Midnight Whispers

  Whenever Jefferson and I were in the same room with them, they would inevitably revert to whispering.

  "Your mother's so worried about everyone being polite and following the proper etiquette and behavior," I snapped at them, "you should know that whispering is impolite."

  They both smirked. Whenever one was chastised or criticized, the other reacted as if it had been done to him or to her.

  "You and Jefferson have secrets," Melanie moaned. "Why can't we?"

  "We have no secrets."

  "Of course you do," Richard said. "Every family has its secrets. You have another father, your real father, but you keep everything about him secret, don't you?" he accused.

  "I do not. I don't know all that much about him," I explained.

  "Mother says he raped Dawn and that's how you were born," Melanie revealed.

  "That's not true! That's a horrible lie!"

  "My mother doesn't lie," Richard said coldly. "She doesn't have to."

  "She has nothing to hide," Melanie concluded.

  My heart was pounding. I wanted to walk across the room and slap the expressions of self-satisfaction off both their faces.

  "My father, my real father, was a famous opera star. He was even in Broadway musicals and he was a teacher at the Sarah Bernhardt school in New York," I said slowly. "That was where my mother met him and fell in love with him. He did not rape her."

  "Then why did he run away?" Richard demanded.

  "He didn't want to be married and take care of children, but he didn't rape her," I said.

  "That's still horrible," Melanie said. Richard nodded and then went back to the game of Chinese checkers, leaving me steaming.

  Not having had to spend so much of my day and night with them before, I never realized how infuriating and self-centered the twins were. No wonder neither of them had any friends besides each other, I thought. Who would want to be their friends? They were so close, they wouldn't permit anyone to come between them anyhow.

  One morning, when they left the bathroom door open and they were both inside, I nearly got sick. I saw Richard take Melanie's toothbrush just after she had used it and put it directly into his own mouth.

  "Ugh," I cried and they spun around. "You have your own toothbrush, Richard. Why would you do that?"

  "Stop spying on us!" he cried and closed the door.

  But it was Jefferson who came to me one night and told me the most astounding thing of all about them. I was writing pages and pages of a letter to Gavin, describing all of the unpleasantness that was going on in the house now, when Jefferson appeared in my doorway looking confused and troubled.

  "What's the matter, Jefferson?" I asked. "Melanie's old enough to take her own bath," he said, "isn't she?"

  "Of course. She's practically thirteen, Jefferson. You take your own bath. Either I or Mrs. Boston help you sometimes and you like me to wash your back the way Mommy always did, but . . . why do you ask?" I suddenly said.

  "Richard's helping Melanie," he announced.

  "Take a bath?" He nodded. "I don't believe that, Jefferson. How do you know?"

  "She asked him to. She came in and said, 'I'm going to take a bath,' and he said, be right along.' Then he got undressed, put on his robe and went to the bathroom."

  "They're not taking a bath together, not at their age?" I said. Jefferson pressed the corner of his mouth into his cheek and shrugged again. I got up slowly and went to my doorway to peer down the hallway at the bathroom door. It was shut. "You saw them both go in there?" I asked Jefferson. He looked up and nodded.

  Intrigued now, I walked quietly down to the bathroom door and listened. I heard their muffled dialogue and put my ear to the door. There was the distinct sound of water lapping against bodies and the inside of the tub. This is disgusting, I thought. Surely neither Aunt Bet nor Uncle Philip knew about this. I tried the handle. The door was unlocked. Jefferson's eyes widened with surprise and excitement when I opened the door a fraction. I put my finger on my lips to indicate silence and he bit down on his lower lip quickly. Then I inched the door open until I could get my head in enough to peer.

  There they were in the tub together, facing each other. Richard was scrubbing Melanie's hair. Her budding breasts, like two puffs of marshmallow, were fully exposed. Suddenly, Richard sensed my presence and turned my way. He stopped scrubbing. Melanie raised her head.

  "Close that door and get out of here!" he screamed.

  "Get out!" Melanie added.

  "What are you doing? That's disgusting," I said. "You're too old to be bathing together."

  "What we do is none of your business. Close that door," he demanded again.

  I slammed it shut.

  "Go back to your room, Jefferson," I said.

  “Where are you going?"

  "To tell Aunt Bet. She can't know about this. It's obscene," I said.

  "What's obscene mean?"

  "Just go back to your room and wait for me," I said. I hurried downstairs and found Aunt Bet talking on the telephone. Uncle Philip was out meeting some contractors who were going to work on the rebuilding of the hotel. She saw me standing there and put her hand over the mouthpiece.

  "Christie, what is it?" she asked. "I'm on the phone."

  "I've got to tell you something immediately. You've got to go upstairs," I said.

  "Oh dear, what is it now? Just a minute. Louise, I have a minor crisis here. Yes, another one. I'll phone you back shortly. Thank you." She cradled the receiver and pressed her lips together to show her annoyance. "Yes?"

  "It's Melanie and Richard, they're taking a bath."

  "So?"

  "Together. They're in the bathtub together. Right now," I added for emphasis.

  "So. They've always done things together; they're unique; they're twins," she said.

  "But they're twelve years old, almost thirteen and . . ."

  "Oh, I see. You think there's something perverted and dirty about it." She nodded as if confirming a suspicion. "Well the twins are special. They're very bright and very devoted to each other. Neither would ever do anything to hurt or embarrass the other. It's just natural; they were formed together in my womb and lived side by side for nine months. Why, I even fed them together, one on each breast. I think there's something spiritual about it."

  "But you said you wanted to move Richard into Jefferson's room so Melanie could have the privacy she needs," I reminded her. She looked furious that I had pointed up the contradiction.

  "I meant so she could have the room she needs, as well as some privacy," she said sternly.

  "But . . ."

  "But nothing. I don't expect they'll be doing everything together like this much longer. As they grow older, they'll grow as far apart as is necessary, but until then, there's nothing wrong with their love and devotion toward each other. Actually, they're an inspiration. Yes," she said, liking the words she had found to defend them, "an inspiration." Her smile wilted quickly and she turned witch-like: her eyes small and beady, her lips thin and her cheeks drawn in, which made her nose seem longer and more pointed.

  "It doesn't surprise me that you would find their actions depraved with your unfortunate background and with Fern growing up in your house and all," she said.

  "What do you mean, my unfortunate background?" I demanded.

  "Please, Christie. Let's not get into nasty arguments. Thank you for coming to tell me about the twins. Don't worry about it. Actually, Richard's complained to me on a number of occasions now about your- spying on them."

  "Spying? That's not true."

  "Everyone deserves his or her privacy at times. You like yours, don't you?" she added. "Just keep a closer eye on your little brother, dear. That, it seems to me, is going to be enough for you. For anyone," she added under her breath. "Now, I must call my friend Louise back. We were right in the middle of an important conversation."

  She turned back to the phone, leaving me stuttering in shock. I turned and went back upstairs.

  "What happened?" J
efferson asked, coming to his doorway.

  "Nothing, Jefferson. Forget about it. Forget about them. They're freaks," I said loud enough for them to hear. I went back to my bedroom and continued to write what was becoming a small book instead of a letter to Gavin. He was the only other living person to whom I wanted to confide.

  Gavin, living with Aunt Bet and Uncle Philip has caused me to miss my parents even more. Uncle Philip's family is a family without love. The only times Uncle Philip is with his family is at breakfast and dinner. Aunt Bet acts as if her children were created in a laboratory and as a result, they are perfect little creatures, who can't do anything wrong. But I have yet to see her kiss them good night or good morning or Uncle Philip kiss them good-bye whenever he leaves, the way Daddy and Mommy used to kiss Jefferson and me. I never saw four people who behave so formally toward each other.

  But no matter what Aunt Bet says about the twins, to me they are nothing more than some two-headed monster. They're so weird. They would be content if there were no other people in the world but themselves, not even their parents. The only time they ever laugh or smile is when they whisper things to each other. I just know they're whispering about me and Jefferson. Truthfully, I think Uncle Philip finds his own children revolting and that's why he hates to spend time with them or have them around him when he's at the hotel.

  I wonder why Uncle Philip married Aunt Bet. He is a handsome man, far too handsome for someone as homely-looking as she is. Fern told me some horrible things before she left this time. She wants me to believe that Uncle Philip and Mommy were once girlfriend and boyfriend before Mommy found out he was her half-brother. But before the fire at the hotel Mommy told me that nothing significant had ever happened between them. Still, it makes me feel funny whenever I look at Uncle Philip now and whenever I catch him staring at me.

  I wouldn't tell these things to anyone else but you, Gavin. Girlfriends like Pauline are interested and considerate, but I am too embarrassed to tell them about these family troubles. I can't wait to see you again, and count the days until you are able to return.

  Give my love to Granddaddy Longchamp and Edwina.

  I debated how to sign off and finally wrote: All my love, Christie.

  It was very late when I finally completed my letter. I seared it in an envelope and put it on my night table so I would remember to mail it first thing in the morning. But I didn't prepare for bed and go to sleep. Instead, I put on my jacket, peered out the doorway to be sure all was quiet and then softly went downstairs.

  As usual, a light had been left on in the entry way and one lamp was lit in the living room. I didn't hear Mrs. Boston and imagined she had already retired for the evening. Stealthily, I went to the front door and opened it as quietly as I could. Then I stepped outside and closed it softly behind me. The three-quarter moon illuminated the front of the house like a spotlight. The porch floor creaked as I went forward.

  Actually, I thought, Richard and Melanie were correct when they accused me of harboring secrets. I did have one which I kept even from Jefferson. Ever since my parents were buried, I had found a way to sneak off after dark to visit their graves to cry and complain. Tonight, especially, I wanted to go there and feel near them, but I wasn't prepared for the surprise that would follow on my heels.

  7

  SECRETS

  IN THE MOONLIGHT THE TALL MONUMENTS AND mausoleums were as white as bones, and the air was so still that the leaves looked painted on the branches. From behind me I could hear the rhythmic roar of the sea over which the moon had spread a soft yellow glow. The scent of freshly turned earth from a newly dug grave rose to greet me as I walked under the granite stone archway of the cemetery.

  Ordinarily, I would have been afraid to go wandering around a graveyard at night, especially the one in which Grandmother Cutler had been buried. As a child I had been brought here on only a few occasions, but each time I was brought, I gazed fearfully at the tombstone that loomed over her grave and spelled her name and listed her birth and death. I remember once having a nightmare about that stone. In it I found myself lost in the graveyard. I made a turn in the darkness and came upon her monument, only instead of the words and the engraved cross, I found her two cold gray eyes glaring out at me, the same cold gray eyes that glared at me from her terrifying portrait in the hotel, only these nightmare eyes were luminous and terrifying.

  But just knowing Mommy and Daddy were buried here now made the graveyard less of a place of fear and nightmares and more of a place of warmth and love. They would protect me just as they'd always protected me, and not even Grandmother Cutler's ghost or evil spirit could overpower their goodness. Her stone, although bigger and thicker than most in the graveyard, was just another stone. Nevertheless, I didn't linger near it; I walked past it quickly and approached my parents' twin graves. There I knelt and shed my tears as I spoke to them.

  "Mommy, I miss you and Daddy so much," I said. "And Jefferson is so heartbroken and lost. We hate living with Uncle Philip and Aunt Bet. There is no love in their family." I went on to tell them about Richard and Melanie and how weird they were and mean to us.

  "But I promise to always look after Jefferson and do whatever I can to help him overcome his grief and confusion," I said. The tears flowed freely down my cheeks and dripped off my chin. I didn't try to stop them; I let them fall on my parents' graves.

  "Oh Mommy, it's so hard to live in a world without you," I moaned. "Nothing's the same: no morning is as warm and bright, no night is as safe, nothing that I loved to eat tastes as good, and nothing that was pretty to wear looks pretty to me anymore. I feel empty inside. Surely my fingers will be numb on the piano keys. The melody is gone.

  "I know you hate me to say these things. Everyone tells me I must recuperate from my grief and try even harder to become who you dreamt I would be, but the road seems so much longer and harder to travel now without you by my side. And no matter what everyone says, I can't help believing there is a dreadful curse on our heads."

  I sighed deeply and nodded as if I had actually heard Mommy reply.

  "But I know I must try and I must succeed and my responsibility has grown greater. I must live and work imagining how proud of me you would be. I will try, Mommy. I promise," I said. I stood up slowly. I was so tired, so drained. It was time to go home to sleep.

  But just as I was about to leave, I heard footsteps. Someone was coming up the pathway behind me. I turned and peered through the moonlit cemetery to see Uncle Philip. He stopped at Grandmother Cutler's tomb. When he did so, I drew back into the shadows behind another large monument. I didn't want him to know I came here privately at night. I waited, expecting him to leave after he had visited his grandmother's grave, but he surprised me by continuing to my parents' graves after only a few moments. He paused before Mommy's and knelt down to put the palms of his hands on- the cold earth. Then, with his palms still flat against the ground, he raised his head and spoke in a voice that was loud enough for me to hear.

  "I'm sorry, Dawn. I'm sorry. I know I never told you that enough. A thousand apologies wouldn't suffice, nor ever wipe away what I did to you. Fate had no right to take you from me so soon, especially before I truly won your complete forgiveness."

  What had he done? I wondered. What could be so horrible that even a thousand apologies wouldn't be enough?

  "I feel half of me has died along with you. You know how I felt about you and how I couldn't help those feelings. Nothing stopped me from loving you. I married Betty Ann, but she was a poor substitute. I dreamt and hoped for the day you and I would pronounce our true feelings toward each other.

  "Oh, I know you refused to acknowledge it, but once we loved each other purely and passionately, and if we could do so then, I hoped we could do so once more. Perhaps I was foolish to have such a dream, but I couldn't help it.

  "Now," he said, his head bowed, "every time I look at Christie, I think of you. I think of her as our child, or at least what our child would have been like."

 
His words fell like cold rain over me. So this was why he gazed at me so intently at times, I thought; but rather than make me happy to hear he had such strong feelings for me, it made me shudder. A trickle of ice slid down my spine.

  "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.