If There Be Thorns (Dollanganger 3)

"Summer's almost gone, Bart. Lemon pies get eaten by others. What you don't take today may not be there tomorrow."

Why was he being so nice to that boy who looked at him with daggers that could kill?

Obediently, when Dad turned to leave the room, Bart tagged along behind him. I was Bart's unseen shadow. Suddenly Bart ran ahead of Dad, who was on the back porch now, and skipped backwards until he nearly tumbled down the steps. "You aren't my father," he growled, "and you can't fool me. You hate me and want me dead!"

Heavily Dad sat in a chair close to the one where Mom was sitting with Cindy on her lap. Bart went to the swings to sit, not pushing with his feet, just sitting and holding fast to the ropes, as if he might fall off the wooden slat.

We all ate a slice of Emma's delicious lemon pie, all but Bart, who just sat where he was and refused to budge. Then Dad was getting up and saying he had to check on a patient in the hospital. He threw Bart a worried glance and spoke softly to Mom. "Take it easy, darling. Stop looking so troubled. I'll be home soon. Maybe Mary Oberman isn't the best psychiatrist for Bart. He seems to have a great deal of hostility toward women. I'll find another psychiatrist, a man." He leaned to kiss her upturned face. I heard the soft moist sound of their lips meeting. Then they stared deep into each other's eyes and I wondered what they saw. "I love you, Cathy. Please stop worrying. Everything will work out fine. We will all survive."

"Yes," she said dully, throwing Bart a doubtful look, "but I can't help worrying about Bart . . . he seems so confused."

Straightening, Dad cast Bart a long, hard, observant look. "Yes," he said without doubt. "Bart's a survivor too. See how fast he

clings to the ropes, and he's less than two feet from the ground. He just doesn't trust or believe in himself. I think he seeks strength in pretending to be older and wiser; security is in something other than himself. As a ten-year-old boy, he is lost. So it's up to us to find the right person to help him, even though it seems we cannot."

"Drive carefully," she said, as she always did, watching him depart with her heart in her eyes.

Very determined to stay up and protect Mom and Cindy, I still found myself growing sleepy. Every time I checked I saw Bart still on the swing, his dark eyes staring blankly into space, as very gently he moved the swing an inch or so, no more than the wind could blow his weight.

"I'm going to put Cindy to bed now, Jory," Mom

said to me, then called to Bart, "Bedtime . . . I'll be in to see you in a few minutes. Clean your teeth and wash your hands and face. We saved you a slice of lemon pie to eat before you brush your teeth."

No reply from the swing, but he did get up awkwardly, pausing to glance at his bare feet, stopping to stare at his hands, to finger his pajamas, to glance up at the sky, at the distant hills.

Inside the house Bart wandered aimlessly from object to object, picking one up, turning it over and staring at the bottom before he set it down. A small Venetian glass sailboat held his attention for a moment, and then he seemed to freeze as his eyes found a lovely porcelain ballerina in arabesque position. It was a figurine my mom had given to Dr. Paul after she married my father; in many ways the dancer was like Mom must have looked when she was very young.

Gingerly he picked up the delicate figure with its fluffy frozen froth of lace tutu and frail, pale arms and legs. He turned it over, stared at the information printed on the bottom. Limoges, it said, for I'd read it too. Next he touched the golden hair, parted in the middle and drawn softly back in waves and held in place with pink china roses.

Then deliberately he let it slip from his hands.

It fell to the bare floor and broke into several large pieces. I dashed forward, thinking I could glue them back together and maybe Mom wouldn't notice--but Bart put his foot on the ballerina's head and ground it fiercely with his bare foot.

"Bart!" I cried out, "that was a hateful thing to do! You know mother prizes that more than anything else. You shouldn't have."

"Don't tell me what I shouldn't and should do! You leave me alone and say nothing about what you just saw. It was an accident, boy, an accident."

Whose voice was that? Not Bart's. He was pretending to be that old man again.

I ran for a broom and a dustpan to clean up the shards of what had been a lovely ballerina, hoping Mom wouldn't notice she was missing from the shelf.

When I remembered Bart again, I hurried to find him slyly watching Mom as she held Cindy on her lap, brushing her hair

Mom glanced up and happened to catch Bart watching. I saw her blanch and try to smile, but something she saw made her smile fade before it even shone.

In a flashing streak Bart ran forward and shoved Cindy from Mom's lap. Cindy squealed as she fell on the floor--then jumped up to howl. She raced to Mom, who picked her up again, then rose to tower over Bart. "Bart, why did you do that?"

He spread his legs and stared up into her face scornfully. Then he left the room without looking back.

"Mom," I said, as she calmed Cindy down and put her into bed, "Bart's very sick in his head. You let Dad take him to any shrink he wants, but make him stay there until he's well."

I heard her sob, but it wasn't until later that she broke and cried.

This time it was me who held her; my arms that gave her comfort. I felt so adult and responsible.

"Jory, Jory," she sobbed, clinging fast to me, "why does Bart hate me? What have I done?"

What could I say? I didn't know any of the answers.