"Your brother, your little beast of a brother . . . look!" she exclaimed, holding the shoes toward me and lifting them so I could see the soles clearly. Gobs of what looked like dog droppings were stuck to the bottoms.
"Richard was complaining about an odor in his room. I sent Mrs. Stoddard up here to redo the rug, but nothing seemed to help. Then I came up and looked in Jefferson's closet and found this on the floor. How could he take off these shoes and carry them up here without noticing the stink? How could he? He must have done it deliberately. It's another one of his horrible pranks," she said, drawing up her puckered little prune mouth like a drawstring purse.
For a moment I wondered if it really could have been one of Jefferson's shenanigans. Jefferson would have loved to have found a way to torment Richard, I thought. I was unaware that the possibility had brought a small smile to my lips.
"Do you think this is funny?" Aunt Bet demanded. "Do you?"
"No, Aunt Bet."
"The moment he comes through that front door, I'm sending him upstairs," she declared. "The very moment." She held the shoe away from her and started away. "I should just throw these in the garbage. That's what I should do instead of giving them to Mrs. Stoddard to clean," she muttered and descended with her eyes closed, Richard trailing behind her and guiding her down.
It was terrible to think it, but I had come to the point where I hoped Jefferson did do it deliberately. I returned to my room and described the whole incident to Gavin in my letter. I was sure it would bring a smile and laughter to his lips. When I was finished writing, I went downstairs and out the back door where I found Mrs. Stoddard cleaning Jefferson's shoes. She worked with a pail of soapy water and a sponge.
"He's a terror, that one," she said shaking her head, but I could see some amusement in her eyes.
"I don't know if he did it deliberately, Mrs. Stoddard, but I'll find out when he comes home."
She nodded and started to dry off the shoes with an old towel. Suddenly though, I took a closer look at the shoes.
"Let me see them please, Mrs. Stoddard," I asked. She handed the right one to me and I turned it over, thinking. "Jefferson doesn't wear these shoes anymore, Mrs. Stoddard. He's outgrown them. My mother was going to give them to the Salvation Army."
"Is that right?" she asked.
"Yes," I said, pressing my lips together and nodding with the realization of what this meant. "Richard's still doing it. He's still trying to get my brother blamed for things," I concluded. Mrs. Stoddard understood and nodded in sympathy. I took the other shoe from her and marched back into the house. I found Aunt Bet in the living room reading one of her magazines and smiling proudly down at Richard and Melanie who were demonstrating their self-taught fluency in basic French.
"You little bastard!" I cried from the doorway.
Aunt Bet's mouth gaped open. Melanie and Richard turned and mimicked her look of shock. I strutted into the room, holding the shoes out, soles up, and approached Richard. He cowered back.
"How dare you use such profanity? What are you doing?" Aunt Bet demanded.
"I'm going to rub these in his face," I said. "He dipped them into the dog dung and put it in Jefferson's closet, just the way he put that towel with honey there," I accused.
"I did not!"
"Yes you did," I said, moving closer. He pulled himself back, leaning behind Melanie for protection.
"Christie!" Aunt Bet cried. "Stop it this instant."
"He made a major mistake this time, Aunt Bet," I said. "This time your precious, perfect little angel messed up. You picked the wrong shoes, Richard," I said, turning back to him. "You should have taken more time and done better planning."
Richard flicked a glance at Aunt Bet and then at me.
"What are you talking about, Christie?" she demanded.
"These shoes, Aunt Bet. Jefferson has long grown out of them. He can't wear them anymore; they pinch his feet. Mommy was going to give them to the Salvation Army along with some other clothing he and I have outgrown, only she never got the chance. Richard didn't know that, though, did you, Richard? You took these shoes and dipped them and then planted them and complained so you could get Jefferson in trouble again."
"I can't believe . . ." Aunt Bet looked at him. "Richard?" He tried to smile and look undaunted, but I could see the fear in his eyes.
"I didn't do that, Mother,"
She shook her head at me.
"Richard couldn't . . . he wouldn't be so coarse as to go looking for dog stool and . . . oh no," she said, refusing to believe it. "He couldn't."
"He did," I said. "And this time, he got caught."
"You're a liar!" Richard screamed. He got to his feet, but backed away.
"She's making it up, Mother," Melanie said quickly and stood up to be beside him. "How do we know those shoes don't fit Jefferson?"
"Yes," Aunt Bet said, liking the possibility. "How do we know that?"
"I'm telling you, that's how," I said. "And I wouldn't lie about it."
"We'll have to see. I'm not saying you're lying, Christie, but you might be mistaken. We'll have to wait until Jefferson comes home; we'll have to see," she insisted.
"Fine, and once you see, you will owe him an apology and you will punish Richard. That's only fair. You can't just punish us," I said.
Richard's face turned more frantic—his eyes wide and wild.
"I didn't do anything," he claimed.
"Yes you did, and I think your punishment should be having your face smeared with doggy-do," I threatened.
"Christie!" Aunt Bet gasped. "Remember you're older and you're supposed to be a lady and . . ."
Before she could go on, we all heard the front door thrust open abruptly. It sounded as if someone had smashed it open. No one spoke. All eyes were on the living room doorway to see who it was.
Uncle Philip appeared, his eyes ablaze, his mouth twisted in an ugly grimace of horror and sadness. His hair was wild and he looked as though he had run all the way from the hotel to our house.
"Philip!" Aunt Bet said. "What . ."
"It's my mother," he said. "My mother . . ."
"Oh dear." Aunt Bet's hands flew to her throat like frightened birds.
"What happened to Grandmother Laura, Uncle Philip?" I asked softly, my heart pausing, my breath still.
"Mrs. Berme . . . found her on the bathroom floor . . . a stroke," he said. "My mother . . . Dawn's mother . . . Clara Sue's mother . . . she's gone," he finished. "Gone, forever."
He turned to the left and stopped. Then he looked back at us as if he didn't know us. In confusion, he walked out the way he had come bearing the burden of new sorrow. Aunt Bet fell back in her seat, overwhelmed for the moment. The twins went quickly to her side, each taking one of her hands. Numbly, I shook my head. I had gone dead inside. My heart felt empty and cold. Poor Grandmother Laura, confused and lost in her maze of thoughts. She had spent her final days grappling with her memories, desperately trying to sort out her life, but moving about in circles like someone who had wandered into a wall of spider webs and struggled to get free. And now she was dead.
I went to the front window and gazed out at Uncle Philip. He was pacing back and forth on the front lawn, talking out loud, gesturing wildly with his hands as if he had come into contact with all his descendants. The family of ghosts had gathered around him to hear about the latest victim to fall under the shadow of the great curse.
Another funeral, and so soon with all my funeral memories still fresh, was upon us. Once more we were all draped in black; once more people only whispered to each other in our presence; once more the sea was gray and cold and the sky was overcast, even if there were no clouds.
Neither Jefferson nor I had really gotten to know Grandmother Laura as well as we should have known a grandparent. For as long as I could remember, she was confused and distracted, some-times clearly recognizing us and sometimes gazing at us as if we were strangers who had wandered into her life.
After I had learned the truth about my mother'
s kidnapping and Grandmother Laura's complicity in it, I asked Mommy if she hated her for what she had permitted to be done. Mommy smiled a little, her blue eyes softening, and shook her head.
"I did once, very much, but as time went by, I grew to see that she had suffered deeply for it and there was no need for me to add any punishment to the one her conscience had already inflicted upon her.
"Also, I longed to have a mother and in time, we began to share some precious, lost moments, the kind of moments a mother and daughter should share. She changed when she went to live with Bronson. She mellowed, I should say. He is a strong influence on her, making her aware of the consequences of her actions and words. All it takes is for him to lower those brown eyes in her direction and she quickly becomes less selfish. She becomes . . . a mother," Mommy told me and laughed happily.
Now, as I sat in the church beside my little brother and listened to the minister's sermon, I could only remember Grandmother Laura asleep in her wheelchair. I couldn't envision her when she was still pretty and active. But when I looked at Bronson, I saw a soft smile on his face, the kind that reveals a wonderful memory being replayed inside. Surely he was able to recall her as a beautiful young woman spinning on a ballroom dance floor, her laughter music in itself. I had only to take one look at him to see the deep love he had borne and realize how much he had lost. I cried for him more than I cried for myself or Jefferson or even Grandmother Laura herself.
Uncle Philip was surprisingly devastated. I recalled how much he used to complain about going to dinners at Buella Woods. He was always grateful when Mommy volunteered to do something with Grandmother Laura if it meant that he was relieved of the responsibility. One time, when Mommy had to leave in the middle of a busy afternoon to go to her, I went along. I remember feeling so badly for her because of how nervous she was, thinking about the work she had left behind.
"Why can't Uncle Philip go?" I demanded. I don't think I was more than ten or eleven at the time, but I was capable of great indignation when it came to something hurting or bothering Mommy.
"Philip is incapable of facing reality," she re-plied. "He always was. He refuses to see Mother the way she really is; he wants only to remember her as she was, even though he used to make fun of her all the time. The truth is he was very attached to her and adored her. He was proud of how beautiful she was and made light of the effects of her self-centeredness, even when it affected him. Now, she's as much of a stranger to him as he often is to her."
She sighed and then added, "I'm afraid there is more of Randolph in Philip than Philip cares to admit to, and," she said, her expression darkening, her eyes small, "maybe more of Grandfather Cutler too."
I remember that frightened me and remained under my skin like a persistent itch.
But today, in the church, Uncle Philip looked more like a lost and frightened little boy himself. His eyes went hopefully to anyone who approached him as if he were expecting one of the mourners to say, "None of this is really happening, Philip. It's just a bad dream. In a moment it will be over and you can wake up in bed." He shook hands vigorously and accepted kiss after kiss on the cheek. When it was time to leave, he looked about in confusion for a moment until Aunt Bet took his arm and started him off behind the casket.
We all got into the limousine and followed the hearse to the cemetery for the final rites at the gravesite. As soon as it ended, I went right to Bronson and hugged him. His eyes shone with unshed tears.
"She's at rest now," he said. "Her ordeal has ended."
"Are you coming to our house?" I asked him. Aunt Bet had made arrangements for another funeral reception. She was becoming an expert. "No, no. I'd rather just be alone for a while. I'll speak to you soon," he promised and walked off, his shoulders slumped with the weight of his deep sorrow.
There were far fewer mourners at our home than there had been for Mommy and Daddy, and the reception was quite subdued. Uncle Philip sat in one chair the whole time gazing out at people and nodding or smiling only when someone came directly to him to shake his hand or kiss him.
Both Jefferson and I were tired and over-whelmed, the impact of this funeral tearing the scabs roughly off our recovering feelings. Early in the evening, I took Jefferson upstairs and helped him go to bed. Then, instead of returning to the wake, I retired myself, anxious to close my eyes and escape the sorrow. I didn't even want my small night light on as usual. I wanted to pull the blanket of darkness over me quickly, and that urge was stronger than my childhood fears. I did drift off quickly and never heard the mourners leave.
But some time in the middle of the night, I woke to the sound of my door clicking shut. It was as if someone had nudged me with a finger. My eyes snapped open. I didn't move and for a moment, heard nothing and guessed I had only dreamt it. Then I heard the distinct sound of heavy breathing and the shuffle of footsteps. A moment later I felt the weight of someone's body on my bed and turned to see Uncle Philip silhouetted vaguely in the darkness. My heart began to pound. It looked like he wore no clothing, not even his pajamas.
"Shh," he said before I could utter a word. He reached out and put his fingers on my lips. "Don't be frightened."
"Uncle Philip, what do you want?" I asked.
"I feel so alone . . . so lost tonight. I thought . . . we could just lie beside each other for a while and just talk."
Before I could say another word, he lifted my blanket and slipped himself under it, moving in beside me. I shifted away quickly, surprised, shocked and very frightened.
"You're so much older than your age," he whispered. "I know you are. You're certainly older than your mother was when she was your age. You've read more; you've done more; you know more. You're not afraid of me, are you?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "I am. Please, Uncle Philip. Go away."
"But I can't. Betty Ann . . . Betty Ann's like a stick of ice beside me. I don't even like it when my leg grazes against her bony knee. But you, oh Christie, you're just as beautiful as Dawn was, even more so. Whenever I look at you, I see her the way she once was to me.
"You can be that way to me," he added, reaching to put, his hand on my waist, "just tonight, at least tonight, can't you?"
"No, Uncle Philip. Stop," I said, pushing on his wrist.
"But you've been this way with boys. I know you have. Where else would you go at night if not to meet some boyfriend and have a rendezvous? Where do you meet . . . in the back of a car? Dawn and I were once in a car."
"No. Stop it," I said, covering nay ears with my hands. "I don't want to hear such things."
"Oh, but why not? We didn't do anything ugly. I'll show you what we did," he said, moving his hand up the side of my body to my breast. I started to push myself away and off the bed, but he seized my wrist with his other hand and pulled me toward him.
"Christie, oh Christie, my Christie," he moaned and smothered my face with wet kisses. I grimaced and struggled. He was stronger and threw his leg over mine to hold me in place. In moments, he had worked his hand into my pajama top and found my breast. When his skin touched me, I started to shout and he clamped his other hand over my mouth.
"Don't," he warned. "Don't wake the others. None of them will understand."
I moaned and shook my head. He took his hand away, but before I could utter a sound, he brought his mouth to mine and pressed his lips so hard against my lips, he lifted them away from my teeth. I felt the tip of his tongue touch mine and I began to gag.
I choked and coughed when he lifted his mouth away, but while I struggled to catch my breath, his hands were pulling down on my pajama pants. The buttons began popping off. When my pajamas were down as far as my knees, he turned so he could put his body over mine and I felt it—I felt his hardness poked between my locked thighs. The realization of what it was and what was happening threw me into a frenzy. I was able to free my right hand and with my fist I pummeled his head, but it was like a fly trying to tip over an elephant. He didn't appear to feel anything. He groaned and pushed.
&n
bsp; "Christie, Christie . . . Dawn . . . Christie," he said, mixing my name and my mother's as if he could literally bring her back to him through me.
"UNCLE PHILIP, STOP! STOP!"
He was so strong and heavy, I couldn't do much to resist. Slowly, my legs began to give and make room for his to push against them even harder.
"You don't have to sneak off to learn about these things," he muttered. "I can help you as I promised. We need each other. We should depend on each other, now more than ever. I have no one but you, Christie. No one . . ."
"Uncle Philip," I gasped. His mouth covered mine again. I tried to scream, but the scream was trapped inside me. I felt the tip of his hardness prodding, pressing forward while I was pinned down beneath him.
And then the shock of it, the realization that he was moving inside me. I tried to deny it, to scream NO! But the reality came in an avalanche, burying any denials. He groaned and pressed onward, chanting my mother's name and mine as if that was what gave him the strength. His hot wetness spurted inside me. I lay there limply waiting for it to end and when it did, he slid off me like ice. I didn't move, afraid that if I uttered a sound or nudged him in any way, he would return a second time. His heavy breathing slowed.
"Christie," he said, touching me. I pulled back, gasping. "It's all right," he said. "It's all right. We've done nothing wrong; we've only helped each other, comforted each other. Great sorrow demanded it.
"You're old enough to understand. It's good; it's okay. Everything will be fine," he said. "Are you okay?"
I didn't move.
"Are you?" he asked again, this time turning toward me.
"Yes," I said quickly.
"Good, good. I've got to go back before Betty Ann wakes up and wonders where I've gone. Sleep, my little princess, sleep. I will always be here for you, forever and ever, just like I was for her."
I watched, holding my breath as he sat up and then left my bed. He moved very quietly through the darkness of my room, slipping out and disappearing like a nightmare, gone, but still lingering about me.
Cutler 4 - Midnight Whispers Page 19
