Neither one of my parents said anything, they just looked at him until he flushed and turned away, murmuring, "I'm sorry. . . I'm not Malcolm, am I? I'm just me, nobody much."
Bart is a true Foxworth over and over, for he will rule again, so he says, in the new Foxworth Hall that he will build. "And you can dance your head off until you are forty," he yelled at me when he was angry because I petted his new pony, "but you won't be as rich as I'll be! At forty, I'll be able to buy and sell you ten times over, for dancing legs won't matter when you grow old, and brains count more, a million times more!"
"I'll be the greatest actor the world has ever known!" he stated arrogantly, turning from meek to aggressive just because he was holding that red journal book in his hands. "And when I'm done with the stage and screen, I'll turn my talent to the business world, and everybody who didn't respect me as an actor will stand up and applaud my genius for making money."
Acting, that's all he was doing again, for he was only a little boy who seldom spoke except to himself. And yet, sometimes when I lie awake at night, thinking about all that happened before he and I were born, there must be some reason for all that went before. Out of the ruins should come the roses, right? I worry about all the women Bart would step on to get his way. Would he be as ruthless as our greatgrandfather just to obtain an even greater fortune? and how many would suffe
r because of one eventful summer, fall and winter in the year I was fourteen?
I'll take him by the hand tomorrow, and lead him out into the garden, and together we'll stand before the copy of Rodin's "The Kiss" and maybe then he'll realize that God planned for men and women to love in a physical way, and it's not sinful, only natural.
I pray that someday Bart will see life my way -- that love--no matter what its form, or how it comes wrapped, is worth the price, no matter how high
Between the choice of love or money I'll take love. But first comes dancing. And when Bart is old and gray and he sits in Foxworth Hall counting his billions, I'll sit with my wife and family content with the happy memories of how it used to be when I was young, graceful, handsome, on stage with the foots in my eyes, the sound of applause in my ears, and I'll know I fulfilled my destiny.
I, Jory Janus Marquet, will carry on the family tradition. how to save my parents from the everlasting fires of hell.
I watch my momma and daddy night and day, and sneak into their room at night, fearing to catch them doing something wicked. But they only sleep in each other's arms, and to my relief her eyes don't move rapidly behind her closed lids. She doesn't have nightmares anymore. I see my daddy's eyes at the breakfast table, looking bluer than ever for he has let go of his strangle hold on his sister.
I have saved them.
So, Jory pities me. But one day when we're both older, wiser, and I have found the right words, I'll tell him something Malcolm wrote in his book-- there has to be darkness if there is to be light.
Bart Epilogue
. They don't know or understand me any more than they did before. Jory looks at me with pity, like I'm different from the rest of the human race. He feels sorry that I don't like his kind of music, or any kind of music, and colors don't paint pictures in my brain or make music in the air. He thinks I will never find joy in anything. But I'll find a way to enjoy. I'll know the future that is right for me, for that was the true reason God sent my grandmother and John Amos and Malcolm to me, like the fates come to lead the way. They came to show me I remember so much of what went on before we flew to Greenglenna to bury my mother beside her second husband. It was Bart who insisted that his grandmother had to lie in eternal sleep beside his father, his real father, Bartholomew Winslow. We cried, all of us, even Emma and Madame Marisha, and I never hoped to see the day when Madame would cry for a member of my family.
When the first clod of damp earth struck her coffin in its grave, it took me back to when I was twelve years old and Daddy was in his grave, and Momma was holding fast to my hand, and to Chris's, and each twin held onto an older brother or sister. And only when I heard the dirt hit her mahogany casket did I cry out something I'd withheld for so long--too long. It came from the depths of me, tearing away the years and making me a child again, and needing, so needing to hold onto my parents. "Momma, I forgive you! I forgive you! I still love you! Can you hear me now where you are? God, please let her know I forgive her." I sobbed then and fell into my brother's arms. I would have said more to her on her burial day, but Bart was there, glaring his dark eyes at me, commanding me to be strong, to let go of the man I loved. But how could I, when to do so would destroy him?
We still live in the house next to the ruins of the mansion where my mother died in her efforts to save my life, but it's not like it used to be before she came with her evil butler who filled Bart's head with his crazy beliefs and gave Bart that journal of Malcolm Fox- worth. I love Bart, God knows I love him, but when I see those dark merciless eyes in the shadows, I cringe and wonder why I needed revenge so much when I had Chris to save me.
Last night Jory and Melodie danced an astonishingly beautiful performance of "Romeo and Juliet." I trembled to see Bart cynically smiling, as if he'd lived a century or more and he'd seen all this happen before, and it would be him who got everything he wanted in the end, as Bart has always found a way to make himself the center of attention.
He steals into our bedroom at night, having taught himself how to pick locks, and stares down at Chris and me, while I feign sleep, holding still, breathless, until he is gone, so terribly afraid that the evil that lived in Malcolm will live again in my youngest son. And sooner or later history will repeat itself.
"Today the mail brought a letter from my literary agent," I whispered to Madame M. while Jory and Melodie changed from costumes to street clothes. "She's found a publisher who's made me an offer on my book, the first one. It's not a fortune, but I'm going to accept."
Madame gave me another of those long speculative looks that had once made me feel very uneasy and vulnerable, as if she could see through me. "Yes, Catherine, you will do what you must regardless of the consequences or the protests I make, or anyone makes."
I knew who she meant, for he glared at me, telling me I should keep my secrets to myself and not let the whole world know. But Bart cannot rule my every action.
"You will be rich and famous in a different way than I expected when you were fifteen," continued Madame, who was now my dearest confidant, "for everything can come to those who have the desire, the drive, the dedication and the determination."
I smiled uneasily, afraid to look at Bart again, but fixed my eyes on my eldest son who was the star of the evening. I knew for a certainty that when my books were published, and all the skeletons were out of the Foxworth closets, I'd lay the shade and thwart the ghost of Malcolm Neal Foxworth, and never, never would he rise up to rule over me again.
Nervously my hands fluttered up to my throat to feel for those invisible pearls that used to adorn my mother's throat, but never mine, never mine. I said again to myself that it wouldn't hurt to give it a try. Evil did thrive in the dark shadows of lies. Evil could not possibly survive in the full bright light of unstinting truth, as incredible as it may seem to some who won't believe.
Shivering, I moved a bit farther from Bart, nearer to Chris who put his arm about my shoulders, as my arm encircled his waist, and I was safe, safe. Now I could look at Bart and smile; now I could reach for Cindy's hand, and try to reach for Bart's . . .
But he drew away, refusing to join the chain I would form of our family, one for all, and all for one.
I'd like to conclude by saying I don't cry anymore at night, that I don't have nightmares in which I see my grandmother climbing the stairs to try and witness evil deeds we didn't do. I want to write that I can only be grateful that from all the thorny stems the attic flowers managed to grow and produced at least a few roses, real roses, the kind that blossom in the sun.
I'd like to conclude with that. But I can't. Nevertheless, I've grown old enough and wise enough to accept what gold coins are offered, and never, never will I turn over anything that glitters to look for the tarnish.
Seek and you shall find.
For some reason I glanced up then. Bart was sitting in a shadowy corner again, holding in his hands a red volume that appeared to be covered in leather with gold tooling. Silently he read, his lips moving as he mouthed the words of a great-grandfather he'd never seen.