Cutler 4 - Midnight Whispers

by V. C. Andrews

  "Never in my wildest imagination," he continued, raising his head again and speaking in a fiery voice, "did I ever think you would die before I did. Surely, the angels themselves were jealous of my love for you and worked to destroy it. Well, they have taken you from me, taken you from this world, but they can never take you from my heart.

  "I pledge to you I will care for Christie lovingly and see to it that she is happy and secure. I will rebuild this hotel as a monument to you, bigger and brighter and more wonderful than it ever was, and as soon as it is completed, I will have a gigantic portrait of you placed on the lobby walls.

  "You sing on, my love, on and on in my heart." He lowered his head again. "But forgive me, forgive me," he begged. Then he stood up slowly and walked away, his head down.

  I watched him disappear down the cemetery path, my heart pounding. What deep, dark secret did he keep in his heart, a secret so painful he had to beg forgiveness at a grave? Was it just that he loved Mommy more intimately and passionately than he should have loved his half-sister or was it something even more sinful? Aunt Fern's horrid words, spat at me before she left, returned: "What do you think they did on their dates, play paint-by-numbers?" It frightened me to think about it. When I felt confident he was gone, I came out of the shadows and then hurried along the same path to home.

  The light above the front door was still burning. I tiptoed over the porch, trying desperately to keep the floor from creaking, and then I opened the door and slipped inside quickly. I waited and listened. All was quiet. Perhaps Uncle Philip had gone up to bed already, I thought, and started down the corridor to the stairway. But when I reached the entrance to the living room, I saw that one small lamp was still lit and Uncle Philip was sitting in an easy chair, his head back, his eyes closed. In his hand he held a glass of whiskey.

  I hurried past the entrance to the steps of the stairway, but the first step betrayed me by creaking loudly.

  "Who's there?" Uncle Philip called. I stood perfectly still. "Is someone out there?" I decided not to answer, but my heart was pounding so hard, I was sure he could hear the thump, thump, thump against my chest. He didn't call again nor did he come to the doorway. I made my way up the stairs quickly and went directly to my room. I undressed, put on my nightgown, and slipped into bed. As usual I turned off all but my small night light. And then, only moments after I had turned over in bed and closed my eyes, I heard my door creak open.

  My heart began to pound when I didn't hear Jefferson's cry and footsteps. I didn't move; I didn't turn to see who it was; I didn't have to. In seconds I could smell the scent of the whiskey. I held my breath. It was Uncle Philip. Was he just checking to see if I was in my bed? Why did he linger so long? Finally, I heard the door close and I released my breath in relief, but before I could turn around, I heard his footsteps and realized he was at the side of my bed.

  I kept my eyes closed and didn't move, pretending to be asleep. He stood there staring down at me for the longest time, but I didn't open my eyes or acknowledge his presence. I was too frightened. I heard him release a deep sigh and then finally, I heard him walk away. When I heard the door open and close again, I turned my head and saw he was gone. Then I sighed with relief myself.

  What a strange and wondrous night this proved to be, I thought. Mysteries hung in the air around me like pockets of thick sea fog. I lay there wondering for the longest time and then finally drew sleep around me like a cocoon and curled up slowly in its warm, protective walls.

  I awoke to the sounds of great commotion and, a moment later, Jefferson came charging into my bedroom. I could hear Aunt Bet in the hallway crying for Uncle Philip to send for the doctor. Even though it was quite bright outside, I gazed at the clock and saw it was not quite five-thirty in the morning. Jefferson looked very frightened.

  "What is it?"

  "It's Richard," he said, his eyes wide. "He's got a bad tummy ache, so bad he's crying."

  "Really?" I said dryly. "Maybe he ate some of his own sour grapes."

  "Melanie ate them, too," Jefferson added excitedly.

  "Melanie too? What do you mean?"

  "She's got a tummy ache also and Aunt Bet is angry about it. Can I sleep with you? They're making too much noise," he said.

  "Get into my bed," I said, but I got up and reached for my robe. "I'll see what's going on."

  Uncle Philip, still in his pajamas, was in the hallway, his hair disheveled. He looked confused and sleepy and yawned hard and loud. He scrubbed his face with his palms and went to Melanie's doorway.

  "What is it? What's all the noise?" he demanded.

  "She's as white as a ghost and so is Richard. Go look at him," Aunt Bet cried from inside. "They've been poisoned!" she added.

  "What? That's ridiculous," Uncle Philip said. He turned and saw me standing there. "Oh, Christie." He smiled. "I'm sorry they woke you."

  "What's happening, Uncle Philip?" I asked.

  "I don't know. It's always like this," he said. "When one of the twins gets sick, the other one inevitably does too. It's as if every germ that attacks them has a twin in waiting," he added, still smiling. Then he went into Jefferson and Richard's room. I went to the doorway of Melanie's room and peered in.

  Aunt Bet was sitting on the bed, holding a cold washcloth on Melanie's forehead. Melanie groaned beneath her and clutched her stomach.

  "I've got to go again," she cried.

  "Oh dear me, dear me," Aunt Bet said, standing to get out of her way. Melanie shot off the bed and, bent over and still clutching her stomach, hurried toward the doorway and the bathroom. I stepped out of her way.

  "What is it?" I asked when she rushed past me and lunged into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

  "What is it? They were poisoned by something rotten, I'm sure," Aunt Bet said. "That . . . that incompetent cook and maid . . ."

  "Mrs. Boston? You can't believe Mrs. Boston did something wrong. Mrs. Boston is a wonderful cook."

  "Humph," she said, pulling her narrow, bony shoulders back. She walked past me and went to Richard. I could hear his groans. Uncle Philip emerged, a look of disgust and fatigue on his face.

  "We all ate the same things, Uncle Philip," I said. "None of the rest of us are sick. The twins must have eaten something else on their own," I added.

  "I don't know. I don't know," he chanted and went to call the doctor. I returned to my bedroom and crawled in beside Jefferson, who had already fallen back to sleep. Less than an hour later, the doctor arrived. After he examined the twins, I heard him step into the hallway with Aunt Bet and prescribe some medicine and bed rest and then leave. Shortly afterward, Aunt Bet came to my bedroom door.

  "Christie," she said, "please have Jefferson sleep in Melanie's room for a few days. I don't want him to be contaminated and it will be easier for me if the twins are in the same room."

  "What's wrong with them?"

  "It could be some kind of a food poisoning or some stomach virus," she explained and twisted her mouth up in disgust.

  "It must be a virus. I don't feel bad and neither does Jefferson."

  "Even if it was a virus, they contracted it because things aren't kept clean enough around here, especially in the kitchen. You two were just lucky," she replied. "Somehow," she added and left.

  Later that morning when Jefferson and I went down for breakfast, we found only Uncle Philip at the table reading the paper. He smiled and said good morning as if it were just any other morning.

  "Where's Aunt Bet?" I asked.

  "She brought some tea and toast up to the twins. She will nurse them back to health in no time all by herself. She always does. Anyway, I'm glad you two are fine," he added.

  "There's no reason for us not to be," I said sharply. He nodded and went back to his paper.

  Mrs. Boston emerged from the kitchen with our hot food. She looked very unhappy and very angry. I never saw her mouth so tight.

  "How are your stomachs this morning?" she asked Jefferson and me.

  "Fine, Mrs
. Boston," I replied.

  "Thought so," she said with satisfaction and pulled her shoulders back, but Uncle Philip kept reading as if he hadn't heard a word. Mrs. Boston went back into the kitchen and didn't come out again. I had promised Jefferson I would take him for a walk on the beach to look for seashells after breakfast, so we went upstairs to get him a light jacket. I knocked on his bedroom door and then poked my head in to see if it would be all right for me to go get the jacket from his closet.

  Aunt Bet had taken a seat between the two beds. She sat there holding Richard's hand in her right hand and Melanie's in her left. The twins had their blankets up to their chins and their eyes closed.

  "Shh," Aunt Bet said. "They're finally asleep."

  "I just want to get Jefferson's little jacket," I whispered and tiptoed to the closet. Even though I made less noise than a baby mouse, Richard's eyes popped open.

  "What . . . what is it?" he cried.

  Melanie's eyes snapped open instantly, too. "Who is it?" she said.

  "Now you see what you've gone and done," Aunt Bet snapped. "And they needed to rest so much."

  "A fly couldn't have made less noise, Aunt Bet," I said. "They obviously weren't really asleep." I took Jefferson's jacket off the hanger.

  "Where are you going?"

  "For a walk on the beach," I replied. "It's a beautiful day. Too bad the twins can't come out," I added and left them quickly. I put my letter to Gavin in the mailbox for the mailman to pick up and then went down to the ocean with Jefferson.

  Jefferson enjoyed our hunt for interesting shells, but every once in a while, he would stop and look out at the ocean and ask a question about Mommy and Daddy. Did I think they were together in Heaven? Would they have new children up there? Was there ever a time when they could come back, even for only a moment? None of my answers satisfied him. His dark eyes only widened and took on the shine of forthcoming tears. He wanted only one answer—someday we would all be together again.

  As we came up the driveway toward home afterward, we were surprised to see the hotel limousine in front. Suddenly Julius emerged from the house carrying a suitcase in each hand. He put each in the limousine's trunk.

  "Who's leaving?" Jefferson asked me. "I hope it's Aunt Bet," he muttered, but it wasn't. It was Mrs. Boston, all dressed up in her Sunday church clothes and carrying a smaller suitcase when she appeared. As soon as we saw her, we broke into a run.

  "Mrs. Boston!" I called. "Where are you going?" She looked up and smiled.

  "Oh, I'm so glad you two come back before I left," she said. "I wanted to say good-bye."

  "But where are you going, Mrs. Boston? I didn't know you were going anywhere."

  "Neither did I," she said angrily. "You know that your aunt came down this morning and accused me of serving spoiled food. After breakfast, she returned to tell me I didn't know how to keep a kitchen properly clean and I didn't know how to properly serve people of quality and she didn't have time to teach me. She said it would be better for everyone if I just left. Then she paid me off and asked me to go immediately.

  "I told her good riddance," she added.

  "Oh no, Mrs. Boston. She can't fire you. You don't work for her; you work for us," I said desperately. What would life in our home be like without Mrs. Boston? I wondered.

  "Poor, poor child," she said, putting her gloved hand on my .cheek. Then she smiled at Jefferson who was looking up at her sadly. "I did work for you, but you ain't in control of the money strings for a while yet, honey. Miss Bet let me know that for sure.

  "It's best this way, I suppose. After a while she and I would only be at each others' throats. That woman . . ." She shook her head. "I'm sorry, babies. I took care of you both, helped raised you and it breaks my heart to have to go, but I can't stay now."

  "Where will you go, Mrs. Boston?" I moaned, my tears starting to flow.

  "Down to Georgia to my sister Lou Ann for a while. It's time I visited her anyway. We're both along in our years, you know," she added, smiling.

  "We'll never see you again," I complained.

  "Oh, I'll make my way back in due time. You take care of your little brother," she said. "And Jefferson, you mind your sister now, hear?"

  I looked at Jefferson. His sadness had turned to fury quickly. He bit down on his lower lip and then broke from my side to run around the house.

  "JEFFERSON!"

  "Go look after him," Mrs. Boston said. She kissed me on the cheek and we hugged hard. "I'll miss you, child."

  "I'll miss you, Mrs. Boston. Terribly," I added. She wiped a tear from her cheek and nodded.

  "Quickly," she told Julius, "before I turn into mush on the spot." She got into the limousine and Julius closed the door and went around to get into the vehicle. The last thing I saw was the feather of Mrs. Boston's Sunday church hat in the rear window before the sunlight washed over the back of the limousine and turned the window into a mirror of light. Shocked, feeling a scream in my throat that just stayed there, I stared even after the car was gone. My legs had turned to lead along with my heart.

  Slowly, in small ways, everything that had been a part of our wonderful world was slipping away. I never felt more lonely or more afraid of what was to come.

  Jefferson had crawled through an opening in the lattice under the back porch of the house. I suspected he was under there. It was one of his hideaways and places to pretend and play. He sat snuggled in a corner, mindlessly moving a stick over the hard-packed ground.

  "Come on out, Jefferson. You're getting yourself filthy under there and there's no point in hiding," I coaxed.

  "I don't wanna," he said. "I don't want Mrs. Boston to leave," he added quickly.

  "Neither do I, but she has. I'm going in to speak to Aunt Bet about it right now," I added. He looked up hopefully.

  "Will Mrs. Boston come back?"

  "Maybe," I said. "Come on, Jefferson." I reached in and he took my hand and crawled out, but he had gotten the knees and seat of his pants black with dirt, as well as his elbows. I brushed him off the best I could and then we went inside. Aunt Bet was in the kitchen, banging pots and pans as she took everything out of the closets and cabinets. I went to the doorway and looked in at her. She wore plastic gloves and apron over her dress. She had her hair tied under a thick bandanna.

  "Aunt Bet," I said and she stopped to turn around.

  "What is it?"

  "How could you fire Mrs. Boston?" I demanded. "What right- did you have to do that?" My voice took on the steely edge of a razor.

  "How could . . . what right did I have?" she stuttered. Her eyes turned crystal-hard and cold. "Are you blind? Look at this place. You wouldn't believe the dirt and grease, the dust and grime I'm discovering in these closets and cabinets. Everything has to be washed down with disinfectant. I don't think it's ever been done. I'm taking charge of this myself before we hire a new servant. I'm going to reline every closet, every shelf and sterilize all the dishes and silverware."

  "That's not true! Mrs. Boston was always very clean. We love Mrs. Boston. She's been with us . . . forever. You've got to send for her to return," I insisted.

  "Send for her return?" She laughed her thin laugh as if I had suggested the most ridiculous thing. "Please." Then her eyes fell on Jefferson and her face went into a contortion of disgust. She stood up quickly and came across the room in a rage.

  "What has he been doing? How did he get so filthy? Why did you bring him into the house like this? Look at his feet. I told you two to always take off your shoes before you come inside the house. Don't you know that germs stick to the bottoms of our feet? Don't you realize the twins are sick upstairs and their resistance is low? Quickly," she said, seizing Jefferson at the right elbow, "strip off these filthy things and pile them in that corner," she pointed.

  Jefferson wailed and struggled to pull out of her grasp, but in her rage and intensity, she had great strength for a woman of her size. Her bony fingers locked around his small arm like an iron vise. Jefferson fell to the floor, ki
cking and screaming.

  "Let him be!" I screamed.

  "Then take him into the downstairs bathroom and clean him up," she ordered, her eyes blazing, her mouth twisted. "Don't dare bring him upstairs like this. I don't believe the extra work you've made for me. Now I've got to go back over the entry way and the floors." She bent down and ripped Jefferson's shoes off his feet quickly. "Go on," she commanded.

  "Come on, Jefferson," I said. "She's gone mad." I pulled him to me, lifted him into my arms and hurried out of the kitchen.

  "Take him directly into the bathroom!" she called behind us, but I didn't listen to her. I went up the stairs quickly and took him into my room, slamming the door behind me. There, I caught my breath. Jefferson was gasping from his deep wails.

  "It's all right, Jefferson," I said. "She won't hurt you. I'll give you a warm bath. Afterward, I'll speak to Uncle Philip," I promised.

  He ground his small fists into his eyes and dried the last few tears. His face was streaked with dirt and grime, and he didn't put up any resistance to taking the bath. Grief, sadness and fear had combined to overwhelm him and turn him into a clinging baby. How different he was from the little boy who couldn't wait to burst into my room every morning and from the little boy who was rarely depressed and unhappy. Seeing him this way made me even angrier. I didn't have time to feel sorry for myself any longer. I was determined to see to it that he didn't suffer any more pain. I told him to take a nap and I went out to look for Uncle Philip.

  Aunt Bet had scrubbed the entry way, just as she promised, and now had sheets of newspaper over it. I walked over them and hurried out. But just as I started down the front steps, Uncle Philip drove up.

  "Aunt Bet's fired Mrs. Boston!" I cried when he stepped out of his car. "And she's being terribly mean to Jefferson and me."

  "What's this? Mean to you?" he said, coming around the car. "Oh no, Christie. She wouldn't want to be mean to you," he said. He put his arm around my shoulders. "She's just nervous and upset about the twins being sick. She always gets this way when they're ill."