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e of this battle and has found a very intriguing solution. He identifies the evil side of himself as an old man he's named Malcolm. Just another of the many characters who enable him to like himself better."

Both my parents sat very still with wide eyes, looking sort of helpless.

Hours later, before I said my bedtime prayers, I crept down the long hall and listened outside my parents' bedroom. Momma was saying, "It's as if we will always be in the attic and never, never set free."

What did the attic have to do with Malcolm and me? Was it only because both of us had been sent up there for punishment? On my hands and knees I stole away down the hall, crept into my bed and lay there quietly, scared of myself and my "subconscious."

Beneath my pillow was Malcolm's journal, which I was absorbing day by day, night by night. Growing stronger, and smarter.

Gathering Darkness

. In the living room the next evening. Mom and Dad settled down before the fire I'd kindled. Forgotten by them because I said so little, I crouched down on the floor near the doorway, hoping they wouldn't see there, and they'd think I'd gone away as I should have.

I didn't feel good about deliberately deceiving them, but sometimes it was better to know for certain than to keep on guessing.

At first Mom didn't say anything much, then she brought up the visit to Dr. Oberman. "Bart hates me, Chris. He hates you too, and Jory, and Cindy. I think he's got Emma on his list too, but more than anyone, it's me he despises. He resents me for not loving him exclusively." He pulled her closer to his chest and held her there as on and on they talked. When they mentioned slipping into Bart's bedroom and seeing if he was there, I quickly scurried into a nearby closet and waited for them to pass on to Bart's room.

"Has he eaten dinner?" asked Dad.

"No." She said this like she wanted him to stay asleep so she could avoid the problem he was when awake. But just them being there, staring down at him, brought Bart out of his nap, and without a word in response to their affectionate greetings, he followed them into the dining room. Meals had to be eaten, even when a ten-year-old boy sat silent and scowling, refusing to meet anyone's eyes.

It was a terribly awkward meal, with no one comfortable. Appetites were small, and even Cindy was cross. Emma didn't speak either, only performed her duties silently. Even the wind that blew

incessantly died down and the trees stood still, their leaves hanging as if frozen. All of a sudden it felt so cold, making me think of the graves Bart was always talking about.

I sat wondering how Mom and Dad could force Bart to go to Dr. Oberman's sessions. How could anyone force him to talk when he could be so darn stubborn? And Dad was busy enough without taking time from his patients--that alone should show Bart who cared enough.

"Going to bed now," said Bart coldly, standing without asking permission to leave the table. He left the dining room. We sat on, caught in some kind of spell Bart had cast.

Dad broke the silence. "Bart isn't himself. Obviously something is bothering him so much he can't even eat. We have to find out what it is."

"Mom," I said, "I think if you went in and sat on Bart's bed first tonight, and stayed a long time with him, and didn't come in to my room or Cindy's, that might make up for a lot."

She gave me a strange, long look, as if not believing it could be that simple. Dad agreed with me, saying it wouldn't do any harm.

Bart was faking sleep, it was easy to see that. I backed away and stood near Dad in the hallway, in the shadows where Bart couldn't see us. I was ready to spring forward and save Mom if Bart turned mean. Dad kept a restraining hand on my shoulder, and whispered softly, "He's just a boy, Jory, a very troubled little boy. A bit smaller than most ten-yearold boys, a bit thinner too, and maybe that's part of the problem. Bart is having more trouble growing up than most boys do."

Tensing, I waited for him to say more. "It's amazing how he could be born with so little grace, when his mother has so much."

I looked to where Mom stood gazing down on Bart, who looked darkly sullen in sleep--if he was asleep. Then she came running from his room, throwing Dad a wild, distraught look. "Chris, I'm afraid of him! You go in. If he wakes up and yells at me as he did before, I'll slap him I'll feel like putting him in the closet, or up in the attic." Both her hands rose to clamp over her mouth. "I didn't mean that," she whispered weakly.

"Of course you didn't. I hope he didn't hear you. Cathy, I think you'd better take two aspirins and go to bed, and I'll tuck Bart and Jory into bed." He gave me a big joking smile as I grinned back. Our nighttime talks were the kind of tucking in he gave me . . . advice on how to handle difficult situations. Man-toman stuff a woman didn't have to know about.

It was Dad who had the nerve to approach Bart, and he perched with ease on the side of his bed. I knew Bart always slept lightly, and when Dad sat down, the depression he made rolled Bart's slight figure onto his side. That would awaken even someone like me, who used to sleep deeply and soundly.

Cautiously I stole closer, wanting to see for myself if Bart was faking. Behind his closed lids his eyeballs were jerking spasmodically, as if he watched a tennis game or something much more terrifying.

"Bart . . . wake up."

As if Dad had fired the words from a giant cannon put near his ears, Bart jolted wide awake. He bolted upright, his dark eyes bulging and terrified. He stared at Dad.

"Son, it's not eight o'clock yet. Emma has made a lemon pie for dessert that she had to leave in the fridge to set. Don't tell me you don't want a slice. It's a beautiful evening. I used to think, when I was your age, that twilight was the best time of all to play outside. Hide and seek, or red light, green light . . ."

Bart stared at Dad as if he spoke in a foreign tongue.

"Come, Bart, don't sulk alone. I love you, and your mother loves you. It doesn't matter if sometimes you move less than gracefully. There are other things that count more, such as honor and respect. Stop trying to be what you aren't. You don't have to be anyone super-special; in our eyes, you already are super- special."

Bart just sat on his bed and stared at Dad with hostility. Why couldn't Dad see him as I did? Could a man as smart as Dad be blind when it came to seeing his son honestly? Had Bart opened his eyes when Mom was in the room, and had she seen the hatred there? She could always see more than Dad, even if he was a doctor.