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"You have a strange voice . . Mrs. . . . ?" Another shrug from the black figure.

Momma got up again and went into the other room to fetch Cindy. I held my breath. The portrait was in there. She'd see it. But she must not have looked around, for in another second she was back, pulling Cindy and standing close to the fireplace, keeping a tight hold on Cindy's hand.

"What a remarkable home you have. If I closed my eyes I could swear I was looking at Foxworth Hall as I saw it from the balcony."

Dark, dark were the eyes of my grandmother.

"Are you wearing pearls? I thought I saw pearls when you were fiddling around your neck. Those rings are so beautiful. You show your rings, why not your pearls?"

Again another shrug from Grandmother.

Dragging Cindy along with her, Momma stepped closer to the woman I didn't want to think of as my grandmother anymore. "As I stand here all sorts of memories come flooding back," said Momma. "I remember a Christmas night when Foxworth Hall burned to the ground. The night was cold and snowy, yet it lit up like the Fourth of July. I yanked all the rings from my fingers and hurled the diamond and emerald jewelry into the deep snow. I thought no one would ever find it--but Madame, you are wearing the emerald ring I threw in the snow! Later Chris picked up all that jewelry because it belonged to his mother! His precious mother!"

"I am sick too. Go away," whispered that forlorn figure in black, standing in the middle of her room, avoiding the rocking chair that might trap her.

But she was already trapped.

"YOU!" cried my mother. "I should have known! There is no other rope necklace of pearls with a diamond butterfly clasp except yours."

"Of course you are sick!" screamed my mother. "What else could you be but sick! I know who you are. Now everything makes sense. How dare you come into my life again. After all you have done to us, you come back again to do more. I hate you. I hate you for everything you have done, but I've never had the chance to pay you back. Taking Bart from you wasn't enough. Now I have the chance to do more."

Releasing Cindy's hand, she lunged forward and caught hold of my grandmother, who tried to back away and fight her off. But my mother was stronger. Breathless and excited I watched the two women pull at one another.

My grandmother cringed away from the fierce attack. She didn't seem to know what to do. Then Cindy let out a howl of fear and began to cry. "Mommy, let's go home."

The door opened and John Amos shambled inside the room. As my mother prepared another attack, he reached out to lay a large knobby hand on my grandmother's shoulder. I'd never seen him touch her before.

"Mrs. Sheffield," he began in his whiny-hissy voice, "you were graciously admitted into this house, and now you try to take advantage of my wife, who has not been well for several years. I am John Amos Jackson, and this is my wife, Mrs. Jackson."

Stunned, Momma could only stare.

"John Amos Jackson," repeated my mother slowly, savoring the name. "I've heard that name before. Why, just yesterday I was rereading my manuscript, and I had to think of a way to change that name slightly. You are the John Amos Jackson who once was a butler in Foxworth Hall! I remember your bald head and how it shone under the chandeliers." She swiveled about and reached for Cindy's hand, or so I thought. But instead she snatched the veil from my grandmother's face.

"Mother!" she screamed. "I should have known months ago it was you. From the moment I entered this house I sensed your presence, your perfume, the colors, the choice of furniture. You had sense enough to cover your face and body in black, but you were stupid enough to wear your jewelry. Dumb, always so damned dumb! Is it insanity, or is it stupidity that makes you think I could forget your perfume, your jewelry?" She laughed, wild and hysterically, spinning around and around so John Amos, who was trying to prevent what she might do, was stumbling, clumsily trying to grab hold of her before she could attack again.

Look at her--she was dancing! All around my grandmother she whirled, flicking out her hand to slap at her--and even as she whipped her legs around, she screamed: "I should have known it was you. Ever since you moved in Bart has been acting crazy. You couldn't leave us alone, could you? You had to come here and try and ruin what Chris and I have found together--the first time we've been happy. And now you've ruined it. You've managed to drive Bart insane so he'll have to be put away like you were. Oh, how I hate you for that. How I hate you for so many reasons. Cory, Carrie, and now Bart--is there no end to what you can do to hurt us?" She kicked and hooked her foot behind my grandmother's knee and threw her off balance, and the moment my grandmother spilled to the floor in a heap of black rags, my mother was on top of her, ripping at that rope of pearls with its diamond butterfly clasp.

Using both her hands, she forced the knotted string to part, and the pearls scattered all over the Oriental rug that silently swallowed them up.

John Amos roughly seized hold of my momma, and pulled her to her feet. He held her and shook her until Momma's head rolled. "Pick up the pearls, Mrs. Sheffield," he ordered in a hard, mean voice that was suddenly very strong. I was surprised that he would handle my mother so cruelly. I knew what Jory would do--he'd run to fight John Amos and save Momma. But me, I didn't know if I should. God was up there wanting Momma to suffer for her sins, and if I saved her, what would God do to me? Besides, Jory was bigger. And Daddy was always saying everything happened for the best--so this was meant to be, despite the miserable way I felt.

But Momma didn't need my help after all. She threw back her head and butted her skull squarely against his false teeth. I heard them crack as she whirled free. Then he went after

her with more determination. He was gonna kill her, and be the agent of God's wrath himself!

Quicker than I could move, Momma's knee came up and caught him squarely in the groin. John Amos screamed, doubled over, clutching at himself as he fell to the floor and rolled about moaning: "Damn you to hell!"

"Damn you to hell, John Amos Jackson!" my momma screamed back. "Don't you ever touch me again, or I will dig out your eyes."

By this time my grandmother had gained her feet, and she stood in the center of the room swaying unsteadily as she tried to fit the torn veil over her face again. That's when my mother's slap caught her cheek, so Grandmother fell backwards into her rocker. "Damn you to hell too, Corrine Foxworth! I hoped never to see your face again. I hoped you'd die in that 'rest home' and spare me the agony of looking at you again, and hearing that voice that I used to love. But I've never been lucky. I should have known you wouldn't be considerate enough to die and leave me and Chris alone. You are like your father, clinging desperately to a life not worth living."

Oh, I hadn't known before my mother had such a terrible temper. She was just like me. I felt shocked, scared as I watched my mother tackle my old grandmother so her chair tipped over and both of them fell to the floor, rolling over and over as John Amos groaned, maybe never to recover. In a few moments Momma was sitting on top of my grandmother, ripping off all those glittering, expensive rings. Weakly my grandmother tried to defend herself and her jewelry.

"Please, Cathy, don't do this to me," she pleaded.

"You! How I've longed to see you on the floor, pleading with me as you are. I was wrong a moment ago--this is my lucky day. My chance to have my revenge again for all you've done. You watch and see what I do to your precious rings." She raised her arm, and with one wild gesture she hurled all those rings into the roaring fire. "There, there! It's done!" cried my momma. "What should have been done long ago on the night Bart died."

With a gloating expression she ran to pick up Cindy; ran to the foyer closet to yank on Cindy's coat, and then reached for her own coat and boots she'd pulled off.