"How can you be so sure?"
"He never has time."
"He'll take time."
"No, he won't. Never has, never will."
Again she sighed. "Bart, try to be
understanding. He's a doctor, and he has many very sick patients. You wouldn't want his patients to go unattended, would you?"
Wouldn't care. Rather go fishing. Too many people in the world anyway . . . especially women. I ran to bury my face in her lap. "Momma, please get well quick. YOU take me fishin! Now you don't have to dance, you can do all the things Daddy never has time for. You can spend all the time with me you used to spend with Jory dancing. Momma, Mamma, I'm sorry about what I said," I sobbed, "I don't really hate you! I don't want you to fall down and die. I just feel mean sometimes and I can't stop. Momma, please don't hate me for what I said."
Her hands were soft and comforting in my hair as she tried to smooth it down and make it stay neat. Hair brushes and hairspray never worked, so how could her hands? I buried my face deeper in her lap, thinking of how John Amos would scold me if he knew, though I'd already told him what I'd said to her, and he'd smiled, so pleased I was talking like Malcolm. "You shouldn't have done that, Bart," he said to confuse me. "You have to be clever, make her think she's having her way. If you let her know how you feel she'll find a way to defeat our purpose. And we do have to save her from the Devil, don't we?"
I raised my head to stare up into her pretty face, making tears streak my face for the living lie she had to be. Been married three times, John Amos had told me. I didn't really care if she was good or evil, as long as I had her for my own. I'd make her good. I'd teach her to leave all men alone--but me.
To win I had to play my cards just right, and deal out the aces one by one, like John Amos had told me. Fool her, fool Daddy, make them think I wasn't crazy. But I got mixed up. I wasn't crazy, only pretending to be Malcolm.
"What are you thinking, Bart?" she asked, still stroking my hair.
"Got no playmates. Got none but what I make up. Got nothing but bad genes from inbreeding--and as for my environ--well, that's no good either. You and Daddy don't deserve any children. You don't deserve anything but the hell you have already made for yourself!"
Left her sitting stunned. Glad to make her unhappy, like she was always making me. But why didn't happiness come and make me laugh? Why did I run to my room and throw myself down on my bed and cry?
Then I remembered the one person who didn't need anyone--Malcolm. He knew he was strong. Malcolm never hesitated in making decisions, even wrong ones, for he knew how to twist them about and make them right. So I scowled, hunched my shoulders, stood up and shuffled down the hall, wanting what Malcolm wanted. I saw Jory dancing with Melodie and went in Momma's room to report to her. "Stop what you're doing!" I yelled. "Sinning is going on between Jory and Melodie--they're kissing--making a baby."
Her flying fingers paused over the typewriter keys. She smiled. "Bart, it takes more than hugging and kissing to make a baby. Jory is a gentleman and won't take advantage of an innocent young girl who is decent and wise enough to know when to say stop."
She didn't care. All she cared about was that damn book she was writing. I didn't have any more chance with her now than I'd had when she was a dancer. Always, always she found something better to do than play with me.
I clenched my fists and hit at the doorframe. There'd come a time when I was her boss, and she'd listen then. She'd know who she'd better play with. She'd been a better mother when she taught ballet classes. At least she had a free moment once in awhile. Now all she did was write, WRITE. Mountains and mountains of white paper.
Again she stopped paying attention to me, and reloaded her typewriter as if she had a shotgun to kill the world. She didn't even notice when I took a box she'd filled and put aside as she began to fill another with her words on paper.
John Amos would be interested in what she'd written. But before he read a sheet, I'd read them first. Even if I had to use a dictionary every minute I struggled to understand some of the longer words she used. Appropriate . . . knew what that meant. I think.
"Good night, Momma."
She didn't hear me. Just went right on as if I weren't there.
Nobody ever ignored Malcolm. When he spoke people jumped to do his bidding. I was gonna make myself over into Malcolm.
A week later I was spying on Mom and Jory. They were before the long mirror in the "me" room and Jory was helping Momma use her bad leg. "Now don't think of falling. I'm right in back and I'll catch you if your knee gives way. Just take it easy, Mom, and soon you will be walking just fine."
She didn't walk just fine. Every step she took seemed to hurt. Jory kept his hands on her waist to keep her from even tottering, and somehow she made it to the end of the bane without falling. Weakly she waited for him to push up her chair so she could sit down again. He turned the foot rests into position as she held up her legs. "Mom, you're stronger each day."
"But it's taking so long."
"You sit and write too long at a time. Remember, your doctor said to get up more often, and sit less . . ."
She nodded, looking exhausted. "Who was that long distance call from? Why didn't they want to speak to me?"
His face breaking into a smile, Jory explained: "It was my grandmother Marisha. I wrote and told her about your fall, and now she's flying West so she can replace you in your school. Isn't that great, Mom?"
She didn't look happy even a little bit. As for me, I hated that ole witch!
"Jory, you should have told me before."