"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.
We were at the breakfast table one morning when Dad rubbed his tired eyes and informed us of something incredible. "Cathy, you're not going to believe this, but the lab technicians found something odd in the culture they took from Bart's wound. We suspected rust; they found rust, which caused the tetanus, but they also found the very kind of staphylococcus often associated with fresh animal feces. It's truly a miracle Bart still has both of his legs."
Looking pale and tired enough to be sick herself, Mom nodded before her head bowed weakly to his shoulder. "If Clover were still around, I'd easily understand how he might--"
"You know how our Bart is. If anything filthy is within a mile he'll be the one to step on it, crawl in it, or pick it up and check it over. You know, when he kept on raving last night about apples I gave him one I'd bought and he let it fall to the floor, showing no interest." Mom closed her eyes while he went on stroking her back and talking. "When I told him we weren't flying East I could tell he was pleased." He looked my way. "I hope you're not too disappointed, Jory. We'll have to wait until next summer to visit your grandmother, or maybe this Christmas I can get away."
I was thinking mean thoughts. Bart always got what he wanted. He'd figured out a sure way to avoid visiting "ole" graves and "ole" grandmothers. He'd even given up Disneyland. And it wasn't like Bart to give up anything.
That evening I was with Bart alone, and Mom and Dad were in the hospital corridor talking to friends. I told Bart about the conversation I'd overheard between the old lady and her butler. "There they were, Bart, both of them on her terrace. She was so worried about you."
"She loves me," he whispered proudly, his voice very faint "She loves me more than anybody," and here he looked thoughtful, "except perhaps, Apple."
Bart, I thought, don't think like that. But I couldn't speak and steal his pride in having found love outside his family. With mixed emotions I watched his expressive face, my own emotions a tumble of uncertainty. What kind of kid brother did I have? Surely he had to know his parents would love him more than anyone else.
"Grandmother is afraid of that ole butler," he said, "but I can handle him good. I've got hidden powers, real powerful."
"Bart, why do you keep going over there?"
He shrugged and stared at the wall. "Don't know. Jus' wanna go there."
"You know that Dad would give you a dog, any kind you want. All you have to do is ask, and he'll give you a puppy just like Apple."
His fierce, angry eyes drilled a hole in me. "There ain't no other dog like my puppy-pony. Apple is special."
I changed the subject. "How do you know that woman is scared of her butler? Did she tell you?"
"She don't have to tell me. I can jus' tell. He looks at her mean. She l
ooks at him scared."
Scared, the same way I was beginning to look at just about everything.
Homecoming
. Nice the way Momma kept fussing over me. Wouldn't last. She'd change as soon as I got well. Two long long weeks in this stinking hospital that wanted to take my leg and burn it in their furnace. Made me happy to look down and see my leg still there. Boy, just wait until I went back to school and I told them how I nearly had an "amputated" leg. They'd be impressed. Was made of good stuff that refused to rot and die. And I hadn't cried. Was brave too.
I remembered how Daddy hovered over me, looking sad and worried. Maybe he really did love me even if I wasn't his own true son. "Daddy!" I cried when I saw him "You got good news, I can tell."
"It's nice to see you bright and happy-looking." He sat on the side of my bed and pulled me into his arms before he gave me a big kiss. Embarrassing. "Bart, I have great news. Your temperature is normal. Your knee is healing nicely. But being a doctor's son has a few advantages. I'm signing you out today. If I don't I fear you'll fade away to nothing. Once you're home I know Emma's delicious food will soon put some meat on those bones."
He looked at me in a kind way, like I really mattered just as much as Jory; it made me want to cry. "Where's Momma?" I asked.
"I had to get away early, so she stayed home to arrange a special homecoming party for you--so you really can't mind, can you?"
Could so! Wanted her here! Bet she didn't come 'cause she had to fiddle around with that lil ole Cindy, putting ribbons in her hair. I kept my silence and allowed Daddy to carry me out to his car. Felt good to be out in the sun, going home.
In the foyer Daddy stood me on my wobbling legs. I stared at Momma, who went first to Daddy and kissed him on the cheek--when I was there, wanting to be kissed first. I knew why she'd done that. She was afraid of me now. She saw my skinny body, my ugly, bony face. She was forcing herself to smile when she looked my way. I cringed when she finally came my way to do her duty to her son who hadn't died. Look at her fake happiness. I knew she didn't love me, didn't really want me anymore. And there was Jory too, smiling and pretending he was happy for me to be home again when I knew, all of them would have been glad to see me dead. I felt like Malcolm when he'd been a little boy, unwanted and unneeded, and so darn miserable.
"Bart, my darling!" said Momma. "Why do you look unhappy? Aren't you glad to be home?" She gathered me in her arms and tried to kiss me, but I yanked away. Saw her hurt face but that didn't count. She was only pretending, like I had to pretend all the time.
"It's so wonderful to have you here again, sweetheart," she went on with her lies. "Emma and I have been busy all morning planning just what we can do to make you happy. Since you complained so much about the awful hospital food, we've made all your favorite dishes." She smiled again and reached once more to hug me, but I wasn't gonna let her get under my skin with her "feminine wiles" John Amos had told me about. Good food and smiles and kisses were all parts of "feminine wiles."
"Bart, don't look so skeptical. Emma and I did fix every one of your favorite dishes." I stared at her. She turned red, then said with an effort, "You know, the ones you like best."
She went on forcing herself to be nice as Daddy came up and gave me a short cane. "Bear most of your weight on that until your knee is stronger."
Kinda fun hobbling around like an old man, like Malcolm Foxworth. Liked having them fuss over me, worried when I wouldn't eat. None of the presents they had for me were as good as what my
grandmother next door would give. "Good gosh, Bart," whispered Jory during dinner, "do you have to act so ungrateful? Everybody went to an awful lot of trouble to please you."
"Hate apple pie." "You said before apple pie was your favorite kind."
"Never said that! Hate chicken too, and mashed potatoes, green salads--hate everything!"
"I believe it," said a disgusted brother who turned his back and ignored someone as picky as me. Then he reached to take a chicken leg from my plate. "Well . . . as long as you don't want it, it shouldn't go to waste." He ate every last piece of the chicken. Now I couldn't sneak into the kitchen late at night and stuff myself when they weren't watching. Let 'em all worry about me fading away to skin and bones, ending up in a damp, cold grave. Let 'em find out how much they missed me.
"Bart, please try and eat a little something," pleaded Momma. "What's wrong with the pie?"
I scowled, then slapped Jory's hand when he reached to take my slice of pie. "Can't eat pie without ice cream on top."
She smiled at me brilliantly, then called, "Emma, bring in the ice cream."
I shoved my plate away and slouched in my chair. "Don't feel so good. Need to be alone. Don't like people making such a fuss over me. Spoils my appetite."
Daddy looked as if he were losing patience with me. He didn't scold Jory for taking my pie either. That's all it took--one hour and they were tired of me and wishing I had died.
"Cathy," said Daddy, "don't plead with Bart anymore. If he doesn't want to eat he can excuse himself. He'll eat when he's hungry enough."
Stomach was rumbling right now. I couldn't eat that stuff in front of me now that Jory had taken away what I wanted most. There I sat, starving, while everyone forgot me and began to talk, laugh and act like I was still in the hospital. I got up and hobbled toward my room. Daddy called, "Bart, I don't want you playing outside until that leg has time to heal thoroughly. Take a nap with your leg propped up. Later on you can watch television."
TV. What kind of homecoming treat was that?
Appearing obedient, I entered my bedroom and stood near the doorway so I could shout to those in the dining room, "Don't nobody disturb my rest!"
Kept me two weeks in that hospital, and now I was home they were gonna keep me locked inside some more. I'd show 'em! Nobody was gonna keep me inside for another rotten week! But somebody kept an eye on me night and day before finally I could escape through the window after six whole days of being kept a prisoner. Already I'd missed too much of summer, and my Disneyland trip. Wasn't gonna miss anything else.
The big ole tree by the wall was not friendly, making it harder for me to climb. By the time I was next door my leg would ache. Pain wasn't nearly as good as I'd thought it would be. Being "normal" wasn't so hot. Jory sprained his ankle once and went right on dancing, ignoring the pain. I could ignore pain too.
When I was on top of the wall I looked behind to see who might be following. Nobody. Nobody cared what I did to hurt myself. Began to sniff--what was that rotten stinking smell coming from out of the hollow oak tree? Ah, I could just remember. Something dead in the hollow tree. What was it? Couldn't remember good anymore. Mind was fuzzy, full of mists that rolled like the fog.
Apple, better to think of Apple. Forget the stiff and aching knee by pretending it belonged to some frail ole man like Malcolm grew up to be. My young leg wanted to run, but my old one controlled all of me, taking over my mind, forcing me to lean heavily on my cane.
Ohh! What a pitiful sight it would be to see poor Apple lying dead in the barn. A pitiful bag of fur, skin and bones. I'd cry, scream, hate those who'd tried to force me to fly East and abandon the very best friend I had. Animals were the only ones who knew how to really love with devotion.
A hundred years had come and gone since last I came this way before. More years passed, it seemed, while I limped to its doors. Get a grip on yourself, I thought. Steel your spine, like Malcolm steeled his. Prepare your eyes for a grisly sight, for Apple loved you too much, and now he had to pay the price by dying. Never, never again would I find such a true friend as the puppy-pony who'd been my Apple.
My balance, never good, swayed me right to left, from front to back, and made me feel hazy and crazy. I sensed something was behind me. I peeked over my shoulder and saw no one there. Nothing but those frightening animal shapes that were only green shrubs. Stupid gardeners should have something better to do than waste their time snipping at bushes when real money was out there waiting f
or real brains to pick it up. Thinking now just like Malcolm; John Amos would be pleased. Had to hunt up John Amos so he could smarten up my brains some more.
Suspecting the worst, I approached the place that Apple liked most. Now I couldn't see. Gone blind! My cane tapped the ground ahead of me. Dark. Why was it so dark? I inched along, peering this way and that. All the barn shutters were closed. Poor Apple, left in the dark to starve. A lump rose in my throat while I cried inside for a pet who'd loved me more than life itself.
I had to force myself to take another step forward. To see Apple dead would scar my soul, my eternal soul which John Amos said had to stay clean and pure if I was to get to heaven's pearly gates where Malcolm had gone.
One step more. I stopped. There was my Apple-- and he wasn't dead! He was in a stall with the window open and he was chasing a red ball, swatting it with his huge pawlike hoofs--and there was plenty of food in his dish. Clean water in his bowl too. I stood there shaking all over as Apple ignored me and went on playing like I wasn't even there. Why, he hadn't missed me at all!
"YOU! YOU!" I screamed. "You've been eating and drinking, and having a good time! And all the time I was at death's door and you didn't care. And I thought you loved me. I thought you'd miss me a whole lot. And now you don't even bark-whinny to tell me you're glad I'm back! I HATE YOU, APPLE! HATE YOU FOR NOT CARING ENOUGH!"
Apple saw me then and ran to me, leaping to put his huge paw-hoofs on my shoulders as he slurped my face. His tail wagged furiously, but he wasn't fooling me. He'd found someone else to take care of him better-- darn if I'd made his coat look so pretty. "Why didn't you die from loneliness?" I shrieked. I glared hatred at him, wanting him to wither away and disappear. He sensed my anger and dropped to all fours and stood with his tail between his legs and his head hanging down, his eyes rolled slantwise.