"Thief!" I roared. "Nothing in this house but thieves, cheats, whores and liars! All of you after my money too! You think die today, tomorrow, next week or next month--but I'll live to see you dead, Momma! I'll live to see every last one of the attic mice dead!"
Down the hall she sped. I heard the clickityclack of her satin mules. I'd scared myself; now I didn't know what to do. Hadn't John Amos t
old me to wait until Christmas night, so everything would coincide with the other fire in Foxworth Hall. Do it the same way, only differently.
"Momma," I whispered, down on my knees and crying, "I didn't mean none of that mean stuff. Momma, please don't go away and leave me alone. Don't like to be alone. Don't like what's happening to me, Momma. Why did you have to go and pretend you were married to your brother? Why couldn't you just have lived with him and us, and been decent?" I sobbed, afraid of what I could be when I felt mean.
She didn't need to lock the door when she had Cindy with her, did she? Never could she trust me to do the right thing. But that must be because she couldn't help herself either, no more than me. She was born bad and beautiful, and only through death could God redeem her sinful soul. I sighed and got up to do what I could to save her from the mess she'd made of her life, and ours. "Momma!" I yelled, "unlock my door! I'll kill myself if you don't! I know all about you now, what you and your brother are doing--the people next door told me everything about your childhood. And your book told me the rest. Unlock my door, if you don't want to come in and see me dead."
She came to my door and unlocked it, staring down in my face, even as she wiped her nose and ran her hand through her hair "What do you mean the people next door told you everything? Who are the people next door?"
"You'll find out when you see her," I said smugly, all of a sudden mean again. Drat that Cindy she had to hold onto all the time. Was me she gave birth to, not Cindy. "There's an old man over there too, he knows about you and your attic days. Just go over and talk to them, Momma, and you won't feel so happy to have a daughter anymore."
Her mouth gaped open as a wild look of horror came to her blue eyes and made them look dark, dark. "Bart, please don't tell me lies."
"Never tell lies, not like you do," I said, watching as she began to tremble so much she almost dropped Cindy. Pity she didn't. But it wouldn't hurt if she just fell to the carpeted floor.
"Now you stay here and wait for me," she said as she headed for the coat closet. "For once in your life do as I say. Sit down and watch TV--eat all the candy you want--but stay in this house and out of the rain."
She was going next door. I felt panicky inside, afraid she wouldn't come back. Afraid she wouldn't be saved, afraid maybe after all, this wasn't a game John Amos was playing, not a game after all. But I couldn't speak. For God was on the side of John Amos--he'd have to be since he wasn't sinning.
Dressed in her warmest white winter coat, wearing white boots, Momma picked up Cindy, who was dressed warmly too. "Be a good boy, Bart, and remember always I love you. I'll be back in less than ten minutes, though heaven only knows what that woman in black can know about me."
I flicked a quick shamed glance at her pale, worried face. Momma was gonna crack up when she met my grandmother, who was her own mother. Momma was gonna end up in a straightjacket and I'd never see her again.
Why wasn't I glad that already God was punishing her, beginning her redemption? My head ached again. My stomach felt queasy. Legs didn't want to obey, but had a leaden weight of their own that knew their mind. Pulling me along with them to the coat closet as Momma slammed the front door behind her.
Momma, my soul was crying, don't go and leave me alone. Don't like to be alone. Nobody will love me but you, Momma, nobody will. Please don't go over there--don't let John Amos see you. Shouldn't have said anything. Should have known you wouldn't stay here where it was safe. I pulled on my coat and raced to the front windows to watch her carrying Cindy into the wind and cold rain. Just as if she, a mere woman, could face up to God and his black wrath.
Soon as she was out of sight I slipped outside and began to follow her. Did this new coat mean she really did love me? No, said the wise old man in my brain, didn't mean anything. Gifts, toys, games and clothes were easy things to give--things that all parents gave their children even when they were about to feed them arsenic on sugared doughnuts. Parents held back what was most important, security.
I sighed wearily, hoping someday, somewhere, I'd find the mother who would stay forever, the mother who was right for me--who would always understand I was doing the best I could.
Outside, the wind blew my slicker against my body and drove the rain into my face. About ten yards ahead I could see Momma was having a rough time attempting to hold Cindy, who was trying to wiggle free and run back home as she screamed: "Don't like rain! Take me home! Momma, don't wanna go!"
Trying to comfort her while she kept her footing and at the same time trying to keep the hood over her hair, she finally gave up efforts to keep herself dry and settled for keeping Cindy as dry as possible. Soon her hair was pasted down flat to her head, as flat as my hair was by now, for never never would I slip a hood over my head--made me scared to look in a mirror.
Momma slipped on the mud that was being washed down from the hills, and she almost lost her footing. But she caught herself and rebalanced. Cindy screamed and beat at her face with small fists. "HOME! I WANT HOME!"
Ran fast, for she wasn't looking backward. All her concentration was on the winding road ahead. "Stop fighting me, Cindy!"
High walls. Iron pickets. Strong gates. Magic boxes to speak into. Small voice coming back--and hear the wind blow, Privacy didn't mean nothing to God and the wind, not nothing at all.
Heard my momma's voice as she shouted to be heard above the shriek of the wind and rain: "This is Catherine Sheffield. I live next door and Bart is my son. I want to come in and talk to the lady of the house,"
Silence, only the wind.
Then my momma was calling out again: "I want to see her, and if I have to climb this fence I'll do just that. I'm coming in, one way or another--so open the gates and save me the trouble."
I stood back and waited, gasping as if my heart truly did hurt. Slowly, slowly, the wide black iron gates swung open.
For a moment I wanted to shriek out, NO! Don't walk into a trap, Momma! But I really didn't know if there was a trap at all. I was just afraid that between John Amos and the Malcolm that was inside of me, nothing good would come of Momma's venture into my grandmother's house. Quickly I ducked inside the gates just before they clanged softly closed. Sounded like prison doors.
She trudged on ahead, all the while Cindy was screaming and crying. By the time they reached the door both seemed soaked to the skin, for I was, and I'd had two hands to hold my slicker together.
Up the stairs Momma stumbled, clasping Cindy, who was still trying to kick free. She lifted the loose jaw of the brass lion's head and banged loud.
John Amos had been expecting her, for he swung one side of the double doors open immediately and bowed very low, as if admitting a queen. Ran, ran then as fast as I could so I wouldn't miss a thing. Quickly into the side door, and down the corridor to the dumbwaiter'-- hoping that she'd be in that room, for behind the potted palms was not such a secure place. Jory had found me there once, and it could happen again.