If There Be Thorns (Dollanganger 3)

Outside the day was growing old. Search as I would I couldn't find Clover. I sat on the back steps and stared unhappily at the sky turning rosy with bright streaks of orange and violet. I felt

overwhelmingly sad and burdened, wishing all this mystery and confusion would go away. Clover, where was Clover? I never knew until this moment how very much he added to my life, how much I'd miss him if he was gone for good. Please don't let him be gone for good, God, please.

One more time I looked around our yard, then decided I'd better go in the house and call the newspapers. I'd offer a reward for a missing dog-- such a big reward somebody would bring Clover back. "Clover!" I yelled, "chow time!"

My call brought Bart stumbling out of the hedges, his clothes torn and filthy. His dark eyes were strangely haunted. "Why yah yellin?"

"I can't find Clover," I answered, "and you know he never goes anywhere. He's a home dog. I read the other day about people who steal dogs and sell them to science labs for experimentation. Bart, I'd want to die if somebody did something so awful to Clover."

He stared at me, stricken looking. "They wouldn't do that . . . would they?"

"Bart, I've got to find Clover. If he doesn't come back soon, I'll feel sick, really sick enough to die. Suppose he's been run over?"

I watched my brother swallow, then begin to tremble. "What's wrong?"

"Shot me a wolf back there, I did. Shot me a big bad wolf right through his mean red eye. He came at me lickin his chops, but I was smarter and moved quick and shot him dead."

"Oh, come off it, Bart!" I said impatiently, really getting irritated with somebody who could never tell the truth. "There aren't any wolves in this area, and you know it."

Until midnight I searched all around our neighborhood, calling for Clover. Tears kept clogging my voice, my eyes. I had the strongest premonition that Clover would never come home again.

"Jory," said Dad, who'd been helping me hunt, "let's hit the sack and look again in the morning if he doesn't come home by himself. And don't you lie in your bed and worry. Clover may be an old dog, but even the elderly can feel romantic on a moonlit night."

Aw, heck. That didn't make much sense. Clover had stopped chasing female dogs a long time ago. Now all he wanted was a place to lie where Bart wasn't likely to stumble over him or step on his tail.

"You go to bed, Dad, and let me look. I don't have to be in ballet class until ten, so I don't need my sleep as much as you do."

He briefly embraced me, wished me luck, and headed for his room. An hour later, I decided it was fruitless effort. Clover was dead. That's the only thing that would keep him away.

I decided I had to tell my parents what I suspected. I stood beside their bed looking down at them. Moonlight streamed through the windows and fell over their bodies. Morn was half-turned on her side so she could cuddle up close to Dad, who was on his back. Her head was on his bare chest, while his left arm encircled her so his hand lay on her hip. The covers were pulled up just high enough to shield their nudity, which made me back away, feeling very guilty. I shouldn't be here. Sleep made them look vulnerable, younger, moving me but giving me a deep sense of shame too. I wondered why I felt ashamed. Dad had taught me the facts of life a long time ago, so I knew what men and women did together to make babies--or just for fun.

I sobbed and turned to go.

"Chris, is that you?" asked my mother, halfasleep and rolling over on her back.

"I'm here, darling. Go back to sleep," he mumbled sleepily. "The grandmother can't get us now."

I froze, startled. They both sounded like children. And again that grandmother.

"I'm scared, Chris, so afraid. If th

ey ever find out, what will we say? How can we explain?"

"Sssh," came his whisper, "life will be good to us from now on. Hold fast to your faith in God. We have both been punished enough; He won't punish us more."

Run, run, had to run fast to my room and hurl myself down. I felt hollow inside, emptiness all around instead of the confidence and love I used to feel here. Clover was gone. My dear little harmless poodle who had never done even one bad thing. And Bart had shot a wolf.

What would Bart do next? Did he know what I did? Was that why he was behaving so strangely? Turning his mean glare on Mom like he wanted to hurt her. Tears rose in my eyes again, for memory couldn't be denied forever. I knew now that Bart was not the son of Dr. Paul. Bart was the son of that old lady's second husband with the same name as my half brother--that tall, lean man who sometimes haunted my dreams along with Dr. Paul and my own real father, whom I'd seen only in photographs.

Our parents had lied to both of us. Why hadn't they told us the truth? Was the truth so ugly they couldn't tell us? Did they have such little faith in our love for them?

Oh, God, their secret must be something so dreadful we could never forgive them!

And Bart, he could be dangerous. I knew he could be. Day by day it was beginning to show more and more. In the morning I wanted to run up to Mom or to Dad and tell them. But when morning came I couldn't say anything. Now I knew why Dad insisted that we learn one new word each day. It took special words to put across subtle ideas, and as yet I wasn't as educated as I needed to be to express my troubled thoughts that wanted to reassure them. And how could I reassure them when Bart was before me, his dark eyes hard and mean?

Oh, God, if you're up there somewhere, looking down, hear my prayer. Let my parents have the peace they need so they don't have to dream of evil grandmothers at night. Right or wrong, whatever they've done, I know they've done the best they could.

Why did I put it like that?