If There Be Thorns (Dollanganger 3)

Too old to cry, I told myself. Though fourteen was almost a man's age. Already I was sprouting a few hairs above my lips and other places Sniffling, choking my sobs back, I ran to the white wall and climbed the oak tree. Once there on the wall I sat in my favorite place and stared off at the huge white mansion, which looked ghostly in the moonlight. I thought and I thought about Bart and who was his father. Why hadn't he been named after Daddy Paul? Surely a son should have his father's name. Why Bart instead of Paul?

As I watched, as I wondered, fog from the sea began to roll in, curling back upon itself, enfolding the mansion until I couldn't see it. All about me spread the thick gray mist. Eerie, frightening, mysterious.

From the grounds next door came strange muffled noises. Was that someone crying over there? Great wracking sobs that were punctuated by moans and short prayers that asked for forgiveness.

Oh, God! Was that pitiful old woman crying just like my mother had cried? What had she done? Did everyone have some shameful past to conceal? Would I be like them when I grew up?

"Christopher," I heard her sob. Startled, I jerked and tried to find where she was. How did she know my dad's name? Or did she have a Christopher of her own? I knew one thing. Something dark and threatening had come into our lives. Bart was acting stranger than usual. Something or someone had to be influencing him in subtle ways I couldn't quite put my finger on. Whatever was changing Bart didn't have anything to do with Mom and Dad. If I couldn't understand them, Bart wouldn't have a chance. But whatever it was between my parents, and whatever was going on with Bart, I felt I had the weight of the world on my shoulders, and they weren't that strong yet.

One afternoon I deliberately hurried home from ballet class early. I wanted to find out what Bart did with himself when I was away. He wasn't in his room, Ihe wasn't in the garden, so that left only one place he could possibly be. Next door.

I found him easily. Much to my surprise, he was inside the house and sitting on the lap of the old woman who never wore any clothes that weren't black.

I sucked in my breath. The little rascal cuddled up cozily on her black lap. I stole closer to the window of the parlor she seemed to favor above the others. She was singing softly to him as he gazed up into her veil-shrouded face. His huge dark eyes were full of innocence before his expression suddenly changed to that of someone sly and old. "You don't really love me, do you?" he asked in the strangest voice.

"Oh, yes I do," she said softly. "I love you more than I have ever loved anyone before."

"More than you could love Jory?"

Why the Devil should she love me?

She hesitated, glanced away, answered, "Yes . . . you are very, very special to me."

"You will always love me best of all?"

"Always, always . . ."

"You will give me everything I want, no matter what?"

"Always, always . . . Bart, my dear love, the next time you come over you will find waiting for you--your heart's desire."

"You'd better have it here!" said Bart in a hard way that surprised me. All of a sudden he sounded years older. But he was always changing his way of talking, walking. Playacting, always pretending.

I'd go home and tell Mom and Dad. Bart really needed friends his own age, not an old lady. It wasn't healthy for a boy not to have peers to play with. Then again, I wondered why my parents never asked any of friends to our home the way other parents had their friends over occasionally. We lived all to ourselves, isolated from neighbors--until this Moslem woman, or whatever

she was, came to win my brother's affections. I should be glad for him; instead, I was uneasy.

Finally Bart got up and said, "Goodbye, Grandmother." Just his ordinary little boy voice--but what the heck did he mean by grandmother?

I waited patiently until I was sure Bart was in our yard before I circled the huge old house and banged hard on her front door. I expected to see that old butler come shambling down the long hall to the foyer, but it was the old lady herself who put an eye to the peekhole and asked who it was.

"Jory Marquet Sheffield," I said proudly, just as my dad would.

"Jory," she whispered. In another moment she had flung open the door. "Come in," she invited happily, stepping aside to admit me. Way back in the shadows I thought I glimpsed someone who quickly dodged out of sight. "I'm so happy to have you visit. Your brother was here and has depleted our supply of ice cream, but I can offer you a cola drink and cake or cookies."

No wonder Bart wasn't eating Emma's good cooking. This woman was feeding him junk food. "Who are you?" I asked angrily. "You have no right to feed my brother anything."

She stepped back, appearing hurt and humble. "I try to tell him he should wait until after his meals, but he insists. And please don't judge me harshly without giving me a chance to explain." Her gesture invited me to take a chair in one of her fancy parlors. Though I wanted to decline, my curiosity was aroused. I followed her into what must have been the grandest room outside of a French palace! There was a concert grand piano, love seats, brocade chairs, a desk, and a long marble fireplace. Then I turned to look her over good. "Do you have a name?"

Floundering, she managed a small voice. "Bart calls me . . Grandmother."

"You're not his grandmother," I said. "When you tell him you are, you confuse him, and Lord knows, lady, if there is one thing my brother doesn't need, it is more confusion."

A slow redness colored her forehead. "I have no grandchildren of my own. I'm lonely, I need someone . . . and Bart seems to like me . . ."

Pity for her overwhelmed me, so I could hardly say what I'd planned beforehand, but I managed nevertheless. "I don't think coming over here is good for Bart, ma'am. If I were you I would try to discourage him. He needs friends his own age . ." and here my voice dwindled away, for how could I tell her she was too old? And two grandmothers, one in a nut house, and the other a ballet nut, were more than enough.

The very next day Bart and I were told that Nicole had died in the night, and from now on her daughter, Cindy, would be our sister. My eyes met Bart's. Dad had his eyes on his plate, but he wasn't eating. I looked around, startled, when I heard a young child crying. "That's Cindy," said Dad. "Your mother and I were at Nicole's side when she died. Her last words were a request for us to take care of her child. When I thought about you two boys being left alone like Cindy, I knew I could die feeling more at peace knowing my children had a good home . . . so I let your mother say what she's been wanting to say ever since Nicole's accident."