Cutler 5 - Darkest Hour

by V. C. Andrews

  Once a week she would visit Eugenia anyway to give her religious instruction—read a Biblical story or explain the teachings of the church. On more than one occasion, Eugenia fell asleep as Emily was reading and Emily got very upset about it and refused to accept Eugenia's apologies.

  But this time, when she went in and read from St. Matthew, and Eugenia fell asleep, Emily didn't stop to lecture about the importance of staying awake and paying attention when the Bible was being read aloud. She didn't slap the book closed so hard that Eugenia's eyes would pop open. Instead, she got up quietly and slipped out of the room as softly as one of Henry's ghosts. Even Eugenia was feeling better about her.

  "She's sorry for what she did," Eugenia concluded. "She just wants us to love her."

  "I don't think she wants anyone to love her, not Mamma, not Papa, maybe not even God," I replied, but I saw how my being angry at Emily disturbed Eugenia, so I smiled, thinking of something else. "Imagine if she really did change," I said. "Imagine if she let her hair, grow and wore a pretty silk ribbon in it, or she wore a nice dress instead of those old gray sacks and clodhopper shoes with fat heels that make her look even taller than she is."

  Eugenia smiled as if what I was saying were pipe dreams made of smoke.

  "Why not?" I continued. "Why couldn't she change overnight, magically? Maybe she had one of her visions and in the vision, she was told to change.

  "Suddenly, she would listen to more than just church music and she would read books and play games . . ."

  "Imagine if she had a boyfriend," Eugenia said, joining in the pretend.

  "And she decided to wear lipstick and put a little rouge on her cheeks?"

  Eugenia smothered a giggle.

  "And she took her boyfriend to the magic pond, too."

  "What would the new Emily wish for?" I wondered aloud.

  "A kiss, too?"

  "No, not a kiss." I thought a moment, then looked at Eugenia and broke out into a wide, gleeful smile.

  "What?" she asked. "Tell me!" she demanded, and bounced on her bed when I hesitated.

  "She would wish for a bosom," I replied. Eugenia gasped and put her hand over her mouth.

  "Oh my," she said. "If Emily just heard you."

  "I don't care. Do you know what the boys at school call her behind her back?" I said, sitting beside her on the bed.

  "What?"

  "They call her Miss Ironing Board."

  "Oh, they don't?"

  "It's her own fault, the way she dresses and flattens out what little bosom she has. She doesn't want to be a woman and she doesn't want to be a man."

  "What does she want to be?" Eugenia asked, and waited patiently for my reply.

  "A saint," I finally said. "She's as cold and as hard as the statues in church anyway. But," I added with a sigh, "at least she's stayed out of our way these last few days and has even been a little nicer to me at school. She gave me her apple at lunch yesterday."

  "You ate two?"

  "I gave one to Niles," I confessed.

  "Did Emily see?"

  "No. She was inside all during lunch helping Miss Walker correct spelling papers." We were both silent a moment and then I took Eugenia's hand into mine. "Guess what?" I said. "Niles wants to meet us again on Saturday. He wants to take a walk with us to the creek. Mamma's got her lunch party here so she won't mind us being out of her hair. Pray for a nice day again," I said.

  "I will. I'll pray twice a day." Eugenia looked happier than she had in a long time, even though she spent more time in bed than ever. "I'm suddenly very hungry," she announced. "Is it almost time for dinner?"

  "I'll see Louella about it," I said, getting up. "Oh, Eugenia," I said at the door, "I know Emily's been nicer to us, but I still think we should keep next Saturday a secret."

  "Okay," Eugenia said. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

  "Don't say that!" I cried.

  "What?"

  "Don't ever say 'hope to die.' "

  "It's just a saying. Roberta Smith's always saying it whenever I see her at our barbecues. Every time someone asks her something, she adds, hope . . ."

  "Eugenia!"

  "Okay," she said, snuggling up in her blanket. She smiled. "Tell Niles I look forward to seeing him Saturday."

  "I will. Now I'll see about dinner," I said, and left her dreaming about doing the things me and my friends took for granted each and every day.

  I know Eugenia didn't say anything to Emily about Saturday. She was too worried something might happen to stop us from going. But maybe Emily came to her door while she was praying for a nice day or maybe she was in the shadows spying and listening when Eugenia and I spoke. Perhaps, she just had anticipated it. Whatever, I'm sure she spent every day plotting.

  Just because we were looking forward to it so hard, Saturday took forever to come, but when it finally did arrive, it entered the week with a burst of warm sunshine that came streaming through my windows to caress my cheeks and open my eyes. I sat up full of joy. When I gazed out the window, I saw a sea of blue rolling from one horizon to the other. A gentle breeze brushed through the honeysuckle. The world outside was inviting, waiting.

  In the kitchen Louella told me Eugenia had been up at the crack of dawn.

  "I've never seen her so hungry in the morning," she remarked. "I've got to hurry her breakfast before she changes her mind. She's gotten so thin, you can practically see right through her," she added sadly.

  I took Eugenia's breakfast to her and found her sitting up and waiting.

  "We should have planned a picnic, Lillian," she complained. "It's too long to wait until after lunch."

  "Next time we will," I said. I placed her tray on her bed table and watched her eat. Although she was hungrier than usual, she still pecked at her food like a frightened bird. It took her twice as long to do everything a healthy girl her age would do.

  "We have a beautiful day, don't we, Lillian?" "Magnificent."

  "God must have heard all my prayers."

  "I bet He had no chance to hear anything else," I quipped, and Eugenia laughed. Her laughter was music to my ears, even though it was still expressed in a thin, small voice.

  I returned to the dining room to take my breakfast with Emily and Mamma. Papa had already gotten up and left early to go to Lynchburg to a meeting of the smaller tobacco farmers who were, according to Papa, in a life-and-death struggle with the corporations. Even without Papa's presence, we said a prayer before we ate. Emily saw to that. The passages she chose and the way she read them should have made me suspicious but I was so happy about our adventure that I barely noticed.

  She chose Exodus, chapter 9, and read how God had punished the Egyptians when the Pharaoh refused to let the Hebrews go. Emily's voice boomed over the table so hard and loud, even Mamma winced and looked fearful.

  "'So, there was hail, and fire mingled with the hail, very grievous, such as there was none like it in all the land of Egypt since it became a nation."

  She raised her eyes from the page and glared across the table at me, showing that she had every word of the page memorized and recited.

  "'And the hail smote throughout all the land of Egypt all that was in the field, both man and beast . . .'"

  "Emily, dear," Mamma said softly. She would never dare interrupt if Papa were there. "It's a little early in the morning for fire and brimstone, dear. My stomach's churning enough as it is."

  "It's never too early for fire and brimstone, Mamma," Emily retorted, "but it's often too late." She glared at me.

  "Oh dear me, dear me," Mamma moaned. "Let's just start eating, please," she begged. "Louella," she called, and Louella began to bring in the eggs and bacon. Reluctantly, Emily closed the Bible. As soon as she had done so, Mamma broke out into some of the juicy gossip she was going to verify this Saturday.

  "Martha Atwood has just come back from a trip up North and she says the women there are smoking cigarettes in public places. Now the Captain had a cousin," she continued. I listened to her stories,
but Eugenia had already retreated to her own thoughts, her own world, wherever that was. But when I mentioned to Mamma that I would be taking Eugenia for an outing, Emily's eyes widened with interest.

  "Just don't overdo it," Mamma warned. "And make sure she's warm as toast."

  "I will, Mamma."

  I went upstairs to choose what I would wear. I checked on Eugenia to be sure she took her nap and all her medications and then promised to wake her up a good hour before we left so I could help her brush her hair and choose what to wear. Mamma had bought her a new pair of shoes and a wide-brimmed blue bonnet to keep the sun off her face whenever she did venture out. I cleaned my room, did some reading, had a little lunch, and then got dressed. But when I went to Eugenia's room to wake her, I found her already sitting up. Only instead of excitement on her face, there was worry.

  "What's wrong, Eugenia?" I asked as soon as I entered. She nodded toward the corner of her room where her wheelchair was always kept.

  "I just noticed," she said. "It's not there. I can't remember when I saw it last. I'm so confused. Did you take it out for some reason?"

  My heart sank, for I hadn't, of course, and Mamma hadn't mentioned anything about it at breakfast when I told her I was taking Eugenia on an outing.

  "No, but don't worry about it," I said, forcing a smile. "It has to be somewhere in the house. Maybe Tottie moved it when she cleaned your room."

  "You think so, Lillian?"

  "I'm sure. I'll go see right away. In the meantime," I said, handing her the hairbrush, "start doing your hair."

  "Okay," she said in a small voice. I rushed from the room and hurried through the corridors, searching for Tottie. I found her dusting in the parlor.

  "Tottie," I cried, "did you move Eugenia's wheelchair out of her room?"

  "Her wheelchair?" She shook her head. "No, Miss Lillian. I don't ever do that."

  "Have you seen it anywhere?" I asked desperately. She shook her head.

  Like a chicken running from Henry's butcher knife, I darted about the big house, looking into one room after another, checking closets and even looking in the pantry.

  "What are you searching so hard for, child?" Louella asked. She was serving Mamma and her guests their luncheon and had filled a tray with finger sandwiches.

  "Eugenia's wheelchair's gone," I cried. "I've looked everywhere."

  "Gone? Why would it be gone? You sure?"

  "Oh yes, Louella."

  She shook her head.

  "Maybe you better ask your mother," she suggested. Of course, I thought. Why hadn't I done that immediately. Mamma, excited about her Saturday luncheon, probably just forgot to mention what had been done with it. I hurried into the dining room.

  To me it seemed as if they were all talking at once, no one listening to anyone else. I couldn't help but think Papa was right when he characterized the gatherings as noisy as a flock of hens clucking over the rooster. But I burst into the room so abruptly, they all paused to look my way.

  "How she's growing," Amy Grant declared.

  "Fifty years ago, she'd be walking down the aisle to the altar already," Mrs. Tiddydale remarked.

  "Is something wrong, honey?" Mamma asked, holding her smile.

  "Eugenia's wheelchair, Mamma. I can't find it," I said. Mamma looked at the other women and released a short laugh.

  "Why, honey, surely you can find something as big as a wheelchair."

  "It's not where it always is in her room, and I've looked everywhere else in the house and asked Tottie and Louella and . . ."

  "Lillian," Mamma said, sharply bringing me to a halt. "If you go back and look carefully, I'm sure you will find a wheelchair. Now, don't make everything seem like the Battle of Gettysburg," she added and laughed at the women, who then followed with a chorus of their own laughter.

  "Yes, Mamma," I said.

  "And remember what I told you, honey. Not too long and be sure she's wrapped warm."

  "I will, Mamma," I said.

  "You should have first said hello to everyone anyway, Lillian." She pinched her face into a look of soft reprimand.

  "I'm sorry. Hello."

  The women all nodded and smiled. I turned and walked out slowly. Before I reached the door, they had picked up where they had left off as if I hadn't even been there. Slowly, I started back toward Eugenia's room. I stopped when I saw Emily coming down the stairs.

  "We can't find Eugenia's wheelchair," I cried. "I've asked everyone and looked everywhere."

  She pulled herself up abruptly and smirked.

  "You should have asked me first. When Papa's gone, no one knows as much about The Meadows as I do. Certainly not Mamma," she added.

  "Oh Emily, you know where it is. Thank goodness. Well, where is it then?"

  "It's in the toolshed. Henry noticed something wrong with a wheel or an axle. Some such thing. I'm sure it's fixed by now. He just forgot to bring it back."

  "Henry wouldn't forget something like that," I thought aloud. Emily hated to be contradicted.

  "Well then, he didn't forget and it's in her room. Is it? Is it in her room?" she demanded.

  "No," I said softly.

  "You treat that old black man as if he was some sort of Old Testament prophet. He's just the son of a former slave, uneducated, illiterate, and full of ignorant superstitions," she added. "Now," she said, folding her arms and straightening up again, "if you want the wheelchair, go to the toolshed and get it."

  "Okay," I said, eager to get away from her and get the wheelchair. I knew poor Eugenia was on pins and needles back in her room and I couldn't wait to wheel the chair in and bring a smile back to her face. I hurried out the front door and down the steps, running around the corner of the house toward the toolshed. When I got there, I opened the door and peered in. There was the wheelchair, just as Emily had said, resting in a corner. It looked untouched, only its wheels were a little dirty from its being rolled over the grounds.

  This was so unlike Henry, I thought. But then I thought, maybe Emily was right. Maybe Henry had come for the chair when Eugenia was asleep and didn't wake her to tell her he was taking it to fix. With all that Papa had him doing on the plantation, it was no wonder he forgot something occasionally, I concluded. I entered the shed and started toward the chair when suddenly the door was slammed shut behind me.

  The action was so fast and so surprising that for a moment I didn't realize what had happened. Something had been thrown into the shed after me and that something . . . moved. I froze for a moment. There was barely enough light streaming in through the cracks in the old toolshed walls, but there was enough for it finally to register what had been thrown in behind me . . . a skunk!

  Henry set traps for rabbits. He set out these little cages that they would crawl into in order to nibble the lettuce, which dropped the gate shut. Then he would decide if the rabbit was old enough and fat enough to eat. He loved to make rabbit stew. I didn't want to know anything about it because I couldn't imagine eating bunnies. They always looked so funny and happy to me, nibbling on the grass or hopping about the fields. When I complained, Henry said as long as you didn't kill one just for fun, it was all right.

  "Everything feeds on everything else in this world, child," he explained, and pointed to a sparrow. "That there bird eats worms, don't it, and bats, they eat bugs. Foxes hunt rabbits, you know."

  "I don't want to know, Henry. Don't tell me when you eat a rabbit. Just don't tell me," I cried. He smiled and nodded.

  "Okay, Miss Lillian. I ain't inviting you to Sunday dinner whenever there's rabbit being served."

  But occasionally, Henry would get a skunk in one of his traps instead of a rabbit. He would come along with a sack and throw it over the cage. As long as the skunk was in the dark, it didn't squirt, he told me. I guess he told Emily, too. Or maybe, she just learned by watching. One time or another, she would watch everyone who lived at The Meadows as if she had been ordered to spot sinful acts.

  This skunk, obviously riled up by what had been don
e to it, eyed everything around it suspiciously. I tried not to move, but I was so frightened, I couldn't help but utter a cry and shift my feet. The skunk saw me and hit me full flush with its spray. I screamed and screamed and ran to the door. It was jammed shut. I had to pound and pound on it and the skunk hit me again before retreating under a cabinet. Finally, the door opened. A stick had been braced against it to keep it from opening easily. I fell out into the open air, the stench hovering all over me.

  Henry came running from a barn along with some of the other workers, but they didn't get within ten feet of me before stopping dead in their tracks and crying out with disgust. I was hysterical, whipping my arms around myself as if I was being attacked by bees instead of the stench of a skunk. Henry took a deep gulp of fresh air and then, holding his breath, came to my aid. He lifted me in his arms and ran back toward the rear of the house. There, he set me down on the landing and went charging in to fetch Louella. I heard him cry, "It's Lillian! She's been doused by a skunk real bad in the toolshed!"

  I couldn't stand myself. I started to tear off my stained dress and kicked off my shoes. Louella came rushing out with Henry and took one look and one whiff of me and cried, "Lord, have mercy!" She fanned the air in front of her and came to my side.

  "Okay, okay. Louella's gonna fix it. Don't worry. Don't worry. Henry," she ordered, "take her into the room off the pantry where the old tub's kept. I'm going to get all the tomato juice I can find," she said. Henry went to lift me again, but I told him I could walk.

  "You don't have to suffer, too," I said, covering my face with my hands.

  In the room off the pantry, I stripped off all my clothing. Louella poured every can and jar of tomato juice she could find into the tub and then had Henry go fetch some more. I bawled and sobbed as Louella washed me down with the juice. Afterward, she wrapped me in damp towels.

  "You go upstairs and take a nice bath now, honey," she said. "I'll be right along."