Lessons
. July. My month. "Conceived in fire, born in heat," said John Amos when I told him it would soon be my tenth birthday. Didn't know what he meant and didn't care either. Disneyland would see me in a few days. Hip-hip-hooray! Drat Jory for not looking happy, spoiling my fun with his long, sad face just because some silly little ole dog wouldn't come home when he called.
I was making plans that would see Apple through until I could steal back to him after seeing Disneyland. John Amos grabbed me when I went over and hauled me up to his room over the garage. I looked around, thinking it smelled sour, old, like medicine.
"Bart, you sit down in that chair and read aloud to me from Malcolm's journal. For the Lord will punish you if you say you're reading his book when you are not."
I didn't need John Amos as much as I used to, so I looked at him with scorn. With the kind of scorn Malcolm would show for a bent and lame old man who couldn't speak without hissing, whistling or spitting. But I sat and I read from Malcolm's redleather journal.
My youth had been squandered in earthy pleasures, and as I approached thirty I realized what was missing in my life was a purpose other than money. Religion. I needed religion, and redemption for all my sins, for despite the vows of my childhood, I had regressed into desiring women, and the more wicked they were, the more they seemed to please me. There was no sight more pleasurable to me than to see some haughty beautiful woman, humbled and made to do obscene things that went against the rules of decency. I took pleasure in beating them, putting red welts on their fair unbroken skins I saw blood, their blood, and it made me excited. That's when I knew I needed God. I had to save my everlasting soul from hell.
I looked up, tired of trying to figure out all those long words that didn't mean much to me.
"Do you see what Malcolm is telling you, boy? He's telling you no matter how much you hate women, still there is pleasure to be had from them-- but at a cost, boy, at a dear, dear cost. Unfortunately God built into mankind sensual desires--you must try to smother yours as you approach manhood. Plant it in your mind so deep it can never be removed: women will be your destruction in the end. I know. They have destroyed me and kept me a servant when I could have been far more."
I got up and walked away, sick of John Amos. I was going to my grandmother, who loved me more than God ever would. More than anyone ever would. She loved me for myself. She loved me so much she even made up lies, like me, to tell me she was my own true grandmother when I knew that just couldn't be so.
Saturday was the best day of the week. My stepfather stayed home and made Momma happy. She hired some dumb assistant to help out on Saturdays in her ballet class now that she had to spend so much time doling up Cindy--like anybody cared how she looked. Jory had to go to ballet class on Saturdays too so he could see his stupid girlfriend. By noon he'd be home to mess up all my plans. Had lots of plans to fill my time. Take care of Apple. Sit on my grandmother's lap and let her sing to me. Why, mornings could pass quicker than a wink with all I had to do.
John Amos gave me more lessons on how to be like Malcolm, and darn if it wasn't working. I was feeling his power growing bigger and stronger.
That afternoon Cindy was in a brand new plastic swimming pool. The old one wasn't good enough for her. Bratty kid had to have everything new, even a bathing suit with red and white stripes and little red straps that tied over her shoulders to keep the thing up. Little bows she was trying to undo!
Jory jumped up and rushed into the house for his camera, then ran back to take Cindy's picture. Snap, snap, snap. He tossed the camera to Momma, who caught it. "Take my picture with Cindy," he said.
Sure, she was happy to take his picture with Cindy. Didn't bother to ask about me. Maybe once too often I'd made a face, ducked my head, or stuck out my tongue. Everyone was always saying Bart sure did know how to ruin a perfectly good shot.
Dratted bushes were all around me, scratching my legs, arms. Bugs crawled on me. Hated bugs! Slapped at them as I narrowed my eyes to see that sissy girl splashing in the water, having more fun than I ever had in a pool.
When they tried to take me East from Disneyland, I'd sneak away and catch a ride and come home and take care of Apple--that's what Malcolm would do. Dead people wouldn't miss me. They wouldn't care if I wasn't there to put flowers on their graves. Jory's nasty grandmother would be glad I wasn't there.
Ran to where I could climb the tree, the wall, and on to the barn to visit with Apple, who was growing huge. I shoved a doggy biscuit in Apple's mouth. It vanished in a second. He jumped and made me fall down. "Now you eat this carrot--it will be like a toothbrush to clean your teeth!" Apple sniffed at the carrot. Wagged his tail. Jumped and then swiped at the carrot with his paw. Apple still didn't know how to play pony games at all.
Soon I had Apple hitched up to my new pony cart and we flew all over the place. "Gitty-up!" I yelled. "Catch those rustlers over yonder! Run faster, you gol-durn horse, if yer gonna get me home before chow is served!" I saw a movement in the hills. Twisted 'round and spied Indians comin lickity-split-- scalpin Indians! Indians gave us a mad chase until we lost them in the hills that soon became desert. Tired and thirsty, my mount and I looked for an oasis. Saw a mirage.
There she was, the woman of the oasis mirage. Wearin her flutterin black rags, her barefeet sandy, glad to welcome us both back to the land of the livin . . .
"Water," I gasped. "Need cold, clear water." I sprawled in a fancy chair and spread out my long, thin legs that ended in dusty, worn boots. I reached to flick sand from my chaps. "Make it a beer," I said to the saloon girl. She brought me beer, all foamy and brown, and cold, too cold. Hit my stomach like a rattler, makin me hunch over and give her the eye. "What's a nice girl like you doin in a rotten place like this?"
"I'm the local schoolmarm. Snapping Sam, don't you remember?" Behind her veil she cast down her eyelids and fluttered her lashes. "But when hard times come, a lady must do what she can to survive." She was playin my game Nobody ever played my games with me. It felt so good to have a playmate.
I smiled, real friendly like. "Took good care of Apple. He's so clean he can't die."
"Darling, you play too hard. And it's not healthy to think so much about dying. Come sit on my lap and let me sing you a song."
Nice. Liked being treated like a baby. Cozy on her soft lap, with my face on her breast, and her singing in my ears. Each rock of the chair put me more and more in a trance. I looked up and tried to see through her veils. Was I getting to love her more than Momma? I saw then that her veils were attached to little combs she caught in her hair, for today she had left her hair uncovered. Most of it was silver-colored with streaks of gold.
Didn't want Momma to grow old and have gray hair. Already she was leaving me each day she cared for Cindy; leaving me for others to take over. Why did Cindy have to come and spoil my life?
"More, please," I whispered when she stopped rocking. "Do you love me more than Madame M. loves Jory?" I asked. If she said yes, much, much more, I might move in.
"Does Jory's grandmother love him a great deal?" Was that envy in her voice? I felt mad, mean-- and she saw this and began to cover my face with kisses, dry kisses on account of that veil.
"Granny, got to tell you somethin."
"Fine . . but remember to sound your G's. Tell me anything, I've got the rest of my life to listen." She stroked my hair back from my face and tried to make it neat. Couldn't.
"Two days before my birthday we're heading for Disneyland. A week there and we fly to where the graves are. Gotta visit cemeteries, buy flowers, put the flowers in the sun where they can die. Hate graves.
Hate Jory's grandmother, who don't like me 'cause I can't dance."
Again she kissed me. "Bart . . tell your parents there have been too many graves in your life. Tell them again how unhappy it makes you feel."
"Won't listen," I said dully. "They don't ask what I want like you do. They just tell me what I have to do."
"I'm sure they'll
listen if you tell them about your dreams of being dead. They'll know then they have taken you too many times into cemeteries. Just tell them the truth."
"But . . but . . ." I sputtered unhappily. "I want Disneyland!"
"You tell them like I said, and I'll take care of Apple."
Felt frantic. Once I turned the care of Apple over to anyone, he'd never be all mine again. I sobbed because life was so impossible. And my plan to escape had to work, it would, had to . . .
We rocked on and on, and she said we were on a sailing ship riding choppy waters to a beautiful island called peace. I lost my land legs, so when I reached there I couldn't stand or find my balance. She disappeared. Alone, all alone. Like on Mars--and way back on Earth Apple was waiting for me to show up. Poor Apple. In the end he'd have to die.
I woke up, I think--where was I? Why was everyone so old? Momma . . . why have you got your face covered with black?
"Wake up, sweetheart. I think you'd better hurry home before your parents become alarmed. You've had a nice nap, so you must feel better."
Next morning I was in the yard trying to finish up that doghouse I was building for Clover. Poor Clover should have had his own house all along, and then he wouldn't have run away looking for one. From Daddy's toolshed I took a hammer, nails, saw, wood, and lugged it out into the yard. I set to. Dratted saw didn't know how to cut straight. Gonna have a crooked house. If Clover complained I'd give him a kick. I picked up my jaggedly sliced board and put it on the roof. Dratted nail! Didn't stand still, made the hammer hit my thumb. Stupid hammer didn't see my fingers! I went right on hammering. Good thing I couldn't feel little pains or I'd be crying. Then I smashed my thumb good and it hurt. Gosh, I was feeling pain like any normal boy.
Jory dashed out of the house yelling at me: "Why are you building a house for Clover when he's been gone two weeks? Nobody has answered our ads. He's no doubt dead by now, and if he does come home he will sleep on the foot of my bed, remember?" Dumb. Dumb, that's what he meant, and Clover might come back. Poor Clover.
I sneaked a glance and saw Jory swipe at the tears in his eyes. "Day after tomorrow we're leaving for Disneyland, and that should make you happy," he said hoarsely. Did it make me happy? My swollen thumb began to ache a little. Apple was gonna die from loneliness.
Then I had an idea. John Amos had told me that prayers brought about miracles, and God was up there in his heaven looking out for dumb animals down here and people too. Momma and Daddy had always told me not to ask for things in my prayers, only blessings for other people, not myself. So, as soon as Jory was gone I threw down my hammer and raced to where I could kneel and pray for my puppy-pony and for Clover. Next I went to Apple, rolling with him on the golden grass, me laughing, him trying to whinny-bark.
His tongue slurped my face with wet kisses. I kissed him back. When he lifted his leg and aimed at the roses--I took off my pants and let go too. We did everything together.
It came to me then just what to do. "Don't you worry none, Apple. I'll only spend one week in Disneyland before I come back to you. I'll hide your puppy-pony biscuits under the hay and leave the water tap dripping in your pail. But don't you dare eat or drink anything John Amos gives you, or my grandmother either. Don't you let anybody bribe you with goodies."
He wagged his tail, telling me he'd be good and obey my orders. He'd made a big pile of do-do. I picked it up and squashed it through my fingers, letting him know I was a part of him now and he was really mine I wiped my hands on the grass and saw ants come running and flies going to work. No wonder nothing lasted, no wonder.
"Time for your lessons, Bart," called John Amos from the barn, his bald head gleaming in the sunlight. I felt captured as I lay on the hay and stared at him towering over me. He smelled old and stale.
"Are you reading Malcolm's journal faithfully?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Are you teaching yourself the ways of the Lord and saying your prayers dutifully?"
"Yes, sir."
"Those who follow in his footsteps will be judged accordingly, as will those who don't. Let me give you an example. Once there was a beautiful young girl who was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, and she had everything money could buy--but did she appreciate all she had? No, she didn't! When she grew older she began to tempt men with her beauty. She'd flaunt her half-nakedness before their eyes. She was high and mighty, but the Lord saw and He punished her, though it took Him some time. The Lord, through Malcolm, made her crawl and cry and pray for release, and Malcolm bested her in the end. Malcolm always bested everyone in the end--and so must you."
Boy, he sure could tell boring stories. We had naked people in our garden and I wasn't tempted. I sighed, wishing he had more subjects to talk about than God and Malcolm . . . and some darn beautiful girl.
"Beware of beauty in women, Bart. Beware of the woman who shows you her body without clothes. Beware of all those women who lie in wait to do you in, and be like Malcolm, clever!"
Finally he let me go. I was glad to be done with pretending I was like Malcolm. All I had to do to feel really good was to crawl sneakily on the ground, listening to the jungle noises in the dense foliage where wild animals lurked. Dangerous animals ready to gobble me down. I jerked. Bolted upright. No! That couldn't be what I thought it was. Just wasn't fair for God to send a dinosaur. Taller than a skyscraper. Longer than a train. I had to jump up and run off to find Jory and tell him what we had hangin around our back yard.
A noise in the jungle ahead! I stopped short, gasping for breath.
Voices. Talking snakes?
"Chris, I don't care what you say. It is not necessary for you to visit her again this summer. Enough is enough. You've done what you can to help her and you can't. So forget her and concentrate on us, your family."
I peeked around a bush. Both my parents were in the prettiest part of the garden, where the larger trees grew. Momma was on her knees, mulching the ground around the roses. Green thumb she had, and he did too.
"Cathy, must you stay a child forever?" he asked. "Can't you ever learn to forgive and forget? Perhaps you can pretend she doesn't exist, but I can't. 1 keep thinking we are the only family she has left." He pulled her to her feet, then put his hand over her mouth when it opened to interrupt. "All right, hold onto your hatred, but I'm a doctor sworn to do what I can for those in distress. Mental illnesses can be more devastating than physical ailments. I want to see her recover. I want her to leave that place--so don't glare at me and tell me again that she was never insane, that she was only pretending. She'd have to be crazy to do what she did. And for all we know the twins might never have grown tall anyway. Like Bart. He's not of normal height for a boy his age."
Oh, wasn't I?
"Cathy, how can I feel good about myself, or anything, if I neglect my own mother?"
"All right!" stormed Momma. "Go on and visit her! Jory, Bart, Cindy and I will stay on with Madame Marisha. Or we could fly on to New York so I can visit with some old friends until you're ready to join us again." She gave him a crooked smile. "That is, if you still want to join us."
"Where else would I go but to you? Who cares if I live or die but you and our children? Cathy, think about this--the day I turn my back on my mother will also be the day I turn my back on all women, including you."
She fell into his arms then and did all that mushy loving stuff I hated to see. I backed away, still on my hands and knees, wondering about what Momma had said, and why she hated his mother so much. I felt a little sick in my stomach. What if my grandmother next door really was my stepfather's mother, truly crazy, loving me only because she had to. What if John Amos was telling the truth?
It was so hard to figure out. Was Corrine Malcolm's real daughter like John Amos had told me?--was she the one who had "tempted" John Amos? Or was that Malcolm who hated someone pretty and half-naked. Sometimes I got confused after reading Malcolm's book; he'd skip back to his childhood and write about his memories even after he was grown up, like his c
hildhood was more important than his adult life. How odd. I couldn't wait to grow up.
I heard them again, coming at me. Quickly I crawled under the nearest hedges.
"I love you, Chris, as much as you love me. Sometimes I think we both love too much. I wake up at night if you're not there. I want you not to be a doctor, but a man who stays home every night. I want my sons to grow up, but each day brings them nearer to learning our secret, and I'm so afraid they'll hate us and won't understand."
"They'll understand," he said. How could he know I would understand when I wasn't good at understanding even simple things, much less something so bad it woke Momma up at night.
"Cathy, have we been bad parents? Haven't we done the best we could? After living with us from their childhood, how can they help but understand? We'll tell them how it was, give them all the facts, so they will see it as we lived it. In so doing, they'll wonder, as I often wonder, how we survived without losing our minds."
John Amos was right. They had to be sinning or they wouldn't be so afraid we wouldn't understand. And what secret? Whatever were they hiding?
I stayed under the hedges long after my parents went into the house. I had favorite caves I'd made deep in the hedges, and when I was inside them I felt like some small woodsy animal, scared of everything human that would kill me if possible.
Malcolm was on my mind, him and his brain that was so wise and cunning. I thought of John Amos, who was teaching me about God, the Bible and sinning. It wasn't until I thought of Apple and my grandmother that I felt good. Not real good, only a little good.
Fell on the ground and began to sniff around, trying to find something I'd buried last week, or a month ago. Looked in the little fish pond Daddy wanted us to have so we could watch how baby fish were born. I'd seen itty-bitty fish come out of eggs, and the parents swam like crazy to gobble down their children!
"Jory! Bart!" called Momma from the open kitchen door. "Dinnertime!"
I peered into the water. There was my face, all funny looking, with jagged edges, hair up in points, not curly and pretty like Jory's. Something dark red was on my face--ugly face that didn't belong in a pretty garden where the little birds came to bathe in a fancy bath. I was bleeding tears. I dipped my hands in the fish water and washed my face. Then sat back to think. That's when I saw the blood on my leg--lots of blood that was drying in a big dark clot on my knee. Didn't really matter because it didn't hurt too much.