Seeds of Yesterday (Dollanganger 4)

He leaned back in his swivel chair with its back that lowered automatically from the pressure he applied and closed his eyes. "Tired now. Go away. Don't stand and stare at me with eyes of pity. And they did

accept .. . didn't I just burn their replies?"

"Bart, listen to me. Don't fall asleep before I

finish. Didn't you notice how strangely they were

signed? All the different colored ink? The crooked,

awkward handwriting? Joel did not mail your

invitations, but instead took them to his room, opened

them, extracted the R.S.V.P. cards and envelopes, and

since you had put stamps on all of them, all he had to

do was drive to the post office and mail them back to

you a few each day."

His closed eyes slotted. "Mother, I think you

should go to bed. My great-uncle is the best friend

I've ever had. He'd never do anything to hurt me." "Bart, please. Don't put too much faith in Joel."

"GET OUT!" he roared. "It's your fault they didn't

come! Yours and that man you sleep with!"

I stumbled as I turned away, feeling defeated

and so afraid this could very well be true--and Joel

was just what Bart and Chris believed him to be, a

harmless old man who wanted to live out his days in

this house, near the one person who respected and

loved him

Unto Us Is Born . . .

. Christmas Day was over. I was in bed curled up beside Chris, who could always fall easily into deep sleep, leaving me to fret and stew and flip and turn. Behind me the great one-eyed swan kept its ruby eye alert, causing me to look around often at what it could be seeing. I heard the deep, mellow tones of the grandfather clock at the end of our hall strike three o'clock. A few minutes ago I'd gotten up to watch Bart's red car speed down the drive, heading toward the local tavern where no doubt he'd drown his sorrows in additional liquor and end up in some whore's bed. More than once he'd come home reeking of liquor and cheap perfume.

Hour after hour passed as I waited for Bart to come home. I pictured all sorts of calamities. On a night like this the drunks were out, deadlier than arsenic.

Why lie here doing nothing? I slipped out of the bed, arranged the covers neatly over Chris's sleeping bulk, kissed his cheek, then arranged his heavy arms around a pillow that I presumed he'd think was me, and he did from the way he snuggled it close. It was my intention to wait for Bart in his room.

It was almost five on a cold, blustery, winter morning before I heard his car approaching. I was huddled in a deep pile robe of red-rose, curled up on one of his white sofas with his black and red pillows behind my back.

I dozed, then heard him climbing the stairs, heard him moving drunkenly from room to room, bumping into furniture as he had when he was a child. He was dedicated to checking each room to see if it had been neatly tidied before the servants retired. And to my dismay, from the length of time it was taking him to appear in his own rooms, he was doing that now. No newspapers could be left in sight. No magazines not neatly stacked in their respective piles. No articles of clothing left on the floor, or coats on doorknobs or draped on chair backs.

Minutes later Bart was in his room, flicking the switch to light the lamps. He swayed to and fro before he stared at me sitting in the dimness of his room, where I'd started a fire that crackled cheerfully in the darkness. Shadows danced on the white walls, turning them orange and rosy, the black leather of another wall catching red highlights, creating a kind of fake inferno.

"Mother, what the hell is going on? Didn't I tell you to st