Petals on the Wind by V. C. Andrews
It was time to say good-bye to Carrie, Paul and Henny again. Only this time I didn't have to bid adieu to Chris. He put his foot down. "No! I'm coming with you! I'm not letting you go back to a crazy man. When you've made your peace with him, and I know everything is all right--only then will I leave."
Carrie cried, as she always did, and Paul stood back and let only his eyes speak and say yes, I could find a place in his heart again.
I looked down as the plane began to lift, and saw Paul holding Carrie's small hand, as she tilted her face to stare up at us and waved, and waved until we could see her no more. I squirmed into a comfortable position and put my head on Chris's shoulder, and told him to wake me when we reached New York. "A fine traveling companion you make," he grumbled, but soon his cheek was on my hair as he dozed off too. "Chris," I said sleepily, "remember that book about Raymond and Lily who were always seeking the magical place where purple grass grew that would fulfill all their wishes? Wouldn't it be wonderful to look down and see purple grass?"
"Yeah," he said as sleepily as I. "I keep looking for it too."
The plane set down at La Guardia around three. A hot, sultry day. The sun played coy, darting in and out of gathering storm clouds. We were both tired. "At this hour Julian will be in the theater rehearsing. They'll use the rehearsals as a promotion film There have to be a lot of rehearsals; we've never danced in this theater before and it's important to get the feel of the space you have to move in."
Chris was lugging along my two heavy suitcases, while I carried his much lighter bag. I laughed and smiled his way, glad he was with me, though Julian would be furious. "Now you stay in the background . . . and don't let him even see you if everything goes all right. Really, Chris, I'm sure he'll be glad to see me. He's not dangerous."
"Sure," he said glumly
We sauntered on into the darkened theater. The stage up ahead was very brightly lit. The TV cameras were in position, ready to shoot the warm-ups. The director, producer and a few others were lined up in the front-row seats.
The heat of the day was chased by the chill of the huge space. Chris opened up one of my bags and spread a sweater about my shoulders after we both sat down near the aisle, midway back in the center section. Automatically I lifted both my legs to stretch them on top of the seat just ahead. Though I shivered, the corps de ballet were sweating from the hot klieg lights. The eye was down and a few flats were up. I looked for Julian but didn't see him
Just to think of Julian was to bring him out of the wings, onto the stage in a series of whirling fetes. Oh, he looked terrific in that snug, white leotard with bright green leg warmers.
"Wow!" whispered Chris in my ear.
"Sometimes I forget how sensational he is on stage. No wonder every ballet critic thinks he will be the star of this decade when he learns some discipline. Let it be soon . . . and I mean you too, Cathy.' I smiled, for I too needed discipline. "Yes," I said, "I too, of course."
No sooner had Julian finished his solo performance than Yolanda Lange pirouetted out from the wings, wearing red. She was more beautiful than ever! She danced extraordinarily well for a girl so tall. That was, she danced well until Julian came to partner her, and then everything went wrong. He reached for her waist and got her buttocks, then he had to quickly shift his hold, so she slipped and nearly fell and again he adjusted to save her. A male dancer who let a ballerina fall would soon never have a partner to lift. They tried again the same jump, lift, and fall back, and this time it went almost as awkwardly, making Yolanda seem ungainly, and Julian unskilled.
Even I, sitting halfway down the row of seats, could hear her loud curse. "Damn you!" she screeched. "You make me look gauche--if you let me fall, I'll see you never dance again!"
"Cut!" called the director, getting to his feet and looking impatiently from one to the other.
The corps de ballet milled about, grumbling, throwing angry looks at the pair center stage that was wasting so much time. Obviously, from the sweaty, hot looks of all of them, this had been going on for some time, and badly. "Marquet!" called the director, well known for having little patience for those who required two, or even more takes. "What the hell is wrong with your timing? I thought you said you knew this ballet. I can't think of one thing you've done right in the past three days."
"Me?" Julian railed back. "It's not me . . . it's her--she jumps too soon!"
"Okay," the director said sarcastically, "it's always her fault and never yours." He tried to control his impatience, knowing Julian would walk out in a second if criticized too much. "When is your wife going to be well enough to dance again?"
Yolanda screamed out, "Hey, wait a minute! I came all the way from Los Angeles and now you're sounding as if you're going to replace me with Catherine! I won't have it! I'm written into that contract now! I'll sue!"
"Miss Lange," said the director smoothly, "you are the cover only--but while you are, let's attempt it again. Marquet, listen for your cue--Lange, make ready--and pray to God this time it will be fit to show an audience who might expect better from professionals."
I smiled to hear she was only the cover; I had thought I was really written out.
I perversely enjoyed watching Julian make a fool out of himself and Yolanda as well. Yet, when the dancers on stage groaned, I groaned along with them, feeling their exhaustion, and despite myself I began to feel pity for Julian who was diligently trying to balance Yolanda. Any second the director could call "take ten" and that's when I would make my move.
Up ahead, first row, Madame Zolta suddenly turned her wizened giraffe neck to crane my way, and those sharp little beady eyes saw me sitting tensely, watching like an eagle. "Hey, you, Catherine," she called with great enthusiasm. Come, she gestured, sit by my side.
"Excuse me a minute, Chris," I whispered. "I've got to go up there and save Julian before he ruins both our careers. I'll be all right. There's not much he can do with an audience--is there?"
Once I was seated beside Madame Zolta, she hissed, "Sooo, you not so sss-ick after all! Thank God for small favors. Your husband up there is ruining my reputation along with his and yours. I should have known better than to always let him partner you, so now he can dance with no one as well."
"Madame," I asked, "who arranged for Yolanda to be my stand-in?"
"Your husband, my luv," she whispered cruelly. "You let him get control--you were a fool to do that. He is impossible! He is a tempest, a devil, so unreasonable! Soon he will go mad, if he doesn't see your face--or we will go mad. Now run fast and put on dance clothes and save me from extinction!"
It was only a matter of seconds before I had on a practice outfit and, as soon as I had my hair bound up and securely fastened in place, I strapped on my pointes. At the dressing room barre I warmed up quickly. Doing my plies, and the rond de jambes to pump blood into each limb. Soon enough I was ready. Not a day passed I didn't do my exercises for several hours.
In the darkened wings I hesitated. I was prepared, I thought, for most anything when Julian saw me--what would he do? While I watched him on stage, suddenly from behind I was brutally shoved aside! "You've been replaced," hissed Yolanda. "Sss000, get out--and stay out! You had your chance and loused it up--now Julian is mine! You hear that-- he's mine! I have slept in your bed, and used your makeup and worn your jewelry--I have taken your place in everything."
I wanted to ignore her and not believe anything she said. When the cue came for Giselle to go on, Yolanda tried to hold me--that's when. I turned savagely upon her and pushed her so hard she fell. She blanched with pain, while I went on pointe and glided onto the stage, making my perfect little string of pearls. . . . Each tiny step could have been measured and proven to be of an exact distance. I was the shy, young village girl, sweetly, sincerely falling in love with Loys. Others on stage gasped to see me. Relief lit up Julian's dark eyes--for an instant. "Hi," he said coolly as I neared him, and fluttered my dark lashes to enchant him more. "Why'd you come back? Your doctors kick you out? Sick of
"You are a nasty, inconsiderate brute, Julian, to replace me with Yolanda! You know I despise her!"
His back was to the lookers as he sneered wickedly, all the while keeping time, "Yeah, I know you hate her; that's why I wanted her." He curled his beautiful red lips so they looked ugly. "Listen to this, dancing doll. Nobody runs out on me, especially my wife, and comes back and thinks she can still fit in my life. My love, my dearest heart, I don't want you now, I don't need you now, and you can go and play bitch to any man you want! Get the hell out of my life!"
"You don't mean that," I said, as we both performed perfectly, and no one called cut. How could they when we did everything so exquisitely right?
"You don't love me," he said bitterly. "You've never loved me. No matter what I did, or what I said, and now I don't give a damn! I gave you the best I had to give, and it wasn't enough. So, dear Cath-er-ine--I give you this!" And with those sudden words, he broke the routine, jumped high into the air, to come down forcefully and directly onto my feet. All his weight, brought down like a battering ram to crush my toes!
I uttered some small cry of pain, then Julian was whirling back to chuck me under the chin. "Now, luv, see who will dance Giselle with me. Certainly it won't be you, will it?"
"Take ten!" bellowed the director, too late to save me.
Julian gripped my shoulders and shook me like a rag doll. I stared at him rattle-eyed, expecting anything. Then suddenly he whirled away leaving me center stage, alone, on two damaged feet that hurt so badly I could have screamed. Instead, I sank to the floor and sat there staring at my rapidly swelling feet.
From out of the darkened auditorium Chris came running to my assistance. "Damn him to hell for doing this!" he cried, falling on his knees to take off my pointe shoes and examine my feet. Tenderly he tried to move my toes, but I cried out from the awful pain. Then he picked me up easily and held me tight against him "You'll be all right, Cathy. I'll see that your toes heal properly. I fear a few are broken on each foot. You'll need an orthopedist."
"Take Catherine to our orthopedist," ordered Madame Zolta who teetered forward and stared at my darkening, enlarging feet. She peered more closely at Chris, having seen him only a few times before. "You're Catherine's brother who caused all this trouble?" she asked. "Take her quick to the doctor. We have insurance. But that fool husband, this is it. I fire him!"
The Thirteenth Dancer
. Both of my feet were X-rayed, disclosing three broken toes on my left foot, and one broken small toe on my right. Thank God both my big toes were spared, or else I might never dance again! An hour later Chris was carrying me out of the doctor's office with a plaster cast drying on one foot that reached to my knee, while the small toe was only taped and left to heal without such protection. Each of the toes in the cast was nestled securely in its own little padded compartment so I couldn't move a one, and left exposed for everyone to admire the lovely shades of black, blue and purple. In my thoughts the sour lemondrops of the doctor's last words failed to melt and sweeten the future. "You may, or you may not dance again, it all depends." On what it depended, he didn't say.
So I asked Chris. "Sure," he said confidently, "of course you'll dance again. Sometimes a doctor likes to be overly pessimistic so you can think how great he was when everything works out fine--due to his special skill." Clumsily he tried to support me while he used my key to open the door of the apartment Julian and I shared. Then he carefully lifted me up again, carried me inside and kicked the door closed behind him He tried to make me as comfortable as possible on one of the soft couches. I had my eyes squeezed tightly together, trying to suppress the pain I felt at every move.
Chris tenderly supported both legs so he could stuff pillows under and keep them elevated to reduce the swelling. Another fat pillow was carefully eased under my back and head . . . and he never said one word . . . not one word.
Because he was so silent, I opened my eyes and studied his face that loomed above me. He tried to look professional, detached, but he failed. He showed shock each time his eyes moved from one object to another. Fearful I looked around. My eyes bulged. My mouth opened. This room! The mess! Oh, God, it was awful!
Our apartment was a wreck! Every painting Julian and I had so carefully selected was torn down from the walls, smashed on the floor. Even the two watercolors Chris had painted especially for me, portraits with me in costume. All the expensive bric-abrac lay broken on the hearth. Lamps were on the floor, the shades slashed to ribbons and the wire frames bent. Needlepoint pillows I'd made during the long tedious flights from here to there while on tour were ripped, destroyed! Houseplants had been dumped from their pots and left with roots exposed to die. Two cloisonne vases that Paul had given as a wedding gift, gone too. Everything fine and costly, and very cherished, things he and I had planned to keep all our lives and leave to our children--all beyond
restoration.
"Vandals," said Chris softly. "Just vandals." He smiled and kissed my forehead and squeezed my hand as tears came to my eyes. "Stay calm," he said, then he went to check the other three rooms, while I sank back on the pillows and sniffed back my sobs. Oh, how he must hate me to do this! Shortly Chris was back with his expression very composed, in that same eye-ofthe-hurricane way I'd seen a few times on his face. "Cathy," he began, settling cautiously down on the edge of the sofa and reaching for my hand, "I don't know what to think. All your clothes and shoes have been ruined. Your jewelry is scattered all over the bedroom floor, the chains ripped apart, the rings stepped on, bracelets hammered out of shape. It looks as if somebody set out deliberately to ruin all of your things and left Julian's in perfect condition." He gave me a baffled, troubled look, and maybe the tears I tried to hold back jumped from my eyes to his. With glistening blue eyes he extended his palm to show me the setting of a once exquisite diamond engagement ring, given to me by Paul. The platinum band was now a crooked oval. The prongs had released their clasp on the clear and perfect two-carat diamond.
Sedatives had been shot into my arm so I couldn't feel the pain of my broken toes. I felt fuzzy and disoriented, and rather detached. Someone inside me was screaming, screaming--hatred was near again--the wind was blowing, and when I closed my eyes, I saw the blue-misted mountains all around me, shutting out the sun--like upstairs, like in the attic.
"Julian," I said weakly, "he must have done this. He must have come back and vented his rage on all my belongings. See the things left whole--they are things he chose for himself."
"Damn him to hell!" cried Chris. "How many times has he vented his rage on you? How many black eyes--I've seen one--but how many others?"
"Please don't," I said sleepily, hazily. "He never hit me that he didn't cry afterward, and he'd say he was sorry." Yes, so sorry, my sweetheart, my only love . . . I don't know what makes me act as I do when I love you so much!
"Cathy," began Chris tentatively, tucking the platinum band in his pocket, "are you all right? You look close to fainting. I'll go in and straighten up the bed, so you can rest in that. Soon you'll fall asleep and forget all of this, and when you wake up, I'm taking you away. Don't cry for the clothes and things he gave you, for I'll give you better and more. As for this ring Paul gave you, I'll search around the bedroom until I find the diamond."
He looked, but he didn't find the diamond, and when I drifted into sleep, he must have carried me to the bed he'd made up with clean sheets. I was under a sheet and a thin blanket when I opened my eyes, and he was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching my face. I glanced toward the windows and saw it was getting dark. Any moment Julian would come home, and find Chris with me--and there'd be hell to pay!
"Chris . . . did you undress me and put on this gown?" I asked dully, seeing the sleeve of a blue gown that was one of my favorites.
"Yes. I thought you'd be more comfortable than wearing that pantsuit with the leg split up the seam. And I'm a doctor, remember? I'm used to seeing all there is--and I took care not to look."
"Remember the day Momma received the letter from the grandmother saying we could stay in her home? We thought wonderful things were ahead of us then; we later thought all joy lay in the past. Never, never in the present."
"Yes," he said softly, "I remember. We believed we'd be rich as King Midas, and everything we touched would turn to gold. Only we'd have more selfcontrol, enough to keep those we loved still made of flesh and blood. We were young and silly then, and so trusting."
"Silly? I don't think we were silly, only normal. You've achieved your goal of being a doctor. But I'm still not a prima ballerina." I said this last bitterly.
"Cathy, don't belittle yourself. You will be a prima ballerina yet!" he said fervently. "You would have been a long time ago, if Julian could control his fits of temper that makes every company manager afraid to sign the pair of you on. You get stuck in a minor company just because you won't leave him "
I sighed, wishing he hadn't said that. It was true enough Julian's fiery temper tantrums had scared off more than one offer that would have placed us in a more prestigious company. "You've got to leave, Chris. I don't want him to come home and find you here. He doesn't want you near me. And I can't leave him. In his own way he loves me and needs me. Without me to keep him steady he would be ten times more violent, and I do love him after all. If he struck out sometimes, he was just trying to make me see that. Now I do see."
"See?" he cried, "You're not seeing! You're letting pity for him rob you of good common sense! Look around you, Cathy! Only a crazy man could have done this. I'm not leaving you alone to face a madman! I'm staying to protect you. Tell me what you could do if he decides to make you pay again for leaving him alone in Spain? Could you get up and run? No! I'm not leaving you here, unprotected, when he might come home drunk, or on drugs--"