Cutler 4 - Midnight Whispers

by V. C. Andrews

  It broke my heart to do it, but there were many of Mommy's things I didn't want to see shut away in the dark, damp corners of the attic. I quickly pulled out the dress she had worn to my Sweet Sixteen party. There were sweaters and skirts and blouses that were dear to me because I could still vividly see Mommy wearing them. When I held them in my hands and brought them to my face, I could smell the scent of her cologne, and for a moment, it was as if she were still there, still beside me, smiling and stroking my hair lovingly.

  Aunt Bet seized all Mommy's jewelry quickly, and when I protested about that, she said she would only be holding these things until I was old enough to appreciate them.

  "I'll keep exact account of what was hers and what's mine," she promised and flicked me one of her short, slim smiles.

  She had the linens and bedding changed and, literally overnight, redid the curtains and blinds. Then she attacked their bathroom, deciding she wanted to change the wallpaper.

  "In fact," she declared at dinner one night after all this had started, "we should reconsider all the walls in this house. I was never crazy about the decor."

  "You have no right to make all these changes," I retorted. "This house still belongs to my parents and us."

  "Of course it does, dear," she said, her thin lips curled up at the corners, "but while you're underage, your uncle Philip and myself are your guardians and have the awesome responsibility of making important decisions, decisions that will affect your lives."

  "Changing wallpaper and repainting the house is not going to affect our lives!" I responded.

  "Of course it is," she replied with a small, thin laugh. "Your surroundings, where you live, have a major impact on your psychological well-being."

  "We like it the way it is!" I cried.

  She shook her head.

  "You don't know what you like yet, Christie dear. You're far too young to understand these things, and Jefferson . . ."

  She looked at him and he swung his eyes up to glare back at her.

  "Poor Jefferson is barely able to care for his basic needs. Trust me, my dear. I was brought up surrounded by the best things. My parents hired the most expensive and renowned decorators and I learned what good taste is and what it isn't. Your parents, although they were delightful people, grew up in the most dire poverty. Wealth and position were thrust upon them and they didn't have the breeding to understand what had to be done and how to spend their money."

  "That's not true!" I cried. "Mommy was beautiful. Mommy loved pretty things. Everyone complimented her on the things she did at the hotel. She . . ."

  "Just as you say, dear, at the hotel, but not at her own home. This was"— she looked around as if we had lived in a hovel—"merely a retreat, a place to which they could run away for a few hours. They did all their real socializing at the hotel. Rarely did they have important guests to dinner here, right?" she sang. She leaned toward me. "That's why Mrs. Boston, as sweet as she is, is not really schooled in serving properly. She didn't have to do it very much, if at all.

  "But all that is going to have to change now, especially in light of the fact that the hotel has been destroyed and is being rebuilt. While that's being done, Philip and I will have to have our important guests over here for dinners and parties, and you can't expect us to invite the leaders of the community to this house as it is.

  "But please," she concluded, "don't let all this disturb you. Let me worry about it. I have willingly accepted my responsibility and my burdens. All I ask is that you and the rest of the children cooperate. Okay?"

  I choked back my tears and looked to Uncle Philip, but as usual, he was quiet and seemingly distracted. How different our meals were from what they had been. Gone was the humor and the music and the laughter. No wonder Richard and Melanie were the way they were, I thought. All of the discussion at their dinner table was initiated by Aunt Bet, and Uncle Philip rarely had anything to say.

  "One of the ways you can cooperate," Aunt Bet continued, "is to be sure you take off your shoes whenever you come into the house. Take them off at the door and carry them upstairs, please."

  She paused, her lips tightening, her eyes growing narrow as she looked across the table at Jefferson.

  "Jefferson, dear, didn't anyone ever show you how to hold a fork properly?"

  "He holds it like a screwdriver," Richard commented and smirked.

  "Watch how your cousins use their silverware, Jefferson, and try to copy them," she said.

  Jefferson looked at me and then at her and then opened his mouth and dumped all the food he was chewing back onto his plate, the globs falling over his meat and vegetables.

  "Ugh!" Melanie cried.

  "Disgusting!" Richard screamed.

  "Jefferson!" Aunt Bet stood up. "Philip, did you see that?"

  Uncle Philip nodded and smirked.

  "You get right up, young man," Aunt Bet said, "and march yourself upstairs right now. There'll be no dinner for you until you apologize," she said and pointed at the door. "Go on."

  Jefferson looked anxiously at me. Even though I understood why he had done it, the sight of the globs of chewed food was revolting. My stomach churned from that and from all the tension and anger I felt inside.

  "I'm not going upstairs," he shot back defiantly. He got up and ran out of the dining room and to the front door.

  "Jefferson Longchamp, you don't have permission to go out!" Aunt Bet called, but Jefferson opened the front door and shot out anyway. Aunt Bet sat down, her face and long thin neck beet-red. "Oh dear, that child is so wild. He's gone and ruined another meal," she complained. "Christie . . ."

  "I'll go after him," I said. "But you're going to have to stop criticizing him," I added.

  "I'm just trying to teach him good things," she claimed. "We've all got to learn to get along now. We've got to adjust."

  "When are you going to adjust, too, Aunt Bet?" I asked, rising. "When are you going to show some compromise?"

  She sat back, her mouth agape. I thought I detected a slight smile on Uncle Philip's lips.

  "Go get your brother and bring him back," he said. "We'll talk about all this later."

  "Philip . . ."

  "Let it be for a while, Betty Ann," he added forcefully. She flicked an angry glance at me and then pulled herself up to the table. I left them sitting in silence, which was something I felt they did more often than not.

  I found Jefferson on the swing in our backyard. He was moving very slowly, his head down, dragging his feet along the ground. I sat next to him.

  Above us, long thin wisps of clouds broke here and there to reveal the stars. Since Mommy and Daddy's horrible deaths, nothing seemed as bright and as beautiful as it had been, including the constellations. I recalled a time Mommy and I had sat outside on a summer's night and stared up at the heavens. We talked about the magnificence and wonder and let our imaginations run wild with the possibilities of other worlds, other people. We dreamt of a world without sickness and suffering, a world in which words like unhappy and sad didn't exist. People lived in perfect harmony and cared about each other as much as they did about themselves.

  "Pick a star," Mommy said, "and that will be the world we've described. Then, every time we're out here at night, we'll look for it."

  Tonight, I couldn't find that star.

  "You shouldn't have done that at the table, Jefferson," I told him and took the swing beside him. He didn't answer. "You should just ignore her," I added.

  "I hate her!" he exclaimed. "She's . . . she's an ugly worm," he said, desperate to find a satisfactory comparison.

  "Don't insult worms," I said, but he didn't understand.

  "I want Mommy," he moaned. "And Daddy."

  "I know, Jefferson. So do I."

  "I want them to get out of here, and I don't want Richard sleeping in my room," he added to his list of demands. I nodded.

  "I don't want them here either, Jefferson, but right now we don't have any other choice. If we didn't live with them, we'd be sent away so
meplace," I said.

  "Where?" The idea both intrigued and frightened him.

  "A place for children without parents, and maybe we wouldn't be together," I said. That ended his willingness to risk an alternative.

  "Well, I'm not going to say I'm sorry," he declared defiantly. "I don't care."

  "If you don't, she won't let you eat with us and you don't want to eat alone, do you?"

  "I'll eat in the kitchen with Mrs. Boston," he decided. I couldn't help but smile. Jefferson had Daddy's temper and stubbornness. That was for sure. If Aunt Bet thought she was going to break him with her tactics, she was in for an unpleasant surprise.

  "All right, Jefferson. We'll see," I said. "Are you still hungry?"

  "I want some apple pie," he admitted.

  "Let's go back in through the pantry door. Mrs. Boston will give you some pie," I said, coaxing him. He took my hand and followed me. Mrs. Boston smiled happily when she saw us. I sat Jefferson at the kitchen table and she cut him a piece of the pie she had just served in the dining room. I wasn't hungry; I just watched him eat. Aunt Bet came in when she heard us talking. She stood glaring angrily in the doorway.

  "That young man should come in and apologize to everyone at the table," she reiterated.

  "Just leave him be, Aunt Bet," I said firmly. When our eyes locked, she saw my determination.

  "Well, until he does, this is where he will take his meals," she threatened.

  "Then this is where we will both take them," I said defiantly. She pulled her head back as if I had spit in her face.

  "You're not being a good big sister by encouraging and excusing his bad behavior, Christie. I'm very disappointed in you."

  "Aunt Bet, you can't imagine how disappointed I am in you," I replied.

  She pressed her lips together until they were a thin white line, pulled up her shoulders and pivoted to parade back into the dining room to tell Uncle Philip what I had said. I'd been brought up by my parents not to talk back or be rude to adults and it made me feel bad to do so. But Mommy and Daddy had also taught me about honesty and justice and kindness to those I loved. I knew in my deepest heart of hearts that Aunt Bet deserved the things I'd said. She was not treating Jefferson and me lovingly or even fairly, it seemed to my grief-scarred mind. Every day in so many tiny ways Aunt Bet was wiping away with her cleaning rag any proof that our family had ever existed. By covering over the comforting and familiar with wallpaper and paint and, worst of all, the new rules that we were told to live by, she was covering up my memories. And they were all I had left of Mommy and Daddy.

  I expected Richard would tease and criticize Jefferson for his behavior at the table that night. He had been complaining about Jefferson's personal habits from the moment he moved into the room with him. As a result, Jefferson had begged me several times to let him sleep with me. All I could think of was Mommy and Daddy forced to sleep in a sofa-bed pull-out when they were children. Why should something like that be happening to Jefferson and me? We had all this room and beautiful furniture. But I couldn't be mean to Jefferson, so I let him crawl in beside me that first night. Now he wanted to do it every night, and especially tonight because of the turmoil at the dinner table.

  "You have to stay in your own room, Jefferson," I told him when he asked me later. "Don't let Richard terrorize you and force you out. It's your room, not his."

  Reluctantly, he returned and tried to do what I said: ignore Richard. But in the morning, he came to my room howling. At first I thought Richard had hit him, but Richard wasn't a physical boy. I could see that the idea of striking someone and someone striking him back frightened him.

  "What's wrong now, Jefferson?" I asked, grinding the sleep out of my eyes and sitting up.

  "He's hidden my clothes," he moaned. "And he won't tell me where my shoes are."

  "What?" I got out of bed and put on my robe. "Let's see what's going on here," I said, taking his hand. I led him back to his room, but Richard wasn't there.

  "See," Jefferson said, "my shoes are gone."

  "Did you look in your closet?" I asked. He nodded. I looked anyway and saw his favorite shoes were not there. I looked under the bed, too. "This is ridiculous," I said. "Where is he?"

  "He always goes to Melanie's room in the morning," Jefferson revealed.

  "He does? Why?" Jefferson shrugged. I stalked out of the room and went to Melanie's door. When I knocked, she said, "Come in." I opened the door to find Melanie seated at the vanity table. She was still in her pajamas. Richard stood behind her, still in his pajamas too. He was brushing her hair. They both turned and gazed at me with expressions so similar, it was frightening at first. Both looked angry about being disturbed—their eyes wide and blazing, their lips curled.

  "What are you doing?" I asked, more out of surprise and curiosity than anything else.

  "I'm brushing Melanie's hair. I do it every morning," Richard said.

  "Why?" I couldn't help smiling in confusion. "I just do. What do you want?" he demanded, showing his impatience with me.

  "Where are Jefferson's things—his shoes, his clothes?"

  "I told him if he leaves them lying around sloppily, I would hide them forever and I have," he replied and started to brush Melanie's hair again.

  Rage first nailed me to the floor and then exploded in my chest, sending me charging toward him. He looked up with surprise when I grabbed the brush out of his hand and raised it threateningly. He cowered and Melanie screamed.

  "Who do you think you are? What right do you have to do these things in our house?" I screamed.

  "What's going on in here? What is it?" Aunt Bet cried from the doorway. She had come running from what was now her and Uncle Philip's bedroom. She was still in her nightgown, her hair under a sleeping cap, her face white with cold cream. It made her lips as pale as dead worms and her small eyes like two dull brown marbles.

  "Richard has hidden Jefferson's shoes and clothes," I said. "And he won't tell where."

  "He left everything lying on the floor again and his shoes in the middle of the floor. Someone could trip over them in the middle of the night," Richard cried in his defense. Aunt Bet nodded.

  "You did the right thing, Richard. Jefferson must learn to take care of his things. Richard's not going to be his valet. Jefferson's old enough to know what to do, how to be neat and clean," she told me.

  "If he doesn't tell me this moment where Jefferson's things are hidden, I'll sneak into the room in the middle of the night when he's asleep and set a fire under his bed," I threatened. I don't know from where I got the idea or the strength to say such a thing, but it drove a knife of astonishment and terror into Aunt Bet's heart. She gasped and brought her hands to her throat.

  "That's . . . horrible . . . a terrible, terrible thing to say. What's gotten into you, Christie?" she complained.

  "I won't permit my brother to be tormented," I said firmly. Then I turned to Richard. "Where are his things?"

  "Tell her, Richard," Aunt Bet said. "I want this deplorable incident to come to an end immediately. Your uncle has gone to supervise the work at the hotel," she added, "or I would bring him in here to see and hear this."

  "I don't care if you tell him or not," I said.

  "Well?" I asked Richard.

  "I threw them out the window," he confessed.

  "What? When?" It had started raining after dinner and then rained all night.

  "Last night before I went to sleep," he said.

  "Everything's probably ruined. Are you satisfied?" I asked Aunt Bet.

  "Richard," she said. "You shouldn't have done that. You should have come to me, first," she chastised gently.

  "I'm just tired of living in a pigsty," he replied coldly.

  "Well, I can understand that," she said. "Maybe Jefferson will take better care of his things from now on," she added, turning to me.

  "If he touches any of my brother's things again, he'll be very sorry," I threatened. I slapped the brush into his hand. He winced and backed away.
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br />   Then I took Jefferson's hand and we marched out of the room. After I got dressed, we went out and found his shoes, pants, shirt and underwear under the window. The shoes were soaked and I was sure they were ruined. Mrs. Boston said that when they dried, they would probably be out of shape and rough to wear.

  Still enraged, I put them in a paper bag and walked over to the hotel to find Uncle Philip. Most of the hotel's main structure had been demolished. Now the workmen were in the process of removing the debris. Uncle Philip was conferring with the architect and the engineers about the rebuilding of the hotel and the changes they would make. He looked up from the blueprints when I arrived. It was impossible to look at my face and not see the anger. My cheeks were crimson, my eyes bright with heat, my lips trembling with fury.

  "Excuse me," Uncle Philip said quickly and stepped away from the others. "What's wrong, Christie?"

  "Look," I said, thrusting the bag of soaked shoes at him. He took it and gazed inside. Then he felt them.

  "What happened?" he asked, a look of concern in his face.

  "Richard threw Jefferson's shoes and his clothes out the window last night because he didn't like the way Jefferson takes care of his things. He didn't care that it was pouring and these would be ruined."

  Uncle Philip nodded.

  "I'll have a talk with him," he said.

  "Aunt Bet thinks he did the right thing," I declared. Again, Uncle Philip nodded.

  "I know this has been extra-hard for you, for everyone. So many different personalities thrown together abruptly. It's overwhelming at times," he said, shaking his head sympathetically.

  "Not for Aunt Bet and Richard and Melanie," I replied.

  "Sure it has," he said. "But that doesn't excuse something like this. I'll straighten it all out tonight," he promised and smiled. "I want you to be as happy as you can be, Christie," he said, putting his hand on my cheek. "You're too lovely to be made upset and far too fragile, I know."

  "I'm not fragile, Uncle Philip. And it's my brother who is being terrorized right now, not me. I can take care of myself, but he's only nine and . . ."