Flowers in the Attic, Page 23

  "Chris," I began, then stumbled on quicksand, I knew, "don't you ever have any doubts about her?"

  I saw his frown, and spoke again before he could fire back some angry retort, "Doesn't it strike you as . . . as odd, that she keeps us locked up for so long? She's got lots of money, Chris, I know she has. Those rings and bracelets, they're not fake like she tells us. I know they're not!"

  He had drawn away when first I brought up "her." He adored his goddess of all female perfection, but then he was embracing me again, and his cheek was on my hair, his voice tight with thick emotion, "Sometimes I am not the eternal cockeyed optimist you call me. Sometimes I am just as doubting of what she does as you are. But I think back to the time before we came here, and I feel I have to trust her, and believe in her, and be like Daddy was. Remember how he used to say, Tor everything that seems strange, there is a good reason? And everything always works out for the best.' That's what I make myself believe--she has good reasons for keeping us here, and not sneaking us out to some boarding school. She knows what she's doing, and Cathy, I love her so much. I just can't help it. No matter what she does, I feel I will go right on loving her."

  He loved her more than me, I thought bitterly.

  Our mother now came and went with no

  regularity. Once, a whole week passed with no visit. When she finally arrived she told us her father was very ill. I was overjoyed to hear the news.

  "Is he getting worse?" I asked, feeling a little pang of guilt. I knew it was wrong to wish him dead, but his death meant our salvation.

  "Yes," she said solemnly, "much worse. Any day now, Cathy, any day. You wouldn't believe his pallor, his pain; soon as he goes, you'll be free."

  Oh, good-golly, to think I was so evil as to want that old man to die this very second! God forgive me. But it wasn't right for us to be shut up all the time; we needed to be outside, in the warm sunlight, and we did get so lonesome, seeing no new people.

  "It could be any hour," said Momma, and got up to leave.

  "Swing low, sweet chariot, comin' for t' carry me home . . ." was the tune I hummed as I made the beds, and waited for the news to come that our grandfather was on his way to heaven if his gold counted, and to hell if the Devil couldn't be bribed.

  "If you get there before I do . . ."

  And Momma was at the door, tired looking as she poked only her face in. "He's passed the crisis . . . he's going to recover-- this time." The door closed, and we were alone, with dashed hopes.

  I tucked the twins into bed that night for seldom did Momma show up to do this. I was the one who kissed their cheeks and heard their prayers. And Chris did his share, too. They loved us, it was easy to read in their big, shadowed blue eyes. After they fell asleep, we went to the calendar to make an "X" through another day. August had come again. We had now lived in this prison a full year.

  PART TWO

  .

  Until the day break,

  and the shadows flee away. The Song of Solomon 2:17

  Growing Up, Growing Wiser

  . Another year passed, much as the first did. Mother came less and less frequently, but always with the promises that kept us hoping, kept us believing our deliverance was only a few weeks away. The last thing we did each night was to mark off that day with a big red X.

  We now had three calendars with big red X's. The first one was only half-bloodied with red, the second one X'd all the way through, and now a third over half filled with X's. And the dying grandfather, now sixtyeight, always about to breathe his last breath, lived on, and on, and on while we waited in limbo. It seemed he'd live to be sixty-nine.

  On Thursdays, the servants of Foxworth Hall went into town, and that was when Chris and I stole out onto the black roof, to lie on a steep slope, soaking up the sunlight, and airing under the moon and stars. Though it was high and dangerous, it was the real outdoors, where we could feel fresh air on our thirsting skins.

  In a place where two wings met and formed a corner, we could brace our feet against a sturdy chimney and feel quite safe. Our positioning on the roof hid us from anyone who might be on the ground.

  Because the grandmother's wrath had not yet materialized, Chris and I had grown careless. We were not always modest in the bedroom, nor were we always fully dressed. It was difficult to live, day in, day out, and always keep the intimate places of our bodies secret from the other sex.

  And to be perfectly honest, none of us cared very much who saw what.

  We should have cared.

  We should have been careful.

  We should have kept the memory of Momma's bloody welted back sharply before us, and never, never have forgotten. But the day she'd been whipped seemed so long, long ago. An eternity ago.

  Here I was a teen-ager, and I'd never seen myself naked all over, for the mirror on the medicine cabinet door was placed too high for good viewing. I'd never seen a naked woman, or even a picture of one, and paintings and marble statues didn't show details. So I awaited a time when I had the bedroom to myself, and before the dresser mirror I stripped off everything, and then I stared, preened, and admired. Incredible the changes hormones brought about! Certainly I was much prettier than when I came here, even my face, my hair, my legs--much less that curvy body. From side to side I twisted, keeping my eyes glued to my reflection as I performed ballet positions.

  A rippling sensation on the back of my neck gave me the awareness that someone was near, and watching. I whirled about suddenly to catch Chris standing in the deep shadows of the closet. Silently he'd come from the attic. How long had he been there? Had he seen all the silly, immodest things I'd done? Oh, God, I hoped not!

  He stood as one frozen. A queer look glazed his blue eyes, as if he'd never seen me before without my clothes on--and he had, many a time. Perhaps when the twins were there, sun- bathing with us, he kept his thoughts brotherly and pure, and didn't really stare.

  His eyes lowered from my flushed face down to my breasts, then lower, and lower, and down to my feet before they traveled upward ever so slowly.

  I stood trembling, uncertain, wondering what to do that wouldn't make me seem a foolish prude in the judgment of a brother who knew well how to mock me when he chose. He seemed a stranger, older, like someone I had never met before. He also seemed weak, dazed, perplexed, and if I moved to cover myself, I'd steal from him something he'd been starving to see.

  Time seemed to stand still as he lingered in the closet, and I hesitated before the dresser which revealed to him the rear view, too, for I saw his eyes flick to the mirror to take in what that reflected.

  "Chris, please go away."

  He didn't seem to hear.

  He only stared.

  I blushed all over and felt perspiration under my arms, and a funny pounding began in my pulse. I felt like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar, guilty of some petty crime, and terribly afraid of being severely punished for almost nothing. But his look, his eyes, made me come alive, and my heart began a fierce, mad throbbing, full of fright. Why should I be afraid? It was only Chris.

  For the first time I felt embarrassed, ashamed of what I had now, and quickly I reached to pick up the dress I'd just taken off. Behind that I would shield myself, and I'd tell him to go away.

  "Don't," he said when I had the dress in my hands.

  "You shouldn't. . ." I stammered, trembling more.

  "I know I shouldn't be, but you look so beautiful. It's like I never saw you before. How did you grow so lovely, when I was here all the time?"

  How to answer a question like that? Except to look at him, and plead with my eyes.

  Just then, behind me, a key turned in the door lock. Swiftly I tried to put the dress over my head and pull it down before she came in. Oh, God! I couldn't find the sleeves. My head was all covered by the dress, while the rest of me was bare, and she was there--the grandmother! I couldn't see her, but I felt her!

  Finally I found the armholes, and quickly I yanked the dress down. But she had seen me in my n
aked glory, it was in those glittering gray stone eyes. She turned those eyes away from me and nailed Chris with a stabbing glare. He was still in the daze that put him nowhere.

  "So!" she spat. "I have at last caught you! I knew I would sooner or later!"

  She had spoken to us first. This was just like one of my nightmares . . . without clothes in front of the grandmother and God.

  Chris snapped out of the fog and stepped forward to fire back, "You have caught us? What have you caught? Nothing!"

  Nothing . . .

  Nothing

  Nothing . . .

  One word that reverberated. In her eyes, she had caught us doing everything!

  "Sinners!" she hissed as she once again turned those cruel eyes on me. They held no mercy. "You think you look pretty? You think those new young curves are attractive? You like that long, golden hair that you brush and brush and curl?" She smiled then--the most frightening smile I ever saw.

  My knees were clicking nervously together; my hands were working too. How vulnerable I felt without underwear and with a wide open zipper in back. I darted a glance to Chris. He advanced slowly, his eyes flicking around to search out some weapon.

  "How many times have you allowed your brother to use your body?" shot out the grandmother. I just stood there, unable to speak, not comprehending what she meant.

  "Use? What do you mean?"

  Her eyes narrowed to mere slits that sharply turned to catch an embarrassed blush on Chris's face, clearly revealing even to me that he knew what she meant, even if I didn't.

  "What I mean is," he said, turning redder, "we haven't really done anything bad." He had a man's voice now, deep and strong. "Go on, look at me with your hateful, suspicious eyes. Believe what you will, but Cathy and I have never done one single, wicked, sinful or unholy thing!"

  "Your sister was naked--she has allowed you to look on her body--so, you have done wrong." She whipped her eyes to me and flared them with hate before she pivoted around and stalked from the room. She left me quivering. Chris was furious with me.

  "Cathy, why the hell did you have to undress in this room! You know she spies on us, just hoping to catch us doing something!" A wild, distraught look came upon him, making him seem older and terribly violent. "She's going to punish us. Just because she left without doing anything, doesn't mean she won't come back."

  I knew that. . . I knew it. She was coming back-- with the whip!

  Sleepy and irritable, the twins drifted down from the attic. Carrie settled in front of the dollhouse. Cory squatted down on his heels to watch TV. He picked up his expensive, professional guitar and began to play. Chris sat on his bed and faced the door. I hedged, ready to run when she came back. I'd run into the bath, lock the door. . . I'd . . .

  The key turned in the door. The doorknob twisted.

  I jumped to my feet, as did Chris. He said, "Get in the bath- room, Cathy, and stay there."

  Our grandmother walked into the room, towering like a tree; and she bore not a whip, but a huge pair of scissors, the kind women use when cutting fabric to make clothes. They were chrome-colored, shiny, long, and looked very sharp.

  "Sit down, girl!" she snapped. "I am going to cut off your hair to the scalp--and then maybe you won't feel pride when you look in the minor."

  Scornfully, cruelly, she smiled when she saw my surprise-- the first time I'd seen her smile.

  My worst fear! I'd rather be whipped! My skin would heal, but it would take years and years to grow back the beautiful, long hair I'd cherished since Daddy first said it was pretty, and he liked long hair on little girls. Oh, dear God, how could she know that almost every night I dreamed she stole into this room while I slept and sheared me as one does a sheep? And sometimes I dreamed not only did I wake up in the mornings bald and ugly, but she cut off my breasts, too!

  Whenever she looked at me, it was at some particular place. She didn't see me as a whole person, but in sections that seemed to arouse her anger . . . and she would destroy whatever made her angry!

  I tried to dash into the bathroom, and lock the door behind me. But for some reason my dancer's legs, trained so well, refused to move. I was paralyzed by the very threat of those long, shiny scissors and above them--the grandmother's chrome-colored eyes were sparked with hate, scorn, contempt.

  That's when Chris spoke up in a strong man's voice. "You are not going to cut off one strand of Cathy's hair, Grandmother! Take just one step in her direction, and I will pound you over the head with this chair!"

  He held one of the chairs we used for dining, ready to carry out his threat. His blue eyes snapped fire as hers shot hate.

  She flicked him a scathing glance, as if what he threatened were of no consequence, as if his puny strength could never overcome the mountain of steel she appeared. "All right. Have it your way. I will give you your choice, girl--the loss of your hair, or no food or milk for an entire week."

  "The twins have done nothing wrong," I implored. "Chris has done nothing He didn't know I was unclothed when he came down from the attic--it was all my fault. I can go without food and milk for a week. I won't starve, and besides, Momma won't let you do this to me. She'll bring us food."

  I didn't say that with any confidence, though. Momma had been gone so long. She didn't come very often; I'd grow very hungry.

  "Your hair--or no food for a week," she repeated, untouched and unflinching.

  "You are wrong to do this, old woman," said Chris, coming closer with his lifted chair. "I caught Cathy by surprise. We did nothing sinful. We never have. You judge us by circumstantial evidence."

  "Your hair, or none of you will eat for a week," she said to me, ignoring Chris, as she always did. "And if you lock yourself in the bathroom, or hide yourself in the attic, then not one of you will eat for two weeks! Or when you come down with a bald head!" Next, she riveted her cold and calculating eyes on Chris for a long, excruciating moment. "I think you will be the one to shear off your sister's long, cherished hair," she said with a secret smile. On the dresser top she laid the shiny scissors. "When I come back, and see your sister without hair, then the four of you will eat."

  She left us, locked us in, left us in a quandary, with Chris staring at me, and me staring back at him

  Chris smiled. "Come now, Cathy, she's all bluff! Momma will come any hour. We'll tell her. . . no problem. I'll never cut off your hair." He came to put his arm around me. "Isn't it fortunate we've hidden a box of crackers and a pound of cheddar cheese in the attic? And we still have today's food--the old witch forgot that."

  We seldom ate very much. We ate even less that day, just in case Momma didn't show up. We saved half our milk, and the oranges. The day ended without a visit from Momma. All night I tossed and turned, fretting in and out of sleep. When I slept I had horrible nightmares. I dreamed Chris and I were in a deep dark woods, running lost, looking for Carrie and Cory. We called their names in the silent voices of dreams. The twins never answered. We panicked and ran in utter blackness.

  Then suddenly, out of the dark loomed up a cottage made of gingerbread! Made of cheese, too, with a roof of Oreo cookies, and hard Christmas candy made a colorful winding path to the Hershey bar door. The picket fence was of peppermint sticks, the shrubbery of ice-cream cones, seven flavors. I flashed a thought over to Chris. No! This is a trick! We can't go in!

  He messaged back: We have to go in! We have to save the twins!

  Quietly we stole inside and saw the hot-roll cushions, drip- ping with golden butter, and the sofa was of freshly baked bread, buttered, too.

  In the kitchen was the witch to end all witches! Beak-nosed, jutting jaw, sunken, toothless mouth, and her head was a mop of strings colored gray and pointing wildly in all directions.

  She held up our twins by their long golden hair. They were about to be thrust into her hot oven! Already they were frosted pink and blue, and their flesh, without cooking, was beginning to turn into gingerbread, and their blue eyes into black raisins!

  I screamed! Over and
over again I screamed!

  The witch whirled to glare at me with her gray flintstone eyes, and her sunken mouth, thin as a red knife slash, opened wide to laugh! Hysterically, she laughed on and on as Chris and I cringed in shock. She threw back her head, her wide open mouth exposing fang-like tonsils--and startlingly,

  frighteningly, she began to change from the

  grandmother. From a caterpillar into a butterfly she emerged as we stood frozen, and could only watch. . . and there from the horror came our mother!

  Momma! Her blond hair flowed as silken, streaming ribbons, writhing forward on the floor to snare us both like snakes! Slithering coils of her hair twined up and around our legs, to creep nearer our throats . . . trying to strangle us into silence. . . no threat to her inheritance then!

  I love you, I love you, I love you, she whispered without words.

  I woke up, but Chris slept on and on, just as the twins did.

  I grew desperate as sleep wanted to come and take me again. I tried to fight it off, the terrible drowsiness of drowning, drowning, and then again I was sunken deep in dreams, in nightmarish dreams. I ran wild into the dark, and into a pool of blood I fell. Blood sticky as tar, smelling of tar, and diamond-spangled fish with swan heads and red eyes came and nibbled on my arms and legs so they went numb and unfeeling, and the fish with the swan heads laughed, laughed, laughed, glad to see me done in, and made bloody all over. See! See! They shouted in whiny voices that echoed and re-echoed. You can't get away!

  The morning came pale behind the heavy drawn draperies that shut out the yellow light of hope.

  Carrie turned over in her sleep and cuddled up closer to me, "Momma," she murmured, "I don't like this house." Her silky hair on my arm felt like goosedown, as slowly, slowly, feeling began to return to my hands and arms, feet and legs.

  I lay still on the bed as Carrie squirmed restlessly, wanting my arms about her, and I felt so drugged I couldn't move my arms. What was wrong with me? My head so heavy, as if it were stuffed full of rocks so my skull was pressured from the inside and the pain was so great my skull was likely to split wide open! My toes and fingers still tingled. My body was leaden. The walls advanced, then retreated, and nothing had straight vertical lines.