"I don't know," I said miserably. "Bart used to trust me, but now he doesn't trust anybody, so he doesn't tell me what he does anymore."
Slowly, slowly, the black gates swung open. They seemed like black skeleton hands welcoming us into our graves. I shivered, thinking I was getting as morbid as Bart. I had to run then to keep up with Dad. "I've got to say something," I yelled so I could be heard above the wind. "When I first found out you are Mom's brother and our own uncle, I thought I hated you and her too. I thought I could never forgive either one of you for making me so ashamed, so
disappointed. I thought I'd dry up inside and never love or trust anyone again. But now that Mom's gone I know I'll always love her and you. I can't hate either one of you, even if I want to."
In the hard driving rain, in the dark, he turned to clasp me against his chest, his hand pressing my head against his heart. I think I heard him sob. "Jory, you don't know how much I've longed to hear you say you don't hate me or your mother. I always hoped you'd understand when we told you--and we were going to tell you when you were older. We thought, perhaps foolishly, that we needed to wait a few more years, but now that you have found out on your own, and you can still love us, maybe later on you will come to understand."
I drew closer to Dad as we continued on our way to the shadowy mansion. I felt a new bond had developed between us that was stronger than what we'd had before. In a way he was more my father, because he had much of my own kind of blood. Blood of my blood, I thought, my own uncle and Bart's, though I'd always thought he was Bart's uncle, and that had made me a little jealous. Now I could lay claim to him too. But why hadn't they realized I was mature for my age, and I would have understood when they told me Mom had an affair with Bart's father . . . I would have . . . I think.
We reached the steps. Before Dad could bang on the doorknocker, the left side of the double doors swung open and there stood that butler, John Amos Jackson. "I'm packing," he said in way of greeting, scowled up and ugly looking, "and my wife has gone to Hawaii. I have a million things to take care of here without entertaining the neighbors. I plan to join her as soon as I'm done here."
"Your wife?" bellowed Dad, his astonishment so clear it slapped me too.
Something smug came and went in the butler's watery eyes. "Yes, Dr. Christopher Sheffield, Mrs. Winslow is now married to me."
I thought Dad would fall from shock. "I want to see her. And I don't believe you. She'd be out of her mind to marry you."
"I don't lie," said that grim, ugly butler. "And she is out of her mind. Some women can't live without a man to run their affairs, and that's what I am-- someone to lean on."
"I don't believe you," stormed my dad. "Where is she? Where is my wife? Have you seen her?"
The butler smiled. "Your wife, sir? I have enough to do keeping up with my own wife without looking out for yours. Yesterday my wife railed about this terrible weather and took off with one of our maids. She told me to join her later, after I'd arranged it) close up this house. And after all the trouble and expense she went to having this place redecorated and refurbished--now she wants to move."
Dad stood staring at John Amos Jackson. I thought we'd leave then, but Dad seemed rooted. "You know who I am, don't you, John? Don't deny it. I see it in your eyes. You are the butler who made love to the maid Livvie while I lay on the floor behind the sofa and heard you tell her about the arsenic on the sugared doughnuts meant to kill the attic mice."
"I don't know what you're talking about," denied the butler, while I looked from him back to Dad. Oh, I should have finished every page of Morn's manuscript. Things were even more complicated than I'd realized.
"John, perhaps you are married to my mother and perhaps you are lying. Regardless, I think you know what has happened to my wife, and now I'm concerned about my mother as well. So, get out of my way. I'm going to search this house from top to bottom."
The butler paled. "You can't come over here and tell me what to do," he muttered indistinctly, "I could call the police . . ."
"But you won't, and if you want to, go ahead, call them. I am going to search now, John. There's nothing you can do to stop me."
The old butler shuffled away, shrugging helplessly. "Go on then, have your way, but you won't find anything."
Together Dad and I searched. I knew the house much better than he did, all the closets, the secret places. Dad kept saying the attic was where they would be. But when we were up there and looking, there was nothing but junk and dusty clutter.
Again we returned to the parlor where the woman he called mother had her hard wooden rocker which I sat in and found quite uncomfortable. Restlessly Dad prowled the room, then paused in the archway that led to the adjacent room, that parlor where the huge oil portrait hung. "If Cathy came over here she would have seen that, and she could have come if Bart told her something."
Rocking back and forth in the chair, I made it "walk" a little closer to the fire that was guttering out. Something crunched beneath one of the rockers. Dad heard the sound and bent to pick up an object. It was a pearl.
He tested it between his teeth and smiled bitterly. "My mother's string of pearls with a butterfly clasp. She always wore them, just as our grandmother always wore her diamond brooch. I don't believe my mother would go anywhere without those pearls."
Another hour of searching the house, and questioning the Mexican maid and cook who did not understand English very well, and both he and I were frustrated. "I'll be back, John Amos Jackson," said Dad as he opened the front door, "and the next time I'll have the police with me."
"Have it your way, Doctor," said the butler with a tight mal
icious smile.
"Dad, we can't notify the police--can we?"
"We will if we have to. But let's wait at least until tomorrow. He wouldn't dare harm Cathy or my mother, or he'd land up behind bars."
"Dad, I'll bet Bart knows what is going on. He and John Amos are very thick."
I explained then how Bart was always talking to himself whenever he believed he was alone. He talked in his sleep too, and when he stalked around playing pretend games. It seemed the most important part of Bart's life was spent alone, talking to himself.
"All right, Jory, I understand what you're saying. I have an idea I hope works. This may well be the most important, part you've every played, so pay attention. Tomorrow morning you are only to pretend to go to school. I'll let you out as soon as we turn the corner onto the highway. You run back home and make sure Bart doesn't see you. I'll try to find out if my mother really flew to Hawaii, and if she really married that horrible old man."