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.
"Maybe you should try to figure out why Bart is so different from me, for I would die rather than make you unhappy."
She held me, then stared into space. "Jory, my life has been a series of obstacles. I feel if one more horrible thing happens, I may break . . . and I can't allow that to happen. People are so complicated, Jory, especially adults. When I was ten, I used to think that adults had it so easy, with all the power and rights to do as they wanted. I never guessed being a parent was so difficult. But not you, darling, not you . . ."
I knew her life had been full of sadness, losing her parents, then Cory, Carrie, my father and then her second husband.
The child of my revenge, she whispered as if to herself. All the while I carried Bart I suffered from the guilt I felt. I loved his father so much. . . and in a way I helped kill him.
Mom. I said with a sudden insight, maybe Bart senses your guilt when you look at him- do you think?
PART THREE Malcolm's Rage
. Sunlight fell on my face and woke me up. When I was dressed, suddenly I didn't feel so old like Malcolm, and in a way I was glad. In another way I was sad, for Malcolm was so dependable.
Why didn't I have friends my own age, like other boys? Why was it only old people liked me? It didn't matter now that my grandmother had said she loved me, now that she'd stolen Apple. I had to face up to the fact that only John Amos was my true friend.
Went outside and crawled around before breakfast, sniffed at the ground, smelled the wild things that were scared of me in daylight. Little rabbit ran like crazy and I wouldn't hurt it, wouldn't.
They kept watching me at the breakfast table like they expected me to do something awful. I noticed that Daddy didn't ask Jory how he was today, only asked me. I scowled down at my cold cereal. Hated raisins! Looked like little dead bugs.
"Bart, I just asked you a question." Knew that already. "I'm okay," I said without looking at Daddy, who always woke up in a good mood and never looked glum like me--and Momma. "I just wish you'd hire a really good cook. Or better if Momma would stay home and cook our meals like other mothers. Emma's stuff ain't fit for man nor beast to eat."
Jory stared at me hard and kicked my leg under the table like he was trying to warn me to keep my mouth shut.
"Emma didn't cook your cold cereal, Bart," said Daddy. "It comes that way in a box. And until this morning you always liked plenty of raisins. You used to want Jory's. But if raisins offend you in some way this morning, don't eat them. And why is your lower lip bleeding?"
Was it? Doctors were always seeing blood 'cause they were always cutting up people.
Jory took it on himself to answer. "He was playing wolf this morning, Dad, that's all. I guess when he jumped at the rabbit and tried to bite off its head, he bit himself." He grinned at me as if pleased with my stupidity.
Something was up. Could tell because nobody asked why I would play wolf. They just looked at me as if they expected me to act crazy.
Heard Momma and Daddy whispering beyond the pantry--talking about me. Heard doctors mentioned, new head shrinks. Wouldn't go! Couldn't make me!
Then Mom was back in the kitchen talking to Jory as Daddy went on to the garage and started his car.
"Mom, are we really going through with the performance tonight?"
She threw me a troubled glance, then forced a smile and said, "Of course. I can't disappoint my students, their parents and the other guests who have already bought their tickets."
Fools and their money were soon parted.
Jory said, "I think I'll call Melodie. Yesterday I told her the show might be canceled."
"Jory, why would you tell her that?"
He looked at me, as if I were to blame for everything, even shows that weren't canceled--and I wouldn't go. Not even if they remembered to ask me.
Didn't want to see no sissy-silly ballet where everybody danced and said nothing. They weren't even going to dance Swan Lake, but the dumbest, dullest ballet of all--Coppelia.
Daddy came back in the house then, having forgotten something as usual. "I guess you'll be the prince," he said to Jory, who turned on him with scorn.
"Gosh, Dad, don't you ever learn? There isn't a prince in Coppelial Most of the time I'm only in the corps, but Mom will be terrific in her role. She's choreographed it herself."
"What are you saying?" roared Daddy, turning to glare at Momma. "Cathy, you know you're not supposed to dance on your trick knee! You promised me you would never dance professionally again. At any moment that knee could give way, and down you'd go. One more fall and you may end up crippled for life."
"Just one more time," she pleaded, as if her whole life depended on dancing again. "I'm going to be only the mechanical doll, sitting in a chair--don't get so worked up over nothing."
"No!" he stormed again. "If you go on tonight and don't fall, then you'll think your knee is fine. You'll want to repeat your success, and one more time might see your knee permanently damaged. Just one serious fall and you could break your leg, your pelvis, your back . . . it's happened before, you know that!"
"Name every bone in my body!" she shrilled back at him, and I was thinking, thinking: if she broke her bones and couldn't dance again, then she'd have to stay home with me all the time.
"Honestly, Chris, sometimes you act like I'm your slave! Look at me. I'm thirty-seven years old, and soon I'll be too old to dance at all. Let me feel useful, as you feel useful. I have to dance--just one more time."
"No," he repeated, but less firmly. "If I give in it won't be the last time. You'll want to do it again . . ." 186
"Chris, I'm not going to plead. There is not a student I have capable of playing the role--and I am going on whether or not you like it!" She threw me a glance, as if she worried more about what I thought than what he thought. I was happy, very happy . . . for she was going to fall! Deep inside of me I knew I could make her fall with my wishes. I'd sit in the audience and give her the evil eye; then she'd be my playmate. I'd teach her how to crawl around and sniff the ground like a dog or an Indian, and she'd be surprised at all that could
be found out from sniffing.
"I am not talking of a trifling injury, Catherine," said that hateful husband. "All your life you have given your joints a great deal of stress and disregarded the pain. It's time you started realizing that the good health of your family depends on your well-being."
I scowled at Dad, sorry he'd forgotten something and had to come back and hear too much. Mama didn't even seem surprised he'd forgotten his wallet again, and he was a doctor who was supposed to have a good memory. She gave him his wallet, which had been left beside his breakfast plate, and smiled at him crookedly. "You do this every day. You go out to the garage, start your car and then remember you don't have your wallet."
His smile was just as crooked as hers. "Yes, of course I do. It gives me the opportunity to come back and hear all the things you don't tell me." He stuffed the wallet in his hip pocket.
"Chris, I don't like to go against your wishes, but I can't allow a second-rate performance, and it's Jory's big chance to show off in his solo . . ."
"For once in your life, Catherine, listen to what I say. That knee has been x-rayed, you know the cartilage is broken, and you still complain of chronic pain. You haven't danced on stage for years. Chronic pain is one thing--acute pain another. Is that what you want?"
"Oh, you doctors!" she scoffed. "All of you have such dreary notions of how frail the human body is. My knee hurts, so what? All my dancers complain of aches and pains. When I was in South Carolina, the dancers complained, in New York they complained, in London . . . so what is pain to a dancer? Nothing, doctor, absolutely nothing I can't put up with."
"Cathy!"
"My knee has not hurt seriously in more than two full years. Have you heard me gripe about pain? No, you haven't!"
With that, Dad strode from the kitchen, through the utility room, and on into the garage.
In a flash she was running after him, and I was running after her--hoping to hear more of this argument--and hoping she'd win. Then I'd have her for my very own.
"Chris," she cried, throwing open the passenger door and slipping inside his car, where she threw her arms about his neck. "Don't go away angry. I love you, respect you, and vow on my word of honor that this will be the very last time I perform. I swear I will never, never dance on stage again. I know why I should stay home . . . I know . . ."
They kissed. Never saw people who liked to kiss so much. Then she was pulling away and looking softly into his eyes, stroking his cheek as she murmured: "This is my first chance to dance professionally with Julian's son, darling. Look at Jory, how much he resembles Julian. I've choreographed a special pas de deux in which I'm the mechanical doll and Jory is a mechanical soldier. It's the best thing I've ever done. I want you out in the audience watching, feeling proud of your wife and son. I don't want you sitting there worrying about my knee. Honestly, I've rehearsed, and it does not hurt!"
She stroked him and kissed him some more, and I could see he loved her more than anything, more than us, even more than himself. Fool! Damned fool to love any woman that much!
"All right," he said. "But this must be the last time. Your knee cannot take years and years of practice. Even in teaching you use that knee too much, so much so that other joints could become impaired."
I watched her turn from him and leave the car, her voice so sad when she spoke. "Years ago Madame Marisha told me there would be no life for me without dancing, and I denied this was so. Now I'm going to have the chance to find out."
Good!
Just the words he needed to hear to make him come up with a new idea. He leaned and called to her: "Cathy, what about that book you said you were going to write? This is a good time to start . . ." He gave me a long look, and I felt like a clear windowpane. "Bart, remember you are very loved. If you feel resentment about anyone, or anything, all you have to do is tell me, or tell your mother. We are willing to listen and do what we can to make you happy."
Happy? I'd be happy only when he was gone from her life. Happy only when I had her all to myself--and then I remembered that old man . . . two old men. Neither one of them wanted her to stay alive . . . neither one. I wanted to be like them, especially like Malcolm, so I pretended he was in the garage, waiting for Daddy to drive away, and I'd be alone. He liked it when I was alone, when I felt sad, lonely, mean, angry . . . and right now he was smiling.
No sooner had Momma and Jory driven away, shortly after Daddy left, then Emma was at me again, pestering me, hating me.
"Bart, can't you wipe that blood from your lip? Do you have to keep on biting down? Most people refrain from deliberately hurting themselves."
What did she know about being me? I didn't feel pain when I chewed on my lip. Liked to taste the blood.
"I'll tell you one thing, Bartholomew Scott Winslow Sheffield, if you were my little boy you'd feel the sting of my hand on your bottom. I believe you like to torment people and do every mean thing you can just to gain their attention. It doesn't take any psychiatrist with ten diplomas to know that!"
"SHUT UP!" I yelled.
"Don't you dare yell and tell me to shut up. I've had all I am going to take from you! You are responsible for all the terrible things going on in this house. You broke that expensive figurine your mother prized. I found it in the trashcan, wrapped in newspaper. You may sit there and scowl at me with your black ugly eyes, but I'm not afraid. You are the one who wrapped that wire around Clover and killed your brother's pet. You should be ashamed! You're a mean, hateful little boy, Bart Sheffield, and it's no wonder you don't have any friends, no wonder at all! And I'm going to save your parents thousands of dollars when I turn you over my knee and paddle your bottom until its black and blue. You won't sit comfortably for two weeks!"
She towered over me, making me feel small and helpless too. I wanted to be anybody but me, anybody who was strong.
"You touch me and kill you!" I said in a cold voice. I rose stiffly, planted my feet wide apart, put my hands on the table to steady my balance. Inside I was boiling with rage. I knew now how to turn into Malcolm and be ruthless enough to get what I wanted, when I wanted.
Look at her, afraid now. Now her eyes were big and scared. I curled my upper lip and showed my teeth, then allowed both lips to curl into a sneer. "Woman, get the hell away from me before I lose control of myself!"
Silently, Emma backed away, and then she was running into the dining room, heading for the hall so she could protect Cindy.
All day I waited. Emma thought I was hiding in my hole in the shrubs, so she left Cindy alone in her sandbox under the shade of a huge old oak tree. Had a pretty little canopy too. Nothing too good for Cindy, and she was only adopted.
She tittered when she saw me limping up, as if I looked funny and was only pretending to be an old man. Look at her smile and try to charm me. Sitting there half naked, nothing on but little green and white shorts. She'd grow up, become more beautiful and be like all women, sinfully enticing men to be their worst. And she'd betray the man who loved her, betray her children too. But . . . but . . . if she were ugly, what man would want her then? Wouldn't make babies if she was ugly. Wouldn't be able to charm men then. I'd save all her children from what she'd do later on. Save the children, that was important.
"Barr-tee," she said, smiling at me, sitting crosslegged so I could see her lacy panties beneath her play shorts. "Play, Barr-tee? Play with Cindy . . . ?"
Plump little hands reached for me. She was trying to "seduce" me! Only two years old and a few months and already she knew all the wicked ways of women.
"Cindy," called Emma from the kitchen, but I was down low and she couldn't see me behind the bushes, "are you all right?"
"Cindy's playing sand castle!" answered little nobody, as if to protect me. Then she picked up her favorite red sand pail and offered it to me--and the red and yellow shovel too.
In my hand I gripped the handle of my pocket knife tighter. "Pretty Cindy," I crooned softly as I crawled closer, putting a sweet smile on my face that made her giggle.
"Pretty Cindy wants to play beauty parlor . . ."
She clapped her hands. "Ohhh," she trilled. "Nice."
The blonde hair in my hand felt silky and clean. She laughed when I tugged at her hair and took the ribbon from the ponytail. "I'm not going to hurt you," I said, showing her my pearl-handled knife "So don't you scream . . . just sit quietly in the beauty parlor until I've finished."
In my room I had my list of new words. Had to pronounce them, practice spelling them, and use them at least five times in that same day--and from then on. Had to know big words in order to impress people, make them know I was smarter.
Intimidating. Got that--meant to make people scared of you.
Ultimately--had that down too. Meant sooner or later my time would come.
Sensuous--bad word. Meant thrills you got from touching girls. Had to do away with sensuous things.
Grew tired after a short while of big words I had to learn in order to gain respect. Grew tired of pretending to be Malcolm. But the trouble was, I was losing the real me. Now I wasn't Bart all the way through. And now that he was slipping away, suddenly Bart didn't seem nearly as stupid and pitiful as he once had.
I reread a certain page in Malcolm's book when he was the very same age I was. He'd hated pretty blonde hair like his mother's, like his daughter's--but he didn't know about his little "Corrine" when he wrote:
Her name was Violet Blue, and her hair reminded me of my mother's hair. I hated her 192 hair. We attended the same Sunday school class, and I'd sit in back of her and stare at that hair that would beguile some man someday and make him want her, as that lover had wanted my mother.
She smiled at me one day, expecting a compliment, but I fooled her. I said her hair was ugly. To my surprise she laughed. "But it's the same color hair you have."
I shaved off all my hair that day--and the next day I caught Violet Blue and threw her down. When she went home crying, she was as bald as I was.
All that pretty blonde hair that used to be Cindy's was blowing on the wind. She was crying in the kitchen. Not because I'd scared her, or hurt her. It was Emma's shriek that told her something had gone wrong. Now Cindy's hair looked like mine. Stubby. short and ugly.