Christopher's Diary: Echoes of Dollanganger

“No,” I said, smiling, “and I’m not when it comes to him, either.”

  “I like your father. He seems comfortable in his own skin.”

  “He never puts on airs, if that’s what you mean. I’m proud of him.”

  “You should be.” He paused and added, “I think I’m more like him than I am like my own father.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “My father’s always striving to do more, get bigger, and is quite obvious about it. That’s why he’s on edge so much. Everything’s got to come out just the way he planned. It’s always the bottom line, no matter what it is. He wants to make a profit on everything, even relationships. More than once, I’ve overheard my mother accuse him of marrying her for her family money.”

  “Do you think that’s true?”

  He gave me a look that said, “You have to ask?”

  “So you’re not coming out just the way he planned, his bottom line for a son?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Not exactly.”

  “Why not? You do well in school. They say you’re the best baseball pitcher the school’s ever had. You don’t get in trouble, and you’re passably good-looking.”

  “Passably?”

  “Maybe a little more,” I kidded.

  “I’m not as ambitious as he’d like, and he thinks I waste time on too many ‘unprofitable’ ventures. He never stops complaining about my enthusiasm when it comes to my future. He thinks I should be just as aggressive and ambitious as he was at my age. He never misses an opportunity to say it. His favorite expression is ‘Youth is wasted on the young.’ ”

  “That’s what most parents say.”

  “Not like he does. But from what my relatives say, he wasn’t always this intense. He’s like someone who wins the lottery and turns from Jekyll to Hyde. Don’t quote me, especially in front of my father or my mother, but money changes you and not always for the best.”

  “I fear Christopher might come to that same conclusion, even though that’s all they’re dreaming about in that attic, lots of money.”

  “We’ll know soon enough,” Kane said, smiling, as he pulled into my driveway.

  Now that we were about to start, I really wasn’t sure how we were going to do this. Was he going to read it like a bedtime story? Were we going to stop to discuss things the way we might when we were studying a book in school? Was I just going to sit there and listen the whole time, or was I supposed to take over and read to him?

  I headed for the kitchen first.

  “What are you doing? Let’s get started,” he said, practically leaping at the stairway.

  “I thought I’d get us something to drink and eat first. Don’t you want a snack? I have—”

  “Just water,” he said. “Nothing else. That’s all they had most of the time. We’ve got to try to replicate their situation to really appreciate what he writes when I read it.”

  I felt a flush come over me. It wasn’t excitement, exactly. It was as if he really believed we could do it, that we really could become Christopher and Cathy while we were up in my attic. He saw the look on my face.

  “Didn’t you ever hear the expression ‘stay in character’? That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Okay.”

  I poured two glasses of cold water, handed him one, and led him up the stairs to my room. After I plucked the diary out from under my pillow, I looked at him. Now that we were about to do it, I half expected him to start laughing and say it was all just a joke, a reason to get me alone with him after school, but he stepped back instead to let me pass.

  I led the way to the attic stairs. When we reached the door, I hesitated. Those creaking steps, those dark shadows, everything made it seem as if I was opening this door for the first time. It wasn’t simply a door to an attic; it was a door to the past. When I did step in, I paused as if I was expecting to see the four Dollanganger children waiting for us.

  “Perfect,” Kane whispered, coming up beside me. “There’s furniture and old things. It really is a miniature Foxworth.”

  “Not quite,” I said, looking at my mother’s wardrobe. “It’s not all other people’s leftovers and such. My mother’s clothing is in here,” I told him, putting my hand on the wardrobe.

  “Oh.” He looked guilty suddenly. “I didn’t know. You didn’t say anything. Maybe I shouldn’t have suggested we come up here.”

  “It’s all right. I’ve been up here often. I even wore one of her dresses, remember? That was the night you took me to the River House.”

  “Oh. Right. But everything else here . . .”

  “Nothing with any real memories for me, and the rest of it is stuff left by the original occupants.”

  He went over to the small windows and looked out. “Should I open one of these?”

  “A little, but let’s not forget to close it before we leave,” I said.

  He opened one and then turned and sat on the sofa.

  “Come on,” he said, obviously even more excited now. “Let’s begin.” He held his hand out for the diary. I gave it to him and sat beside him. He thought a moment and then got up and moved to the chair across from the sofa.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Better this way,” he said.

  I smiled at him. “Why?”

  “It’s more like when Christopher read to them or something. Don’t worry. You’ll understand after we get started,” he said, as if he already knew more about the Dollanganger children than I did. He opened the diary.

  I sat back. I had no idea what to expect or what would happen next, but I couldn’t help being eager to find out.

  He didn’t change his voice, exactly, but as he read, I could see him trying to pronounce every word perfectly and speak like a young boy who thought he was much more intelligent than anyone else around him, including, of course, his mother and grandmother. Kane even changed his posture, assuming that Christopher would never slouch.

  To play along, I sat back and tried to remember what I was like when I was Cathy Dollanganger’s age, when every new little discovery about myself was earth-shattering and when, like her, I needed my mother so much, a mother neither of us had.

  And as he read, I could feel myself slipping out of this world and into theirs.

  I think the realization that it was almost Thanksgiving shocked me as much as if not more than it shocked Cathy. I did my best to act surprised when Cathy mentioned it, acting almost carefree about it. I knew how dramatic she could be, and I was afraid of what that would do to the twins. I put on a face that said, “So it’s almost Thanksgiving, so what?”

  She didn’t have to tell me. The “what” in “so what?” was that Thanksgivings were always wonderful in our house when my father was alive. To him, it was pre-Christmas, so he always had little novelty presents for us: a challenging mental puzzle for me, a small toy car for Cory, and fake jewelry or combs for Carrie and Cathy. It wasn’t much, just little surprises at the dinner table. He didn’t do anything resembling a novelty for Momma. He never gave her anything that wasn’t very special. Any occasion was good for a new piece of jewelry.

  “When you find your soul mate,” he told me, “always treat her like a princess. Women love jewelry.”

  Just before Daddy was killed, it got so that Cory used to think a pair of diamond earrings could multiply somehow into a diamond necklace, too, or a bracelet by Christmas. They weren’t large diamonds. Maybe they weren’t even real diamonds, but Momma was always excited and happy to get gifts, no matter what the occasion and especially if there was no occasion. If he came home with something for her after work, it meant he was thinking about her.

  “Oh, look, children!” she would cry. “Your father was thinking of me even when he was at work.”

  “I’m always thinking of you, Corrine,” he would say. It made her more buoyant and beautiful, especially at Thanksgiving, because he would always begin by telling us how thankful he was for our mother. Maybe because of that more than anything, she was eager to make our Thanks
giving and Christmas dinners special. She was never the greatest cook, but she did a good job on the Thanksgiving turkey with all the trimmings, some of which were smuggled in by Mrs. Wheeler, who also made our pies.

  I was carefree and indifferent about it now, because I was afraid Momma would forget to do something about Thanksgiving for us, but she surprised me when she came into the attic with some decorations for our table and announced that they were for our Thanksgiving dinner, which she promised would be hot and wonderful, as wonderful as any.

  “How could it be as wonderful?” Cathy whispered. “We don’t have Daddy.”

  “But we still have each other,” I replied. “We’ll always have each other.”

  She looked at me with grateful eyes. I always seemed to come up with the right answers for her. Sometimes, though, I thought she was sorry I had. She wanted me to be more of an ally, more impatient and disgusted with everything.

  One thing that did bother both Cathy and me was that Carrie had completely forgotten what Thanksgiving was. She had been old enough to appreciate what we once had, but so much about our lives was beginning to fade and get lost in the fog of what had happened so quickly and where we were now. When the door was shut and locked, it seemed to cut off our ties with our own past, slamming down on our happier memories.

  My second pleasant surprise, however, was how wholeheartedly Cathy decided to get into it, fixing the table with the dishes and place settings that she had the twins help her create. She was almost frantic about making our table joyful. I tried to go along with the same enthusiasm, but I was worried about her. She acted as if she was convinced that this dinner would be more than a typical Thanksgiving celebration; it would be the dinner celebrating our escape into a new life. I have to admit that the way Momma described it and how happy she seemed certainly gave us that impression. She promised all sorts of wonderful food from the party our grandparents were having and described the festivities just the way she would before Daddy died. All of this was going to come to a quick end and a new beginning. Momma’s promises were alive and well.

  However, that day, the hour for our participating in the wonderful foods and desserts came and went. Every minute, every hour, was like another whiplash. Every creak in the floor or the walls turned our eyes to the door expectantly, but there was only silence and more disappointment.

  We were all getting ravenously hungry in anticipation. Momma had done such a good job of describing it all. The twins were especially irritable as time passed. Cathy tried to calm them with whatever we had to nibble on, but it wasn’t working. I felt I was slipping myself, losing my control. I wanted to start screaming and pounding on the door, shouting, “Where are you? Where’s our wonderful dinner? Where’s our Thanksgiving?”

  Finally, hours after she was supposed to be here, Momma arrived. There was the Thanksgiving food she had promised, but by now, it was cold, and the twins wouldn’t eat any, and worst of all, Momma couldn’t stay with us. What kind of a family dinner was this? Nevertheless, I was ravenous and couldn’t get those pieces of turkey into my mouth fast enough. The twins moaned and complained more than ever. They wouldn’t touch a thing. Desperate to have them eat something, Cathy prepared peanut butter sandwiches. Afterward, Cathy didn’t have to say a word to convince me. I sat staring at the plates and thinking how miserable we really were.

  Kane paused and looked at me. “I guess I know what we’ll both be thinking about at our own Thanksgiving feasts,” he said. “How would you like eating alone with only your younger brother and sisters in an attic? No music, no conversations, nobody telling jokes, nothing but cold turkey and potatoes? I’ll never complain about our Thanksgivings again. That’s for sure.”

  I nodded. He was right. How cruel. As if he knew what would follow in the diary, he put up his hand before I could speak and began again, his voice firmer, the words now colored with anger so visible his face turned a shade of crimson. It riled up my sense of outrage, too. Kane had been right. It was different, more effective, to read Christopher’s diary with someone else and see his reaction. I sat back, and he began again.

  But the misery was yet to start. The following morning, Cory came down with a very bad cold. Two days later, Carrie was just as sick. These were very bad colds, more like flu. Momma came to treat them with aspirin and soup and juice, our grandmother following right behind her like some dark shadow cast by Death looking to get his hands on our little brother and sister. She hovered over Cory and Carrie and shook her head at the way we were making a big deal over their illness. She ridiculed whatever I suggested.

  “Some doctor you’ll be,” she said, and insisted they just had to tough it out like any other children. I was surprised Momma had told her what my ambitions were, but now I was upset she had. I glanced at Cathy, who would always come to my defense. I shook my head so she’d understand not to do or say anything nasty now. The twins were too sick.

  At one point, Cory had a very high fever, but nothing impressed our grandmother, and Momma, to my great disappointment, didn’t challenge her. To impress us with how serious she thought it was, however, she claimed she had taken off from secretarial school just to care for them. I never told Cathy this, but I always suspected that Momma never went to any secretarial school. I couldn’t even begin to imagine her doing that sort of work, and logically, why would she bring us here and put us through all this if we weren’t going to live here but instead live in some apartment supported by her secretarial job? Of course, Cathy never thought of these things, and I wasn’t going to say anything that would diminish her hope.

  The twins’ illness went on and on for nearly three weeks. Finally, they began to recuperate, but the illness had drained them. They were lethargic, wisps of themselves, sleeping more than usual, and difficult to get excited about any game or food.

  I told Momma, and she decided that all we needed were vitamins. The words were barely out of her mouth before Cathy exploded, shouting at her to get us out or at least take the twins into the fresh air. She stomped her feet and raged. The twins were wide-eyed at her tantrum. They wanted to cry, but they were too frightened to utter a sound. She was making so much noise that I thought if no one else really knew we were here, they surely knew now. Momma pleaded with Cathy to calm down, telling her she couldn’t risk taking the twins out and having us all discovered and revealed to her father. She insisted we were so close.

  Cathy continued to rage. “Close, close, that’s all we hear is that he’s close!” she cried.

  At one point, Momma cried back, “What do you want me to do, kill him?” Tears were streaming down her face. At that moment, I felt terrible for her. “There are eight servants working here,” she muttered. “They’re like spies, watching me all the time, especially that John Amos. I never liked him. He’s like a puppet. He’ll do anything my parents tell him to do.”

  The air seemed to go out of Cathy finally. She just glared at Momma, full of frustration and emotionally exhausted.

  “You must be patient,” Momma added before she left, more like fled.

  Before Cathy could start, I thought I had better attack her, because I felt just like she felt, but I couldn’t show it. Of course, I wanted the twins out in the fresh air. We all needed it, but I told Cathy to stop picking on Momma, especially with her incessant questions, not one, by the way, that I hadn’t thought of myself. But what could I do? I had to be stronger. If I fell apart, it would all be lost, all this suffering for nothing.

  Kane paused and dropped his arms to his sides, staring ahead for a moment. He looked different. Those impish eyes were suddenly dark and troubled. He sat with a posture I thought was stiff, even uncomfortable for him. Then he turned and looked at me with such a cold, impersonal expression I had to hold my breath.

  “What?” I asked in a whisper. “Why did you stop reading?”

  “What do you think of me?”

  “You?”

  “Christopher, I mean. Do you hate him? You have to hate him for defending her
, regardless of the reason. From what I read up to here, he’s always defending her, no matter what.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t hate him for that, but I would imagine Cathy has to be angry at him for taking Corrine’s side all the time, especially now. However, she doesn’t understand the danger, the risks involved with what she’s asking her mother to do. It’s complicated, Kane.”

  “Yes,” he said, nodding. My answer seemed to please him, although he didn’t smile. The pleasure was all in his eyes, the tiny movement at the corners of his mouth. “Of course, you’re right. She can’t understand the way Christopher can. She’s too young. He’s unselfish, that’s all. He can see the bigger picture. He has the vision.” He paused and looked like he was struggling with troubling thoughts again. “Although . . .”

  “Although what?”

  “He seems like he would forgive his mother for anything. She risked the health of the twins for three weeks, and yet he was kind of calm about that. His little brother and sister suffered unnecessarily. Kids that age need their mothers around the clock when they’re sick, and they needed to be in the sunshine. What good will all the money in the world do them if they’re physically and emotionally damaged? He knows that. Don’t you think he knows that?”

  “Yes . . . but . . .”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know, Kristin. At times, I feel like he almost worships her. Maybe it’s even more than that.”

  “What do you mean by more? You suspect an Oedipus complex?”

  “Maybe. Yes. But that’s not the full explanation. He wants to believe Corrine is doing the right thing for them so much he will avoid reality. And then sometimes I think he really believes her lies. I mean, come on. The old man’s about to die, but he can attend a Thanksgiving dinner? What’s with that?”

  “I know. I wondered about that, too.”

  “Actually, now that I give it more thought, Christopher’s pretty gullible for someone who is supposed to be so bright that he can become a doctor. I want to be on his side, but he bugs me with his understanding and forgiveness. Sorry if I show it when I read aloud.”