"You touch me and kill you!" I said in a cold voice. I rose stiffly, planted my feet wide apart, put my hands on the table to steady my balance. Inside I was boiling with rage. I knew now how to turn into Malcolm and be ruthless enough to get what I wanted, when I wanted.
Look at her, afraid now. Now her eyes were big and scared. I curled my upper lip and showed my teeth, then allowed both lips to curl into a sneer. "Woman, get the hell away from me before I lose control of myself!"
Silently, Emma backed away, and then she was running into the dining room, heading for the hall so she could protect Cindy.
All day I waited. Emma thought I was hiding in my hole in the shrubs, so she left Cindy alone in her sandbox under the shade of a huge old oak tree. Had a pretty little canopy too. Nothing too good for Cindy, and she was only adopted.
She tittered when she saw me limping up, as if I looked funny and was only pretending to be an old man. Look at her smile and try to charm me. Sitting there half naked, nothing on but little green and white shorts. She'd grow up, become more beautiful and be like all women, sinfully enticing men to be their worst. And she'd betray the man who loved her, betray her children too. But . . . but . . . if she were ugly, what man would want her then? Wouldn't make babies if she was ugly. Wouldn't be able to charm men then. I'd save all her children from what she'd do later on. Save the children, that was important.
"Barr-tee," she said, smiling at me, sitting crosslegged so I could see her lacy panties beneath her play shorts. "Play, Barr-tee? Play with Cindy . . . ?"
Plump little hands reached for me. She was trying to "seduce" me! Only two years old and a few months and already she knew all the wicked ways of women.
"Cindy," called Emma from the kitchen, but I was down low and she couldn't see me behind the bushes, "are you all right?"
"Cindy's playing sand castle!" answered little nobody, as if to protect me. Then she picked up her favorite red sand pail and offered it to me--and the red and yellow shovel too.
In my hand I gripped the handle of my pocket knife tighter. "Pretty Cindy," I crooned softly as I crawled closer, putting a sweet smile on my face that made her giggle.
"Pretty Cindy wants to play beauty parlor . . ."
She clapped her hands. "Ohhh," she trilled. "Nice."
The blonde hair in my hand felt silky and clean. She laughed when I tugged at her hair and took the ribbon from the ponytail. "I'm not going to hurt you," I said, showing her my pearl-handled knife "So don't you scream . . . just sit quietly in the beauty parlor until I've finished."
In my room I had my list of new words. Had to pronounce them, practice spelling them, and use them at least five times in that same day--and from then on. Had to know big words in order to impress people, make them know I was smarter.
Intimidating. Got that--meant to make people scared of you.
Ultimately--had that down too. Meant sooner or later my time would come.
Sensuous--bad word. Meant thrills you got from touching girls. Had to do away with sensuous things.
Grew tired after a short while of big words I had to learn in order to gain respect. Grew tired of pretending to be Malcolm. But the trouble was, I was losing the real me. Now I wasn't Bart all the way through. And now that he was slipping away, suddenly Bart didn't seem nearly as stupid and pitiful as he once had.
I reread a certain page in Malcolm's book when he was the very same age I was. He'd hated pretty blonde hair like his mother's, like his daughter's--but he didn't know about his little "Corrine" when he wrote:
Her name was Violet Blue, and her hair reminded me of my mother's hair. I hated her 192 hair. We attended the same Sunday school class, and I'd sit in back of her and stare at that hair that would beguile some man someday and make him want her, as that lover had wanted my mother.
She smiled at me one day, expecting a compliment, but I fooled her. I said her hair was ugly. To my surprise she laughed. "But it's the same color hair you have."
I shaved off all my hair that day--and the next day I caught Violet Blue and threw her down. When she went home crying, she was as bald as I was.
All that pretty blonde hair that used to be Cindy's was blowing on the wind. She was crying in the kitchen. Not because I'd scared her, or hurt her. It was Emma's shriek that told her something had gone wrong. Now Cindy's hair looked like mine. Stubby. short and ugly.
The Last Dance
.
"Jory," called Mom in relief when she saw me come in, "thank God you're back. Did you enjoy your lunch?"
Sure, I said, fine lunch, and she didn't pay much attention if I didn't elaborate, for she was much too busy with last-minute details. This was the way it went on performance days; class in the morning, rehearsal in the afternoon and the performance at night. Rush, rush, rush, all the while making yourself believe the world would stop turning if you didn't dance your role to the best of your ability. When the world wouldn't stop . . .
"You know, Jory," gushed Mom happily in the dressing room we were sharing--she was behind a screen, and we really couldn't see one another--"all my life the ballet has thrilled me. But this night will be the grandest of them all because I will be dancing with my own son! I know you and I have danced many times together, but this night is special. Now you're good enough to dance solo. Please, please, do your best so Julian in heaven can be proud of his only son."
Sure, I'd do my best, always did. The foots went on, the overture ended; the curtain lifted. There was a moment of silence before the first-act music began. Mom's kind of music and mine--taking us both to that happy never-never land where anything could happen, even happy endings.
"Mom, you look wonderful--prettier than any of the other dancers!" She did too. She laughed joyfully and told me I certainly knew how to please a woman, and if I kept it up I'd be the Don Juan of the century. "Now listen carefully to the music, Jory. Don't get so absorbed in counting that you forget the music-- that's the best way to catch the magic, by feeling the music!"