Dawn (Cutler 1)

ndolph was always so busy or his mother was always asking him to do this and do that, and if I wanted to go somewhere or do something, he always had to check with his mother. She ruled our lives like some queen.

"I wasn't going to just sit around all the time. He never had time for me! Never! It wasn't fair!" she shouted indignantly. "He didn't tell me it would be that way when he courted me. I was fooled. Yes," she said, nodding and liking her theory, "I was tricked, deceived. He was one kind of a man outside the hotel and another inside. Inside, he is what his mother wants him to be, no matter what I say or do.

"So I can't be blamed," she concluded. "It's all really his fault . . . her fault." The tears streaked down her face. "Don't you see? I'm not to blame."

"She told you you would have to give me up and you agreed," I concluded, as if I were a lawyer cross-examining a witness in a trial, but I did feel like it was a trial of sorts, with me acting as attorney for Ormand and Sally Jean Longchamp, as well as myself.

"I had to agree. What else could I do?"

"You could have said no. You could have fought for me and told her I was your child. You could have told her no, no, no!" I shouted wildly, but it was like trying to tell a four-year-old how to behave like an adult. My mother smiled through her tears, nodding.

"You're right. You're right. I was bad. So very bad! But everything's all right now. You're back. Everything's all right. Let's not talk about it anymore. Let's talk about good things, happy things. Please."

She patted me on the hand and took a deep breath, her expression changing as if all that we had been discussing was instantly forgotten and not very important anyway.

"I was thinking that you should have something done with your hair, and maybe we could go shopping for some nice new clothes for you. And new shoes and some jewelry. You don't have to wear all of Clara Sue's hand-me-downs. You can have your own things now.

"Would you like that?" she asked.

I shook my head. She really was a child. Perhaps she had always been like this and that was why my grandmother had her way with her easily.

"But I'm so tired right now," she said. "I'm sure it's this new medicine. I just want to close my eyes for a while." She dropped her head back to the pillow. "And rest and rest." She opened her eyes and looked up at me. "If you see your father, please tell him to call the doctor, I have to change my medicine."

I stared down at her. She did have the face of a little girl, a face to be pitied and pampered.

"Thank you, honey," she said and closed her eyes again.

I turned away. There was no point in screaming at her anymore or making any demands on her. In a way she was an invalid, not as sick as Mrs. Dalton, but just as shut away from reality. I started for the door.

"Dawn?" she called.

"Yes, Mother."

"I'm sorry," she said and then closed her eyes again.

"So am I, Mother," I replied. "So am I."

All my life, I thought as I descended the stairway, I have been carried along by events beyond my control.

As an infant, as a child, and as a young girl, I was dependent upon adults and had to do whatever they wanted me to do or, as I had just learned, go along with whatever they wanted done with me. Their decisions, their actions, and their sins were the winds that blew me from one place to the next. Even those who really loved me could turn and go only to certain places. The same was true for Jimmy and certainly for Fern. Events that had been begun even before our births had already determined what and who we would be.

But now all the tragedy of the last few months rushed down over and around me: Momma's death, Daddy's being arrested, having what I thought was my family broken up, being spirited off in the night to this new family, Clara's continuous attempts to hurt me, Philip's raping me, Jimmy's escape and capture, and my learning the truth. I was like someone caught in the middle of a tornado and spun about. Now, like a flag that had suddenly snapped in a violent gust and pulled free of the hinges that held it, I spun on my heels and soared toward the hotel lobby, my head high, my eyes fixed ahead of me, not gazing left or right, not seeing anyone else, not hearing any voices.

My grandmother was still sitting on a settee in the lobby, the small audience of guests surrounding her and listening attentively to whatever she had to say. Their faces were filled with smiles of admiration. Whomever my grandmother singled out for a special word, a touch, beamed like someone blessed by a clergyman.

Something in my face drew the audience back in a wave, made them part and step away as I approached. Slowly, with her soft, angelic smile still firmly settled on her face, my grandmother turned to see what had stolen their attention from the glow of her eyes and the warmth of her voice. The instant she saw me, her shoulders stiffened and her smile retreated, bringing dark shadows to her face, which suddenly seemed more like a hard shell.

I stopped before her, my arms folded under my breasts. My heart was pounding, but I did not want her to see how nervous and frightened I was.

"I want to talk to you," I declared.

"It's impolite to interrupt people like this," she replied and started to turn back to her guests.

"I don't care what's impolite or polite. I want to talk to you right now," I insisted, filling my voice with as much firmness as I could. I did not shift my eyes from her, so she would see just how determined I was.

Suddenly she smiled.

"Well," she said to her admiring circle of guests, "I see we have a little family matter to tend to. Will everyone please excuse me for a few minutes?"