Dollenganger 03 If There Be a Thorns (13 page)

I had sworn hurt on those who had betrayed Malcolm, but I wasn't happy with myself as I limped on to the front parlor she liked best of all. I stood in the doorway and stared at her, my heart pounding, for I wanted so much to run to her arms and sit on her lap. Was it right for me to pretend to be Malcolm when I hadn't given her a chance to explain?
"Corrine," I said in a gruff voice. Oh, the game was so good, I couldn't be just Bart and feel secure. When I was Malcolm I felt so strong, so right.
"Bart," she cried happily, rising to extend her arms. "You've finally come to see me! I'm so glad to see you well and strong again." Then she hesitated. "Who told you my name?"
"John Amos told me," I said, frowning at her. "He told me you fed Apple and gave him water while I was away. Is that true?"
"Yes, darling, of course I did what I could for Apple. He missed you so much I pitied him. Surely you aren't angry."
"You stole him from me," I cried like a baby. "He was the best friend I ever had; the only one who really loved me, and you stole him away so now he likes you better."
"No, he doesn't. Bart, he likes me, but he loves you."
Now she wasn't smiling and pleased looking. Just like John Amos had said, she knew I was on to her wiles. She was gonna tell me more lies. "Don't speak to me so gruffly," she begged. "It doesn't become a boy of ten years. Darling, you've been gone so long, and I've missed you so much. Can't you even show me a little affection?"
Suddenly, despite my promise, I was running into her arms and throwing my arms about her. "Grandmother! I really did hurt my knee bad! I was sweating so much my bed was wet. They wrapped me in a cold blanket and Momma and Daddy rubbed me down with ice. There was a mean doctor who wanted to cut off my leg, but Daddy wouldn't let him. That doctor said he was glad I wasn't his son." I paused to take a breath. I forgot all about Malcolm.
"Grandmother, I found out my daddy loves me after all--or else he would have been glad for that doctor to cut off my leg."
She seemed shocked. "Bart, for heaven's sake! How can you have the slightest doubt that he loves you? Of course he does. He'd have to love you, and Christopher was always a kind, loving boy . . ."
How did she know my daddy's name was Christopher? I narrowed my eyes. She was holding her hands over her mouth like she'd given away some secret. Then she was crying.
Tears. One of the ways women had to work men.
I turned away. Hated tears. Hated people who were weak. I put my hand on my shirtfront and felt the hard cover of Malcolm's book against my bare chest. That book was giving me his strength, transferring it from the pages to my blood. What if I did wear a child's weak, imperfect body? What difference did it make when soon she'd know just who was her master?
Home, had to get home before they missed me. "Good night, Corrine."
I left her crying, still wondering how she knew my daddy's name.
In my garden I checked my peach pit again. No roots yet. I dug up my sweetpeas again. Still not sprouting. I didn't have luck with flowers, with peach pits, with nothing. With nothing but playing Malcolm the powerful. At that I was getting better and better. Smiling and happy, I went to bed.

Never was Bart in our yard where he should be. I climbed the tree and sat on the wall, and then I saw Bart over in that lady's yard, down on his knees crawling. Sniffing the ground like a dog. "Bart!" I yelled, "Clover's gone, and you can't take his place."

I knew what he was doing --burying a bone and then sniffing around until he found it. He looked up, his eyes glazed and disoriented--and then he began to bark.

I yelled to set him straight, but he went on playing the frolicking puppy before he suddenly became an old man who dragged his leg. And it wasn't even the leg he'd hurt. What a nut he was. "Bart, straighten up! You're ten, not a hundred. If you keep walking crooked you'll grow that way."

"Crooked days make crooked ways."
"You don't make good sense."
"And the Lord said: 'do unto others as they have

done unto you." "
"Wrong. The correct quotation is: `Do unto
others
as you would have done unto you.' " I
reached
to assist what seemed to be an old man. Bart scowled,
panted, grabbed at his chest, then cried out about his
bad heart that shouldn't have to endure tree-climbing. "Bart, I'm fed up with you. All you do is make
trouble. Have some sympathy for Mom and Dad--and
me. It's going to be embarrassing having you for my
brother when we go back to school."
He limped along behind me as I headed toward
home, still panting, muttering between moans about
how already he was a master of finances. "Never was
born a brain more clever than mine," he mumbled. He has really gone bananas, was all I could
think as I listened to him. When he'd scrubbed his
filthy hands with a brush as if he really wanted to get
them clean, I gasped. That wasn't like Bart at all. He
was still pretending to be someone else. Soon he had
his teeth clean and was in bed. I ran fast to where I
could eavesdrop on my parents, who were in the
living room dancing to slow music.
As always, something sweet, soft and romantic
stole over me to see them like that. The tender way
she looked at him; the gentle way he touched her. I
cleared my throat before they did anything too
intimate. Without changing their positions, both
looked at me questioningly. "Yes, Jory," said Mom,
her blue eyes dreamy.
"I want to talk to you about Bart," I said. "I
think there are a few things you should know." Dad looked relieved. Mom seemed to shrink
into herself as she quietly sat beside Dad on the sofa.
"We've been hoping you would come to us with Bart's
secret."
None of it was easy to say. "Well," I began
slowly, hoping to find the right words, "first, you
should know Bart has lots of nightmares in which he
wakes up crying. He pretends too much, such as
hunting big game and normal kid stuff like that, but
when I catch him crawling around sniffing the ground,
then digging up a nasty old bone and carrying it
between his teeth to bury it somewhere else, that's
going too far." I paused and waited for them to say
something. Mom had her head turned as if she was
listening to hear the wind. Dad leaned forward,
watching me intensely.
"Go on, Jory," he urged. "Don't stop now.
We're not blind. We see how Bart is changing." Dreading to tell more, I hung my head and
spoke very low. "I've tried several times to tell you
before. I was afraid then too. You've both been so
worried about Bart that I couldn't speak."
"Please don't hold anything back," Dad said. I looked only at my father, unable to meet my mother's fearful gaze. "The lady next door gives Bart all sorts of expensive gifts. She's given him a St. Bernard puppy he calls Apple, two miniature electric trains along with small village and mountain settings-- the complete works. She's had one huge room of hers turned into a playroom just for him. She
would give me gifts too, but Bart won't let her." Stunned, they turned to one another. Finally
Dad said, "What else?"
I swallowed and heard my odd, husky voice.
This was the worst part, the part that really hurt.
"Yesterday I was in the backyard near the wall . . .
you know, where that hollow tree is. I had the hedge
clippers and was pruning like you showed me, Dad,
when I smelled something putrid. It seemed to come
from that hole in the tree. When I checked . . . I found
. . ." Again I had to swallow before I could say it.
"I
found Clover.
He was dead and decaying. I dug a
grave for him."
Hastily I turned my back to wipe away tears,
then I told them the rest. "I found a wire twisted
around his neck. Somebody deliberately murdered my
dog!"
They just sat on the sofa looking shocked and
scared. Mom blinked back her tears; she too had loved Clover. Her hands trembled when she reached for a handkerchief. Next she locked her nervous hands together and kept them on her lap. Neither she nor Dad asked who had killed Clover. I figured they
thought the same as I did.
Before he went to bed, Dad came into my room
and talked to me for an hour, asking all sorts of
questions about Bart, what he did with his time, where
he went, and about the woman next door, and that
butler too. I felt better now that I'd warned them. Now
they could plan what to do with Bart. And I cried that
night for the last time over Clover, who had been my
first and only pet. I was going on fifteen, almost a
man's age, and tears were only for little boys--not for
someone almost six feet tall.
"You leave me alone!" yelled Bart when I
asked him not to go next door. "You stop telling tales
on me or you'll be sorry."
Each day took us closer to September and
school days. As far as I could see, Bart wasn't
responding to the tender loving care my parents gave
him They were too understanding in my opinion.
"You listen to me, Bart, and stop pretending you're an
old man named Malcolm Neal Foxworth, whoever he
is!" But Bart couldn't let go of his pretend limp, his fake bad heart that made him gasp and pant. "Nobody is waiting for you to die to inherit your fortune. Dear
little brother, you don't have any fortune!"
"Got twenty billion, ten million, fifty-five
thousand and six hundred and forty-two cents!" He
used his fingers to tally up. "But I can't remember
how much I have in stocks and bonds, so I guess you
could triple that figure. A man isn't rich if he can
name what he owns."
I hadn't known he could even name a figure like
that. Just when I would say something sarcastic, Bart
let out a yelp and doubled over. He fell to the floor
and gasped. "Quick . . . my pills. I'm dying! My left
arm is going numb! Save me, send for my doctors!" That's when I left the house and went outdoors.
I sat on a lawn chair and pulled out a paperback novel
to read. Bart was getting to me, really getting to me. It
was like living with Jekyll and Hyde. If he had to act,
why the heck didn't he choose some role better than a
lame old guy with a bad heart?
"Jory, don't you care if I die?" Bart came out
and asked me.
"Nope."
"You've never liked me!"
"I liked you better when you acted your own
age." "Would you believe Malcolm Neal Foxworth is
the father of that lady next door, and she is my real
grandmother, truly my own grandmother?"
"She told you that?"
"No. John Amos told me some, she told me
more. John Amos tells me lots of stuff. He told me
Daddy Paul and Daddy Chris were not brothers, that
my momma only said that so we wouldn't find out her
sin. He says a man named Bartholomew Winslow was
my real daddy and he died in a fire. Our mother
seduced him."
Seduced? I gave him a long searching look.
"Do you know what that word means?"
"Nope--but I know it's bad,
real
bad!" "Do you love our mother?"
Worry tormented his dark eyes. He sat heavily
on the ground and contemplated his sneakers. He
should have answered quickly, spontaneously. "Bart,
do me a big favor and yourself too--go into the house
and tell Mom and Dad what's bothering you. They'll
understand anything. I know you think Mom loves me
best, but it's not so. She has room in her heart for ten
children."
"Ten?" he screamed. "You mean Momma is gonna adopt more?" He jumped up and ran then, haltingly, as if pretending to be old had made him lose what little agility he had. That hospital stay had
robbed him of a great many things, in my opinion. It was sneaky of me and not quite honorable,
but I had to hear what Bart told our mother when they
were alone. She was on the back veranda. Cindy was
on her lap, dozing as Mom read a book. When Bart
ran up she quickly put the book down, then shifted
Cindy onto a nearby chair as Bart stood staring at her,
mutely pleading with his eyes.
Then, of all things, he asked, "What's your
name?"
"You know my name," she said.
"Does it begin with a C?"
"Yes, of course it does." Now she looked
disturbed.
"But--but----" he stumbled, "I know someone
who cries after you go away. Someone little like me
who is locked in closets and other scary places by his
father, who doesn't like him anymore. Once the father
put him in the attic for punishment. Big, dark, scary
attic with mice and spooky shadows and spiders
everywhere."
She seemed to freeze. "Who told you all of
that?" "His stepmother had dark red hair until he
found out she was only his father's paramour." Even from where I hid I could hear Momma
breathing hard and fast, as if that small boy she lifted
on her lap had suddenly turned dangerous. "Darling,
you don't know what a paramour is, do you?" He stared ahead into space. "There was a lady
slender and fair who had red in her dark-dark hair.
And she wasn't even married to his father who didn't
care what he did, how he cried, or even if he died." Her lips trembled, but she forced a smile. "Bart,
I believe you have some poet in you. All that has a
cadence, and it rhymes too."
He scowled, turning dark burning eyes on her.
"I despise poets, artists, musicians, dancers!" She shivered, and I can't say I blamed her. He
scared me too. "Bart, I have to ask you this, and you
must give me a truthful answer. Remember, no matter
what you say you won't be punished. Did you hurt
Clover?"
"Clover done gone away. Won't come back to
live in my doghouse now."
She pushed him away then and quickly got up
to leave the patio. Then she remembered Cindy and rushed back to pick her up. None of what she did
made me feel better as I watched Bart's eyes. As always, soon after one of his mean
"attacks," Bart grew tired and sleepy and went to bed
without his dinner. My mother smiled, laughed and
dressed to attend a formal celebration in honor of my
father, who had been voted chief-of-staff of his
hospital. I stood at the window and watched Dad lead
her proudly to his car.
Late, way after two, I heard them come in. I
had yet to fall asleep, and I could hear their
conversation in the living room.
"Chris, I don't understand Bart at all, the way he
talks, the way he moves, or even how he looks. I feel
afraid of my own son, and that's sick."
"Come now, darling," he said with his arm
about her shoulders, "I think you exaggerate. Bart will
grow up to be a great actor if he keeps this up." "Chris, I know sometimes high fevers leave a
child with brain damage. Did the fever destroy part of
his brain?"
"Look, Cathy, Bart tested out just fine. Don't go
getting notions just because we gave him that test. All
high fever patients have to undergo such examinations."
"But did you find anything unusual?" she
persisted.
"No," Dad said firmly, "he's just an ordinary
little boy with lots of emotional problems, and we, if
anyone can, should understand what he's going
through."
What did that mean?
"But Bart has everything! He isn't growing up
as we did. He should be happy. Don't we do
everything we can?"
"Yes, but sometimes even that isn't enough.
Each child is different, each has different needs.
Obviously we are not giving Bart what he needs." Mom was given to hot quick answers. Yet she
sat on, silent and still, as I waited for more
information. Dad wanted her to go to bed
immediately, which was easy enough to see from the
way he kissed her neck. But she was deep in thought.
Her eyes were fixed on her silver sandals as she spoke
of how Clover had died.
"It couldn't have been Bart," she said slowly, as
if to convince herself as well as Dad. "It had to be
some sadist who tortures animals--you know how we
read that the animals in the zoo were being crippled?
One of them must have seen Clover," and her voice died away, for so seldom did we ever see a stranger
on our road.
"Chris," she added, while that horrible look of
fright was still on her face, "today Bart took me
completely by surprise. He told me about a little boy
who was locked in closets and in the attic. Later on he
told me that little boy's name was Malcolm. Could he
know about him? Who could have told him that
name? Chris, do you think somehow Bart has found
out about us?"
I jerked. What was there to know about them
that I didn't already know? I knew they had some
terrible secret. I crawled away, then raced to my room
and threw myself on my bed. Something awful was
wrong with our lives, I felt it in my bones--and Bart
must have sensed it in his too.