In the middle of the bedroom we shared, Chris and I reached for each other. There we stood, wrapped in each other's arms, holding fast to the only security we ever had that lasted: each other. All about us the house felt so quiet. We could have been lost and alone in eternity.
"All right, spill it out," said Chris after long minutes passed. "I can always tell when you're worried."
"I wish things could be different between you and Bart, that's all," I replied in an offhand way, not wanting to spoil this evening.
"I feel my relationship with Jory and Cindy more than makes up for Bart's antagonism. And, more importantly, I genuinely sense Bart does not hate me. There are times when I feel he wants to reach out to me, but there's that shame, that knowledge of our true relationship that holds him as if bound by chains of steel. He wants guidance but is ashamed to ask for it. He wants a father, a real father. His psychiatrists have always told us that. He looks at me, finds me sadly lacking . . . so he looks elsewhere. First it was Malcolm, his great-grandfather, already dead in his grave. Then it was John Amos, and John failed him, too. Now he turns to Joel, fearfully suspecting that he, too, may have his flaws. Yes, I can tell at times he doesn't really trust his great-uncle. And because he can think like this, Bart is not beyond saving, Cathy. We still have time to reach him--for we're alive and he's alive."
"Yes, yes! I know, I know. While there's life there's always hope. Say it again, and then again. And if you say it often enough, maybe the day will come when Bart says to you, 'Yes, I love you. Yes, you've done your best. Yes, you are the father I've been looking for all my life'--and wouldn't that be wonderful?"
His head bowed into my hair. "Don't sound so bitter. That day will come, Cathy. As surely as you and. I love each other--and our three children--that day will come."
I knew I'd do anything that was necessary to see that one day Bart would speak genuine words of love to his father! I'd live forever to see the day when Bart not only accepted Chris and said he loved him and admired him and thanked him, I'd also live to see him a real brother to Jory again . . . and a brother to Cindy.
Minutes later we were at the head of the stairs, starting to descend and join Jory and Melodie, whom we could see near the newel post at the bottom. Melodie wore a simple black gown that draped from black shoestring straps. Her only jewelry was a string of gleaming pearls.
Upon hearing the clatter of my high-heeled silver slippers on the marble, Bart stepped into view wearing his custom-tailored tux. My breath caught. He could have been his father when I'd seen him the first time.
His mustache--that small amount of fuzz first seen seven days ago--had grown thicker. He looked happy, and that was enough to make him look even more handsome. His dark eyes were full of admiration as he saw my dress, my hair, smelled my perfume. "Mother!" he cried, "you look stunning! You bought that lovely white dress especially for my party, didn't you?" Laughing, I said yes, of course, I couldn't wear anything old to a party such as this.
We all had compliments for each other, except Bart didn't say anything at all to Chris, although I saw him surreptitiously glancing at him, as if Chris's steadfast good looks kept taking him by surprise. Melodie and Jory, Chris and I, with Bart and Joel, formed a circle at the bottom of the stairs, all of us but Joel trying to talk at the same time. Then .. .
"Momma, Daddy!" called Cindy, running down the stairs toward us and holding up her long flame-red dress so she wouldn't trip. I turned to stare at her disbelievingly.
I didn't know where Cindy had found the shocking red dress she wore. It seemed the kind a hooker would wear to display her charms. I filled with such sickening dread of Bart's reaction that all my former happiness flowed like stale wine down into my slippers and disappeared through the floor. The thing she wore clung like a coat of scarlet paint, the neckline plunged almost to her waist, and obviously she wore nothing underneath. The peaks of her jutting breasts were too obvious; and when she moved she jiggled embarrassingly. The clinging satin sheath was cut on the bias, and clung . . . oh, it did cling. There wasn't a bulge or a ripple to betray an ounce of fat, only a superb young body she wanted to display.
"Cindy, go back to your room," I whispered, "and put on that blue dress you promised to wear. You're sixteen, not thirty."
"Oh, Momma, don't be so stodgy. Times have changed. Nudity is in, Momma, IN. And compared to some I could have chosen, this dress is modest, absolutely prudish."
Just one glance at Bart told me he didn't think Cindy's gown was modest. He stood as if dumbstruck until this very moment, with his face flame red, his dark eyes bulging as he stared at her mincing around, because the skirt was so tight she could hardly move her legs.
Bart stared at us, looked again at Cindy. Bart's rage was so furious he couldn't speak. In those few seconds I had to think quickly of how to appease him. "Cindy, please, run back and change into something decent."
Cindy had her eyes fixed on Bart. Obviously she was challenging him to do something to stop her. She seemed to be enjoying his reaction, his bulging eyes, his gaping lips that showed his indignation and shock. She made more of a show of herself by sashaying around like a prancing pony in heat, swishing those hips in an undulating, provocative way. Joel moved next to Bart, his watery blue eyes cold and scornful as he looked Cindy up and down, and then his eyes lifted to meet mine. See, see what you have raised, he said mutely.
"Cindy, do you hear your mother?" Chris bellowed. "Do as she says! Immediately!"
Appearing shocked, Cindy froze, staring at him with defiance as she flushed and stood her ground.
"Please, Cindy," I added, "do as your father says. The other dress is very pretty and appropriate. What you have on is vulgar."
"I am old enough to choose what I want to wear," she said in a quivery voice, refusing to move. "Bart likes red, so I wear red!"
Melodie stared, at Cindy, glanced helplessly up at me and tried to smile. Jory appeared amused, as if this were all a joke.
Cindy had by this time finished her burlesque performance. She looked somewhat crestfallen as she paused before Jory, staring up at him expectantly. "You look absolutely divine, Jory--and you, too, Melodie."
Obviously Jory didn't know what to say or where to look, so he looked away, then looked back. A slow blush rose from the neckline of his tucked formal shirt. "And you look like . . . Marilyn Monroe . . ."
Bart's dark head snapped around. His fiery gaze raked over Cindy again. His face flamed even redder so it seemed he might go up in smoke. He exploded, all control vanished. "You go straight back to your room and put on something decent! INSTANTLY! MOVE before you get what you deserve! I won't have anyone in my home dressing like a whore!"
"Get lost, you creep!" she snapped back.
"WHAT DID YOU SAY?" he yelled.
"I said, GET LOST, CREEP! I will wear exactly what I have on!" I saw her tremble. But for once Bart was right.
"Cindy, why? You know that dress is wrong, and everyone is right to be shocked. Now, do what's expected, go upstairs and change. Don't create more distress than y