"But Mom, she wanted it to be a surprise. I wouldn't have told you today, but I think it's not very polite for people to drop in out of the blue. I knew you'd want to get ready, look pretty, tidy up the house . . ."
Funny kind of look she gave him. "In other words, I
don't look my best now, and my house is messy?"
Jory smiled with all that charm I hated. "Mom, you're always pretty, you know that, but too skinny, and too pale. You've got to eat more and get outside a little more each day. After all, great novels aren't written in a few weeks."
Later on that same day I followed Jory out into the yard, then I hid in my special hideaway place to spy on Momma and Jory as both took turns pushing hateful Cindy in her baby swing. Never let me swing Cindy. Nobody trusted me. Head shrink wasn't getting anywhere, so why couldn't everybody give up and leave me alone?
"Jory, it's sometimes a torment to hear your ballet music and not be able to dance and express all the emotions I feel. Now when I hear an overture begin, I tighten up and cringe inside. I yearn to dance, and the more I yearn, the harder I have to write. Writing saves me, but it seems Bart resents my writing as much as he used to resent my dancing. It seems I am never going to have the ability to please my younger son."
"Aw, heck, Mom," said Jory with his dark blue eyes sad and worried too, "he's only a little boy who doesn't know what he wants. I know something weird is going on in his mind "
I wasn't weird. They were the weird ones, thinking dancing and stupid fairy tales mattered, when all others with sense knew money was king, queen and God almighty.
"Jory, I give as much of myself to Bart as I can. I try to show affection and he pulls away. Then he's running away from me, or to me, and putting his face in my lap and crying. His psychiatrist says he's torn between hating me and loving me. And I'll tell you this in confidence: his behavior isn't helping me recover from my accident."
Left then. Heard enough. Good time to sneak into her bedroom and steal some more of her book pages. Stuffed in my shirt drawer I had the ones John Amos had read and returned, so I put those back and took some new ones.
In my little green cave made of hedges I sat down to read. Stupid Cindy was laughing and squealing while her two adoring slaves pushed her into the air. Boy, wish I had the chance to swing her. I'd push so hard she'd sail right over the white wall and end up in the swimming pool next door. The pool that never had any water.
Reading Momma's book was very interesting. "The Road to Riches," read the title of one of her chapters. Was that girl really my own mother? Were she and her two brothers and one sister really going to be locked up in one bedroom?
Read on until the day grew old and the fog came in and smothered me.
Got up and went inside the house, thinking about another title in her book. "The Attic." What a wonderful place to hide things. I stared at Momma, who was kissing Daddy's lips, teasing him, asking him about his pretty nurses, and had he found someone to replace her yet. "A beautiful young blonde of twenty or so?"
He appeared hurt. "I wish you wouldn't make a joke out of my devotion. Cathy, don't provoke me with silly remarks like that. I give all I can to you because I love you with a passion I recognize as idiotic."
"Idiotic?" she asked.
"Yes, it is, when you don't respond as
passionately as I do! I need you, Cathy. Don't let this writing come between us."
"I don't understand."
"You do understand! Our past is coming alive. You're living it again as you write. I peek in and see your face, watch the tears streak your face and fall on the paper. I hear you laugh and say aloud the words that Cory said, or Carrie. You're not just writing, Cathy . . . you are reliving."
Her head bowed down and her loose hair fell and covered her face. "Yes, what you say is true. I sit at the desk and relive it all again. I see again the attic gloom, the dusty, immense space; I hear the silence more terrifying than thunder. Loneliness that knew me well then comes and burdens my shoulders, so I look up startled to see where I am, wondering why the windows aren't heavily covered over and when the grandmother will come in and catch us with windows not covered. Sometimes I'm startled to look up and catch Bart standing in the doorway staring at me. First I think he's Cory, then I can't account for his dark hair and his brown eyes. I look at Cindy and think she should be larger, as old as Cory with the dark hair, and I'm confused, not knowing the past from the present."
"Cathy." His voice was worried. "You've got to give this up."
Yes, yes, Daddy. . . make her give it up!
She sobbed as she fell into his arms, and tightly he cradled her to his heart, murmuring sweet love words in her ear that I couldn't hear. Rocking back and forth, like true wicked lovers. They looked like the couples I spied on sometimes, the ones who "made out" on lover's lane, which wasn't so far from my grandmother's mansion.
"Will you put the book away, wait until the children are grown and safely married . . . ?"
"I can't!" Even I could hear the agony in her voice, as if she'd like to if she could. "That story is in my brain screaming to get out, to let others know how some mothers can be. Something intuitive and wise tells me that when I have it down, and it's sold to a publisher, and made into a book for everyone to read--only then will I be set free from all the hate I feel for Momma!"
Daddy couldn't speak. Just went on holding her, rocking, and his blue eyes, staring into space above the head that was pressed against his chest, seemed tormented.
Stole away to play alone in the garden. Jory's old witch grandmother was coming. Didn't want to ever see her again. Momma didn't like her either; I could tell from the way she grew tense and careful around her, as if afraid her quick tongue would betray her.
"Bart, my darling," called my own grandmother softly from her side of the thick white wall, "I've been waiting for you to come over all day. When you don't come I get worried, and then I'm unhappy. Darling, don't sit alone and pout. Remember I'm over here, willing to do anything I can to make you happy."
I ran. Fast as my legs could take me. I climbed the tree, and she had a stepladder waiting there for me so I could get to the ground safely. It was the same ladder she used to peer over at us.