Blame the wind or stars of fate --but I still blamed my mother.
Despite our dire anticipations of what lay ahead, I couldn't help but feel happier than I'd felt in some time, just watching all the excitement in the gardens that gradually turned into something straight from a movie set. I gasped to see what Bart wanted done.
It was a biblical scene!
"Samson and Delilah," Bart said flatly when I asked, all his enthusiasm squelched because Melodie kept refusing to dance the role he wanted. "Often I've heard Jory say he loved the chance to produce his own productions, and he does love that role most of all."
Pivoting about, Melodie headed for the house without answering, her face pale with anger.
Again, I should have known. What other theme would capture Bart's fancy as much?
Cindy ran to throw her arms about Jory. "Jory, let me dance the role of Delilah, I can! I just know I can."
"I don't want your amateurish attempts!" shouted Bart.
Ignoring him, Cindy tugged pleadingly on both of Jory's hands. "Please, please, Jory. I'd love to do it. I've kept up my ballet classes, so I won't be stiff and awkward and make you look unskilled, and between now and then you can help me gain better timing. I'll rehearse morning, night and noon!"
"There's not enough time to rehearse when the performance is two days away," complained Jory, throwing Bart a hard, angry look. "Good lord, Bart, why didn't you tell me before? Do you think just because I choreographed that particular ballet that I can remember all the difficult routines? A role like that needs weeks of rehearsing, and you wait until the last moment! Why?"
"Cindy's lying," said Bart, looking longingly at the door through which Melodie had disappeared. "She was too lazy to keep up her classes before, so why should she when Mother's not there to force her?"
"I have! I have!" cried Cindy with great excitement and pride, when I knew she hated violent exercises. Before the age of six, she'd loved the pretty tutus, the cute little satin slippers, the little sparkling tiaras- of fake jewels, and the fantasy of the fanciful productions had put her in a spell of beauty I'd once believed she'd never abandon. But Bart had ridiculed her performances just one too many times, and she'd let him convince her she was hopelessly inadequate. She'd been about twelve when he stole her pleasure in the ballet. From then on she'd never gone to classes. Therefore I was doubly amazed to hear she'd never really given up on the dance, only on allowing Bart see her perform.
She turned to me, as if pleading for her life. "Really, I am telling the truth! Once I was in the private girl's school, and Bart wasn't around to ridicule me, I started again and ever since have kept up my ballet classes, and I tap dance as well."
"Well," said Jory, apparently impressed, giving Bart another hard look, "we can devote what time we have left to practicing, but you were extremely unthinking to believe we wouldn't need to practice for weeks, Bart. I don't expect to have much difficulty myself since it's a familiar role--but Cindy, you've not even seen that particular ballet."
Rudely interrupting, Bart asked with great excitement, "Do you have the lenses, the white lenses? Can you really see through them? I saw you and Melodie in New York about a year ago, and from the orchestra you really did look blind."
Frowning at his unexpected question, Jory studied Bart seriously. "Yes . . . I have the contacts with me," he said slowly. "Everywhere I go someone asks me to dance the role of Samson, so I take the lenses. I didn't know you appreciated ballet so much."
Laughing, Bart slapped Jory on the back as if they'd never had a disagreement. Jory staggered from the strength of that blow. "Most ballets are stupid bores, but this particular one catches my fancy. Samson was a great hero and I admire him. And you, my brother, perform extraordinarily well as Samson. Why, you even look just as powerful. I guess that's the only ballet that has ever thrilled me."
I wasn't listening to Bart. I was staring at Joel, who leaned forward. Muscles near his thin lips worked almost spasmodically, hovering near a smirk or a laugh, I couldn't tell which. All of a sudden I didn't want Jory and Cindy to dance in that particular ballet, which included very brutal scenes. And it had been Bart's idea years and years ago . . . hadn't he been the one to suggest that the opera would provide the music for what he considered would make the most sensational ballet of all?
All through the night I thought and I thought of how to stop Bart from wanting that particular production. He'd never been easy to stop as a boy.
As a man . . . I didn't know if I had a chance. But I was going to give it a try.
The very next morning I was up early and running out into the yard to catch Bart before he drove off. He listened to me with impatience, refusing to change the theme of his party. "I can't now, even if I wanted to. I've had the costumes designed and they are almost finished, as are the sets and flats. If I cancel anything it will be too late to plan another ballet. Besides, Jory doesn't mind, why should you?"
How could I tell him that some small, intuitive voice was warning me not to let this particular ballet be performed near the place of our confinement--with Malcolm and his wife in the ground not so far away the music wouldn't fill their dead ears.
Jory and Cindy practiced and rehearsed night and day, both catching a certain excitement as they worked together and Jory found out that Cindy was good; certainly she wouldn't perform as well as Melodie would have, but she'd dance more than adequately, and she was so lovely with her hair bound up in classical ballerina style.
The morning of Bart's birthday dawned bright and clear, heralding a perfect summer day without rain or clouds.
I was up early with Chris, strolling in the gardens before breakfast, enjoying the perfume of roses that seemed to herald a beautiful, perfect birthday for Bart. He'd always wanted birthday parties, like the ones we threw for Jory and Cindy, yet when they came around, he somehow managed to antagonize every guest so that many left early, and usually in a huff.
He was a man now, I kept telling myself, and this time it would be different. Chris was saying that to me, as if we had some sort of telepathy, both with the same thoughts.
"He's coming into his own," I said. "Isn't it odd how he's hung onto that childish expression, Chris? Will the attorneys read the will again after the party?"
Smiling and happy looking, Chris shook his head. "No, darling, we'll all be too tired. The reading is set for the next day." A shadow came to darken his expression. "I can't remember anything in that will that would spoil Bart's birthday, can you?"
No, I couldn't, but at the time of our mother's will reading, I'd been too upset, crying, half hearing, not really caring if none of us inherited the Foxworth fortune that seemed to come with its own curse.
"There's something Bart's attorneys aren't telling me, Cathy . . . something they say indicates I must not have clearly understood at the time when our mother's will was read shortly after her death. Now they don't want to speak of it because Bart has demanded that I not be included in any legal discussions. They look at him as if he scares or intimidates them. It surprises me to see middle-aged men with years of experience yield under his pressure, as if they want to keep his good will, and mine be damned. It annoys me, and then I ask myself, what the hell do I care? Soon we'll be leaving and making a new home for ourselves, and Bart can take his fortune and rule with it . . ."