Flowers in the Attic by V.C. Andrews Page B

open doorway, but Momma twisted around to peer back at us over her shoulder, her bleak eyes silently pleading with us even before her voice sounded again: “Please be good. Behave yourselves. Don’t make any noise. Obey your grandmother and her rules, and never give her any reason to punish you. Please, please do this; and make the twins obey, and keep them from crying and missing me too much. Make this seem a game, lots of fun. Do what you can to entertain them until I’m back with toys and games for you all to play. I’ll be back tomorrow, and every second I’m gone, I’ll be thinking of you, and praying for you, and loving you.”
    We promised we’d be as good as gold, and quiet as mice, and like angels we’d obey and keep to whatever rules were laid down. We’d do the best we could for the twins and I’d do anything, say anything, to take the anxiety from her eyes.
    “Good night, Momma,” said both Christopher and I as she stood falteringly in the hall with the grandmother’s large cruel hands on her shoulders. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll all be fine. We know what to do for the twins, and how to entertain ourselves. We’re not little children anymore.” All of this came from my brother.
    “You’ll see me early tomorrow morning,” the grandmother said before she pushed Momma into the hall, then closed and locked the door.
    Scary to be locked in, children alone. What if a fire started? Fire. Always I was to think of fire and how to escape. If we were going to be here locked in, no one would hear us if we cried out for help. Who could hear us in this remote, forbidden room on the second floor, where no one came but once a month, on the last Friday?
    Thank God this was just a temporary arrangement—one night. And then, tomorrow Momma would win over the dying grandfather.
    And we were alone. Locked in. All the lights were turned off. Around us, below us, this huge house seemed a monster, holding us in its sharp-toothed mouth. If we moved, whispered, breathed heavily, we’d be swallowed and digested.
    It was sleep I wanted as I lay there, not the long, long silence that stretched interminably. For the first time in my life I didn’t fall into dreams the moment my head touched the pillow. Christopher broke the silence, and we began, in whispers, to discuss our situation.
    “It won’t be so bad,” he said softly, his eyes liquid and gleaming in the dimness. “That grandmother—she can’t possibly be as mean as she seems.”
    “You mean to tell me you didn’t think she was a sweet old lady?”
    He sort of chuckled. “Yeah, you bet, sweet—sweet as a boa constrictor.”
    “She’s awful big. How tall do you think she is?”
    “Gosh, that’s hard to guess. Maybe six feet, and two hundred pounds.”
    “Seven feet! Five hundred pounds!”
    “Cathy, one thing you’ve got to learn—stop exaggerating! Stop making so much out of small things. Now, take a real look at our situation, and realize this is only a room in a big house, nothing at all frightening. We have one night to spend here before Momma comes back.”
    “Christopher, did you hear what the grandmother said about a half-uncle? Did you understand what she meant?”
    “No, but I suppose Momma will explain everything. Now go to sleep, and say a prayer. Isn’t that about all we can do?”
    I got right out of the bed, fell down on my knees, and folded my hands beneath my chin. I closed my eyes tightly and prayed, prayed for God to help Momma be her most charming, disarming, and winning self. “And God, please don’t let the grandfather be as hateful and mean as his wife.”
    Then, fatigued and drowning in many emotions, I hopped back into bed, hugged Carrie close against my chest, and fell, as I wanted, into dreams.

The Grandmother’s House

    T he day dawned dim behind the heavy, drawn draperies that we had been forbidden to open. Christopher sat up first, yawning, stretching, grinning over at me. “Hi, tousle-head,” he greeted.