Midnight Whispers

  "Are you the one who called a while ago?" she asked, stepping back with a look of annoyance. "Yes Ma'am."

  "I told you . . ."

  "Who the hell is it?" we heard a man call.

  "One of your prodigies, so anxious to become a star she has to wake us up," the woman replied. "Come on in," she said. She first seemed to notice Jefferson. "You brought your little brother?"

  "Yes ma'am."

  "Baby-sitting, huh? What's with the suitcases?"

  "Can we see Michael?" I asked. Jefferson was glaring up at her in awe. She gazed down at him, looked at me, shook her head and went into another room. I looked around the living room. Clothes were strewn about the sofa and chairs and there were dirty cups on the coffee table and some dirty dishes on a side table as well. The carpet was a faded brown with many stains and spots in it that looked like holes burned by cigarette ashes. Of to the right was an old piano, the stool so worn that it had lost most of its color. Sheet music was opened on the top of the piano and there was a glass with some liquid still in it on the piano as well. The yellow window shades were drawn almost to the bottom, permitting only a bit of gray light to enter.

  Wearing a pair of old jeans and buttoning his shirt as he came out, my real father appeared. He was barefoot and looked like he had just rolled out of bed, too. His graying dark hair was long and wild, the strands pouring over his eyebrows and down his temples. His unshaven face was ashen and thin, almost gaunt, with his blue eyes dull from sleep. He slumped a bit so that his narrow shoulders turned slightly inward. As he stared at us, he tucked in his shirt.

  My heart sank. This was far from the way I had imagined the mysterious man of my dreams. This man did not look like a debonair musical star. It was impossible to imagine him ever a celebrity. There was no strength in this face, no confidence and hope. This man looked drained, lost, empty. I couldn't believe those fingers would play piano or that weak mouth with the lips turned down in the corners could make pleasing musical sounds.

  Where was the dark, silky hair and the elegant sapphire eyes my mother said would sparkle with an impish glint? Where were those broad shoulders?

  He shifted his eyes from Jefferson to me and then put his hands on his hips.

  "So?" he said. "What do you want?"

  "This is Jefferson," I said, nodding at my little brother, "and my name is Christie." I waited a moment to see his reaction, but there was none.

  "Yeah, so?" he said. "Someone sent you here for lessons?"

  "No sir. I'm Christie Longchamp."

  "Longchamp?" His eyes widened a bit and he scratched the back of his head. "Longchamp?"

  "Yes sir. My mother's name was Dawn."

  The woman who had greeted us at the door came up behind my father and leaned against the wall.

  She was still smoking her cigarette.

  "Dawn? You're . . ."

  "Yes. I'm your daughter," I finally declared. How strange it sounded and how odd it felt to tell this man he was my father. His eyes widened even more.

  "Who'd she say she was?" the woman behind him asked with a tone of laughter in her voice.

  "Quiet," he replied without looking back. "You're little Christie? Sure, sure," he said, nodding and finally smiling. "One good look at you tells it. You've got her face, all right. Well, well, well . . ." He straightened up a bit and brushed his hair back with the palms of his hands. "And this is your brother, eh?"

  "Yes."

  "I can't believe it. Wow." He shook his head and smiled. "Wow." He spun around on the woman behind him. "My daughter," he declared. "Not bad, eh?"

  "Terrific," she said and flicked her cigarette ash to the floor.

  "Well, what are you two doing here? I mean . . . how did you get here?" he asked.

  "We took the bus," I said.

  "No kidding. All the way all by yourselves, huh? And your mother let you?" he asked.

  "My mother . . . and father were killed in a fire," I replied as quickly as I could.

  "Fire?" He shook his head. "What fire?"

  "The hotel burned down and they were trapped in the basement," I explained. Even now, talking about it brought heavy tears to my eyes, tears that blurred my vision.

  "Well, I'll be. That's terrible," he said. "So there's no more hotel, huh?"

  "My uncle is rebuilding it," I said. I couldn't imagine why that would be of any importance to him. Why wasn't he more upset about what had happened to Mommy?

  "Oh, sure. There must have been insurance. So . . . your mother's . . . gone." He shook his head and looked at the woman. "Why don't you put up some coffee?" She smirked as if he had asked her to perform a major feat and reluctantly strutted toward the kitchen. "That's er . . . that's er . . . Catherine. She's a singer at one of the studios in town. Here," he said, moving toward the sofa to clear away some of the clothing, "have a seat. Tell me about yourself. How old are you now?" he asked as I moved Jefferson and myself to the sofa.

  "I'm sixteen." How could he not remember how old I was? I wondered.

  "Oh yeah, sure. And how old's . . ." He nodded toward Jefferson.

  "Jefferson's nine," I said.

  "Almost ten," he added.

  "Well, that's a ripe old age," my father quipped, but Jefferson didn't smile. He simply stared up at him with that characteristic fixed glare of his that unnerved some people. My father laughed. Then he sat on the easy chair, not bothering to remove the skirt that had been draped over the back of it.

  "So . . . it must have been horrible for you guys . . . a fire, and they couldn't get out." He shook his head. "She was something else, your mother, quite a beautiful woman and quite talented. I could have made her a singing star, but . ." He shrugged. "So," he said, "who's in charge of you guys? Your uncle?"

  "No," I said quickly. "We don't want to live with him."

  "Oh no?" He leaned forward. "Why not?"

  "He and our aunt Bet are not very nice to us," I said. Something my real father detected in my expression or tone made his eyes narrow as he weighed my words. He had shrewd, sophisticated eyes that seemed to know all the wicked and tricky ways of the world.

  "I see."

  "Neither is Richard and Melanie," Jefferson added.

  "Who?"

  "Their children, twins," I said.

  "Uh huh." His eyes shifted to our suitcases. "Now let me understand this. You two left and came here on a bus?" I nodded. "Does your uncle know this?"

  "No. We ran away," I said.

  "Oh, I get it now. How did you find me?" he asked with interest.

  "I just called all the Michael Suttons until I found the right one."

  He laughed.

  "Well," he said, clapping his hands together, "you guys have got to go back. You can't just run off like this. Everyone back there is probably worried sick about you."

  "We're never going back," I said firmly.

  "Well honey, you didn't expect . . ." He smiled. "You didn't imagine you could live here with me, did you?" I said nothing; he understood. His smile faded and he sat back, contemplating us a moment. "How much money do you have with you?" he asked.

  "Only twenty-three dollars left," I replied.

  "Twenty-three . . ." He shook his head again. "Well, what about inheritance? You must have inherited quite a bit."

  "I don't know," I said. "I don't care."

  "Well you should care. It's yours. You can't let your uncle take it all. I'm sure there are legal documents. Sure. You can go back and in a few years, you'll get your share of the hotel and property and . . ."

  "I don't care about the hotel. I can't go back," I said vehemently. I wished I could tell him everything, but it was like talking to a complete stranger and I couldn't get myself to describe what Uncle Philip had done to me.

  "Well, you can't live here, honey. I don't have the room for you and besides, I don't have any right to take custody of your little brother there. You could get separated from him," he added.

  "Separated?" Jefferson's hand found mine quickly. "No, we'll n
ever be separated," I said firmly.

  "And you shouldn't be. That's why you have to go back. After a few years, when you're eighteen, or when you've gotten your inheritance, you'll call me and I'll come out," he said, smiling. "Sure. We'll have a real father-daughter relationship then, okay?"

  I said nothing. Disappointment put tears in my eyes.

  "Coffee's ready," the woman said, standing in the doorway. "I'm not serving," she added, fixing her eyes on me. "So come get your own cups."

  "I don't want any coffee," I said.

  "I need a cup," my father announced. "Maybe we got some milk and cookies. look." He stood up. "You sing too?" he asked.

  "No. I play the piano," I said.

  "Great. Before you go, you can give us a little recital. That would be nice, right, Catherine?" She smirked.

  "We got to go to Mr. Ruderman, don't forget."

  "Oh yeah. I got a little problem with the IRS and have to see my accountant today. Nothing serious," he said, then added, "I hope. Let me get some coffee." He went into the kitchen. Jefferson and I could hear him and Catherine whispering.

  "I don't like it here," Jefferson said.

  "No, neither do I," I replied. My heart felt so heavy I thought it would drop into my stomach. What had I been thinking to come here? I wondered. How desperate I had been. And now all I had left was twenty-three dollars.

  "Come on, Jefferson," I said standing.

  "Where are we going now?"

  "We'll go someplace to get something good to eat and think, okay?"

  "Okay," he said and took hold of his suitcase quickly.

  "Hey," my father said, coming to the kitchen doorway. "Where are you two going?"

  "I think you're right," I said. "We're going back."

  "Sure. That's the smartest thing. Put in your time, get your inheritance first. You have your return ticket, right?" he asked hopefully. I nodded even though I didn't.

  "Wait a minute," he said, digging into his pocket. "Take this for extra spending money." He handed me a five-dollar bill.

  "I thought that's all the cash you had on you," Catherine said, coming up behind him quickly. "How are we supposed to get uptown?"

  "Relax. We'll take the subway," he replied.

  "Subway!" She grimaced.

  "Good-bye," I said quickly and reached for the doorknob. Jefferson shot out as soon as I opened the door. I looked back once. My father stood there, smiling. It wasn't until I had closed the door and had gone down the stairs and back onto the street that I realized he hadn't kissed me hello or goodbye.

  It was as if we had never met.

  It had begun to rain hard again, the drops splattering over our faces and bouncing up from the sidewalk and street. I pulled Jefferson closer to me and charged up the block to the corner where I had seen that restaurant. The rainy wind hissed around the corner to greet us. Finally, we stepped inside and shook off the water. Both our heads were soaked. When we sat down at a booth, I used some napkins to wipe our faces and hands. I had little appetite, but Jefferson was ravenously hungry and ate everything on his plate and even some of mine. The bill came to a little over ten dollars. After I paid it, I sat there staring out the window, wondering what we should do next.

  "Where are we going now?" Jefferson asked. "Can we go to a movie? Or find a playground?"

  "Jefferson, please. We have to think of more important things," I said.

  "I should brush my teeth. Mrs. Boston told me to brush my teeth after every meal if I could," he explained.

  "Mrs. Boston," I said, recalling her and smiling. "I wouldn't mind living with her."

  "Let's go," he said. "I wanna."

  "We can't, Jefferson. She's not a relative. She would have to send us back, too. I guess we're going to have to go back," I said sadly. I saw that it had stopped raining again and thought we had better move on before it resumed. "Come on."

  We went outside and looked for a taxicab. One was parked on the side, but the driver looked asleep. He opened his eyes when he sensed we were standing there staring at him.

  "I'm off duty," he said.

  "How do we get a taxicab then?" I asked him.

  "Just wave at them, honey," he explained. Jefferson liked that. To him it was the first chance to have any fun. He stood just off the sidewalk and waved at the cabs flying to and fro. Finally, one pulled up in front of us.

  "Port Authority, please," I said. This time we took our suitcases into the rear with us. The drive back was just as hectic as it had been before and the cost was just as much. With only a little over ten dollars left, we re-entered the big station. I was hoping I could get us bus tickets and have them paid for when we arrived in Cutler's Cove, but when I explained my situation to the ticket seller, he said it couldn't be done.

  "Go find a policeman," he said. "Next, please." We stepped away from the window and walked slowly across the huge lobby to a row of benches.

  "What are we going to do now?" Jefferson asked when I sat him and myself down.

  "I need to think," I said.

  "Me too," he said and closed his eyes.

  I didn't want to call Uncle Philip and Aunt Bet. I thought the best thing to do would be to call Bronson. I hated giving him new worries on top of his grief over my grandmother's death, but I didn't know anyone else back home to call.

  "You just wait here, Jefferson, while I make a phone call," I said. He nodded, closed his eyes and leaned against his suitcase. As I walked toward the bank of pay phones on the wall, the memory of what Uncle Philip had done to me returned with a vivid intensity. I could hear his voice, feel his fingers crawling over my body and then . . . it made me cringe inside. The idea of returning to Cutler's Cove and living with Uncle Philip and Aunt Bet again terrified me. I couldn't return; I just couldn't. So when I lifted the receiver and started to dial, I changed my mind and called Gavin instead.

  "I can't tell you everything over the phone right now, Gavin," I said, "but I had to get away from Uncle Philip."

  "Where are you?" he asked after a moment. "Jefferson and I are in New York City." "New York City!"

  I told him about my real father and how that had been a disaster and then I told him we didn't have much money left.

  "If you tell your father, he'll probably call my uncle Philip," I added.

  "What did he do that was so terrible you can't tell me over the phone?" Gavin asked.

  "It happened at night, Gavin. In my bedroom," I said, choking back the tears. There was a long silence.

  "Don't do anything else," Gavin said. "Just wait there for me."

  "You're going to come to New York?"

  "I'll leave right away. Can you wait there for me?" he asked.

  "Oh yes, Gavin. Yes."

  "I'll be there, Christie . . . as soon as I can," he promised.

  I hung up and returned to Jefferson and told him about Gavin.

  "Good," he said. "Maybe he'll take me to do something that's fun."

  "I don't know what we'll do yet, Jefferson, but at least . . . at least Gavin will be here," I said, filled with renewed hope. "Until he comes, we'll have to occupy ourselves. It will be hours and hours. Come on," I said, "I'll buy you a coloring book and crayons."

  "And clay. I want to make some soldiers." "We'll see how expensive it all is," I said. "We need some money for dinner, too."

  "Won't Gavin be here by then?" he asked.

  "No. It's going to be a long time, so don't start whining and complaining like a little baby," I warned.

  "I'm not a little baby."

  "Good. Come on. We'll buy you the coloring book." One of the shops sold travel toys and games. Everything was more expensive than I had imagined, however, and I was able to buy him only a small package of crayons and a small coloring book. I had just six dollars left and hoped it would be enough to get us something decent for supper. Jefferson and I went off to a corner of the big lobby and sat on a bench. For a while his coloring book and crayons kept him occupied, but he soon grew tired of it and began to complai
n.

  "Can I go walking around?" he asked.

  "You can't go far. This is a big place and you could get lost in it," I warned.

  "I won't go far," he promised. I was tired and I didn't have the patience to argue with him.

  "Just go over there," I pointed, "and stay where I can keep an eye on you."

  "Okay." He hopped off the bench and went to look at the posters and watch the people hurrying to and fro. I watched him staring at people and smiled to myself when an elderly woman stopped to talk to him. She patted him on the head and continued on her journey. He glanced back at me and then walked a little farther away.

  "Jefferson!" I called, but he didn't hear me. As long as I could see him, I thought it was all right. But my eyes were so tired and my lids so heavy, I had to fight to keep them open. The emotional burdens from the night before, the traveling and the disappointment I received meeting my real father all combined to wear me down. Fatigue crept up my body. It was as if I had stepped into a pool of exhaustion and sunk deeper and deeper into it until it washed over my face. I let my eyes close, telling myself it would be just for a little while, but almost as soon as I did, sleep took a firm hold of me and I slumped to the side, sliding, sliding, sliding until my head rested comfortably on my suitcase.

  Sometime-later, I woke with a start. A man in a torn and dirty jacket with soiled pants and shoes that had rags tied around them to keep them together and block the holes in the soles stood a few feet away staring at me. He had his hands in his pockets, but I could see his fingers moving against the material. It looked like he had two mice in his pants. I sat up quickly. He smiled, revealing a mouth with many teeth missing. He was unshaven, the dark stubble appearing in patches over his chin and cheeks, and his hair was matted, some strands looking plastered over his forehead and temples. The tempo of movement in his pockets increased and his tongue slid back and forth over his lips as if it were a small animal itself trying to break free and escape.

  I gasped and stood up. Where was Jefferson?

  There were fewer people moving through the great lobby, so I had no trouble seeing that he was not where he had been and was supposed to stay. My heart began to thump.

  "JEFFERSON!" I called. I looked back at the man who had taken a few steps closer. It was then that I saw that the zipper on his pants was open. Panic nailed my feet to the floor for a moment. Then I turned away and moved quickly down the aisle and out to search for Jefferson.