Cutler 4 - Midnight Whispers

by V. C. Andrews

  "When I fell in love, really in love, everything was more intense. Suddenly, I noticed things for the first time, even though they had always been around me. I had never realized how beautiful the stars could be, how sweet a bird's song sounded, how wonderful and majestic the ocean was, and how awe-inspiring a simple thing like a sunrise could be. I was never bored. Every moment was as precious as the next.

  "Most importantly, Christie," she said, her eyes small but intent, "I respected myself. I wasn't ashamed of my feelings and the pleasure my body gave me. Do you know what I've learned?" she added almost in a whisper. I shall never forget the look in her eyes when she told me. "Girls who give their bodies to men for the pleasure of the moment don't value themselves; they don't even value sex. They've choked and suffocated the best part of themselves; they've closed the doorway to the soul and to love.

  "They take the stars for granted; they resent the song of birds waking them in the morning; the ocean is monotonous to them, and they think getting up early enough to see the sunrise is stupid and exhausting. It's as if . . . as if they've missed the ride with the angels and are doomed to drift from one shallow thing to another.

  "Do you think you understand what I'm trying to say?" she asked.

  "I think so, Mommy," I told her, but it wasn't until now that I did.

  Slowly, as the first rays of sunlight lifted the shadows from the trees and the earth absorbed the darkness like a sponge, I felt in tune with everything. I realized that every morning the flowers, the grass, the forest and all the animals were reborn. I opened the window wide and inhaled the warm morning air as if I could also inhale the sunshine. I embraced myself and closed my eyes and remembered that moment when Gavin and I touched each other's souls and with our bodies promised to be true and loving forever and ever. I had not missed the ride with the angels.

  "Good morning," Gavin said, coming up behind me. "I went back to my own bed last night because I thought Jefferson would be looking for me otherwise," he added and kissed me on the cheek.

  "Where is Jefferson?"

  "Would you believe he got himself up, washed and dressed and went downstairs with Luther and Charlotte already. He can't wait to dip his hands into pails of paint. I'd say he and Charlotte are hitting it off real well, wouldn't you?"

  "Yes. It's made it all easier and kind of wonderful," I said, sighing. Gavin smiled and then turned serious.

  "But you must understand that as happy as we are here, we can't stay here forever and ever like Charlotte thinks. Jefferson needs friends his own age and he has to go back to school and . . ."

  "I know," I said, falling back on the pillow. I screwed my face into a sulk and folded my arms under my breasts.

  "You must have known this could only be a temporary solution, Christie," Gavin said. "We're going to have to think of something else soon."

  "Wise old Gavin," I teased. "I'm the dreamer; you're the sensible one."

  "So we're a perfect combination," he said, smiling, undaunted. "Whenever I get too sensible, you hit me over the head with a dream."

  "And whenever I've been dreaming too long, you drag me back to reality. Just like you're doing now."

  "I'd rather kiss you back," he said and leaned over to plant a soft kiss on my lips. I gazed up into his eyes and felt a tingle start in my breast.

  "We'd better get moving before they miss us," I whispered.

  "I know," he said, straightening up. "I'm a farmer now," he said, throwing out his chest and jabbing his thumbs against his ribs, "and I have my chores. And so do you. There's butter to churn and bread to bake and floors to wash."

  "I'll give you floors to wash, Gavin Steven Longchamp," I said and threw my pillow at him. He caught it and laughed.

  "Temper, temper," he said, shaking a finger at me.

  We got dressed quickly and went downstairs. Homer had already arrived and was having breakfast with Luther and Jefferson when we entered the kitchen. I was surprised he was here so early. Didn't he eat breakfast with his own family? I wondered. Luther saw the questions in my face.

  "Homer's here to help bale the hay in the east field," Luther explained.

  "And Jefferson has a good idea," Charlotte declared. "Even Luther thinks so, right Luther?" He grunted and kept eating.

  "Oh? And what's the idea?" I asked.

  "To paint the barn. We've been thinking about the color. Should it be red like Mr. Douglas's barn or should it be green?"

  "I've never seen a green barn," I said.

  "I know," Charlotte decided, "we'll paint one side green and one side red, the front red and the back green. Or should we make the front green and the back red?"

  "All those colors might confuse the cows," Gavin said. "They'll think it's Christmas in July."

  "Oh, you think so?" Charlotte said sadly.

  "Cows don't care about colors," Luther muttered. "And they don't know nothing about any Christmas." I could see that he didn't want anything to upset Charlotte and he never wanted to disappoint her.

  "Everyone can help," Charlotte said.

  "Homer and I will paint the front," Jefferson announced. "Won't we, Homer?"

  Homer looked up at us and then at Jefferson before nodding.

  "Doesn't Homer have his own chores at his own farm?" I asked.

  "The Douglases don't have a working farm no more," Luther said. "They're retired folk."

  "Oh. Do you have any brothers or sisters, Homer?" I asked him. He shook his head.

  "His ma and pa were quite along in their years by the time he came along," Luther said quickly. He pushed his plate aside. "Well, we'd better get started," he said, looking at Gavin. Gavin gulped down some milk and nodded.

  "I'll bake an apple pie today," Charlotte said. "Now that I've got more mouths to feed, I'd better get crackin'."

  "Don't you go and overdo it none," Luther warned. "We don't put on airs just because we got some visitors."

  "If I want to put on airs, I can," Charlotte shot back. Luther just gave one of his grunts.

  "When can we start painting the barn?" Jefferson asked.

  "Tomorrow," Luther replied. "If we finish what has to be done today," he added.

  "Maybe I should help you then," Jefferson offered. Luther nearly cracked a smile.

  "I never turn down a pair of hands, no matter how small they might be," he said. "Let's go."

  "Menfolks are off again," Gavin muttered in my ear as he rose to join Luther and Homer. Jefferson pushed his chair in.

  "What are you going to do today, Christie?" he asked me.

  "I'm going to work on our clothes, do some more cleaning, and then look over the library. Tonight, I'll read to you and you'll practice your reading, too," I said.

  "And your multiplication tables. Jefferson didn't do so well in school this year," I explained, my eyes on him firmly. "He needs to work on his math and his reading, especially his spelling, don't you, Jefferson?"

  "Homer can't read and spell good and he's okay," Jefferson said in his own defense.

  "Really?" I looked at Homer, who looked down quickly. "Well, if Homer wants, help him learn to read and spell, too," I said. His eyes widened.

  "Won't that be nice!" Charlotte exclaimed. "We'll have our own one-room schoolhouse, just like the one I went to when I was a little girl. Although I didn't go very long, did I, Luther?"

  He shifted his gaze at me quickly.

  "No," he said. "Are we all gonna stand around here jabberin' while there's real work to be done?" sensed that Luther didn't like talking about the past.

  "I'm not," Charlotte said. "I've got to cut up apples," she added.

  "Good," Luther said and hurried out the door, Gavin, Homer, and Jefferson trailing behind him.

  The rest of the morning passed quickly. I went up to our rooms and dusted and polished. I washed the floors and the windows and then sorted out some more of the old clothing for Jefferson and myself. After lunch, I went into the library and perused the shelves. The books were so old and unused, they each had
a second jacket of dust, but I found all the classics, collections of Dickens and Guy de Mau-passant, Tolstoy and Dostoyevski as well as Mark Twain. Some of them were first editions.

  I found one of my favorite stories, The Secret Garden, and decided it would be the one I would read to Jefferson and have him practice his reading on, too. Later, after another day's hard farm work and another nice dinner followed by Charlotte's delicious apple pie, I took Jefferson into the library to read to him and have him read to me. Gavin and Homer followed. Homer had been here all day, helping Luther, and had eaten dinner with us. Although he didn't talk very much, I saw he listened and understood everything that went on around him, and I also saw how much he enjoyed Jefferson's company and how quickly Jefferson had taken to him. He was a gentle giant of a man with soft dark eyes.

  As I read from The Secret Garden, Gavin perused the library and found a book for himself, too. He went off in a corner to read and left me with Homer and Jefferson. First, I let Jefferson do a page. He was anxious to do well in front of Homer and did do better than usual. When he was finished, I handed the book to Homer. He looked up at me, surprised.

  "Can you read any of it, Homer?" I asked. He nodded and stared at the page, but he didn't begin. "Go on, read some for us," I said. "Didn't you go to school at all?" I asked him when he continued to hesitate.

  "Yes, but I left after the third grade to help with the chores."

  "And no one came looking for you?" He shook his head. "That's too bad, Homer. If you learn to read better, you'll learn a lot more." He nodded. I leaned over and pointed to some letters. "What you've got to do is sound them out, Homer. This A sounds like the a in hay. The b is like the first sound in boy and the l is like the l in little. You don't pronounce the e at the end. It's called a silent e. Just put the sounds together fast."

  "A . . . ba . . . 1111," he said.

  "Able. That's good. Right, Jefferson?" Jefferson nodded quickly. I smiled and leaned back. When I did so, I gazed at Homer's neck and just under the strands of hair that were usually down the back of his neck but were now off to the sides, I saw the birthmark. There was no question in my mind—it looked like a hoof. I felt a cold chill, recalling Charlotte's tale of her baby.

  What did this mean? How could Homer have the same birthmark? Did Charlotte make everything up? I practiced reading with Jefferson and Homer for another half hour and then stopped to let Jefferson show Homer the painting he had done in the room off the library. As soon as they left, I told Gavin what I had seen on Homer's neck.

  "So?"

  "Don't you remember the story I told you about Charlotte's baby―the doll in the crib, all of it?"

  "Yes, but I thought that was just a story like the stories about spirits flying around and Emily on a broom and . . ."

  "Gavin, it's all so strange. The neighbors finding a baby left to die, Homer practically living here most of the time, and now the birthmark. I'm going to ask Luther about it," I decided.

  "I don't know. He might not like your poking around. He can get angry pretty quickly. I saw it out there in the fields."

  "There's nothing for him to get angry about, but I'd like to know the truth."

  "Maybe it's none of our business, Christie. Maybe we shouldn't stir up old memories," Gavin warned.

  "It's too late, I'm afraid. I feel something every time I wander through the house. Spirits have already been stirred."

  "Oh boy. All right," he said. "When are you going to ask Luther these questions?"

  "Right now," I said. Gavin closed his book and sighed.

  "Daddy always says curiosity killed the cat."

  "I'm not a cat, Gavin. I'm part of the world here at The Meadows. Maybe not through direct bloodline, but still, it's what I've inherited. It's my fate," I said boldly. Gavin nodded, still smiling at me. "Laugh if you want, but I want to know the past that haunts this house and this family."

  "Okay, okay," he said and got up. "Let's see what Luther will tell us."

  Charlotte told us Luther was out in the barn changing the oil in the pickup truck. It was a very warm night with a sky full of stars. So far away from busy highways and the sounds of traffic and people, we could hear how noisy nature was. Usually, the sounds people made distracted or drowned out the peepers and crickets, the hoot owls and raccoons. To both Gavin and myself, it sounded as if every night creature in the wild had an opinion about something or other. Ahead of us, the glow of Luther's lanterns lit up the barn. We could see him crouched over his truck engine.

  "Hello Luther," I called as we approached. I didn't want to startle him, but he looked up surprised. "Can we talk to you?" He wiped his hands and nodded.

  "Homer go home?" he asked, looking beyond us.

  "No. He's inside with Jefferson. But that's what we wanted to ask you about, Luther," I said quickly.

  "Oh? Ask about what?"

  "Homer. Who is he really, Luther?" I blurted quickly. Luther's eyes narrowed.

  "What'dya mean, who is he? He's Homer Douglas, the neighbor's boy. I told you that before," he said.

  "Charlotte took me to the nursery," I began, "and told me the story of her baby."

  "Oh that. Charlotte pretends a lot," he said, looking at his engine again. "She always has. It was her way of escaping a hard, cold life."

  "She doesn't have a hard, cold life now," I said. "Why is she still pretending?" Luther ,didn't respond.

  "Then she didn't really have a baby?" I pursued. "And the baby didn't have a birthmark that looks like a hoof on the back of his neck?" Luther opened a can of oil and began pouring it into the engine as if we weren't there. "We don't want to make any trouble. I just wanted to know the truth about this family. It's my family, too," I added.

  "Your ma, she was a Cutler, but she hadn't no Booth blood in her from what I understood to be the truth," Luther muttered.

  "But we inherited the Booths and their history too. Like it or not," I said.

  "It's best you don't know about this family," Luther said, pausing. "They was hard, cruel folk who married some religion with some superstition to come up with their mean ideas and ways. Charlotte, she was blessed with a softness and had sunshine in her face always. Them Booths, especially her father and that Emily, couldn't tolerate it and made her practically a prisoner in her own home. They worked her like a slave and never treated her like kinfolk.

  "After Mrs. Booth passed on, there was nothin' left to bring any kindness in that house. Why, they even whipped her from time to time. Emily did it just because she took to thinking there was a devilish spirit in Charlotte making her smile. She tried to whip the smile out of her, but Charlotte . ." He shook his head. "She didn't understand such cruelty and never gave in to it. You couldn't harden her heart. She forgave everyone everything all the time, even Emily." He spat and fixed his gaze on a memory as he continued.

  "She'd come out to me after a beating and I'd comfort her and she would tell me Emily couldn't help it. The devil was in her making her do it . . . stuff like that. I was planning on sending her to the devil myself only . . ."

  "Only what?"

  "That's how the devil gets you. He makes you commit a sin. Anyways . . . Charlotte and I . . . we got so we comforted each other. After my parents passed on, we was both alone. Especially at night. You understand?"

  Gavin and I exchanged knowing glances. "Yes, we do."

  "She got pregnant and as soon as Emily found out, she declared it was the devil's work and the baby would be an evil child. No one outside of the old man and Emily, and me, of course, knew that Charlotte was in a childbearing way. No one in town much saw her.

  "I remember the night she gave birth," he said, looking up at the old plantation house. "I remember her screaming. Emily was happy about that. She did everything she could to make things harder."

  "They kept her in the Bad Room?"

  He nodded, but then looked down.

  "Worse. Emily locked her in a closet when the time come," he said. It looked like he had tears in his eyes.
<
br />   "What? You mean while she was giving birth?" I asked. He nodded.

  "Left in there for hours and when she finally opened the door . . . well, instinct takes over, I suppose. Charlotte had bit the umbilical cord in two and tied it herself. She was covered with blood.

  "Emily let her put the baby in the nursery, but a few days later, I seen her slip out of the house with the baby in a basket. I followed her and watched her put the baby in a field near the 'Douglases' house and after she left, I went to Carlton Douglas and his wife and told them someone left a baby on their property.

  "They were happy to take him in. They named him Homer and brought him up as best they could. Emily was pretty mean toward him and always chased him off the property."

  "But Charlotte must have realized who he was, right?" I asked.

  "If she did, she never said nothin'."

  "You never told her?" Gavin asked.

  Luther stared at us a moment and then shook his head.

  "I thought it would have been too cruel, too painful for her. Instead, after Emily finally went to hell, I brought Homer into our lives more and more until you see he's here all the time."

  "Charlotte must see the birthmark, if I spotted it," I said.

  "Oh, I think she knows who Homer really is. She don't say it outright, but then, she don't have to." "Does Homer know?" Gavin asked.

  "Not in so many words. He's the same as her . . . he feels things, knows things faster thrower his feelings than he knows them through words. He's part of nature here, as at home in these fields with these animals and with these trees and hills as anything that lives here.

  "Well," he said, turning back to his truck engine, "that's the story. You wanted to know it, so you do. I wouldn't be proud of the tooth family history. As far as I can tell, even the ancestors were a hard, mean people. They was the kind of plantation owners who treated their slaves badly, the men raping and beatin' them and the women working the women slaves to death. The west field's full of slave dead. There are no markers, but I know where the graves are. My daddy showed me. If a slave got real sick, he told me, they'd throw him in the grave before he passed on."