Petals on the Wind

  Wow! Godsent! I was more than half-won. I knew people could always find the motivation to justify what they wanted; well enough I knew that. Even so, tears filled my eyes as I looked at Chris questioningly. He met my look and shook his head in bewilderment, confused as to what I wanted. His hand gripped mine like iron while he spoke, still looking at me, not at Dr. Paul. "We're sorry for the loss of your wife and son, sir. But we can't replace them, and I don't know if we'd be doing right to burden you with the expense of three kids not your own." Then he added, looking the doctor squarely in the eyes. "And you should think about this too. You'll have one hell of a time finding another wife when you assume guardianship of us."

  "I don't intend to marry again," he replied in a strange way. Then he went on with an abstract air, "Julia was the name of my wife, and my son was named Scotty. He was only three when he died."

  "Oh," I breathed, "how terrible to lose a son so young, and your wife too." His obvious grief and remorse reached out and touched me; I was very in tune with those who grieved. "Did they die in an accident, a car accident like our father?"

  "An accident," he said sharply, "but not in a car."

  "Our father was only thirty-six when he was killed, and we were having a surprise birthday party, with a cake, presents . . . and he never came, only two state policemen. . . ."

  "Yes, Cathy," he said softly, "you've told me. The adolescent years aren't easy for anyone, and to be young and on your own, without the proper education, with little money, no family, no friends--"

  "We've got each other!" said Chris staunchly, so as to test him more. "So, we will never truly be alone."

  Paul went on. "If you don't want me, and what I have to give you isn't enough, then go on to Florida with my blessings. Throw away all those long hours you studied, Chris, just when you're almost there. And you, Cathy, can forget your dream of being a prima ballerina. And don't you think for one moment that's going to be a healthy, happy life for Carrie. I'm not persuading you to stay, for you'll do what you want to and have to. So make up your minds--is it to be me and the chance to fulfill your aspirations, or is it to be the hard, unknown world?"

  I sat there on the balustrade as close as possible to Chris, with my hand held in his. I wanted to stay. I wanted what the doctor could give to Chris, to say nothing of Carrie and myself.

  The southern breezes kept blowing, caressing my cheek and whispering too convincingly that everything would work out right. I could hear Henny in the kitchen making fresh dough for the hot rolls we'd eat in the morning, made golden by dripping butter. Butter was one of the things denied us before, and the luxury Chris had missed most.

  Everything here beguiled me, the air, the soft, warm glow in the doctor's eyes. Even the banging of Henny's pots and pans began to work magic, and my heart, so heavily burdened for so long, began to feel lighter. Maybe perfection did exist outside of fairy tales. Maybe we were good enough to walk upright and proud beneath God's blue sky; maybe we were not contaminated shoots grown from the wrong seed planted in the wrong soil.

  And more than anything the doctor had said, or anything his sparkling eyes implied, I think it was the roses that still bloomed, though it was winter, that made me feel dizzy from the overwhelming sweetness of their perfume.

  But it wasn't Chris and I who decided. It was Carrie. Suddenly she jumped up from the top step and went flying into the doctor's outstretched arms. She flung herself against him and wrapped her thin arms about his neck. " don't want to go! I love you, Dr. Paul!" she cried out, almost frantic. don't want no Florida and no circus! I don't want to go anywhere!" Then she was crying, letting out all her grief for Cory, withheld for so long. He picked her up and held her on his lap, and put kisses on her wet cheeks before he used his handkerchief to mop up the tears.

  "I love you too, Carrie. I always wanted a little girl with blond curls and big blue eyes, just like yours." But he wasn't looking at Carrie. He was looking at me.

  "And I wanna be here for Christmas," sobbed Carrie. "I've never seen Santa Claus, not once." Of course she had, years ago, when our parents took the twins to a department store and Daddy snapped a picture of the two of them on Santa's lap, but maybe she'd forgotten.

  How could a stranger come so easily into our lives and give us love, when our own blood kin had sought to give us death?

  Life's Second Chance

  . Carrie decided. We stayed. Even if she hadn't decided, still we would have stayed. How could we not?

  We tried to give Dr. Paul what money we had left. He refused. "You keep that money for yourselves. You worked hard to get it, didn't you? And you might as well know I've seen my attorney so he can fill out the petitions that will bring your mother to Clairmont. I know you believe she won't come, but you can never tell. If I'm so lucky as to win permanent custody, I'll give each of you a weekly allowance. No one can feel free and happy without some money in his pocket. Most of my colleagues give their teenage children five dollars a week. Three dollars should be enough for a girl Carrie's age." He planned to buy all our clothes and everything else we needed for school. We could only stare at him, amazed he'd be so generous--again.

  A few days before Christmas he drove us to a shopping mall that was carpeted in red; the ceiling was a glass dome; throngs of people swarmed about as pop Christmas music played. It was like fairyland! I glowed; so did Carrie and Chris--and our doctor. His huge hand held Carrie's small one as Chris and I held on to each other. I saw him watching us, enjoying our wide-eyed stares. We were charmed by everything. Awed, impressed, very wanting, fearful too he would see and try to satisfy all our yearnings.

  I turned in circles when we reached the department that sold clothes for teenage girls. Dazzled and bewildered by so much, I looked at that, and looked at this, and couldn't decide what I wanted when everything was so pretty and I'd never had the chance to shop for myself before. Chris laughed at my indecision. "Go on," he urged, "now that you have the chance to fit yourself perfectly, try on what you like." I knew what he was thinking, for it had been my mean way to complain that Momma never brought me anything that fitted right.

  With great care I selected parsimoniously the outfits I thought suitable for school that would begin for us in January. And I needed a coat, real shoes, and a raincoat and hat and umbrella. Everything that kindhearted, generous man allowed me to buy made me feel guilty, as if we were taking advantage of him.

  To reward me for my slowness and my reluctance to buy too much, Paul said impatiently, "For heaven's sake, Cathy, don't think we're going shopping like this every week. I want you to buy enough today to last you through the winter. Chris, while we finish up here, you dash on to the young men's section and begin picking out what you want. While you do that, Cathy and I can outfit Carrie with the clothes she needs."

  I noticed that all the adolescent girls in the store were turning to stare at my brother as he made his way to the young men's department.

  At last we were going to be normal kids. Then, when I felt tentatively secure, Came let out a howl to shatter crystal palaces in London! Her cries jolted the salespeople, startled the customers, and a lady bumped her baby-stroller into a dummy who went crashing down. The baby in the stroller added his screams to Carrie's!

  Chris came on the run to see who was murdering his small sister. She stood, feet wide apart, head thrown back, with tears of frustration streaming her cheeks.

  "Good God, what's wrong now?" asked Chris as our doctor looked dumbfounded.

  Men--what did they know? Obviously Carrie was outraged by the pretty little pastel dresses brought out for her approval. Baby clothes--that's what. Even so, all were too large, and none were red or purple-- absolutely not Carrie's style at all! "Try the toddler department," suggested the heartless, haughty blonde with the beehive hair. She smiled graciously at our doctor who appeared embarrassed.

  Carrie was eight! To even mention "toddler clothes" was insulting! She screwed her face into a puckered prune. "I can't wear toddler clothes to school!
" she wailed. She pressed her face against my thigh and hugged my legs. "Cathy, don't make me wear pink and blue baby dresses! Everybody will laugh! I know they will! I want purple, red--no baby colors!"

  Dr. Paul soothed her. "Darling, I adore blond girls with blue eyes in pastels, so why not wait until you're older to wear all those brilliant colors?"

  Bittersweet milksop like this was something someone as stubborn as Carrie couldn't swallow. She glared her eyes, balled her fists, prepared her foot for kicking and readied her vocal cords for screaming when a middle- aged, plump woman who must have had someone like Carrie for a granddaughter suggested calmly that she could have her clothes custom made. Came hesitated uncertainly, looking from me to the doctor, then to Chris and back to the saleslady.

  "A perfect solution!" said Dr. Paul

  enthusiastically, looking relieved. "I'll buy a sewing machine and Cathy can make you purple, red, and electric-blue clothes, and you'll be a knock-out."

  "Don't wanna be no knock-out--just want bright colors." Carrie pouted while I was left with my mouth agape. I was a dancer, not a seamstress! (Something that didn't escape Carrie's knowledge.) "Cathy don't know how to make good clothes," she said. "Cathy don't do nothing but dance."

  That was loyalty. Me, who'd taught her and Cory to read, with a little help from Chris. "What's the matter with you, Carrie?" snapped Chris. "You're acting like a baby. Cathy can do anything she sets her mind to-- remember that!" The doctor readily agreed. I said nothing as we shopped for an electric sewing machine.

  "But in the meantime, let's buy a few pink, yellow and blue dresses, all right, Carrie?" Dr. Paul grinned mockingly. "And Cathy can save me tons of money by sewing her own clothes too."

  Despite the sewing I'd have to learn, heaven was ours that day. We went home loaded, all of us made beautiful in barber shops and beauty salons; each of us had on new shoes with hard soles. I had my very first pair of high-heeled pumps--and a dozen pairs of nylons! My first nylons, my first bra--and to top it all off, a shopping bag full of cosmetics. I'd taken forever to select makeup while the doctor stood back and watched me with the queerest expression. Chris had grumbled, saying I didn't need rouge or lipstick, or eyeshadow, liner and mascara. "You don't know anything at all about being a girl," I answered with an air of superiority. This was my first shopping binge, and by heaven I was making the most of it! I had to have everything I'd seen on Momma's fabulous dressing table. Even her kind of wrinkle cream, plus a mud pack for firming.

  No sooner were we out of the car and unloaded than Chris, Carrie and I dashed upstairs to try on all our new clothes. Funny how once new clothes had come to us so easily and hadn't made us happy like this. Not when no one would see us wear them. Yet, being what I was, when I slipped on the blue velvet dress with tiny buttons down the front, I thought of Momma. How ironic that I should want to cry for a mother we'd lost, who I was determined to hate forever. I sat on the edge of my twin bed and pondered this. Momma had given us new clothes, toys and games out of guilt for what she was doing, depriving us of a normal childhood. A childhood we'd never have the chance to recover. Lost years, some of the best years, and Cory was in a grave, no new suits for him.

  His guitar was in the corner where Carrie could wake up and see it and the banjo. Why was it us who always had to suffer, why not her? Then, suddenly it hit me! Bart Winslow was from South Carolina! I ran down to our doctor's study and purloined his big atlas, then back I raced to the bedroom, and there I found the map of South Carolina. I found Clairmont. . . but didn't believe my eyes when I saw it was a twin city to Greenglenna! No, that was too much of a

  coincidence--or was it? I looked up and stared into space. God had meant for us to come here and live near Momma--if she ever visited her husband's home town. God wanted me to have the chance to inflict a little pain of my own. As soon as I could, I was going to Greenglenna and look up all the information I could about him and his family. I had five dollars a week-- to order a subscription of the community paper that told of all the social activities of the wealthy people who lived near Foxworth Hall.

  Yes, I was gone from Foxworth Hall, but I was going to know every move she made, and when she came this way I'd know that too! Sooner or later, Momma was going to hear from me, and know I would never, never forget or forgive. Somehow, in some way, she was going to hurt ten times more than we had!

  With this decided, I could join Chris and Carrie in the living room to model all our new clothes for our doctor and Henny. Henny's smile beamed like a dazzling sun. I watched the bejeweled eyes of our benefactor, only to see them shadow over as he frowned reflectively. I saw no admiration or approval. Suddenly, he got up and left the room, offering a weak excuse of needing to do some paperwork.

  Soon Henny became my mentor in all things domestic. She taught me to bake biscuits from scratch, and tried to teach me how to make rolls light and fluffy.

  Wham! went Henny's hand into the dough. Henny wiped her hands clean of flour and dashed off a note. Henny got bad eyes for seeing small things like needle eyes. You have good eyes you sew on doctor son's missing shirt buttons--yes?

  "Sure," I agreed without enthusiasm, "I can sew holes, and I can also knit, crochet, needlepoint and do crewel work. My mother taught me how to do all those things as a way to keep busy." Suddenly I couldn't speak. I wanted to cry. I saw my mother's lovely face. I saw Daddy. I saw Chris and me as children hurrying home from school, rushing in with snow on our shoulders to find Momma knitting baby things for the twins. I couldn't help but bow my head into Henny's lap and begin to cry, really bawl. Henny couldn't speak, but her soft hand on my shoulder showed she understood. When I glanced upward, she was crying too. Big, fat tears that slid down to wet her bright red dress. "Don't cry, Henny. I'll be happy to sew on Dr. Paul's missing buttons. He's saved our lives, and there's nothing I wouldn't do for him " She gave me a strange look, then got up to fetch years of mending and perhaps a dozen shirts with missing buttons.

  Chris spent every available moment with Dr. Paul who was coaching him so he could enter a special college-prep school in midterm. Carrie was our biggest problem. She could read and write but she was so very small. How would she manage in a public school where children were not always kind?

  "It's a private school I have in mind for Carrie," explained our doctor. "A very good school for young girls, run by an excellent staff. Since I'm on the board of trustees, I think Carrie will be given special attention, and not subjected to any kind of stress." He eyed me meaningfully.

  That was my worst fear, that Carrie would be ridiculed and made to feel ashamed because of her overlarge head and undersized body. Once Carrie had been so beautifully proportioned, so very perfect. It was all those lost years when the sun was denied us that made her so small. It was, I knew it was!

  I was scared to death Momma would show up on that day she was supposed to appear at the court hearing. But I was certain, almost, that she wouldn't come. How could she? She had too much to lose and nothing to gain. What were we but burdens to bear? And there was jail too, a murder charge. . . .

  We sat very quietly with Paul, dressed in our best to appear in the judge's chamber, and waited, and waited, and waited. I was a tight wire inside, stretched so taut I thought I might break and cry. She didn't want us. Again she told us by not showing up, how little she cared! The judge looked at us with too much pity, making me feel so sorry for all of us--and so angry with her! Oh, damn her to hell! She gave us birth, she claimed to have loved our father! How could she do this to his children--her own children? What kind of mother was she? I didn't want that judge's pity, or Paul's. I held my head high and bit down on my tongue to keep from screaming. I dared to glance at Chris and saw him sitting blank-eyed, though I knew his heart was being shredded, as mine was. Carrie crouched in a tight ball on the doctor's lap, as his hands soothed her, and he whispered something in her ear. I think he said, "Never mind, it's all right. You have me for a father and Henny for a mother. You'll never want for anything as lo
ng as I live."

  I cried that night. I wet my pillow with tears shed for a mother I'd loved so much it hurt to think back to the days when Daddy was alive and our home life was perfect. I cried for all the good things she had done for us back then, and, most of all, for all the love she'd so generously given us--then. I cried more for Cory who was like my own child. And that's when I stopped crying and turned to bitter, hard thoughts of revenge. When you set out to defeat someone, the best way was to think as they did. What would hurt her most? She wouldn't want to think of us. She'd try to forget we ever existed. Well, she wouldn't forget. I'd see to it that she didn't. This very Christmas I would send her a card, and sign it with this, "From the four Dresden dolls you didn't want," and I had to change that to "The three alive Dresden dolls you didn't want, plus the dead one you carried away and never brought back." I could see her staring at that card, thinking to herself, I only did what I had to.

  We had let down our shields and allowed ourselves to be vulnerable again. We allowed faith, hope and trust to come and dance like sugarplums in our heads.

  Fairy tales could come true.

  They were happening to us. The wicked queen was out of our lives, and Snow White would reign one day. She wouldn't be the one to eat the poisoned red apple. But every fairy tale had a dragon to slay, a witch to overcome or some obstacle to make things difficult. I tried to look ahead and figure out who would be the dragon, and what would be the obstacles. All along I knew who was the witch. And that was the saddest part of being me.