"We felt happy to be going to a fine, rich house, but not so happy about meeting a grandfather who sounded cruel. Our mother told us we'd have to hide away until she could win back his affections. Momma said one night only, or maybe two or three, then we could go downstairs and meet her father. He was dying of heart disease and never climbed the stairs so we were safe enough up there as long as we didn't make much noise. The grandmother gave us the attic to play in. It was huge—and dirty, and full of spiders, mice and insects. And that's where we played and tried to make the best of it until Momma won back her father's good will and we could go down and begin to enjoy living like rich children. But soon enough we found out that our grandfather was never going to forgive our mother for marrying his half-brother and we were going to remain 'Devil's issue.' We'd have to live up there until he was dead!"
I went on, despite the look of pained incredulity in the doctor's eyes. "And as if that weren't bad enough, being locked up in one room with our playground in the attic, we soon found out our
grandmother hated us too! She gave us a long list of what we could do and what we couldn't do. We were never to look out of the front windows, or even open the heavy draperies to let in some light
"At first the meals the grandmother brought up each morning in a picnic hamper were rather good, but gradually they worsened to only sandwiches, potato salad and fried chicken. Never any desserts, for they would rot our teeth and we couldn't go to a dentist. Of course, when our birthdays came around, Momma would sneak us up ice cream and a bakery cake, and plenty of presents. Oh, you bet she bought us every-thing to make up for what she was doing to us—as if books and games and toys could ever make up for all we were losing—our health, our belief in ourselves. And, worst of all, we began to lose faith in her!
"Another year came, and that summer Momma didn't even visit us at all! Then, in October she showed up again to tell us she'd married a second time and had spent the summer touring Europe on her honeymoon! I could have killed her! She could have told us, but she'd gone away and not said a word to explain! She brought us expensive gifts, clothes that didn't fit, and thought that made up for everything, when it didn't make up for anything! Finally I was able to convince
Chris we should find a way to escape that house and forget about inheriting a fortune. He didn't want to go, because he thought that any day the grandfather might die, and he wanted to go to college, then medical school and become a doctor—like you."
"A doctor like me . . ." said Dr. Sheffield with a strange sigh. His eyes were soft with sympathy, and something darker too. "It's a strange story, Cathy, and hard to believe."
"Wait a minute!" I cried. "I haven't finished. I haven't told you the worst part! The grandfather did die, and he did write our mother into his will so she'd inherit his tremendous fortune—but he added a codicil that said she could never have children. If it were ever proven she'd given birth to children by her first husband, she'd have to forfeit everything she'd inherit-ed and everything she'd bought with the money!"
I paused. I glanced at Chris who sat pale and weak looking, staring at me with hurt and pleading eyes. But he needn't have worried; I wasn't going to speak of Cory. I turned again to the doctor. "Now that mysterious, elusive factor you can't put your finger on—the thing wrong with Carrie that makes her throw up, and us too sometimes. It's really very simple. You see, once our mother knew she could never claim us
and keep the fortune, she decided to get rid of us. The grandmother began to add sugared doughnuts to the basket. We ate them eagerly enough, not knowing that they were coated with arsenic.
And so I'd said it.
Poisoned doughnuts to sweeten our imprisoned days as we stole from our room by using the wooden key Chris had fashioned. Day by day dying for nine months while we sneaked into our mother's grand bedroom suite and took all the one- and five-dollar bills we could find. Almost a year we'd traversed those long, dim corridors, stealing into her room to take what money we could.
"In that one room, Doctor, we lived three years and four months and sixteen days."
When I'd concluded my long tale the doctor sat very quietly staring at me with compassion, shock, and concern. "So you see, Doctor," I said to finish, "you can't force us to go to the police and tell our story! They might throw the grandmother and our mother in jail, but we'd suffer too! Not only from the publicity, but also from being separated. They'd put us in foster homes, or make us wards of the court, and we've sworn to stay together, always!"
Chris was staring at the floor. He spoke without
looking up. "Take care of our sister. Do whatever is needed to make her well again, and both Cathy and I will find a way to meet our obligations."
"Hold on, Chris," said the doctor in his slow, patient way. "You and Cathy have been fed arsenic too and will need to undergo many of the same tests I order for Carrie. Look at the two of you. You're thin, pale, weak. You need good food, rest and plenty of fresh air and sunshine. Maybe there is something I can do to help."
"You're a stranger to us, sir," Chris said respectfully, "and we don't expect or need anyone's charity or pity. Cathy and I are not that weak or sick. Carrie's the one most affected."
Full of indignation, I spun about to glare at Chris. We'd be fools to reject help from this kind man just so we could salvage some of our pride that had already gone down in defeat so many times before. What difference did one more time make?
". . . Yes," continued the doctor, as if both Chris and I had already agreed to his generous offer to help, "expenses are not as high for an 'out' patient as for an 'in' patient—no room and no board to pay. Now listen, this is only a suggestion which you're free to refuse, and travel on to wherever you have in mind—by the
way, where are you going?"
"To Sarasota, Florida," Chris said weakly. "Cathy and I used to swing from the ropes we tied to the attic rafters, so she thought we could become aerialists, with some practice." It sounded silly when I heard him say it. I expected the doctor to laugh, but he didn't. He just looked sadder.
"Honestly, Chris, I would hate to see you and Cathy risk your lives like that, and as a doctor I feel I can't allow you to go as you are. Everything in my personal ethics and professional ones too refuses to let you go on without medical treatment. Common sense tells me I should keep my distance and not give a damn about what happens to three kids on their own. For all I know that horrendous story may just be a pack of lies to gain my sympathy." He smiled kindly to take the sting from his words. "Yet, my intuition tells me to believe your story. Your expensive clothes, your watches and the sneakers on your feet, your pale skin and the haunted look in your eyes all testify to the truth."
Such a voice he had, hypnotizing, soft and melodious, with just a bit of Southern accent. "Come," he said, charming me, if not Chris, "forget about pride and charity. Come live in my home of twelve lonely
rooms. God must have put Henrietta Beech on that bus to lead you to me. Henny is a terrific worker and keeps my house spotless, but she constantly complains that twelve rooms and four baths are just too much for one woman to care for. Out in the back I have four acres of garden. I hire two gardeners to help, for I just can't devote as much time to the garden as I need to. At this point he riveted his brilliant eyes directly on Chris. "You can help earn your keep by mowing the lawns, clipping the hedges and preparing the gardens for winter. Cathy can help out in the house." He shot me a questioning, teasing look with his eyes twinkling "Can you cook?"
Cook? Was he kidding? We'd been locked upstairs for more than three years, and we'd never even had a toaster to brown our bread in the mornings, and no butter, or even margarine!
"No!" I snapped. "I can't cook. I'm a dancer. When I'm a famous prima ballerina I'll hire a woman to do the cooking, like you do. I don't want to be stuck away in some man's kitchen, washing his dishes and fixing his meals and having his babies! That's not for me."
"I see," he said, his expression blank.
"I don't mean to sound ungrateful," I explained.
"I will do what I can to help out Mrs. Beech. I'll even learn how to cook for her—and you."
"Good," he said. His eyes were laughing, full of sparkling lights as he templed his fingers beneath his chin and smiled. "You are going to be a prima ballerina, and Chris is going to be a famous doctor, and you are going to achieve all of this by running away to Florida to perform in the circus? Of course I'm of another stodgy generation and I can't fathom your reasoning Does it really make good sense to you?"
Now that we were out of the locked room and the attic and in the full light of reality, no, it didn't make good sense. It sounded like foolish, childish and unrealistic folly.
"Do you realize what you'd be up against as professional aerialists?" the doctor asked. "You would have to compete against people who've trained from early childhood, people descended from long lines of circus performers. It wouldn't be easy. Still, I'll admit there's something in those blue eyes that tells me you two are very determined young people, and no doubt you'll get what you go after if you really want it badly enough. But what about school? What about Carrie? What's she going to do while the two of you swing
from trapezes? Now don't bother to answer," he said quickly when my lips parted. "I'm sure you can come up with something to convince me, but I must dissuade you. First you have to tend to your health and Carrie's. Any day the two of you could come down as swiftly as Carrie and be just as sick. After all, didn't all three of you exist under the same miserable conditions?"
Four of us, not three, was the whisper in my ears, but I didn't speak of Cory.
"If you meant it about taking us in until Carrie is well," said Chris with his eyes shining suspiciously, "we're extremely grateful. We'll work hard, and when we can we'll leave and repay you every cent you spent on us."
"I meant it. And you don't have to repay me, except by helping out in the house and the yard. So, you see, it isn't pity, or charity, only a business arrangement to benefit all of us."
A New Home
.
That's the way it started. We moved quietly into the doctor's home and into his life. We took him over, I know that now. We made ourselves important to him, as if he hadn't had a life before we came. I know that now too. He made it seem we were doing him a favor by relieving him of a dreary, lonely life by adding our youthful presence. He made us feel that we were being generous to share his life, and oh, we did want to believe in someone.
He gave Carrie and me a grand bedroom to share, with twin beds and four tall windows facing south, and two windows facing east. Chris and I looked at each other with a terrible shared hurt. We were to sleep in different rooms for the first time in ever so long. I didn't want to part from him and face the night with only Carrie, who could never protect me as he had. I think our doctor may have sensed something that told him to fade into the background, for he excused himself and drifted toward the end of the hall. Only then did Chris speak. "We've got to be careful, Cathy. We wouldn't want him to suspect. . . ."
"There is nothing to suspect. It's over," I answered, but I didn't meet his eyes, guessing, even
then, that it would never be over. Oh, Momma, look what you started by putting the four of us in one locked room, and leaving us there to grow up, knowing how it would be! You of all people should have known!
"Don't," Chris whispered. "Kiss me good night, and there won't be any bedbugs here."
He kissed me, I kissed him, we said good night, and that was all. With tears in my eyes I watched my brother back down the hall, still holding his eyes on me.
In our room Carrie let out a loud howl. "I can't sleep in no little bed all by myself!" she wailed. "I'll fall off! Cathy, why is that bed so little?"
It ended up with Chris and the doctor coming back so they could take away the nightstand that separated the twin beds. Then they shoved the narrow beds so close they appeared one wide bed. This pleased Carrie enormously, but, as the nights passed, somehow the crack between our beds grew ever wider until I, the restless sleeper, finally woke up with one leg and one arm in the crack and Carrie being pulled along with me to the floor.
I loved that room Paul gave us. It was so beautiful with its pale blue wallpaper, and matching
curtains. The rug was blue; each of us had a chair with lemon-yellow cushions and all the furniture was antique white. It was the kind of room a girl should have. No gloom. No pictures of hell on the wall. All the hell I had was in my mind, put there by thinking back much too often. Momma could have found another solution if she'd really wanted to! "She didn't have to lock us up!
It was greed, avarice, that damned fortune. . . and Cory was in the ground because of her weakness!
"Forget it, Cathy," said Chris when we were again saying good night.
I was terribly afraid to tell him what I suspected. My head bowed low against his chest. "Chris, it was a sinful thing we did, wasn't it?"
"It won't happen again," he said stiffly, then broke away and almost ran down the hall as if I were chasing. I wanted to lead a good life and hurt no one, especially Chris. Even so, I had to leave my bed around midnight and go to Chris. While he slept I crawled in the bed beside him. He wakened when he heard the bedsprings squeak. "Cathy, what the hell are you doing here?"
"It's raining outside," I whispered. "Just let me lie beside you for a moment or so, and then I'll go
away." Neither of us moved, or even breathed. Then without even knowing how it came about, we were in each other's arms and he was kissing me. Kissing with such ardent fervor it made me respond when I didn't want to. It was evil and wrong! Yet I didn't really want him to stop. That sleeping woman inside of me woke up and took over, wanting what he felt he had to have, and I, the thinking, calculating part, pushed him away. "What are you doing? I thought you said this would never happen again. '
"You came . . ." he said hoarsely.
"Not for this!"
"What do you think I'm made of? Steel? Cathy, don't do this again."
I left him and cried in my own bed, for he was down the hall and not there to waken me if I had a nightmare. No one to comfort me. No one to lend me strength. Then my mother's words came to haunt me with a horrible thought—was I so much like her? Was I going to be the kind of weak, clinging-vine female who always needed a man for protection? No! I was sufficient unto myself!
I believe it was the next day that Dr. Paul brought me four pictures to hang. Ballerinas in four different positions. For Carrie he brought a milk-glass
vase filled with delicate plastic violets. Already he'd learned about Carrie's passion for ail things purple or red. "Do what you can to -make this room yours," he told us. "if you don't like the color scheme, we'll have it changed in the spring." I stared at him. We wouldn't be here, conic spring.
Carrie sat holding her vase of fake violets while I forced myself to speak up and say what I had to. "Dr. Paul, we won't be here in the spring, so we can't afford to let ourselves become too attached to the rooms you've given us."
He was in the doorway, ready to depart, but he halted and turned to look back at me. He was tall, six two or more, and his shoulders were so wide they almost filled the doorway.
"I thought you liked it here," he said in a wistful tone, his dark eyes gone bleak.
"I do like it here!" I quickly answered. "We all like it here, but we can't take advantage of your good nature forever." He nodded without replying and left, and I turned to see Carrie staring at me with a great deal of animosity.
Daily the doctor took Carrie to the hospital with him. At first she'd wail and refuse to go unless I went along too. She made up fantastic stories about what
they did to her in the hospital, and complained about all the questions they asked her.
"Carrie, we never tell lies; you know that. The three of us always tell the truth to each other—but we don't go around telling everybody about our past lives upstairs--understand?"
She stared up at me with those big, haunted eyes. "I don't tell nobody Cory went away to heaven and left me. I don't tell nobody but Dr. Paul."
"You told him?"
"I couldn't help it, Cathy," Carrie buried her head in her pillow and cried.
So now the doctor knew about Cory, and how he was supposed to have died in a hospital from pneumonia. How sad his eyes were that night when he questioned Chris and me, wanting all the details of Cory's illness that ended in his death.
Chris and I were huddled up close on the living room sofa when Paul said, "I'm very happy to report that arsenic has not done any permanent damage to any of Carrie's organs, as we all feared it might have. Now don't look like that. I haven't let out your secret but I had to tell the lab technicians what to look for. I made up a story about how you'd taken the poison accidentally, and your parents were good friends of
mine, and I'm considering making you three my legal wards."
"Carrie's going to live?" I whispered, drowning in relief.
"Yes, she'll live—if she doesn't go swinging on trapezes." He smiled again. "I've made appointments for the two of you to be examined tomorrow—by me—unless you have some objections."
Oh, I had objections! I wasn't keen about taking off my clothes and having him go over me, even if a nurse was there. Chris told me I was silly to think a doctor of forty would get any erotic pleasure from looking at a girl of my age. But when he said it, he was looking the other way, so how could I tell what he was really thinking? Maybe Chris was right, for when I was on that examination table, naked and covered by a paper robe, Dr. Paul didn't seem the same man whose eyes followed me around when we were in the "home" side of his house. He did to me the same things he'd done to Carrie, but asked even more questions. Embarrassing questions.
"You haven't menstruated in more than two months?"
"I've never been regular, really! I started when I was twelve, and twice I skipped from three to six
months. I used to worry about it, but Chris read up on the subject in one of the medical books Momma brought him, and he told me too many anxieties and too much stress can make a girl miss. You don't think . . I mean . . . there isn't anything wrong with me, is there?"
"Not that I can tell. You seem normal enough. Too thin, too pale, and you're slightly anemic. Chris is too, but because of his sex not as much as you are. I'm going to prescribe special vitamins for all three of you."
I was glad when it was over and I could put on my clothes and escape that office where the women who worked for Dr. Paul looked at me so funny.
I raced back to the kitchen. Mrs. Beech was preparing dinner. Her smile shone big and wide when I came in, lighting up a moon face with skin as slick as oiled rubber. The teeth she displayed were the whitest, most perfect teeth I'd ever seen. "Golly, am I happy that's over!" I said, falling into a chair and picking up a knife to peel potatoes. "I don't like doctors poking me over. I like Dr. Paul better when he's just a man. When he puts on that long white jacket, he also puts a shade over his eyes. Then I can't see what he's thinking. And I'm very good at reading eyes, Mrs.
Beech."
She grinned at me with teasing devilry, then whipped out a pink notepad from the huge square pocket of her starched white apron. With the apron tied about her middle she resembled nothing more than a rolled-up goosedown comforter, waddling about speechless. By now I knew she had a congenital speech defect. Though she was trying to teach Chris, Carrie and me to understand her sign language, as yet none of us had caught on enough to carry on a quick conversation. I think I enjoyed her notes too much—notes she could write lightning-fast in a very abbreviated style. Doctor says, she'd written, young people need lots of good fresh fruit and vegetables, plenty of lean meat, but go easy on starches and desserts. He wants to put on you muscle not fat.
Already we'd gained some weight in the two weeks of eating Mrs. Beech's delicious cooking, even Carrie who was so darn finicky. Now she ate with enthusiasm, and for her that was remarkable. So, as I peeled the red potatoes, Mrs. Beech wrote another note when her signals failed to communicate. Fairy-Child, from now on call me only Henny. No Mrs. Beech.
She was the first black person I'd known, and
though at first I'd felt ill-at-ease with her and a little afraid of her, two weeks of intimacy had taught me much. She was just another human being of another race and color, with the same sensitivities, hopes and fears we all had.
I loved Henny, her broad smiles, her loose, flowing gowns with flowers blooming riotously, and most of all I loved the wisdom that came from her small pastel paper sheets. Eventually, I did learn to understand her sign language, though I was never as good at it as her "doctor-son."
Paul Scott Sheffield was a strange man. So often he looked sad when there was no apparent reason for him to be sad. Then he'd smile and say, "Yes, God favored Henny and me that day he pit you three on that bus. I lost one family, and grieved for them, and fate was kind enough to send me another, ready-made family."
"Chris," I said that evening when we had to reluctantly part, "when we lived in the room upstairs, you were the man, the head of the household. . . . Sometimes it feels funny to have Dr. Paul around, watching what we do and listening to what we say."
He blushed. "I know. He's taking my place. Be honest," and here he paused and blushed a deeper red,
"I don't like him replacing me in your life, but I'm very grateful for what he's done for Carrie."
Somehow all that our doctor did for us made Momma seem a thousandfold worse in comparison. Ten thousandfold worse!
The next day was Chris's eighteenth birthday, and though I'd never forget, it surprised me that the doctor had planned a party with many fine gifts that sparkled Chris's eyes, and then saddened them with the guilt both he and I felt. Already we'd accepted so much. Already we had been making plans to leave soon. We just couldn't stay on and take advantage of Dr. Paul's good nature, now that Carrie was well enough to travel on.
After the party Chris and I sat on the back veranda, mulling this over. One look at his face and I could tell he didn't want to leave the one and only man who could, and would, help him reach his goal of becoming a doctor. "I really don't like the way he keeps looking at you, Cathy. His eyes follow you about all the time. Here you are, so available, and men his age find girls your age irresistible."
They did? How fascinating to know. "But doctors have plenty of pretty nurses available to them," I said lamely, knowing I would do anything
short of murder, to see that Chris reached his goal. "Remember that day we first came? He spoke of the kind of competition we'd be up against in the circus. Chris, he's right. We can't go work for the circus; that's only a silly dream."
He stared off into space with knitted brows. "I know all of that."
"Chris, he's just lonely. Maybe he only watches me because there isn't anything else as interesting to watch as me." But how fascinating to know that men of forty were susceptible to girls of fifteen. How wonderful to wield over them the power that my mother had.
"Chris, if Dr. Paul says the right thing, I mean, if he really honestly wants us, would you stay on?"
He frowned and studied the hedges he'd so recently clipped. After long consideration he spoke slowly, "Let's give him a test. If we tell him we're leaving, and he doesn't say anything to prevent us, then that will be his polite way to let us know he doesn't really care."
"Is it fair to test him like that?"
"Yes. It's a good way to give him the chance to get rid of us and not feel guilty about it. You know, people like him often do nice things because they feel
they should, not because they really want to."
"Oh."
We were not ones to procrastinate. The next evening after dinner, Paul came to join us on the back veranda. Paul. I was calling him that in my thoughts—getting familiar, liking him more and more because always he looked so casually elegant, so clean, so nice, sitting in his favorite white wicker rocker, wearing a red cable- knit sweater with gray slacks and slowly, dreamily puffing on a cigarette. We three wore sweaters too, for the evening was chilly. Chris perched beside me on the balustrade while Carrie crouched on the top step. Paul's gardens were fabulous. Shallow marble steps nine feet across took you down a few feet to other steps which took you to a higher level. There was a small Japanese footbridge lacquered red, arching over a small stream. There were nude statues of men and women, placed at random, which lent to his gardens an atmosphere of seduction, of worldly sensuality. They were classic nudes. Graceful, and elegantly posed, and yet, and yet . . . I knew that garden for what it was. For I'd been there before in my dreams.
The doctor was telling us, even as the wind turned colder and started to blow dead leaves hither
and yon, that he traveled abroad every other year to search out the beautiful marble statues he'd ship home and add to his collection. He'd been so lucky the last time to come across a full-sized copy of Rodin's The Kiss.
I sighed with the wind. I didn't want to go. I liked it here with him, with Henny, with the gardens that held me in thrall and made me feel enchanted, beautiful, desirable.
"So all my roses are old-fashioned roses that haven't had the heady scent bred from them," said Dr. Paul. "Why have roses at all if they don't reek of perfume?"
In the fading, purplish light of the failing day his glimmering eyes met with mine. My pulse quickened and forced another sigh. I wondered what his wife had been like, and how it felt to be loved by someone like him. Guiltily my eyes fled from his long, searching look, afraid he'd see what I was thinking. "You look disturbed, Cathy. Why?" His question teased me, as if he knew already my secrets. Chris turned his head to give me a hard look of warning.
"It's your red sweater," I said foolishly. "Did Henny knit it for you?"
He chuckled softly, then glanced down at the
handsome sweater he wore. "No, not Henny. My older sister knitted the sweater for my birthday, then mailed it to me parcel post. She lives on the other side of town."
"Why would your sister mail you a gift and not bring it in person?" I asked. "And why didn't you tell us you had a birthday? We would have given you gifts too."
"Well," he began, settling back comfortably and crossing his legs, "my birthday came and went shortly before you arrived. I'm forty in case Henny hasn't told you. I've been a widower thirteen years, and my sister, Amanda, has not spoken to me since the day my wife and young son died in an accident." His voice faded away and he stared off into space, moody, solemn, distant.
Dead leaves scuttled on the lawn, chased over the porch and came to nestle near my feet, like brown, dried-up ducklings. All this took me back to a certain forbidden night when Chris and I had so desperately prayed while we huddled on the cold slate roof under a moon that looked like the scowling eye of God. Would there be a price to pay for just one terrible sin committed? Would there? The grandmother would quickly say, yes! You deserve the worst punishment!
Devil's spawn, I knew it all along!
And while I sat there floundering Chris spoke up. "Doctor, Cathy and I have been talking this over, and we feel now that Carrie is well we should be leaving. We deeply appreciate everything you've done, and we intend to repay you every cent, though it may take us a few years. . . ." His fingers squeezed tight around mine, warning me not to say anything different.
"Hold on there, Chris," interrupted the doctor, jerking upright in his chair and planting both his feet solidly on the floor. Clearly he meant business. "Don't think for one minute I haven't seen this coming. I've dreaded each morning, fearful I'd wake up to find you gone."
"I've been looking into the legal ramifications of making the three of you my wards. And I've found out it isn't as complicated as I thought. It seems most children who run away say they're orphans, so you'll have to give me proof your father is really dead. If he's alive, I would need his consent, as well as your mother's."
My breath caught! My mother's consent? That meant we'd have to see her again! I didn't want to see her, not ever!
He went on, his eyes soft as they saw my distress. "The court would petition your mother to appear at a hearing. If she lived in this state she'd be forced to comply in three days, but since she's in Virginia, they'll give her three weeks. If she doesn't show up, then instead of having only temporary custody of you, I will be granted permanent custody—but only if you're willing to say I've done a good job as a guardian."
"You've been wonderful!" I cried out. "But she won't come! She wants to keep us a secret! If the world finds out about us, she'll lose all that money. Her husband might turn against her too if he knew she'd hidden us away. You can bet your life if you dare to try for permanent custody, you'll get it—and you might be sorry in the end!"
Chris's hand tightened more on mine, and Carrie looked up with huge, scared eyes.
"In a few weeks Christmas will be here. Are you going to leave me to spend another lonely holiday by myself? You've been here for almost three weeks, and I've explained to everyone who asked that you were the children of a relative of mine who died recently. I'm not going into this blindly. Henny and I have given this a great deal of thought. She feels, just
as I feel, that the three of you are good for us. We both want you to stay on. Having young people in the house makes it more like a home. I feel healthier than I have in years, and happier too. Since the death of my wife and son, I've missed having a family. In all this time I've never gotten used to being a bachelor again." His persuasive tone grew wistful. feel fate wants me to have custody of you. I feel God planned for Henny to be on the bus, just so she could bring you to me. When fate steps in and makes the decisions, who am Ito deny it? I accept the fact you three are godsent to help me make up for the mistakes I've made in the past."
Wow! Godsent! I was more than half-won. I knew people could always find the motivation to justify what they wanted; well enough I knew that. Even so, tears filled my eyes as I looked at Chris questioningly. He met my look and shook his head in bewilderment, confused as to what I wanted. His hand gripped mine like iron while he spoke, still looking at me, not at Dr. Paul. "We're sorry for the loss of your wife and son, sir. But we can't replace them, and I don't know if we'd be doing right to burden you with the expense of three kids not your own." Then he added, looking the doctor squarely in the eyes. "And you should think about this too. You'll have one hell
of a time finding another wife when you assume guardianship of us."
"I don't intend to marry again," he replied in a strange way. Then he went on with an abstract air, "Julia was the name of my wife, and my son was named Scotty. He was only three when he died."
"Oh," I breathed, "how terrible to lose a son so young, and your wife too." His obvious grief and remorse reached out and touched me; I was very in tune with those who grieved. "Did they die in an accident, a car accident like our father?"
"An accident," he said sharply, "but not in a car."
"Our father was only thirty-six when he was killed, and we were having a surprise birthday party, with a cake, presents . . . and he never came, only two state policemen. . . ."
"Yes, Cathy," he said softly, "you've told me. The adolescent years aren't easy for anyone, and to be young and on your own, without the proper education, with little money, no family, no friends—"
"We've got each other!" said Chris staunchly, so as to test him more. "So, we will never truly be alone."
Paul went on. "If you don't want me, and what I have to give you isn't enough, then go on to Florida
with my blessings. Throw away all those long hours you studied, Chris, just when you're almost there. And you, Cathy, can forget your dream of being a prima ballerina. And don't you think for one moment that's going to be a healthy, happy life for Carrie. I'm not persuading you to stay, for you'll do what you want to and have to. So make up your minds—is it to be me and the chance to fulfill your aspirations, or is it to be the hard, unknown world?"
I sat there on the balustrade as close as possible to Chris, with my hand held in his. I wanted to stay. I wanted what the doctor could give to Chris, to say nothing of Carrie and myself.
The southern breezes kept blowing, caressing my cheek and whispering too convincingly that everything would work out right. I could hear Henny in the kitchen making fresh dough for the hot rolls we'd eat in the morning, made golden by dripping butter. Butter was one of the things denied us before, and the luxury Chris had missed most.
Everything here beguiled me, the air, the soft, warm glow in the doctor's eyes. Even the banging of Henny's pots and pans began to work magic, and my heart, so heavily burdened for so long, began to feel lighter. Maybe perfection did exist outside of fairy
tales. Maybe we were good enough to walk upright and proud beneath God's blue sky; maybe we were not contaminated shoots grown from the wrong seed planted in the wrong soil.
And more than anything the doctor had said, or anything his sparkling eyes implied, I think it was the roses that still bloomed, though it was winter, that made me feel dizzy from the overwhelming sweetness of their perfume.
But it wasn't Chris and I who decided. It was Carrie. Suddenly she jumped up from the top step and went flying into the doctor's outstretched arms. She flung herself against him and wrapped her thin arms about his neck. “ don't want to go! I love you, Dr. Paul!" she cried out, almost frantic. don't want no Florida and no circus! I don't want to go anywhere!" Then she was crying, letting out all her grief for Cory, withheld for so long. He picked her up and held her on his lap, and put kisses on her wet cheeks before he used his handkerchief to mop up the tears.
"I love you too, Carrie. I always wanted a little girl with blond curls and big blue eyes, just like yours." But he wasn't looking at Carrie. He was looking at me.
"And I wanna be here for Christmas," sobbed
Carrie. "I've never seen Santa Claus, not once." Of course she had, years ago, when our parents took the twins to a department store and Daddy snapped a picture of the two of them on Santa's lap, but maybe she'd forgotten.
How could a stranger come so easily into our lives and give us love, when our own blood kin had sought to give us death?
Life's Second Chance
.
Carrie decided. We stayed. Even if she hadn't decided, still we would have stayed. How could we not?
We tried to give Dr. Paul what money we had left. He refused. "You keep that money for yourselves. You worked hard to get it, didn't you? And you might as well know I've seen my attorney so he can fill out the petitions that will bring your mother to Clairmont. I know you believe she won't come, but you can never tell. If I'm so lucky as to win permanent custody, I'll give each of you a weekly allowance. No one can feel free and happy without some money in his pocket. Most of my colleagues give their teenage children five dollars a week. Three dollars should be enough for a girl Carrie's age." He planned to buy all our clothes and everything else we needed for school. We could only stare at him, amazed he'd be so generous—again.
A few days before Christmas he drove us to a shopping mall that was carpeted in red; the ceiling was a glass dome; throngs of people swarmed about as pop Christmas music played. It was like fairyland! I glowed; so did Carrie and Chris—and our doctor. His huge hand held Carrie's small one as Chris and I held
on to each other. I saw him watching us, enjoying our wide-eyed stares. We were charmed by everything. Awed, impressed, very wanting, fearful too he would see and try to satisfy all our yearnings.
I turned in circles when we reached the department that sold clothes for teenage girls. Dazzled and bewildered by so much, I looked at that, and looked at this, and couldn't decide what I wanted when everything was so pretty and I'd never had the chance to shop for myself before. Chris laughed at my indecision. "Go on," he urged, "now that you have the chance to fit yourself perfectly, try on what you like." I knew what he was thinking, for it had been my mean way to complain that Momma never brought me anything that fitted right.
With great care I selected parsimoniously the outfits I thought suitable for school that would begin for us in January. And I needed a coat, real shoes, and a raincoat and hat and umbrella. Everything that kind-hearted, generous man allowed me to buy made me feel guilty, as if we were taking advantage of him.
To reward me for my slowness and my reluctance to buy too much, Paul said impatiently, "For heaven's sake, Cathy, don't think we're going shopping like this every week. I want you to buy
enough today to last you through the winter. Chris, while we finish up here, you dash on to the young men's section and begin picking out what you want. While you do that, Cathy and I can outfit Carrie with the clothes she needs."
I noticed that all the adolescent girls in the store were turning to stare at my brother as he made his way to the young men's department.
At last we were going to be normal kids. Then, when I felt tentatively secure, Came let out a howl to shatter crystal palaces in London! Her cries jolted the salespeople, startled the customers, and a lady bumped her baby-stroller into a dummy who went crashing down. The baby in the stroller added his screams to Carrie's!
Chris came on the run to see who was murdering his small sister. She stood, feet wide apart, head thrown back, with tears of frustration streaming her cheeks.
"Good God, what's wrong now?" asked Chris as our doctor looked dumbfounded.
Men—what did they know? Obviously Carrie was outraged by the pretty little pastel dresses brought out for her approval. Baby clothes—that's what. Even so, all were too large, and none were red or purple—
absolutely not Carrie's style at all! "Try the toddler department," suggested the heartless, haughty blonde with the beehive hair. She smiled graciously at our doctor who appeared embarrassed.
Carrie was eight! To even mention "toddler clothes" was insulting! She screwed her face into a puckered prune. "I can't wear toddler clothes to school!" she wailed. She pressed her face against my thigh and hugged my legs. "Cathy, don't make me wear pink and blue baby dresses! Everybody will laugh! I know they will! I want purple, red—no baby colors!"
Dr. Paul soothed her. "Darling, I adore blond girls with blue eyes in pastels, so why not wait until you're older to wear all those brilliant colors?"
Bittersweet milksop like this was something someone as stubborn as Carrie couldn't swallow. She glared her eyes, balled her fists, prepared her foot for kicking and readied her vocal cords for screaming when a middle- aged, plump woman who must have had someone like Carrie for a granddaughter suggested calmly that she could have her clothes custom made. Came hesitated uncertainly, looking from me to the doctor, then to Chris and back to the saleslady.
"A perfect solution!" said Dr. Paul enthusiastically, looking relieved. "I'll buy a sewing machine and Cathy can make you purple, red, and electric-blue clothes, and you'll be a knock-out."
"Don't wanna be no knock-out—just want bright colors." Carrie pouted while I was left with my mouth agape. I was a dancer, not a seamstress! (Something that didn't escape Carrie's knowledge.) "Cathy don't know how to make good clothes," she said. "Cathy don't do nothing but dance."
That was loyalty. Me, who'd taught her and Cory to read, with a little help from Chris. "What's the matter with you, Carrie?" snapped Chris. "You're acting like a baby. Cathy can do anything she sets her mind to— remember that!" The doctor readily agreed. I said nothing as we shopped for an electric sewing machine.
"But in the meantime, let's buy a few pink, yellow and blue dresses, all right, Carrie?" Dr. Paul grinned mockingly. "And Cathy can save me tons of money by sewing her own clothes too."
Despite the sewing I'd have to learn, heaven was ours that day. We went home loaded, all of us made beautiful in barber shops and beauty salons; each of us had on new shoes with hard soles. I had my very first
pair of high-heeled pumps—and a dozen pairs of nylons! My first nylons, my first bra—and to top it all off, a shopping bag full of cosmetics. I'd taken forever to select makeup while the doctor stood back and watched me with the queerest expression. Chris had grumbled, saying I didn't need rouge or lipstick, or eyeshadow, liner and mascara. "You don't know anything at all about being a girl," I answered with an air of superiority. This was my first shopping binge, and by heaven I was making the most of it! I had to have everything I'd seen on Momma's fabulous dressing table. Even her kind of wrinkle cream, plus a mud pack for firming.
No sooner were we out of the car and unloaded than Chris, Carrie and I dashed upstairs to try on all our new clothes. Funny how once new clothes had come to us so easily and hadn't made us happy like this. Not when no one would see us wear them. Yet, being what I was, when I slipped on the blue velvet dress with tiny buttons down the front, I thought of Momma. How ironic that I should want to cry for a mother we'd lost, who I was determined to hate forever. I sat on the edge of my twin bed and pondered this. Momma had given us new clothes, toys and games out of guilt for what she was doing, depriving
us of a normal childhood. A childhood we'd never have the chance to recover. Lost years, some of the best years, and Cory was in a grave, no new suits for him.
His guitar was in the corner where Carrie could wake up and see it and the banjo. Why was it us who always had to suffer, why not her? Then, suddenly it hit me! Bart Winslow was from South Carolina! I ran down to our doctor's study and purloined his big atlas, then back I raced to the bedroom, and there I found the map of South Carolina. I found Clairmont. . . but didn't believe my eyes when I saw it was a twin city to Greenglenna! No, that was too much of a coincidence—or was it? I looked up and stared into space. God had meant for us to come here and live near Momma—if she ever visited her husband's home town. God wanted me to have the chance to inflict a little pain of my own. As soon as I could, I was going to Greenglenna and look up all the information I could about him and his family. I had five dollars a week—to order a subscription of the community paper that told of all the social activities of the wealthy people who lived near Foxworth Hall.
Yes, I was gone from Foxworth Hall, but I was going to know every move she made, and when she
came this way I'd know that too! Sooner or later, Momma was going to hear from me, and know I would never, never forget or forgive. Somehow, in some way, she was going to hurt ten times more than we had!
With this decided, I could join Chris and Carrie in the living room to model all our new clothes for our doctor and Henny. Henny's smile beamed like a dazzling sun. I watched the bejeweled eyes of our benefactor, only to see them shadow over as he frowned reflectively. I saw no admiration or approval. Suddenly, he got up and left the room, offering a weak excuse of needing to do some paperwork.
Soon Henny became my mentor in all things domestic. She taught me to bake biscuits from scratch, and tried to teach me how to make rolls light and fluffy.
Wham! went Henny's hand into the dough. Henny wiped her hands clean of flour and dashed off a note. Henny got bad eyes for seeing small things like needle eyes. You have good eyes you sew on doctor son's missing shirt buttons—yes?
"Sure," I agreed without enthusiasm, "I can sew holes, and I can also knit, crochet, needlepoint and do crewel work. My mother taught me how to do all
those things as a way to keep busy." Suddenly I couldn't speak. I wanted to cry. I saw my mother's lovely face. I saw Daddy. I saw Chris and me as children hurrying home from school, rushing in with snow on our shoulders to find Momma knitting baby things for the twins. I couldn't help but bow my head into Henny's lap and begin to cry, really bawl. Henny couldn't speak, but her soft hand on my shoulder showed she understood. When I glanced upward, she was crying too. Big, fat tears that slid down to wet her bright red dress. "Don't cry, Henny. I'll be happy to sew on Dr. Paul's missing buttons. He's saved our lives, and there's nothing I wouldn't do for him " She gave me a strange look, then got up to fetch years of mending and perhaps a dozen shirts with missing buttons.
Chris spent every available moment with Dr. Paul who was coaching him so he could enter a special college-prep school in midterm. Carrie was our biggest problem. She could read and write but she was so very small. How would she manage in a public school where children were not always kind?
"It's a private school I have in mind for Carrie," explained our doctor. "A very good school for young girls, run by an excellent staff. Since I'm on the board
of trustees, I think Carrie will be given special atten-tion, and not subjected to any kind of stress." He eyed me meaningfully.
That was my worst fear, that Carrie would be ridiculed and made to feel ashamed because of her overlarge head and undersized body. Once Carrie had been so beautifully proportioned, so very perfect. It was all those lost years when the sun was denied us that made her so small. It was, I knew it was!
I was scared to death Momma would show up on that day she was supposed to appear at the court hearing. But I was certain, almost, that she wouldn't come. How could she? She had too much to lose and nothing to gain. What were we but burdens to bear? And there was jail too, a murder charge. . . .
We sat very quietly with Paul, dressed in our best to appear in the judge's chamber, and waited, and waited, and waited. I was a tight wire inside, stretched so taut I thought I might break and cry. She didn't want us. Again she told us by not showing up, how little she cared! The judge looked at us with too much pity, making me feel so sorry for all of us—and so angry with her! Oh, damn her to hell! She gave us birth, she claimed to have loved our father! How could she do this to his children—her own children? What
kind of mother was she? I didn't want that judge's pity, or Paul's. I held my head high and bit down on my tongue to keep from screaming. I dared to glance at Chris and saw him sitting blank-eyed, though I knew his heart was being shredded, as mine was. Carrie crouched in a tight ball on the doctor's lap, as his hands soothed her, and he whispered something in her ear. I think he said, "Never mind, it's all right. You have me for a father and Henny for a mother. You'll never want for anything as long as I live."
I cried that night. I wet my pillow with tears shed for a mother I'd loved so much it hurt to think back to the days when Daddy was alive and our home life was perfect. I cried for all the good things she had done for us back then, and, most of all, for all the love she'd so generously given us—then. I cried more for Cory who was like my own child. And that's when I stopped crying and turned to bitter, hard thoughts of revenge. When you set out to defeat someone, the best way was to think as they did. What would hurt her most? She wouldn't want to think of us. She'd try to forget we ever existed. Well, she wouldn't forget. I'd see to it that she didn't. This very Christmas I would send her a card, and sign it with this, "From the four Dresden dolls you didn't want," and I had to change
that to "The three alive Dresden dolls you didn't want, plus the dead one you carried away and never brought back." I could see her staring at that card, thinking to herself, I only did what I had to.
We had let down our shields and allowed ourselves to be vulnerable again. We allowed faith, hope and trust to come and dance like sugarplums in our heads.
Fairy tales could come true.
They were happening to us. The wicked queen was out of our lives, and Snow White would reign one day. She wouldn't be the one to eat the poisoned red apple. But every fairy tale had a dragon to slay, a witch to overcome or some obstacle to make things difficult. I tried to look ahead and figure out who would be the dragon, and what would be the obstacles. All along I knew who was the witch. And that was the saddest part of being me.
I got up and went out on the upper veranda to stare up at the moon. I saw Chris standing near the railing, gazing up at the moon too. From the slump of his shoulders, usually held so proud, I- knew he was bleeding inside, just as I was. I tiptoed over to surprise him But he turned as I neared and held out his arms. Without thought I went straight into them and put my
arms up around his neck. He wore the warm robe Momma had given him last Christmas, though it was much too small. He'd have another from me when he looked under the tree Christmas morning, with his monogram—CFS--for he wanted never to be called Foxworth, but Sheffield.
His blue eyes gazed down into mine. Eyes so much alike. I loved him as I loved the better side of myself, the brighter, happier side.
"Cathy," he whispered, stroking my back, his eyes bright, "if you feel like crying, go ahead, I'll understand. Cry enough for me too. I was hoping, praying that Momma would come and somehow give us a reasonable explanation for doing what she did."
"A reasonable excuse for murder?" I asked bitterly. "How could she dream up one clever enough? She's not that smart." He looked so miserable I tightened my arms about his neck. One hand stole into his hair and twined there. My other hand lowered to stroke his cheek. Love, it was such an encompassing word, different from sex and ten times more compelling. I felt full of love for him when he lowered his face into my hair and sobbed. He murmured my name over and over again, as if I were the only person in the world who would ever be real and solid, and
dependable.
Somehow his lips found mine and we were kissing, kissing with so much passion he was aroused and tried to draw me into his room. "I just want to hold you, that's all. Nothing else. When I go away to school, I need to have something more to hold to—give me just a little more, Cathy, please." Before I could answer he had me in his arms again, kissing me with such burning lips I became terrified—and excited too.
"Stop! Don't!" I cried, but he went on, touching my breasts and pushing my gown aside so he could kiss them. "Chris!" I hissed, angry then. "Don't love me, Chris. When you're gone, what you feel for me will fade away like it never happened. We'll force ourselves to love others so we can feel clean. We can't be our parents in duplicate. We can't make the same mistake."
He held me tighter and didn't say a word, yet I knew what he was thinking. There wouldn't be any others. He wouldn't let it come about. One woman had hurt him too deeply, betrayed him too monstrously when he was young and very, very vulnerable. There was only me he could trust.
He stepped back, two tears shining in the
corners of his eyes. It was up to me to slice the bond, now, here. And for his own good. Everybody always did everything for someone's good.
I couldn't go to sleep. I f t hearing him calling me, wanting me. I got and down the hall and again got in his'where he lay waiting. "You'll never be free of me, &thy, never. As long as you live, it will be me and you."
"No!"
"Yes!"
"No!" But I kissed him, then jumped from his bed and raced back to my room, slamming and locking the door behind me. What was the matter with me? I should never have gone to his room and gotten into his bed. Was I as evil as the grandmother said?
No, I wasn't.
I couldn't be!
PART TWO
Visions of Sugarplums
.
It was Christmas. The tree touched the twelve-foot ceiling, and spread under it were gifts enough for ten children! Not that Chris and I were children anymore. Carrie was thrilled by everything Santa had brought for her. Chris and I had used the last of our stolen hoard of money to buy Paul a luscious red lounging robe, and a brilliant gown of ruby red velvet for Henny----size fifty-eight! Dazzled and pleased, she held it before her. Then she wrote a thank-you note, Make good church dress. Make all friends jealous.
Paul tried on his lavish new lounging robe. He looked divine in that color and it fitted him beautifully.
Next came the biggest surprise of all. Paul strode over to me and hunkered down on his heels. From his wallet he pulled five large yellow tickets. If he had sat down for a year and thought about nothing but a way to please me most, he couldn't have been more successful. There, fanned in his large, finely shaped hand, were tickets to The Nutcracker, performed by the Rosencoff School of Ballet.
"It's a very professional company, I hear,"
explained Paul. "I don't know much about ballet myself, but I've asked around, and they say it is one of the best. They also teach beginner, intermediate and advanced lessons. Which level are you?"
"Advanced!" proclaimed Chris while I could only stare at Paul, too happy to speak. "Cathy was a beginner when she went upstairs to live. But something wonderful happened to her in the attic—the ghost of Anna Pavlova came and took over her body. And Cathy taught herself how to go on pointe."
That night all of us, including Henny, sat enthralled in the third row, center section. Those dancers on stage weren't just good—they were superb! Especially the handsome man named Julian Marquet who danced the lead. As in a dream I followed Paul backstage during intermission, for I was going to meet the dancers!
He led us toward a couple standing in the wings. "Madame, Georges," he said to a tiny woman sleek as a seal and a not much larger man by her side, "this is my ward, Catherine Doll, who I was telling you about. This is her brother Christopher, and this younger beauty is Carrie, and you have met Henrietta Beech before. . . ."
"Yah, of course," said the lady who looked like
a dancer, talked like a dancer, and wore her black hair just like a dancer would, drawn back from her face and pinned up in a huge chignon. Over black leotards she wore a floating chiffon dress of black, and over that a bolero of leopard skins. Her husband, Georges, was a quiet man, sinewy, pale-faced, with startlingly black hair, and lips so red they seemed made of congealed blood. They were a pair, all right, for her lips were scarlet slashed too, and her eyes were charcoaled smudges in pale pastry dough. Two pairs of black eyes scanned me and then Chris. "You too are a dancer?" they asked of my brother. My, did they always speak simutaneously?
"No! I don't dance," said Chris, appearing embarrassed.
"Ah, the pity of that," sighed the madame regretfully. "What a glorious pair the two of you would make on stage. People would flock to stare at beauty such as you and your sister possess." She glanced down at small Carrie, clinging fearfully to my hand, and casually disregarded her.
"Chris plans to be a doctor," explained Dr. Paul. "Ha!" Madame Rosencoff scoffed, as if Chris must have taken leave of his senses. Both she and her husband turned their ebony eyes on me, concentrating
with such intensity I began to feel hot, sweaty, self- conscious.
"You have studied the daunce?" (Always she said "daunce," as if it had a "u.")
"Yes," I said in a small voice.
"Your age when you started?"
"I was four years old."
"And you are now . . . ?"
"In April I will be sixteen."
"Good. Very, very good." She rubbed the palms of her long, bony hands together. "Eleven years and more of professional training. At what age did you go on pointe?"
"Twelve."
"Wonderful!" she cried. "I never put girls on full pointe until they are thirteen, unless they are excellent. Then she frowned suspiciously. "Are you excellent, or only mediocre?"
"I don't know."
"You mean no one has ever told you?"
"No."
"Then you must be only mediocre." She half- sneered, turned toward her husband and waved her hand arrogantly to dismiss us.
"Now you wait a minute!" flared Chris, looking
red and very angry. "There's not a dancer on that stage tonight who is as good as Cathy! Not one! That girl out there, playing the lead role of Clara—sometimes she is out of time with the music—Cathy is never out of time. Her timing is perfect; her ear is perfect. Even when Cathy dances to the same melody, each time she varies it just a little, so she never duplicates, always improvises to make it better, and more beautiful, and more touching. You'd be lucky to get a dancer like Cathy in your company!"
Those slanted, jet eyes turned to him, savoring the intensity of his report. "You are an authority on the subject of ballet?" she asked with some scorn. "You know how to separate the gifted dancers from the horde?"
Chris stood as if in a dream, and spoke as if his feet were firmly rooted there, and even his voice had a huskiness to betray his feelings. "I only know what I see, and what emotions Cathy makes me feel when she dances. I know when the music turns on, and she begins to move with it, my heart stands still, and when her dance is over, I know I am left aching because such beauty has gone. She doesn't just dance a role, she is that character; she makes you believe—because she believes—and there's not a girl in your company
who reaches out and grabs my heart and squeezes it until it throbs. So go on and turn her away, and let some other dance company benefit from your stupidity."
The Madame's jet eyes fixed on Chris long and penetratingly, as did our doctor's eyes. Then slowly Madame Rosencoff turned to me, and from head to toe I was assessed, weighed, measured. "Tomorrow, one o'clock sharp. At my studio you will audition for me." It was not a request, but a command—not to be disobeyed—and for some reason when I should have been happy, I was angry.
"Tomorrow is too soon," I said. "I have no costumes, no leotards, no palates." All of those things had been left behind in the attic of Foxworth Hall.
"Trifles," she dismissed, with an arrogant wave of her shapely hand. "We will supply what you need—just be there—and don't be late, for we demand that our dancers be disciplined in all things, including punctuality!" With a queenly gesture we were dismissed, and gracefully she drifted off with her husband in tow, leaving me stunned. Mouth agape, speechless, I caught the strong study of the dancer, Julian Marquet, who must have overheard every word. His dark eyes shone with a glow of interest and
admiration. "Feel flattered, Catherine," he said to me. "Customarily she and Georges won't take anyone unless they've waited months, or sometimes years, for an audition."
I cried that night in Chris's embrace. "I'm out of practice," I sobbed. "I know I'm going to make a fool of myself tomorrow. It isn't fair that she won't let me have more time to prepare! I need to limber up. I'm going to be stiff, clumsy, and they won't want me, I know they won't!"
"Aw, come off it, Cathy," he said, tightening his arms about me. "I've seen you in here holding to the bedpost, and doing your plies and tendus. You are not out of practice, or stiff, or clumsy—you're just scared. You've got a great big case of stage fright, that's all. And you don't need to worry, you're terrific. I know it, you know it."
He brushed a light good-night kiss on my lips, dropped his arms and backed toward the door. "To-night I'll go down on my knees and pray for you. I'll ask God to let you wow them tomorrow. And I'll be there to gloat when I see their stunned expressions—for no one is gonna believe the dancing wonder of you."
With that he was gone. And I was left aching
and wanting. I crawled under my covers to lie wide awake and full of trepidations.
Tomorrow was my big day, my chance to prove what I was and if I had that special something you had to have if you were to reach the top. I had to be the best, nothing else would do. I had to show Momma, the grandmother, Paul, Chris, everybody! I wasn't evil, or corrupt, or the Devil's issue. I was only me—the best ballerina in the world!
I tossed, turned, fretted in and out of nightmares while Carrie slept on peacefully. In my dreams I did everything wrong at the audition, and, what was worse, I did everything wrong throughout my whole lifetime! I ended up a withered old lady begging on the streets of some huge city. In the dark I passed by my mother and begged for alms. She was still young and beautiful, richly gowned, bejeweled and furred, and escorted by forever-young and faithful Bart Winslow.
I awoke. It was still night. What a long night. I stole down the stairs to find the Christmas tree lights burning, and on the floor, Chris was lying and staring up into the tree branches. It was what the two of us used to do when we were children. Though I should have known better, I was irresistibly drawn toward
him, and I lay down beside him I gazed up into the sparkling other-worldliness of the Christmas tree.
"I thought you'd forgotten," Chris murmured without looking my way. "Remember when we were in Foxworth Hall, the tree was so small and it was on a table and we couldn't lie under it like this—and look what happened. Let's never forget again. Even if our future trees are only one foot high, we will hang it up high, so we can lie underneath.'
It worried me the way he said that. Slowly I turned my head to stare at his profile. He was so beautiful, lying there with his fair hair changing colors. Each strand seemed to catch a different rainbowed hue, and when he turned his head to meet my eyes his eyes were glowing too. "You look . . . so divine," I said in a tight voice. "I see candy in your eyes and the crown jewels of England too."
"No—that's what I am seeing in your eyes, Cathy. You're so very beautiful in that white nightgown. I love you in white nightgowns with blue satin ribbons. I love the way your hair spreads like a fan, and you turn your cheek so it rests on a satin pillow." He moved closer, so his head was on my hair too. Even closer he inclined his head until our foreheads met. His warm breath was on my face. I
moved so my head tilted backward and my neck arched. I didn't feel quite real when his warm lips kissed the hollow of my throat and stayed there. My breath caught. For long, long moments I waited for him to move away. I wanted to pull back myself, but somehow I couldn't. A sweet peace stole over me, quivering my flesh with a tingling sensation. "Don't kiss me again," I whispered, clinging harder to him and pressing his head to my throat.
"I love you," he choked. "There will never be anyone for me but you. When I'm an old, old man, I'll look back to this night with you under the Christmas tree, and remember how sweet it was of you to let me hold you like this."
"Chris, do you have to go away and be a doctor? Couldn't you stay on here and decide on something else?"
He lifted his head to stare down into my eyes. "Cathy—do you have to ask? All my life it's been the only thing I've wanted, but you . .
Again I sobbed. I didn't want him to go! I tickled his face with a tress of my hair, until he cried out and kissed my lips. Such a soft kiss, wanting to grow bolder, and afraid I'd turn away if he did. He began to say wild and crazy things when our kiss was
over, about how much I looked like an angel. "Cathy—look at me! Don't turn your head and pretend you don't know what I'm doing, what I'm saying! Look and see the torment you've put me in! How can I find anyone else, when you've been bred into my bones—and are part of my flesh? Your blood runs fast when mine does! Your eyes burn when mine do—don't deny it!" His trembling hands began to fumble with the tiny, lace-covered buttons that opened my nightgown to the waist. I closed my eyes and was again in the attic, when he'd accidentally stabbed me in the side with the scissors, so now I was hurting, bleeding, and I needed his lips to kiss and take away the pain.
"How beautiful your breasts are," he said with a low sigh, leaning to nuzzle them. "I remember when you were flat, and then when you began to grow. You were so shy about them, always wanting to wear loose sweaters so I couldn't see. Why were you ashamed?"
Somewhere above I hovered, watching him tenderly kiss my breasts, and somewhere deep inside me I shivered. Why was I letting him do this? My arms drew his body tighter against me, and when my lips again met his, maybe it was my fingers that had unbuttoned his pajama jacket so his bare chest was against mine We melded in a hot blend of unsatisfied
desire—before I suddenly cried out, "No—it would be sinful!"
"Then let us sin!"
"Then don't ever leave me! Forget about being a doctor! Stay with me! Don't go and leave me! I'm afraid of myself without you! Sometimes I do crazy things. Chris, please don't leave me alone. I've never been alone, please stay!"
"I have to be a doctor," he said, then groaned. "Ask me to give up anything else, and I'd say yes. But don't ask me to give up the only thing that's held me together. You wouldn't give up dancing—would you?"
I didn't know, as I responded to his demanding kisses, the fire between us growing larger, overwhelm-ing us both and taking us to the brinks of hell. "I love you so much sometimes I don't know how to handle it," he cried. "If only I could have you just once, and there would be no pain for you, only joy."
The unexpected parting of his hot lips, his tongue that forced my lips open, shot through me with a jolt of electricity! "I love you, oh, how I love you! I dream of you, think of you all day." And on and on he went, while his breath came faster, until he was panting and I was overcome by my body ready and willing to be satisfied. While my thoughts wanted to
deny him, I wanted him! I gasped with the shame of it!
"Not here," he said between kisses. "Upstairs in my room."
"No! I'm your sister—and your room is too near Paul's. He'd hear us."
"Then we'll use your room. Carrie can sleep through a war."
Before I knew what was happening he had me in his arms and was racing up the back stairs and into my room where he fell with me on my bed. He had my gown off and his pajamas too when he fell down beside me and started again to complete what he had begun. I didn't want this. I didn't want it ever to happen again! "Stop!" I cried, then rolled away from under him. I fell to the floor. In a flash he was on the floor with me, wrestling. Over and over we turned, two naked bodies that suddenly collided with something hard.
That was what stopped him. He stared at the box with Oreo cookies, a loaf of bread, apples, oranges, a pound of cheddar cheese, a stick of butter, several cans of tuna fish, beans and tomato juice. Out spilled a can opener, dishes, glasses and silverware. "Cathy! Why are you stealing Paul's food and hiding it under your bed?"
I shook my head, fuzzy about why I had taken the food and hidden it away. Then I sat up and reached for the gown he'd tugged off, and modestly I held it before me. 'Get out! Leave me alone! I don't love you except as a brother, Christopher!"
He came to put his arms about me, and bowed his head on my shoulder. "I'm sorry. Oh, darling, I know why you took the food. You feel you have to keep food handy—you're afraid someday we will be punished again. Don't you know I'm the only one who will understand? Let me love you just one more time, Cathy, just one more time to last us our whole lives. Let me just once give you the pleasure I didn't before, just once to last us both all our lives through."
I slapped his face! "No!" I spat. "Never again! You promised, and I thought you would keep that promise! If you have to be a doctor, and go away and leave me—then it will always be no!" I stopped short. I didn't mean that. "Chris. . . don't look at me like that, please!"
Slowly he drew on his pajamas. He flashed me a hurt look. "There is no life for me if I'm not a doctor, Cathy."
I put both hands over my mouth to keep from screaming. What was wrong with me? I couldn't
demand him to abandon his dream. I wasn't like my mother, making everyone else suffer so she could have her way. I sobbed in his arms. In my brother I had already found my everlasting, forever-green, spring-time love that could never, never blossom. Later, as I lay alone on my bed with my eyes open, I realized from the hopeless, flat way I felt that even in a valley without mountains the wind could still blow.
The Audition
.
It was the day after Christmas. At one o'clock I had to be in Greenglenna, die home of Bart Winslow and Rosencoff School of Ballet.
We all crowded into Dr. Paul's car and we arrived with five minutes to spare.
Madame Rosencoff told me to call her Madame Marisha, if I was accepted. If I failed, I need never address her again, by any name. She wore only black leotards, which showed up every hill and valley of her superb body, kept trim and slim though she must be nearing fifty. Her nipples poked through the black knit material hard as metal points. Her husband, Georges, was also wearing black to show off his sinewy body which was just beginning to show age with the small protrusion of his belly. Twenty girls and three boys were to audition.
"What music do you choose?" she asked. (It seemed her husband was never going to speak, though he kept his bright bird eyes on me constantly.)
"Sleeping Beauty," I said meekly, believing the role of Princess Aurora the greatest of all testing pieces in the classical repertory--so why choose a less demanding part? "I can dance The Rose Adagio all
alone," I boasted.
"Wonderful," she said sarcastically. Then added with additional scorn, "I guessed, just by your looks, you would want The Sleeping Beauty."
That made me wish I'd chosen something lesser. "What color leotards do you want?"
"Pink."
"I thought so."
She tossed me a pair of faded pink leotards and then, just as casually, picked at random from a triple row of many dozens of pointe shoes. She threw me a pair that fitted perfectly, unbelievable as it sounds. When undressed and donned my leotards and slippers, I sat before a long dressing table with a mirror to equal its length and began to bind up my hair. I didn't have to be told Madame would want to see my neck cords, and any epaulement I'd perform was sure to displease her. I knew that already.
Hardly had I finished dressing and doing my hair, with a gaggle of giggling girls surrounding me, when Madame Marisha put her head through a partially opened door to see if I was ready. Critically her jet black eyes scanned me. "Not bad. Follow me," she ordered, and off she strode, her strong legs heavily muscled. How had she let that come about? I was
never going to be on pointe so much my legs would look lumpy like hers—never!
She led me out into a big arena with a polished floor that really wasn't as slick as it appeared. Seats for onlookers were lined against the walls, and I saw Chris, Carrie, Henny and Dr. Paul. Now I wished I hadn't asked them to come. If I failed, they'd witness my humiliation. Eight or ten other people were there too, though I didn't pay much attention to them. The girls and boys of the company gathered in the wings to watch. I was more afraid than I'd thought I'd be. Sure, I'd practiced some since I escaped Foxworth Hall, but not with the same dedication as in the attic. I should have stayed up all night and exercised, and arrived at dawn to warm up more—then maybe I wouldn't feel nervous enough to be sick.
It was my desire to be last, to watch all the others and see the mistakes they made and learn from them, or to see their accomplishments and benefit from those. In this way I could size up what I should do.
Georges himself sat down to play the piano. I swallowed over the lump in my throat; my mouth felt dry, and butterflies panicked in my chest as my eyes raked over the spectators to find the lodestone I
needed in the blue of Chris's eyes. And as always, he was there to smile, and telegraph his pride and confidence and undying admiration. My dear, beloved Christopher Doll, always there when I needed him, always giving to me and making me better than I would have been without him. God, I prayed, let me be good. Let me live up to his expectations!
I couldn't look at Paul. He wanted to be my father, not my touchstone. If I failed and embarrassed him, certainly he'd see me differently. I'd lose what charm I had for him. I'd be nobody special.
A touch on my arm made me jump. Whirling about I confronted Julian Marquet. "Break a leg," he whispered, then smiled to show his very white and perfect teeth. His dark eyes sparkled wickedly. He was taller than most male dancers, almost six feet, and soon I'd learn he was nineteen. His skin was as fair as mine, though in contrast to his dark hair it made him look too pale. His strong chin sported a devil's cleft and another dimple in his right check teased in and out at his will. I thanked him for his wish of good luck, very much taken by his astonishing good looks. "Wow!" he said when I smiled, his voice husky. "You're sure a beautiful girl. Too bad you're only a kid."
"I'm not a kid!"
"What are you then, some old lady of eighteen?"
I smiled, very pleased to think I looked that old. "Maybe so, maybe not."
He grinned as if he had all the answers. From the way he bragged of being one of the hottest dancers in a New York company, maybe he did have all the answers. "I'm only here for the holidays—to do Madame a favor. Soon I'll go back to New York where I belong." He looked around, as if the "provinces" bored him beyond belief, while my heart did a flip-flop. I was hoping he was one of the dancers I'd work with.
We exchanged a few more words and then my musical cue sounded. Suddenly I was alone in the attic, with colored paper flowers dangling on long strings; nobody but me and that secret lover who danced always ahead, never letting me get near enough to see his face. I danced out, fearful at first, and did all the right things, the entrachets, the arm flutters, the pirouettes. I was sure to keep my eyes open and my face always toward the viewers I didn't see. Then the magic came and took me. I didn't have to plan and count, the music told me what to do, and
how to do it, for I was its voice and could do no wrong. And as always that man appeared to dance with me—only this time I saw his face! His beautiful pale, pale face, with the dark and eyes, and the blue-black hair and the ruby lips.
Julian!
I saw it as in a dream, stretching out his strong arms as he went down on one knee, and the other leg backward gracefully.. With his eyes he signaled was to run, then leap into his receiving arms.
Enchanted to see him there, a professional, I was halfway to him when a terrible pain seized my abdomen! I doubled over and cried out! At my feet was a huge pool of blood! Blood streamed down my legs; it stained my pink shoes, my leotards. I slipped and fell to the floor, and grew so weak I could only lie there and hear the screams. Not my screams, but Carrie's. I closed my eyes not caring who it was who came to pick me up. From a far distance I heard Paul's voice and Chris's. Chris's concerned face hovered above me, with his love for me too clearly revealed; it both comforted me and frightened me, for I didn't want Paul to see. Chris said something about not being afraid as blackness came and took me to a far, far place where nobody wanted me.
And my dancing career, not yet begun, was over, over.
Out of a dream of witches I emerged to find Chris sitting on the hospital bed, holding my limp hand .. . and those blue eyes, oh, God, those eyes . . . "Hi," he said softly, squeezing my fingers. "I've been waiting for you to come around."
"Hi yourself."
He smiled and leaned to kiss my cheek. "I'll tell you this, Catherine Doll, you sure know how to end a dance dramatically."
"Yeah, that's talent. Real talent. I guess I'd better go into acting."
He shrugged indifferently. "You could, I guess, though I doubt you will."
"Oh, Chris," I stormed weakly, "you know I've ruined what chance I had! Why did I bleed like that?" I knew my eyes were full of fear. Fear that he saw and knew the cause. He leaned to draw me up into his embrace and held me fast against his chest.
"Life offers more than one chance, Cathy, you know that. You needed a D & C. You'll be fine and on your feet by tomorrow."
"What's a D & C?"
He smiled and stroked my cheek tenderly,
always forgetting I wasn't as medically sophisticated as he was.
"It's short for a procedure in which a woman is dilated, and an instrument called a curette is used to scrape waste material from the lining of the uterus. Those missed periods of yours must have clotted and then broke free."
Our eyes met. "That's all it was, Cathy . . . all, nothing else."
"Who did the scraping?" I whispered, scared it was Paul.
"A gynecologist named Dr. Jarvis, a friend of our doctor. Paul says he's the best gyn. around."
I lay back on the pillows, not knowing what to think. Of all times for something like that to happen—in front of everyone I was trying to impress. My God, why was life so cruel to me?
"Open your eyes, my lady Catherine," said Chris. "You're making too much out of this, when it doesn't matter. Take a look at that dresser over there and see all the pretty flowers, real flowers, not paper ones. I hope you don't mind if I took a peek at the cards." Of course I didn't mind what he did, and soon he was back from the dresser and putting a small white envelope in my flaccid hand. I stared at the huge floral
bouquet, thinking it was from Paul, and only then did my eyes flick to the card in my hand. My fingers shook as I extracted from the envelope the small note that read:
Hope you recover soon. I expect to see you next Monday, three o'clock sharp.
Madame Marisha.
Marisha! I was accepted! "Chris, the Rosencoffs want me!"
"Of course they do," he said mildly. "They'd be just plain dumb if they didn't, but that woman scares the hell out of me! I wouldn't want her controlling my life, even if she is little. But, I guess you can handle her fine; you can always bleed on her feet."
I sat up and threw my arms about him "Is it going to work out for us, Chris? Do you really think it will? Can we be that lucky?
He nodded, smiled and then pointed to another bouquet, one from Julian Marquet with another short note. I'll be seeing you when I fly down from New York again, Catherine Doll, so don't forget me.
And over Chris's shoulder, while his arms held me tight, Paul came into the room and hesitated near the doorway, frowning as he stared at the two of us, then he put on a smile and came forward. Quickly
Chris and I drew apart.
