Fell into ugliness. Dead bones everywhere. Blood gushing out in great rivers, taking pieces of human beings down into the oceans of fire. Dead. I was dead. Funeral flowers on the altar. People sent me flowers who didn't know me, telling me they were glad to see me dead. Heard the sea of fire play devil music, making me hate music and dancing even more than I had.
The sun came in my window and fell on my face, stealing me from the devil's grasp. When I opened my eyes, terrified of what I might see, I saw only Jory at the foot of my bed, looking at me with pity. Didn't need pity. "Bart, you cried last night. I'm sorry your leg still hurts."
"Leg don't hurt at all!" I yelled.
Got up to go limping into the kitchen where Momma was feeding Cindy. Blasted Cindy. Emma was frying bacon for my breakfast. "Coffee and toast only," I yelled. "That's all I want to eat."
Momma winced, then looked up with her face strangely pale. "Bart, please don't yell. And you don't drink coffee. Why would you ask for coffee?"
"Time I started acting my age!" I barked. Carefully I eased myself down into Daddy's chair with arms. Daddy came in and saw me in his chair, but he didn't order me out. He just used my armless chair, then poured coffee into a cup until it was half full. He filled the cup to an inch of the brim with cream and then gave it to me.
"Hate cream in my coffee!"
"How can you be so sure when you haven't tried it?"
"Just know." I refused to drink the coffee he'd spoiled. (Malcolm liked his coffee black--and so would I from now on.) Now all I had before me was dry toast--and if I had to be like Malcolm and grow smart brains, I couldn't spread butter and strawberry jam on my toast. Indigestion. Like Malcolm, had to worry about indigestion.
"Daddy, what's indigestion?"
"Something you don't need to have."
Sure was hard trying to be like Malcolm all the time. Seconds later Daddy was down on his knees, checking over my bad leg. "It looks worse today than it did yesterday," he said as he lifted his head, met my eyes and scowled suspiciously. "Bart, you haven't been crawling on this bad knee, have you?"
"No!" I yelled, "I'm not crazy! The covers rubbed off some of my skin. Rough sheets. Hate cotton sheets. Like silk ones best." (Malcolm wouldn't sleep on anything but silk.)
"How would you know?" asked Daddy. "You've never had silk sheets." He continued to care for my knee, washing it first and then sprinkling on some white powder before covering my wound with a gauze pad held on with sticky tape. "Now I'm serious, Bart. I warn you to stay off that knee. You stay in the house, out of the garden, or sit on the back veranda-no crawling in the dirt."
"It's a patio." I scowled to let him know he didn't know everything.
"All right, a patio--does that make you feel happy?"
No. Never was happy. Then I gave it more thought. Yes, I was happy sometimes--when I was pretending to be Malcolm, the all-powerful, the richest, the smartest.
Playing the role of Malcolm was easy and better than anything or anyone else. Somehow I knew if I kept it up I'd end up just like Malcolm--rich, powerful, loved.
Longest kind of dull day dragged on endlessly with everybody keeping a close eye on me. Twilight came, and Momma got busy making herself prettier for Daddy, who was due home any minute. Emma was fixing dinner. Jory was in his ballet class, and I slipped off the patio unseen. Down into the garden I hurried before anybody stopped me.
Evening time was spooky, with long, mean shadows. All the little humming, buzzing creatures of night came out and swarmed about my head. I fanned them away. I was going to John Amos. He was sitting alone in his room, reading some magazine that he hid as quickly as I entered without knocking. "You shouldn't do that," he said sourly, not even smiling to say he was glad I was alive, with two legs.
It was easy to put on Malcolm's glum look and scare him. "Did you give Apple water and food while I was sick?"
"Of course not," he said eagerly. "It was your grandmother who fed him and cared for him. I told you women can never be trusted to keep their word. Corrine Foxworth is no better than any other women with their wiles to trick men into being slaves."
"Corrine Foxworth--is that her name?"
"Of course, I've told you that before. She is Malcolm's daughter. He named her after his mother so he'd always be reminded of how false women are, how even a daughter could betray him--though he loved her well, too well, in my opinion."
I was growing bored of tales of women and their "wiles." "Why don't you get your teeth fixed?" I asked. I didn't like the way he hissed and whistled through teeth too loose.
"Good! You said that just like Malcolm. You're learning Being sick has been good for your soul--as it was for his. Now listen carefully, Bart. Corrine is your real grandmother and was once married to your real father. She was Malcolm's most beloved child and she betrayed him by doing something so sinful she has to be punished."
"Has to be punished?"
"Yes, punished severely, but you are not to let her know your feelings for her have changed. Pretend you still love her, still admire her. And in that way she will be made vulnerable."
Knew what vulnerable meant. Another of those words I had to learn. Weak, bad to be weak. John Amos went for his Bible and put my hand on its worn black cover, all cracked and peeling. "Malcolm's own Bible," he said. "He left it to me in his will . . . though he could have left me more . . ."
I realized that John Amos was the one person in the world who had not yet disappointed me. Here was the true friend I needed. Old--but I could be old too when I wanted. Though I couldn't take my teeth from my mouth and put them in an ivory-colored cup.