Dollanganger is sure some whopper of a name. Bet you were glad to get rid of it."
She turned to stare at a large photograph of Dr. Paul Sheffield, then quietly said, "Yes, it was a wonderful day when I became Mrs. Sheffield."
Then Dad was looking upset. I sank deeper into the cut-velvet plush of a dining chair. All about me in the air, creeping on the floor, hiding in the shadows, were pieces of the past that they remembered and I didn't. Fourteen years old, and still I didn't know what life was all about. Or what my parents were about either.
Finally the day came when the mansion was completed. Then came the cleaning ladies to work on the windows and scrub the floors. Yard men came to rake, mow, trim again, and we were there all the time, peeking into windows, then running swiftly back to the wall and skimming up a tree, hoping not to get caught. On the top of the wall we quietly sat as if we'd never disobey any rule made by our parents. "She's a'comin!" whispered Bart, very excited. "Any moment, that ole lady, she's a'comin!"
The house was fixed up so grand we expected to see a fancy movie actress, a president's wife, somebody important. One day when Dad was at work and Mom was shopping, and Emma was still in the kitchen like always, we saw a huge long black limousine turn slowly into the long drive next door. An older car followed, but still, it was a snazzylooking car. Two weeks ago that driveway had been cracked and buckled concrete, and now it was smooth black asphalt. I nudged Bart to calm his excitement. All about us the leaves made a fine concealing canopy, and still we could see everything.
Slowly, slowly, the chauffeur pulled the long, luxurious car to a stop; then he got out and circled the car to let out the passengers. We watched breathlessly. Soon we'd see her--that rich, rich woman who could afford anything!
The chauffeur was young and had a jaunty air. Even from a distance we could tell he was handsome, but the old man who stepped from the limo wasn't handsome at all. He took me by surprise. Hadn't that workman told us a lady and servants? "Look," I whispered to Bart, "that must be the butler. I never knew butlers rode in the same car as their employer."
"Hate people who move in our house!" grumbled Bart.
The feeble old butler stretched out his hand to help an old woman out of the back seat. She ignored him and took the arm of the chauffeur instead. Oh, gosh! She wore all black, from head to toe covered over like an Arab woman. A black veil was over her head and face. Was she a widow? A Moslem? She looked so mysterious.
"Hate black dresses that drag on the ground. Hate ole ladies who want black veils over their heads. Hate spooks."
All I could do was watch, fascinated, thinking that the woman moved rather gracefully beneath the black robe. Even from our hidden place, I could tell she felt nothing but scorn for the feeble old butler. Gee-- intrigue.
She looked around at everything. For the longest time she stared our way, at the white wall, at the roof of our house. I knew she couldn't see very much. Many a time I'd stood where she was, looking homeward, and I'd seen only the peak of our roof and the chimney. Only when she was inside on her second floor could she see into some of our rooms. I'd better tell Mom to plant some more big trees near the white wall.
It occurred to me then why two workmen might have chopped down a number of her large eucalyptus trees. Maybe she wanted to look over at our house and be nosy. But it was more likely she didn't want those trees growing so near her house.
Now the second car drew up behind the first. Out of this one stepped a maid in a black uniform with a fancy white apron and cap. Following her came two servants dressed in gray uniforms. It was the servants who rushed about, carrying in many suitcases, hatboxes, live plants and such, all while the lady in black stood stock-still and looked at our chimney. I wonder what she was seeing?
A huge yellow moving van drew up and began to unload elegant furniture, and still that lady stayed outside and let the maids decide where to put each piece. Finally, when one of the maids kept running to her and asking questions, she turned away and disappeared into the mansion. All the servants vanished with her.
"Bart, would you look at that sofa those men are carrying in! Have you ever seen such a fancy sofa?"
Long ago he'd lost interest in the movers. He was now staring intently at the yellow and black caterpillar undulating along a thin branch not far below his dirty sneakers. Pretty birds were singing all around. The deep blue sky was full of fluffy white clouds. The air felt fresh, cool, fragrant with pine and eucalyptus--and Bart was staring at the one ugly thing in view. A blessed horny caterpillar!
"Hate ugly things that creep with horns on their heads," he mumbled to himself. I knew he always had a desire to know what was inside. "Becha got ickysticky green goo under all that pretty-colored fuzz. You mean little dragon on the branch, stop comin my way. Get too close and yer dead."
"Quit that silly talk. Look at that table those men are taking in now. Boy, I'll bet that chair came from a castle in Europe."
"Jus' one more inch and somethin ugly is gonna get it!"
"You know what? I'll bet that lady who's moving in is kinda nice. Anybody who has such good taste in furniture must be real quality."
"One more inch . . . and yer dead!" Bart told the caterpillar.
As the sun set, the sky turned rosy, and wide streaks of violet came to make the early evening even more beautiful.
"Bart, look at the sunset. Have you ever seen more glorious colors? Colors are like music to me. I can hear them singing. I'll bet if God struck me deaf and blind this very moment I'd go right on hearing the music of colors, and seeing them behind my eyes. And in darkness I'd dance and never know it wasn't light."
"Crazy talk," mumbled my brother, his eyes still on the fuzzy worm coming closer and closer to that deadly sneaker held above him. "Blind means black as pitch. No colors. No music. No nothin. Dead is silence."
"Deaf. . . d-e-a-f--not dead."
Just then Bart smashed down his sneaker on the caterpillar. Then he jumped from the tree to the ground, and there he wiped the sticky green goo on the lady's new lawn.
"That was a mean thing you did, Bart Winslow! Caterpillars go through a stage called metamorphosis. The kind you just killed makes the most beautiful butterfly of all. So you didn't kill a dragon but a fairy king or queen--the sweetest lover of roses."
"Stupid ballet talk," was his opinion, though he did manage to look slightly scared. "I can make up for it," he said uneasily, looking around nervously. "I'll set a trap, catch a caterpillar alive. Keep it for a pet, and wait until it turns into a fairy king, and then I'll let it go."
"Hey, I was just joking, but from now on, don't kill any insect that isn't on the roses."