"I hate you!" I whispered fiercely, trying to stab him with the glare of my eyes. "You think you are safe, don't you? You think a doctor can't be
punished--but God has sent the black angel of his wrath to see that you and your sister are punished for the evil you have done!"
He froze on the spot and stared at me as if he'd never seen me before. Defiantly I glared back. He closed the door to his bedroom and led me down the hall so she wouldn't hear. "Bart, you go to visit your grandmother every day, don't you?" His face looked troubled, but he kept his voice soft and kind. "You have to learn not to believe everything you hear. Sometimes people tell lies."
"Devil's spawn!" I hissed. "Seed planted in the wrong soil to create Devil's issue."
This time he grasped my arm so tightly it hurt, and he shook me. "Never let me hear you say that again! You are never to mention any of this to your mother. If you do, burn your bottom so hard you may never sit down again. And the next time you see that woman next door, you remind her that it was she who planted all the seeds and started the flowers growing. Watch her face when you speak . . . and then guess who is the evil one."
I shrank back, didn't want to hear what he had to say. I ran off, bumping into a hall table, upsetting an expensive lamp that toppled to the floor.
In my room I fell on my bed, shaking all over, panting and gasping for breath. In my chest was that awful throbbing pain that made iron bands tighten about me, squeezing me, wanting to shut off my air.
Felt like toothpaste being squeezed from the bottom, then I was rolled up tight as a coil. Painfully I rolled over on my back and stared up at the ceiling as I started to cry. Huge fat tears slid off my face to wet my pillow. If I wet the bed for any other reason I'd get spanked for ten years old was too old for such babydoings.
Did I want to be ten, or eighty? Who was making me be so old? God? Was it those children hiding in the attic, laughing, laughing, making the best out of the worst that was driving me to prove Malcolm was smarter and they'd never get away even after he was put in the ground.
Momma's gone and left me. Left me for good this time. Momma's gone and left me, Now I don't know how to end what I've begun . .
Fell asleep and tossed ar
ound. The little boy kept right on crying as the old man hurled him in the trashcan so soon I'd be dumped outside the city limits--fit only for burning.
For sinners of sinners, those born of incest, they had to be punished too, even me, even me who was dying in the trashcan.
Rage of the Righteous
. The rain came down like bullets fired by God. I stood at the back windows and watched the rain batter the faces of those marble statues, punishing them for being naked and sinful. I waited for Jory to come home and look for me.
Bad. We were both bad from living with parents who weren't supposed to be parents.
Behind me Momma came in from a shopping spree, all rosy-cheeked and laughing, shaking the rain from her hair, greeting Emma like everything was okay. She dumped her parcels in a chair, took off her coat and said she felt she might be catching a cold.
"I hate it when it rains, Emma. Hello, Bart--I didn't see you there until now. How've you been? Lonesome for me?"
Wouldn't answer. Didn't have to talk to her now. Didn't have to be polite, nice, or even clean. Could do anything I wanted. They did. God's rules didn't mean anything to them. Meant nothing now to me either,
"Bart, it's going to be so nice this Christmas," said Momma, not looking at me but at Cindy, who needed more new clothes. "This will be our first Christmas with Cindy. The best kind of families always have children of both sexes, and in that way boys can learn about girls, and vice versa." She hugged Cindy closer.
"Cindy, you just don't know how lucky you are to have two wonderful older brothers who will absolutely adore you as you grow up into a real beauty--if they don't adore you already."
Boy, if she only knew. But like Malcolm had said, beautiful women were dumb. I looked into the kitchen at Emma, who was not beautiful and never could have been. Was she wiser? Did she see through me?
Emma's eyes lifted and met mine. I shivered. Yes, drab women were smarter. They knew the world wasn't beautiful just because they had hold of beauty for awhile.
"Bart, you haven't told me what you want Santa Claus to bring you."
I stared hard at her. She knew what I wanted most. "A pony!" I said. I took out the pocketknife Jory had given me and began to pare my nails. That made Momma stare at me, then her eyes moved to Cindy's short hair that was just beginning to look pretty again.
"Bart, put that knife away. It makes me nervous. You might accidently cut yourself." She sneezed then, then sneezed again and again. Always her sneezes came in threes. She pulled tissues from her purse to wipe her nose, then blow it.
Contaminating my nice clean air with her filthy cold germs.
Jory didn't come home until way after dark, soaked and miserable looking as he stalked into his room and slammed his door. I grinned as I saw Momma frown. So, now her darling didn't love her either. That's what came of doing wrong.
Still the rain came down. She looked at me, her eyes large, her face pale, her hair a tangle all around her face, and I knew some men would think her beautiful. I yanked a hair from my head and held one end between my teeth as I pulled with one hand to stretch it taut. Easily my knife sliced it in two. "Good knife," I said, "sharp as a razor for shaving. Good for cutting off legs, arms, hair . . ." I grinned as she looked scared. Powerful. I felt so powerful. John Amos was right. Women were only timid, fearful imitations of men.
Rain came down harder. The wind blew it around the house and made howling noises. Cold outside, dark and cold. All night it rained, next morning it was still coming down. Emma drove away just because it was Thursday and she couldn't miss a visit with a friend. "You take it easy now, ma'am," she said to Momma in the garage. "You don't look well. Just because you don't have a fever doesn't mean you won't come down with something. Bart--you behave yourself and don't make trouble for your mother."