic

  time, even for one beginning to despair, and doubt, and distrust. Secretly, Chris and I had been making gifts for Momma (who really didn't need anything), and gifts for the twins--plushy stuffed animals that we tediously backstitched by hand, and then filled with cotton. I did all the embroidery work on the faces when they were still flat. I was, in private in the bathroom, knitting Chris a cap of scarlet wool--it grew and it grew and it grew; I think Momma must

  have forgotten to tell me something about gauge. Then Chris came up with an absolutely idiotic and

  horrific suggestion. "Let's make the grandmother a

  gift, too. It's really not right to leave her out. She does

  bring up our food and milk, and who knows, a token

  like this may be just the thing needed to win over her

  affection. And think how much more enjoyable our

  lives would be if she could tolerate us."

  I was dopey enough to think it might work, and

  for hours and hours we slaved on a gift for an old

  witch who hated us. In all this time she had never

  even once said our names.

  We bonded tan linen to a stretcher frame, glued on

  different colored stones, then carefully applied gold

  and brown cording. If we made a mistake, ever so

  painstakingly we'd do it over and make it right so she

  wouldn't notice. She was bound to be a perfectionist who'd see the slightest flaw and frown. And never, truly, would we give her anything less than our best

  efforts could produce.

  "You see," said Chris again, "I really do believe

  we have a chance in winning her over to our side.

  After all, she is our grand- mother, and people do

  change. No one is static. While Momma works to

  charm her father, we must work to charm her mother.

  And even if she refuses to look at me, she does look at

  you."

  She didn't look at me, not really, she only saw my

  hair--for some reason she was fascinated by my hair. "Remember, Cathy, she did give us yellow

  chrysanthemums." He was right--that alone was a

  strong straw to grasp.

  In the late afternoon, toward dusk, Momma came

  to our room bearing a live Christmas tree in a small

  wooden tub. A balsam tree--what could smell more

  like Christmas? Momma's wool dress was of bright

  red jersey; it clung and showed off all the curves I

  hoped to have one day. She was laughing and gay,

  making us happy, too, as she stayed to help us trim

  the tree with the miniature ornaments and lights she'd

  brought along. She gave us four stockings to drape on

  the bedposts for Santa to find and fill.

  "Next year this time we'll be living in our own

  house," she said brightly, and I believed.

  "Yes," said Momma, smiling, filling all of us with

  cheer, "next year this time life will be so wonderful

  for all of us. We'll have plenty of money to buy a

  grand home of our own, and everything you want will

  be yours. In no time at all, you'll for- get this room,

  the attic. And all the days you have all endured so

  bravely will be forgotten, just like it never happened." She kissed us, and said she loved us. We watched

  her leave and didn't feel bereft, as before. She filled

  all our eyes, all our hopes and dreams.

  Momma came in the night while we slept. In the

  morning I woke up to see the stockings filled to the

  brim. And gifts galore were stacked under the small

  table where the tree was, and in every empty,

  available space in that room were all the toys for the

  twins that were too large and awkward to wrap. My eyes met with Chris's. He winked, grinned,

  then bounded from his bed. He grabbed for the silver

  bells attached to red plastic reins, and he shook them

  vigorously above his head. "Merry Christmas!" he

  boomed. "Wake up, everybody! Cory, Carrie, you

  sleepyheads--open your eyes, get up, and behold!

  Look and see what Santa Claus brought!"

  They came so slowly out of dreams, rubbing at

  sticky eyes, staring in disbelief at the many toys, at

  the beautifully wrapped packages with name tags, at

  the striped stockings stuffed with cookies, nuts,

  candy, fruit, chewing gum, peppermint sticks,

  chocolate Santas.

  Real candy--at last! Hard candy, that colorful

  kind that churches and schools gave out at their

  parties, the best kind of candy for making black holes

  in your teeth. Oh, but it looked and tasted so

  Christmasy!

  Cory sat on his bed, bedazzled, and again his

  small fists lifted to rub at his eyes, and he appeared

  too bewildered for speech.

  But Carrie could always find words. "How did

  Santa Claus find us?"

  "Oh, Santa has magic eyes," explained Chris, who

  lifted Carrie up and swung her to his shoulder, and

  then he reached to do this to Cory, too. He was doing

  as Daddy would have done, and tears came to my

  eyes.

  "Santa would never overlook children

  deliberately," he said, "and besides, he knew you were

  here. I made sure he knew, for I sat down and wrote

  him one very long letter, and gave him our address, and I made out a list of things we wanted that was

  three feet long."

  How funny, I thought. For the list of what all four

  of us wanted was so short and simple. We wanted

  outside. We wanted our freedom.

  I sat up in bed and looked around, and felt a soursweet lump in my throat. Momma had tried, oh, yes.

  She'd tried, done her best from the way it looked. She

  did love us, she did care. Why, it must have taken her

  months to buy all of this.

  I was ashamed and full of contrition for

  everything mean and ugly I'd thought. That's what

  came from wanting everything, and at once, and

  having no patience, and no faith.

  Chris turned to look at me questioningly. "Aren't

  you ever gonna get up? Gonna sit there the whole day

  through--you don't like gifts anymore?"

  While Cory and Carrie tore off gift wrappings,

  Chris came over to me and stretched out his hand.

  "Come, Cathy, enjoy the only Christmas you'll have

  in your twelfth year. Make this a unique Christmas,

  different from any we will experience in the future."

  His blue eyes pleaded.

  He was wearing rumpled red pajamas piped in

  white, and his gold hair fluffed out wildly. I was wearing a red nightgown made of fleece, and my long hair was far more disheveled than his. Into his warm hand I put my own, and I laughed. Christmas was Christmas, no matter where you were, and whatever the circumstances, it was still a day to enjoy. We opened everything wrapped, and we tried on our new clothes while stuffing candy into our mouths before breakfast. And "Santa" had left a note telling us to hide the candy from a certain "you-know-who." After all, candy still caused cavities. Even on Christmas

  Day.

  I sat on the floor wearing a stunning new robe of

  green velvet. Chris had a new robe of red flannel to

  match his pajamas. I dressed the twins in their new

  robes of bright blue. I don't think there could have

  been four happier children than we were early that

  morning. Chocolate bars were devilishly divine and

  made even
sweeter because they were forbidden. It

  was pure heaven to hold that chocolate in my mouth

  and slowly, slowly let it melt while I squeezed my

  eyelids tight to better savor the taste. And when I

  looked, Chris had his eyes closed too. Funny how the

  twins ate their chocolate, with wide open eyes, so full

  of surprise. Had they forgotten about candy? It

  seemed so, for they appeared to be holding paradise in their mouths. When we heard the doorknob rattle, we

  quickly hid the candy under the nearest bed. It was the grandmother. She came in quietly, with

  the picnic basket. She put the basket on the gaming

  table. She didn't greet us with "Merry Christmas," nor

  did she say good morning, nor even smile, or show in

  any way that this was a special day. And we were not

  to speak to her unless she spoke to us first.

  It was with reluctance and fear, and also with

  great hope, that I picked up the long package wrapped

  in red foil that had come from one of Momma's gifts

  to us. Beneath that beautiful paper was our collage

  painting on which all four of us had worked to create

  a child's version of the perfect garden. The old trunks

  in the attic had provided us with fine materials, such

  as the gossamer silk to make the pastel butterflies that

  hovered over bright yarn flowers. How Carrie had

  wanted to make purple butterflies with red spots--she

  loved purple combined with red! If ever a more

  glorious butterfly existed--it wouldn't be a live one--

  it would be Cory's made of yellow, with green and

  black splotches, and tiny little red stone eyes. Our

  trees were made of brown cording, combined with

  tiny tan pebbles to look like bark, and the branches

  gracefully entwined so brightly colored birds could perch or fly between the leaves. Chris and I had taken chicken feathers from old pillows and dipped them in watercolors, and dried them, and used an old toothbrush to comb the matted hairs, and make them

  lovely again.

  It may be conceited to say that our picture showed

  signs of true artistry, and a great deal of creative

  ingenuity. Our composition was balanced, yet it had

  rhythm, style . . . and a charm that had brought tears

  to our mother's eyes when we showed it to her. She

  had to turn her back so we, too, wouldn't cry. Oh, yes,

  by far this collage was the very best piece of artwork

  we had as yet turned out.

  Trembling, apprehensive, I waited to time my

  approach so her hands would be empty. Since the

  grandmother never looked at Chris, and the twins

  were so terrified of her they shriveled in her presence,

  it was up to me to give her the gift . . . and darned if I

  could make my feet move. Sharply, Chris nudged me

  with his elbow. "Go on," he whispered, "she'll go out

  the door in a minute."

  My feet seemed nailed to the floor. I held the long

  red package across both my arms. From the very

  positioning it seemed a sacrificial offering, for it

  wasn't easy to give her anything, when she had given us nothing but hostility, and was waiting her chance to

  give us pain.

  That Christmas morning, she succeeded very well

  in giving us pain, even without a whip or a word. I wanted to greet her in the proper way and say,

  "Merry Christmas Day, Grandmother. We wanted to

  give you a little something. Really, don't thank us; it

  was no trouble at all. Just a little something to show

  how much we appreciate the food you bring to us

  each day, and the shelter you have given us." No, no,

  she would think me sarcastic if I put it that way. Much

  better to say something like this: "Merry Christmas,

  we hope you like this gift. We all worked on it, even

  Cory and Carrie, and you can keep it so when we're

  gone, you'll know we did try, we did."

  Just to see me near with the gift held before me

  took her by surprise.

  Slowly, with my eyes lifting to bravely meet hers,

  I held out our Christmas offering. I didn't want to

  plead with my eyes. I wanted her to take it, and like it,

  and say thank you, even if she said it coldly. I wanted

  her to go to bed this night and think about us, that

  maybe we weren't so bad, after all. I wanted her to

  digest and savor all the work we'd put into her gift,

  and I wanted her to question the right and wrong of

  how she treated us.

  In the most withering way, her cold and scornful

  eyes lowered to the long box we'd wrapped in red. On

  the top was a sprig of artificial holly and a huge silver

  bow. A card was tied to the bow, and read: "To

  Grandmother, from Chris, Cathy, Cory, and Carrie." Her gray-stone eyes lingered on the card long

  enough to read it. Then she lifted her gaze to stare

  directly into my hopeful eyes, pleading, begging,

  wanting so much to be assured we weren't--as I

  sometimes feared--evil. Back to the box her eyes

  skipped, then deliberately she turned her back.

  Without a word she stalked out of the door, slammed

  it hard, then locked it from the other side. I was left in

  the middle of the room, holding the end product of

  many long hours of striving for perfection and beauty. Fools !--that's what we'd been! Damned fools! We'd never win her over! She'd always consider

  us Devil's spawn! As far as she was concerned, we

  really didn't exist.

  And it hurt, oh, you bet, it did hurt. Right down to

  my bare feet I ached, and my heart became a hollow

  ball shooting pains through my chest. Behind me, I

  could hear Chris raspily breathing in and out, and the

  twins began to whimper.

  This was my time to be adult, and keep the poise

  that Momma used so well and so effectively. I

  patterned my movements, and my expressions, after

  those of my mother. I used my hands the way she

  used hers. I smiled as she did, slow and beguiling And what did I do to demonstrate my maturity? I hurled the package to the floor! I swore, using

  words I'd never said aloud before! I raised my foot

  and stomped down on it, and heard the cardboard box

  crunch. I screamed! Wild with fury, I jumped with

  both feet onto the gift, and I wildly stomped and

  jumped until I heard the cracking of the beautiful old

  frame we'd found in the attic, and reglued, and

  refinished and made it look almost like new again. I

  hated Chris for persuading me that we could win over

  a woman made of stone! I hated Momma for putting

  us in this position! She should have known her mother

  better; she should have sold shoes in a department

  store; certainly there was something she could have

  done but what she did.

  Beneath the assault of someone wild and frenzied,

  the dry frame shattered into splinters; all our labor

  was gone, gone.

  "Stop!" cried Chris. "We can keep it for

  ourselves!"

  Though he ran fast to prevent total destruction, the

  fragile painting was ruined. Forever gone. I was in

  tears.

  Then I was bending down, crying, and picking up

  the s
ilk butterflies Cory and Carrie had made so

  painstakingly, with so much effort wasted to color the

  wings gloriously. Pastel butterflies I was to keep all

  my life long.

  Chris held me fast in his arms while I sobbed as

  he tried to comfort me with fatherly words: "It's all

  right. It doesn't matter what she does. We were right,

  and she was wrong. We tried. She never tries." We sat on the floor silent now amidst our gifts.

  The twins were quiet, their big eyes full of doubts,

  wanting to play with their toys, and undecided

  because they were our mirrors, and they would reflect

  our emotions--whatever they were. Oh, the pity of

  seeing them so made me ache again. I was twelve. I

  should learn at some time in my life how to act my

  age, and hold onto my poise, and not be a stick of

  dynamite always ready to explode.

  Into our room Momma came, smiling and calling

  out her Christmas greetings. She came bearing more

  gifts, including a huge dollhouse that once had been

  hers . . . and her hateful mother's. "This gift is not from Santa Claus," she said, putting down the house on the floor with great care, and now, I swear, there wasn't one inch of uncluttered space left. "This is my present to Cory and Carrie." She hugged them both, and kissed their cheeks, and told them now they could "pretend house" and "pretend parents" and "pretend host and hostess," just as she used to do when she was

  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,