Daddy stood up to leave. For a moment his hand rested lightly on her head. Then, looking guilty, he quickly withdrew it. "All right. You speak to John, order him to leave Bart alone. Don't let Bart know you are his natural grandmother--let him keep on believing you are only a kind-hearted woman who needs him for a friend. Can you do this one small thing for me?"
"Yes, of course," she agreed weakly.
"And please start wearing that veil over your head again. Jory knows you are my mother . . . but, well, you know. And who knows when Cathy might decide to be friendly and visit her new neighbor? She was busy with her dance classes before. Now that she's not so occupied, she'll need to see people. That was one of the hardest things for her to bear when she was young . . . to be kept locked up for what seemed to her centuries, and only her mother and grandmother . . . That made her need even greater."
Again her head drooped. "I know. I've sinned and I regret it. I pray to turn back the clock, but I wake up to another lonely day--and I have only Bart to give me hope."
Oh, gosh, they'd known so much before I came along.
"I have to ask something," she said in a faint whisper. "Do you love her as a man loves . . . a wife?"
He turned so she could see only his back. "That is none of your business."
"But I'd understand. I question Bart but he doesn't know what I mean. But he's told me you share one bedroom."
Angry, he flared, glaring at her: "And one bed. Now, are you satisfied?" Once more he spun on his heel, and this time he left.
Puzzling, gosh darn puzzling Why did Momma hate his momma? And why did my grandmother ask about bedrooms and bed?
Ran home next. Didn't stop to report to John Amos. Momma was at that dratted barre, trying to pull herself out of that ugly wheelchair. I hid and watched. Strange to see her awkward--like me. Clumsy like me, but she managed to pull herself to her feet and then she stood shaking all over. Her face in the mirror was pale, her hair a frame of gold. Molten gold, hot as hell, burning as running lava.
"Bart, is that you?" she called. "Why cio you stare at me so strangely? I won't tali, it you re thinking that. Each day I feel better, stronger. Come sit with me and talk to me. Tell me what you do all the time when I can't see you. Where do you go? Teach me to play your pretend games. When I was your age I liked to pretend too. Why, I used to dream about being the world's most famous prima ballerina, and I made that the most important thing in my whole life. Now I know it was never that important. Now I know it's making the ones you love happy that matters most. Bart, I want to make you happy . . ."
I hated her for "seducing" my real father and taking him from my poor lonely grandmother, who was her own mother-in-law. And she must have been married then to Dr. Paul Sheffield, who was Chris' brother but not my real father at all. Look at her, trying to make up to me for her neglect! Too late! I wanted to run and shove her down. Hear her bones break, all of them. She was unfaithful to all husbands! But I couldn't say any of this. My legs went rubbery and weak and made me sink to the floor as all the silent screams bounced in my head. Wicked sinful evil woman! Sooner or later she'd run away with some lover--like Malcolm's mother did. Like all mothers did.
And why hadn't my grandmother come right out and told me who she was? Why was she keeping it a secret? Didn't she know I needed a real
grandmother? She even lied to me about who my daddy was! Only John Amos told me the truth.
"Bart--what's wrong?"
Alarm on her face. Should be alarmed. Never, never did she tell me anything but lies. There was no one I could trust but John Amos. All the while he shuffled along, looking weird and old, he was honest, doing his best to set the world straight.
"Bart, what's the matter? Can't you tell me, your own mother?"
Stared at her. Saw all that mass of hair as golden snares to ruin men. Took all men and made them suffer. Her fault. All her fault. Took my real daddy from my grandmother and "seduced" him
"Bart, don't crawl on the floor. Stand up and use your legs. You're not an animal."
I threw back my head and howled. Howled all the rage and hate I felt. It wasn't fair for God to give me her for a mother. Wasn't fair when he burned my real daddy to death. Gotta do something. Make it all right. "Bart, please tell me what's wrong!"
I could barely see her. She tried to take a few steps away from the barre and her hands reached for me, as if she wanted me in her arms.
I'd never let her touch me again. Never, never, never!
"I hate you!" I screamed, jumping to my feet and backing away. "I hope you never walk again. I hope you fall down and die. I hope your house burns up and you and Cindy too!"
Ran--ran and ran until my sides hurt and my mind was empty.
In Apple's stall I fell down to rest. I kept Malcolm's journal there, hidden under the old hay and I fished it out to read more. Boy, he sure did hate women, especially when they were pretty. Didn't seem to notice the ugly ones. I lifted my head and stared into space. Alicia. Nice name--wonder what made him love Alicia more than Olivia? Just because she was only sixteen when she married his old, old father of fifty-five?
Alicia slapped his face when he tried to kiss her. Maybe Malcolm wasn't as good at kissing as his father.
The more I read the more I learned how Malcolm succeeded in everything he did, except in making women love him. Proving to me I'd better leave all women alone since I was so much like Malcolm. Over and over I was reading his words so I could turn into him, all powerful.
C names Wonder why women liked C names so much? Catherine, Corrine, Carrie and Cindy--whole wide world full of C names. Wish I liked my grandmother like I used to. Now that I knew she was my real grandmother it wasn't as good. She should have told me. She was just another lying, sneaking, cunning female. Just as John Amos had warned me.
I could smell Apple faintly. My ears heard him munching his food; I felt his cold nose nuzzling my hand--and I was crying. Crying so hard I wanted to die and join him. But Apple should have missed me more. He made me do it. He was supposed to suffer when I did--and he didn't. He was mine and he let grandmother feed him, give him water--so it was his own fault. And there was Clover, dead too. Strangled and stuffed in the hollow oak.