"So what?"
I had to agree. What did money mean to any of us now? We had more than we could possibly spend. "When the tops wear, I'll throw them out and buy a new pair."
"Then why bother to have the soles treated?"
"Mother, really," he said crossly. "I like everything to keep its new appearance until I'm ready to discard it--I'm going to hate looking at Melodie when she's bulging in the middle like some breeding cow . . ."
"I'll be happy the day she shows, then perhaps you can move your eyes away from her."
He lit a cigarette, met my eyes calmly. "I bet I could easily take her away from Jory."
"How dare you say such a thing?" I cried angrily.
"She never looks at me, have you noticed? I don't think she wants to see that I'm better looking than Jory now, and taller, and smarter, and a hundred times richer."
Our eye contact held. I swallowed nervously, plucked invisible lint from my clothes. "Cindy's coming tomorrow."
He shut his eyes briefly, gripped the arms of his chair harder, but otherwise showed no expression. "I disapprove of that girl," he finally managed.
"I hope you won't be unkind to her while she's here. Can't you remember the way she used to tag around, adoring you? She loved you before you turned her against you. She'd still adore you if you'd stopped teasing her so unmercifully. Bart . . . aren't you sorry for all the ugly things you said and did to your sister?"
"She's not my sister."
"She is, Bart, she is!"
"Oh, God, Mother, I'll never think of Cindy as my sister. She's adopted, not truly one of us. I've read a few of those letters she writes to you. Can't you see what she is? Or do you only read what she says, and not what she means? How can any girl be that popular and not be giving out?"
I jumped to my feet. "What's wrong with you, Bart?" I yelled. "You deny Chris as your father, Cindy as your sister, Jory as your brother. Don't you need to have anyone but yourself--and that hateful old man who trails you about?"
"I've got a little of you, don't I, Mother?" he said, narrowing his eyes to sinister slots. "And I've got my Uncle Joel, who is a very interesting man, who is, at this moment, praying for all our souls."
A red flag waved in my face. I flamed with instant anger. "You're an idiot if you prefer that creepy old man to the only father you've ever had!" I tried to keep my emotions under control but failed, as I'd always failed when it came to Bart and control. "Have you forgotten all the many kind deeds Chris has done for you? Is still doing for you?"
Bart leaned forward, piercing me with his diamond- hard glare. "But for Chris I would have had a happy life. With you married to my real father, I could have been the perfect son! Far more perfect than Jory. Maybe I'm like you, Mother. Maybe I need my revenge more than I need anything else."
"Why do you need revenge?" Surprise was in my voice, a certain kind of hopelessness. "No one has done to you what was done to me."
He leaned forward, very intense as he bit out, "You thi
nk because you gave me all the necessary things, all the clothes I needed, all the food I could eat, and a house to shelter me, you made yourself believe that was enough, but it wasn't. I knew you saved the best of your love for Jory. Then, after Cindy came, you gave your second best to her. You had nothing left to give me but pity--and I hate you for pitying me!"
Sudden nausea almost made me gag. I was glad I had the chair beneath me. "Bart," I began, struggling not to cry and show the very kind of weakness he'd despise, "perhaps once I did pity you for being clumsy, for being unconfident. Most of all, I was sorry you hurt yourself so often. But how can I pity you now? You're very handsome, intelligent, and when you want to be, extremely charming as well. What reason do I have now for pitying you?"
"That's what bothers me," he said in a low voice. "You make me look at myself in the mirror, wondering what it is you see. I've come to the conclusion that you just don't like me. You don't trust me, don't believe in me. I see in your eyes right now that you don't believe I'm completely sane." Suddenly his eyes, which had half-closed, opened wide. He stared penetratingly into my eyes, which had always been easy to read. He laughed short and hard. "It's there, dear Mother, that suspicion, that same fear. I can read your mind, don't think I can't. You think someday I'll do something to betray you and your brother, when I've had chances enough to do exactly that and I've done nothing. I've kept your sins to myself.
"Why not be honest and say now you didn't love your mother's second husband. Say truthfully you only used him as the instrument of your revenge. You went after him, got him, conceived me, then he was dead. True to the kind of woman you are, you then headed straight back to that poor doctor in South Carolina, who no doubt believed in you and loved you beyond reason. Did he realize you married him just as a means to give your bastard child a name? Did he know you used him to escape Chris? See how much thought I've given to your motivations? And now I've come to another conclusion: you see a lot of Chris in Jory--and that's what you love! You look at me and see Malcolm, and although my face and physique may resemble that of my true father, you ignore that and see what you want to in my eyes. In my eyes you think you see the soul of Malcolm. Now tell me that I've presumed wrongly! Go on, tell me I'm not speaking the truth."
My lips parted to deny every word, but nothing came out.
I panicked inside, wanting to run to him and pull his head against my breast, as I so often comforted Jory, but I couldn't make my feet move in Bart's direction. I truthfully did fear him As he was now, fiercely intense and cold and hard, I was afraid of him, and fear made my love turn to dislike.
He waited for me to speak, to deny his charges, and in the end, I did the worst thing possible--I ran from the room.
On my bed I threw myself down and cried. Every word he'd said was true! I hadn't known Bart could read me like an open book. Now I was terrified of what he might do someday to destroy not only Chris and me, but Cindy, Jory and Melodie.
Cindy
. Around eleven the next day, Cindy arrived in a taxi, running into the house like a fresh, invigorating, spring breeze. She hurled herself into my arms, reeking of some exotic perfume I thought too sophisticated for a girl of sixteen, an opinion I knew I'd better keep to myself.