I explained that Momma was just very sensitive now. We didn’t know exactly what she was going through outside of this little bedroom and attic. Look how she had been whipped once.
“She’s probably walking on tiptoes, dancing like a ballerina,” I said, and Cathy relaxed, nodded, and agreed not to be nasty to Momma whenever she returned.
She didn’t come back for another five days, but when she did, we were as sweet and grateful as we could be.
Then Momma dropped her bombshell.
She told us she had married the attorney, Bart Winslow. I could see how excited she was. She raved about all his good qualities and told us he had always been in love with her. I felt a tightness in my chest and in my throat. For a few moments, I couldn’t speak. All this had been going on, her romance, her marriage, and her honeymoon, while we lingered here in the tiny bedroom and the attic, waiting, hoping to be free. I glanced at Cathy and shook my head slightly. This wasn’t the time for a blowup, but we were both hoping that when she saw Carrie and Cory and how they reacted to her, how strange and aloof they had become, she would realize we must be taken out of here now.
“Does he know about us?” Cathy asked before I could.
“Not yet,” she told us. She was waiting for her father to die first, and she assured us that Bart would understand why she had hidden us.
Again, I gave Cathy the look that said, Don’t. Don’t start a fight.
Afterward, I tried to be as optimistic as I could. Although it pained me to do so, I used logic and reason, telling her it made sense. How could she reveal us to Bart Winslow now while our grandfather was alive?
“But maybe we don’t need his money now, Chris,” she rightly said. “A lawyer should have enough money to care for us all.”
For a moment, I was stuck, and then I said, “Yes, but he’s our grandfather’s lawyer, and he probably makes most of his money working for him. What do you think our grandfather would do? He’d fire him, and then what would we have gained?”
Reluctantly, she agreed. I was happy I had calmed her, but I was sad, too, because she had been right.
Time, like a dripping icicle, began to wear on and on. Winter was coming again. The attic would soon be too cold for us. Day after day, Cathy and I cared for the twins and spent our free time reading, lying together on the old mattress near the window, talking about one of the books Momma had brought up from the house library. We were talking more about love now, about what it meant to fall in love with someone. Being so close to her for so long, I could see the dramatic changes, not only in her body but also in the way she was thinking about herself, and yes, about me, wondering about the changes in me. I knew it was wrong to think it and feel it, but what was happening between us whenever we had those conversations was the most thrilling thing right now, something I looked forward to doing, feeling.
She was so cute, so eager to have romance and be loved just like any girl her age, but unlike any girl her age, she was locked away from parties, from flirting, from having crushes and giggling about silly little things. I missed all these things, too, although I would never admit it. I tried to feel sorrier for her than for myself. We laughed and giggled, and I hugged her and kissed her cheeks, and just as suddenly, I felt myself drawn to her even closer. I couldn’t stop looking at her, at the way her breasts were forming, at the smooth lines of her neck, the gracefulness of her legs, her thighs.
I saw that she realized how I was looking at her, and I couldn’t help but feel the blood rush into my face. I turned away as quickly as I could and then told her that all this talk about romance that we read in books was just silly. She got mad at me and accused me, along with all men, of wanting the same romantic things. She was right, of course. I couldn’t stand it and lost myself for a moment, wailing just as she would about all I was missing but, more important, how I had to hold back all my manly feelings because we were forbidden to do this or that by a grandmother who was just waiting to pounce on us. I ranted until she reached out and touched me so lovingly and gently I had to stop.
“I understand,” she said. “I know what you’re missing, too.”
I squinted at her. How could she know? Did she figure it out from all those silly romance stories? She tried to make me feel better, telling me she’d cut my hair and that when we were free, girls would chase after me because I was so handsome. She went for the scissors, and she cut my hair, shaping it like an artist. I was shocked at how well she did. I told her she’d made me look like a prince, Prince Valiant or something. I wanted to cut and reshape her hair. She ran off, and I chased her around the attic until she fell and scratched herself. I went for our kit of bandages and antiseptic. All the while, as I treated he
r, I could feel her eyes on me. I tried not to look into hers, but it was impossible. I had tears in my eyes. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have chased her.
She cupped my face just like Momma often did and drew me to her breast, stroking my hair and telling me it wasn’t my fault. I lay there quietly, my lips touching her naked breast. Neither of us spoke. I couldn’t resist. I kissed her nipple, and she leaped up, surprised at what was going on inside her, too. I was sure of it. I was surprised when she asked me what happened next between a man and a woman. I assured her that I knew, but I also lied and told her that I didn’t think about it, not the way other boys did. She asked me if I thought she was pretty. I had an ache inside me like never before, but I stayed calm. I buttoned her sweater, told her she was pretty, but also told her that brothers don’t think of their sisters as girls, just as sisters. Wisely, I think, I decided we should go down to the twins. She followed me, but something had happened. She said she wondered if we had been sinful, as sinful as our grandmother expected us to be.
I didn’t want to think of it that way, despite the voices I heard inside me. “If you think it’s sinful, it is,” I told her sharply, and she didn’t ask again.
That night, when we went to bed, I couldn’t stop thinking of her breasts, her nipples, the feel of her lips on my face, the softness of her skin, the softness between her thighs. I turned to look at her there in her bed and saw that she was looking at me. I couldn’t help smiling at her, and she couldn’t help smiling at me.
Kane paused and looked at me. A flush had come into my cheeks that matched his, I was sure. He didn’t say anything, and neither did I. He closed the diary softly and came to me, kneeling at first and putting his head against my knees. Slowly, as if all resistance in my legs had evaporated, he nudged them apart and leaned in to kiss the insides of my thighs. I gasped and lay back against the sofa as his lips moved gently from my left to my right thigh, until he kissed me between my legs and kept his lips pressed into me. I felt his hands move up my thighs, his fingers move under the waistband of my panties and slowly edge them down.
“Oh, Kane,” I finally said, and he stood and then slipped beside me on the sofa. We were dancing on the edge of the Rio Grande.
“I feel just like Christopher,” he said. “I see no other girl but you. I might as well be locked in an attic with you for years and years.”
We kissed. I let him undress me, but when he went to undress himself, I put my hand on his. “Not yet,” I whispered. “Not yet.”
I felt the depth of his disappointment, because I was feeling my own. We lay there, our hearts pounding against each other. He kissed me so passionately I almost surrendered, but I clung to No, not yet.
“Why?” he asked.
“Cathy hasn’t,” I said.
“But . . .” He was going to say You’re not Cathy, but he didn’t. “How do you know she will?” he asked.
“I know.” I didn’t know. I felt it, and I feared it.