If There Be Thorns (Dollanganger 3)

anting, looking at me with huge pleading eyes. Who had done this? He'd clawed the ground in his futile efforts to dig free, and now, still only an overgrown puppy, he lay and panted in the barn, which had been closed and shuttered cruelly.

"It's all right, boy," I soothed, as I set about getting him fresh water. He lapped it up so thirstily I had to take it away. I knew a little about doctoring. Dogs, like people, had to drink sparingly after a long thirst. Next I set him free and went to his shelf of supplies and took what looked best to me from a long row of cans. Apple was starving in the midst of plenty. I could feel his ribs when I ran my hands over his pitiful shabby coat that had been so beautiful.

When he'd eaten and had his fill of water, I currycombed his thick mat of hair. Then I sat on the dirt floor and held his huge head on my lap. "Bart's coming home to you, Apple. He'll have two good legs too, I promise. I don't know who did this to you and why, but you can bet I'll find out." What worried me most was the awful suspicion that the very person who loved Apple most might be the very one who'd starved and punished his pet. Bart had such an odd way of reasoning. To his way of thinking, if Apple really suffered when he was gone, Apple would be ten times more grateful to see him.

Could Bart be that heartlessly cruel?

Outside the July day was mildly hot. As I approached the great mansion I heard the low voices of two people. That old woman in black and the creepy old butler, both of them seated on a cool patio lush with colorful potted palms, and ferns planted in huge stone urns.

"John, I feel I should go down again and check on Bart's puppy. He was so happy to see me this morning, I couldn't understand why he was so hungry. Really, do you have to keep him chained up like that? It seems so cruel on a beautiful day like this."

"Madame, it is not a beautiful day," said the mean-looking butler, as he sipped a beer and sprawled in one of her chaise lounges. "When you insist on wearing black, naturally you feel hotter than anyone else."

"I don't want your opinion on how I dress. I want to know why you keep Apple chained."

"Because the dog might run off to look for his young master," said John sarcastically. "I guess you didn't think of that."

"You could lock the barn door. I'm going down to look at him again. He seemed so thin, so desperate."

"Madame, if you have to concern yourself, make it worthy of the bother. Be concerned for your grandson, who is about to lose his leg!"

She'd half risen from her chair, but at this announcement she sank back on the pillows. "Oh. He's worse? Did Emma and Marta talk again this morning?"

I sighed, knowing Emma liked to gossip and she shouldn't. Though I honestly didn't think she'd say anything important. She never told me any secrets. And Mom never had time to listen.

"Of course they did," grouched the butler. "Did you ever hear of a woman who didn't? Those two use stepladders every day to gab away. Though to hear Emma talk, the doctor and his wife are perfect."

"John, what did Marta find out about Bart? Tell me!"

"Well, Madame, it seems that kid has managed to drive a rusty nail into his knee and now he has gas gangrene--the kind of gangrene that demands amputation of the limb or the patient dies."

I stared from my hidden place at the two who sat and talked, the one very upset, the other totally unconcerned, almost amused at the reaction of his mistress.

"You're lying!" screamed the woman, jumping to her feet. "John, you tell me lies just to torture me more. I know Bart will be fine. His father will know what to do to help him recover. I know he will. He has to . . ." And then she broke into tears. She took off the veil then and wiped at her tears, and I glimpsed her face, not noticing the scars so much this time, only her look of suffering. Did she really care so much for Bart? Why should she care? Could she really be Bart's grandmother?--naw she couldn't be. His grandmother was in a mental institution in Virginia.

I stepped forward then to let my presence be known. She appeared surprised to see me, then remembered her bare face and hastily put on her veil again.

"Good morning," I said, addressing myself to the lady and ignoring the old man I couldn't help but detest. "I heard what your butler said, ma'am, and he's right only to a certain extent. My brother is very ill, but he does not have gas gangrene. And he will not lose his leg. My father is much too good a doctor to let that happen."

"Jory, are you sure Bart will be all right?" she asked with so much concern. "He's very dear to me . . . I can't tell you how much." She choked and bowed her head, working her thin, ringed hands convulsively.

"Yes, ma'am," I said. "If Bart wasn't allergic to most of the drugs the doctors have given him, they would have destroyed the infection--but that won't matter in the long run, for my dad will know what to do to help him. My father always knows just what to do." I turned then toward the butler and tried to put on adult authority. "As for Apple, he does not need to be kept chained in a hot barn with all the windows shuttered over. And he doesn't need to have his food and water placed just out of his reach. I don't know what's going on in this place, and why you want to make a nice dog like that suffer--but you'd better take good care of him if you don't want me to report you to the humane society." I whipped about and started toward home.

"Jory!" called the lady in black. "Stay! Don't leave yet. I want to know more about Bart."

Again I turned to look at her. "If you want to help my brother, there's only one thing you can do-- leave him alone! When he comes back, you tell him some nice reason why you can't be bothered--but don't you hurt his feelings."

She spoke again, pleading for me to stay and talk, but I strode on, thinking I'd done something to protect Bart. To protect him from what, I didn't know.

That very night Bart's fever raged higher. His doctors ordered him to be wrapped in a thermal blanket that worked like a refrigerator. I watched my father, I watched my mother, I saw them look at each other, touch each other, giving each other strength. Strangely, both turned to pick up cubes of ice that they rubbed on Bart's arms and legs, then his chest. Like one person with no need to speak. I choked up and bowed my head, feeling moved by their kind of love and understanding. I wanted then to speak up and tell them about the woman next door, but I'd promised Bart not to tell. He had the first friend in his life, the first pet that could tolerate him; yet the longer I withheld what I knew, the more my parents might be hurt in the long run. Why did I have to think that? How could that old lady hurt my parents?

Somehow I knew she could. Someday I knew she would. I wished I were a man, with the ability to make right decisions.

As I grew sleepier, I remembered the expression Dad used so often: "God works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform."

Next thing I knew Dad was shaking me awake. "Bart's better!" he cried. "Bart's going to keep his leg and recover!"

Slowly, day by day, that hideous swollen leg diminished in size. Gradually it turned a normal color, though Bart seemed listless and uncaring as he stared blankly ahead, not saying anything to anybody.