Petals on the Wind (Dollanganger 2)

Lightly he reached out to slap both my cheeks. I closed my eyes, resigned to accept anything he did, as long as I could go to Chris. I allowed him to undress me and do what he would, even though he clutched my buttocks so hard they hurt. I could, when I chose, withdraw until I was outside of myself, looking on, and what he did to me that was appalling didn't really matter--for I wasn't truthfully there--unless the pain was great--as sometimes it was.

"Don't try and sneak away," he warned, his words muffled because he was kissing everywhere, teasing me as a cat who plays with a mouse when it's not hungry. "Swear on your word of honor that you will stay and miss your dearly beloved brother's graduation--stay with the husband who needs you, who adores you, who can't live without you."

He was mocking me, though his need for me was that of a child needing his mother. That was what I had become--his mother, in everything but sex. I had to choose his suits, his socks and shirts, his costumes, his practice outfits, though he consistently refused to let me handle the household accounts.

"I will not swear to anything so unfair. Chris has come to see you perform and you have gloried in showing off to him. Now let him have his turn. He's worked hard for it." I pulled free from him then, and strolled to pick up a black lace nightgown he liked me to wear. I hated black nightgowns and underwear; they reminded me of whores and call girls--and my own mother who'd had a fancy for black lingerie. "Get up off your knees, Julian. You look ludicrous. You can't do anything to me if I choose to go. A -bruise would show, and besides, you've grown s accustomed to my weight and balance you can't even lift another dancer properly."

He came at me angrily. "You're mad because we haven't made it to the top, aren't you? You're blaming me because our booking was canceled. And now Madame Z. has given us a leave so I can sober up and come back refreshed, made wholesome by playing games with my wife. Cathy, I don't know how to entertain myself except by dancing; I'm not interested in books or museums like you are, and there are ways of hurting and humiliating you that won't leave any bruises--except on your ego--and you should know that by now."

Foolishly I smiled, when I should have known better than to challenge him when he was feeling less than confident. "What's the matter, Jule? Didn't your sex break satisfy your lust for perversion? Why don't you go out and find a schoolgirl, for I'm not going to cooperate."

I'd never before thrown in his face that I knew about his debaucheries with very young girls. It had hurt at first when I found out, but now I knew he used those girls like he used paper napkins, to casually toss away when soiled, and back he'd come to me, to say he loved me, needed me, and I was the only one.

Slowly he advanced, using his pantherlike stalk that told me he would be ruthless, but I held my head high, knowing I could escape by shutting off my mind, and he couldn't afford to hit me. He paused one foot away. I heard the clock on the nightstand ticking.

"Cathy, you will do as I say if you know what's good for you."

He was cruel that night, evil and spiteful; he forced upon me what should only be given in love. He dared me to bite. And this time I wouldn't have just one black eye, but two, and maybe worse. "And I'll tell everybody you are sick. Your period has you so badly cramped you can't dance--and you won't skip out on me, or make any phone calls, for I'll bind you to the bed and hide your passport." He grinned and slapped my face lightly. "Now, honey-chile, whatcha gonna do this time?"

Smiling and himself again, Julian sauntered naked to the bre

akfast table, flung himself down, sprawled out his long, beautifully shaped legs and asked casually, "What's for breakfast?" He held out his arms so I could come and kiss his lips, which I did. I smiled, brushed the lock of dangling hair from his forehead, poured his coffee, and then said, "Good morning, darling. Same old breakfast for you. Fried eggs and fried ham I'm having a cheese omelet."

"I'm sorry, Cathy," he murmured. "Why do you try to bring out the worst in me? I only use those girls to spare you."

"If they don't mind, then I don't mind but don't ever force me to do what I did last night. I'm very good at hating, Julian. Just as good as you are at forcing. And at harboring revenge I'm an expert!"

I slid onto his plate two fried eggs and two slices of ham. No toast and no butter. Both of us ate in silence. He sat across the checkered red and white tablecloth, closely shaven, clean and smelling of soap and shaving lotion. In his own dark and light exotic way he was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen.

"Cathy . . , you haven't said you love me today."

"I love you, Julian "

An hour after breakfast I was madly searching every room to find my passport, while Julian slept on the bed, where I'd dragged him from the kitchen after he fell asleep from all the sedatives I'd dumped in his coffee.

He wasn't nearly as good at hiding as I was at finding. Under the bed, and under the blue rug, I found my passport. Quickly I threw clothes into my suitcases. When I was packed, dressed and ready to go, I leaned above him and kissed him good-bye. He was breathing deep and regularly, and smiling slightly; perhaps the drugs were giving him pleasant dreams Though I'd drugged him, I hesitated, wondering if I'd done the right thing. Shrugging off my indecision, I headed toward the garage. Yes, I did what I had to do. If he were awake now, he'd be burred to my side all through the day, with my passport in his pocket. I'd left a note telling him where I was going.

.

Paul and Carrie met me at the airport in North Carolina. I hadn't seen Paul in three years. Down the ramp I went, my eyes locked with his. His face tilted up to mine, the sun in his eyes so he had to squint. "I'm glad you could come," he said, "though I'm sorry Julian couldn't make it."

"He's sorry too," I said, looking up into his face. He was the type of man who improved with age. The mustache I'd persuaded him to grow was still there, and when he smiled dimples showed in both his cheeks.

"Are you searching to find gray hair?" he teased when I stared too long and perhaps with too much admiration. "If you see any let me know and I'll have my barber touch them up. I'm not ready for gray hair yet. I like your new hair style; it makes you even more beautiful. But you're much too thin. What you need is lots of Henny's home cooking. She's here, you know, in a motel's small kitchen, whipping up homemade rolls your brother so loves. It's her gift to him for becoming another doctor-son."

"Did Chris get my telegram? He does know I'm coming?"

"Oh, indeed yes! He was fretting through every moment, afraid Julian would refuse to let you leave him, and knowing Julian wouldn't come. Honestly, Cathy, if you hadn't shown up, I don't think Chris would accept his degree."

To sit beside Paul, with Henny on his far side and Carrie next to me, and watch my Christopher stride down the aisle and up the steps to accept his diploma, and then stand behind the podium and make the valedictory speech, put tears in my eyes and a swelling happiness in my heart. He did it so beautifully I cried. Paul, Henny and Carrie also had tears to shed. Even my success on stage couldn't compare to the pride I felt now. And Julian, he should be here too, making himself a part of my family and not stubbornly resisting all the time.

I thought of our mother too, who should be here to witness this. I knew she was in London, for I was still following her movements about the world. Waiting, always waiting to see her again. What would I do when I did? Would I chicken out and let her get away again? I knew one thing, she'd learn that her eldest son was now a doctor--for I'd be sure she knew--just as I kept her informed about what Julian and I were doing.

Of course I knew by now why my mother kept always on the move--she was afraid, so afraid I'd catch up with her! She'd been in Spain when Julian and I arrived. The news had been published in several papers, and not long after that I picked up a Spanish paper to see the lovely face of Mrs. Bartholomew Winslow, flying to London as fast as she could.

Tearing my thoughts from her, I glanced around at the thousands of relatives crowded into the huge auditorium. When I looked back at the stage I saw Chris up there, ready to step behind the podium. I don't know how he managed to find me, but somehow he did. Our gazes met and locked, and across all the heads of those who sat between us, we met in silent communication and shared an overwhelming jubilation! We'd done it! Both of us! Reached our goals; become what we'd set out to be when we were children. It wouldn't have mattered at all about those years and months we'd lost--if Cory hadn't died, if our mother hadn't betrayed us, if Carrie had gained the height that should have been hers, and would have been if Momma had found another solution. Maybe I wasn't a prima ballerina yet--but I would be one day, and Chris would be the finest doctor alive.

Watching Chris, I believed we shared the same thoughts. I saw him swinging a bat when he was ten to smash a ball over the fence, and then he'd run like mad to touch all bases in the quickest possible time, when he could have walked and made his home run. But that wasn't his way, to make it look too easy. I saw him racing on his bike yards ahead of me, then slowing down deliberately so I could catch up and we'd both reach home at the same time. I saw him in the locked room, in his bed three feet from mine, smiling encouragingly. I saw him again in the attic shadows, almost hidden in the immense space, looking so lost and bewildered as he turned away from the mother he loved . . . to me. Vicariously we'd shared so many romances while lying on a dirty old mattress in the attic while the rain pelted down and separated us from all humanity. Was that what did it? Was that why he couldn't see any girl but me? How sad for him, for me.