"And those who originate the sin . . ."
"Must suffer."
"And how must they suffer?"
"In all ways, by any ways, by death they will be redeemed."
I froze where I crouched, not believing my ears. What was that man doing to Bart?
They drifted beyond my hearing, and I peeked just in time to see Bart disappearing over the wall, going home. I waited until John Amos Jackson shuffled into the house and turned out all the lights.
Then suddenly I realized I hadn't heard Apple bark. Wasn't a dog as old and big as Apple supposed to bark and warn those in the house that a prowler was on the grounds? I sneaked into the barn and called Apple by name. He didn't come running to lick my face and wag his tail. "Apple," I called again, louder. I lit a kerosene lamp that hung near the door and I shone it into the horse stall where Apple had his home.
I sucked in my breath! Oh, No! NO!
Who would be so cruel as to starve a dog like that? Who could then drive a pitchfork into that poor bag of bones covered by beautiful fur . . and now he was all bloody. Dark with old blood that had dried to the color of black rust. I ran outside and threw up. An hour later Dad and I were digging a grave and burying a huge dog that never had a chance to reach maturity. Both of us knew "they" would lock Bart up forever if ever this got out.
"He may not have done it," said Dad when we were home. "I can't believe he did it." By now I could believe anything.
There was an old woman who lived next door. Who wore black rags and black covered her hair. She was twice Mom's mother-in-law, twice hated, and much more.
And all I could do was wonder, wonder what she had done to my mom and my dad. Dad hadn't yet explained it all to me as he'd promised. Though I had found a glimmer of a fuzzy solution--I'd let my emotions run away with me, and for a moment I'd thought she was my grandmother too, for Chris was so much my real father in my heart.
But in reality, it was Bart who was Paul's son, and I knew why his grandmother wanted him so badly and not me. I belonged to Madame Marisha as Bart belonged to her. It was the blood relationship that made them love each other. And I sighed to be only a stepgrandson to such a mysterious and touching woman who felt she had to suffer to redeem her mistakes. I thought I should take better care of Bart-- protect him, guide him, keep him straight.
Right away I had to get up and look at Bart, who was curled on his side in his bed with his thumb in his mouth. He looked like a baby--just a little boy who'd always stood in my shadow, always trying to live up to what I'd done at his age, and never achieving the goals I'd already set. He hadn't walked sooner, talked at a younger age, or smiled until he was almost a year old. It was as if he'd known from birth that he'd always be number two, never number one. Now he'd found the one person in the world who would let him come first. I was happy Bart had his very own grandmother. Even if she did wear nothing but black, I could tell she'd once been very beautiful. More beautiful than my Grandmother Marisha could ever have hoped to be when she was young.
Yet . . . yet . . . some pieces in the puzzle were missing.
John Amos Jackson--just where did he fit into the picture? Why would a loving grandmother and mother who wanted to be reunited with her son and his wife and her grandson . . . why would she bring that hateful old man along with her?
Honor Thy Mother
. He never bothered to look around. He thought I was safely asleep, in that little bed where they liked to keep me. But I saw Daddy leave the house. Was he going to see my grandmother? Wish everybody'd leave her alone, so I could have her back like she used to be, all mine.
Apple was gone. Gone to where puppies and ponies went. "That great big pasture in the sky," said John Amos with his glittery pale eyes watching me carefully, like he thought I was the one who stabbed the pitchfork in. "You saw Apple dead? You really saw him dead?"
"Deader than a doornail." I sneaked along the winding jungle paths that were taking me straight into hell. Down, down, down. Caves and canyons and deep pits, and sooner or later we'd find the door. Red. The door to hell would be red--maybe black.
Black gates. Magic gates swung wide to let Daddy through. She wanted him. Fine son he was, putting his mother into the loony bin, and next he'd put me in one of those funny farms where they laced you up in straitjackets (wonder what they were?). Terrible anyway, whatever it was.
The gates clanked together. Knew Mom was back in her room typing away those pages like she really thought it was just as important as dancing. She didn't seem to mind sitting in that wheelchair, didn't seem to mind at all unless she heard Jory playing that dance music. Then her head would lift; she'd stare into space; her feet would begin to keep time.
"What's intricate mean, Momma?" I'd asked when she said Jory had the concentration to learn intricate dances quickly.
"Complicated," she'd answered, just like a dictionary. She had dictionaries all over the place, little ones, middle-sized ones, a huge fat one that had its own stand that swiveled around.
Had to make my feet do intricate things. I tried as I slipped along behind Daddy, who never glanced backwards. I was always looking over my shoulder, staring to the left or to the right, wondering, always wondering. Dratted shoelace--ouch! Down I was-- again. If he heard me cry out, he didn't look back. Good . . . had to do all this secret stuff like a good spy. Or a thief, a jewel thief. Rich ladies had lots and lots of jewels. Ought to get in some practice while she was gabbing with her doctor son, crying and constantly asking him to forgive her, have mercy, take her back and love her again. Boring. Didn't like Daddy so much now, was back to how I used to feel before he saved my leg from being "amputated." Dratted man was trying to drive away the one grandmother I had. What other kid had a grandmother so rich she could give him everything?
"Where you going, Bart?" John Amos appeared out of nowhere, his eyes glowing in the dark. "None of your damn business!" I snapped like Malcolm would have done. Had Malcolm's journal flat against my chest, under my shirt. The red leather was sticking to my skin. I was learning how to make money out of rage.
"Your father is in that house, talking with your grandmother. Now you get in there and do your job, and report back to me every word they say. You hear?"
Hear? Was him who needed a hearing aid, not me. Else he would do his own spying through the keyhole. But all he could do was peek, couldn't hear very good. Couldn't bend over much better, and couldn't pick up anything he dropped.
"Bart . . . did you hear me? What the devil are you doing heading for the back stairs?" Turned to stare at him. On the fifth step I was taller. "How old are you, John Amos?"
He shrugged and scowled. "Why do you want to know?"