Dollenganger 03 If There Be a Thorns (15 page)

Didn't want to be locked in some crazy house with lots of nuts who might be bigger and meaner than me, and I wouldn't be able to visit John Amos and Apple.
What could I do? I remembered words from Malcolm's book, and how he made people think he was "giving in," all the time going his own way.
I'd cry, I'd say how sorry I was, and when I did this, even I thought I was sincere. I said, "It's Momma . . . she loves Jory more than me. She loves Cindy better too. I don't have anybody. I hate not having anybody."
It went on and on. Even after I really blabbed, she told my parents I'd have to continue seeing her for a year or more. "He's a very confused little boy." She smiled and touched my mother's shoulder. "Don't blame yourself. Bart seems programmed for selfloathing, and though he might seem to hate you for not loving him enough, he doesn't like himself. Therefore he believes anyone who does love him is a big fool. It's a sickness all right. As real as any physical disease, and worse in many ways, for Bart cannot find himself."
I was hiding, eavesdropping, surprised to hear her say what she did.
"He loves you, Mrs. Sheffield, with a love almost religious. Therefore he expects you to be perfect, at the same time knowing he is unworthy of your attention; and still, paradoxically, he wants you to see him and acknowledge him as the best son you have."
"But I don't understand," said Momma, leaning her head on Daddy's shoulder. "How can he love me and want to hurt me so much?"
"Human nature is very complex. Your son is very complex. The good and the bad are fighting to dominate his personality. He is unconsciously aware of this battle and has found a very intriguing solution. He identifies the evil side of himself as an old man he's named Malcolm. Just another of the many characters who enable him to like himself better."
Both my parents sat very still with wide eyes, looking sort of helpless.
Hours later, before I said my bedtime prayers, I crept down the long hall and listened outside my parents' bedroom. Momma was saying, "It's as if we will always be in the attic and never, never set free."
What did the attic have to do with Malcolm and me? Was it only because both of us had been sent up there for punishment? On my hands and knees I stole away down the hall, crept into my bed and lay there quietly, scared of myself and my "subconscious."
Beneath my pillow was Malcolm's journal, which I was absorbing day by day, night by night. Growing stronger, and smarter.

In the living room the next evening. Mom and Dad settled down before the fire I'd kindled. Forgotten by them because I said so little, I crouched down on the floor near the doorway, hoping they wouldn't see there, and they'd think I'd gone away as I should have.

I didn't feel good about deliberately deceiving them, but sometimes it was better to know for certain than to keep on guessing.

At first Mom didn't say anything much, then she brought up the visit to Dr. Oberman. "Bart hates me, Chris. He hates you too, and Jory, and Cindy. I think he's got Emma on his list too, but more than anyone, it's me he despises. He resents me for not loving him exclusively." He pulled her closer to his chest and held her there as on and on they talked. When they mentioned slipping into Bart's bedroom and seeing if he was there, I quickly scurried into a nearby closet and waited for them to pass on to Bart's room.

"Has he eaten dinner?" asked Dad.
"No." She said this like she wanted him to stay asleep so she could avoid the problem he was when awake. But just them being there, staring down at him, brought Bart out of his nap, and without a word in response to their affectionate greetings, he followed them into the dining room. Meals had to be eaten, even when a ten-year-old boy sat silent and scowling, refusing to meet anyone's eyes.
It was a terribly awkward meal, with no one comfortable. Appetites were small, and even Cindy was cross. Emma didn't speak either, only performed her duties silently. Even the wind that blew
incessantly died down and the trees stood still, their leaves hanging as if frozen. All of a sudden it felt so cold, making me think of the graves Bart was always talking about.
I sat wondering how Mom and Dad could force Bart to go to Dr. Oberman's sessions. How could anyone force him to talk when he could be so darn stubborn? And Dad was busy enough without taking time from his patients--that alone should show Bart who cared enough.
"Going to bed now," said Bart coldly, standing without asking permission to leave the table. He left the dining room. We sat on, caught in some kind of spell Bart had cast.
Dad broke the silence. "Bart isn't himself. Obviously something is bothering him so much he can't even eat. We have to find out what it is."
"Mom," I said, "I think if you went in and sat on Bart's bed first tonight, and stayed a long time with him, and didn't come in to my room or Cindy's, that might make up for a lot."
She gave me a strange, long look, as if not believing it could be that simple. Dad agreed with me, saying it wouldn't do any harm.
Bart was faking sleep, it was easy to see that. I backed away and stood near Dad in the hallway, in the shadows where Bart couldn't see us. I was ready to spring forward and save Mom if Bart turned mean. Dad kept a restraining hand on my shoulder, and whispered softly, "He's just a boy, Jory, a very troubled little boy. A bit smaller than most ten-yearold boys, a bit thinner too, and maybe that's part of the problem. Bart is having more trouble growing up than most boys do."
Tensing, I waited for him to say more. "It's amazing how he could be born with so little grace, when his mother has so much."
I looked to where Mom stood gazing down on Bart, who looked darkly sullen in sleep--if he was asleep. Then she came running from his room, throwing Dad a wild, distraught look. "Chris, I'm afraid of him! You go in. If he wakes up and yells at me as he did before, I'll slap him I'll feel like putting him in the closet, or up in the attic." Both her hands rose to clamp over her mouth. "I didn't mean that," she whispered weakly.
"Of course you didn't. I hope he didn't hear you. Cathy, I think you'd better take two aspirins and go to bed, and I'll tuck Bart and Jory into bed." He gave me a big joking smile as I grinned back. Our nighttime talks were the kind of tucking in he gave me . . . advice on how to handle difficult situations. Man-toman stuff a woman didn't have to know about.
It was Dad who had the nerve to approach Bart, and he perched with ease on the side of his bed. I knew Bart always slept lightly, and when Dad sat down, the depression he made rolled Bart's slight figure onto his side. That would awaken even someone like me, who
used
to sleep deeply and soundly.
Cautiously I stole closer, wanting to see for myself if Bart was faking. Behind his closed lids his eyeballs were jerking spasmodically, as if he watched a tennis game or something much more terrifying.
"Bart . . . wake up."
As if Dad had fired the words from a giant cannon put near his ears, Bart jolted wide awake. He bolted upright, his dark eyes bulging and terrified. He stared at Dad.
"Son, it's not eight o'clock yet. Emma has made a lemon pie for dessert that she had to leave in the fridge to set. Don't tell me you don't want a slice. It's a beautiful evening. I used to think, when I was your age, that twilight was the best time of all to play outside. Hide and seek, or red light, green light . . ."
Bart stared at Dad as if he spoke in a foreign tongue.
"Come, Bart, don't sulk alone. I love you, and your mother loves you. It doesn't matter if sometimes you move less than gracefully. There are other things that count more, such as honor and respect. Stop trying to be what you aren't. You don't have to be anyone super-special; in our eyes, you already are super- special."
Bart just sat on his bed and stared at Dad with hostility. Why couldn't Dad see him as I did? Could a man as smart as Dad be blind when it came to seeing his son honestly? Had Bart opened his eyes when Mom was in the room, and had she seen the hatred there? She could always see more than Dad, even if he was a doctor.
"Summer's almost gone, Bart. Lemon pies get eaten by others. What you don't take today may not be there tomorrow."
Why was he being so nice to that boy who looked at him with daggers that could kill?
Obediently, when Dad turned to leave the room, Bart tagged along behind him. I was Bart's unseen shadow. Suddenly Bart ran ahead of Dad, who was on the back porch now, and skipped backwards until he nearly tumbled down the steps. "You aren't my father," he growled, "and you can't fool me. You hate me and want me dead!"
Heavily Dad sat in a chair close to the one where Mom was sitting with Cindy on her lap. Bart went to the swings to sit, not pushing with his feet, just sitting and holding fast to the ropes, as if he might fall off the wooden slat.
We all ate a slice of Emma's delicious lemon pie, all but Bart, who just sat where he was and refused to budge. Then Dad was getting up and saying he had to check on a patient in the hospital. He threw Bart a worried glance and spoke softly to Mom. "Take it easy, darling. Stop looking so troubled. I'll be home soon. Maybe Mary Oberman isn't the best psychiatrist for Bart. He seems to have a great deal of hostility toward women. I'll find another psychiatrist, a man." He leaned to kiss her upturned face. I heard the soft moist sound of their lips meeting. Then they stared deep into each other's eyes and I wondered what they saw. "I love you, Cathy. Please stop worrying. Everything will work out fine. We will all survive."
"Yes," she said dully, throwing Bart a doubtful look, "but I can't help worrying about Bart . . . he seems so confused."
Straightening, Dad cast Bart a long, hard, observant look. "Yes," he said without doubt. "Bart's a survivor too. See how fast he clings to the ropes, and he's less than two feet from the ground. He just doesn't trust or believe in himself. I think he seeks strength in pretending to be older and wiser; security is in something other than himself. As a ten-year-old boy, he is lost. So it's up to us to find the right person to help him, even though it seems we cannot."
"Drive carefully," she said, as she always did, watching him depart with her heart in her eyes.
Very determined to stay up and protect Mom and Cindy, I still found myself growing sleepy. Every time I checked I saw Bart still on the swing, his dark eyes staring blankly into space, as very gently he moved the swing an inch or so, no more than the wind could blow his weight.
"I'm going to put Cindy to bed now, Jory," Mom
said to me, then called to Bart, "Bedtime . . . I'll be in to see you in a few minutes. Clean your teeth and wash your hands and face. We saved you a slice of lemon pie to eat before you brush your teeth."
No reply from the swing, but he did get up awkwardly, pausing to glance at his bare feet, stopping to stare at his hands, to finger his pajamas, to glance up at the sky, at the distant hills.
Inside the house Bart wandered aimlessly from object to object, picking one up, turning it over and staring at the bottom before he set it down. A small Venetian glass sailboat held his attention for a moment, and then he seemed to freeze as his eyes found a lovely porcelain ballerina in arabesque position. It was a figurine my mom had given to Dr. Paul after she married my father; in many ways the dancer was like Mom must have looked when she was very young.
Gingerly he picked up the delicate figure with its fluffy frozen froth of lace tutu and frail, pale arms and legs. He turned it over, stared at the information printed on the bottom.
Limoges,
it said, for I'd read it too. Next he touched the golden hair, parted in the middle and drawn softly back in waves and held in place with pink china roses.
Then deliberately he let it slip from his hands.
It fell to the bare floor and broke into several large pieces. I dashed forward, thinking I could glue them back together and maybe Mom wouldn't notice--but Bart put his foot on the ballerina's head and ground it fiercely with his bare foot.
"Bart!" I cried out, "that was a hateful thing to do! You know mother prizes that more than anything else. You shouldn't have."
"Don't tell me what I shouldn't and should do! You leave me alone and say nothing about what you just saw. It was an accident,
boy,
an accident."
Whose voice was that? Not Bart's. He was pretending to be that old man again.
I ran for a broom and a dustpan to clean up the shards of what had been a lovely ballerina, hoping Mom wouldn't notice she was missing from the shelf.
When I remembered Bart again, I hurried to find him slyly watching Mom as she held Cindy on her lap, brushing her hair
Mom glanced up and happened to catch Bart watching. I saw her blanch and try to smile, but something she saw made her smile fade before it even shone.
In a flashing streak Bart ran forward and shoved Cindy from Mom's lap. Cindy squealed as she fell on the floor--then jumped up to howl. She raced to Mom, who picked her up again, then rose to tower over Bart. "Bart, why did you do that?"
He spread his legs and stared up into her face scornfully. Then he left the room without looking back.
"Mom," I said, as she calmed Cindy down and put her into bed, "Bart's very sick in his head. You let Dad take him to any shrink he wants, but make him stay there until he's well."
I heard her sob, but it wasn't until later that she broke and cried.
This time it was me who held her; my arms that gave her comfort. I felt so adult and responsible.
"Jory, Jory," she sobbed, clinging fast to me, "why does Bart hate me? What have I done?"
What could I say? I didn't know any of the answers.
"Maybe you should try to figure out why Bart is so different from me, for I would die rather than make you unhappy."
She held me, then stared into space. "Jory, my life has been a series of obstacles. I feel if one more horrible thing happens, I may break . . . and I can't allow that to happen. People are so complicated, Jory, especially adults. When I was ten, I used to think that adults had it so easy, with all the power and rights to do as they wanted. I never guessed being a parent was so difficult. But not you, darling, not you . . ."
I knew her life had been full of sadness, losing her parents, then Cory, Carrie, my father and then her second husband.
The child of my revenge, she whispered as if to herself. All the while I carried Bart I suffered from the guilt I felt. I loved his father so much. . . and in a way I helped kill him.
Mom. I said with a sudden insight, maybe Bart senses your guilt when you look at him- do you think?