Midnight Whispers (Cutler 4)

"It's going to be repaired. From now on," he said, "I don't want to see anyone but Christie near it. Understand? No one is even to touch it." He glared at the twins and then turned back to Jefferson and me. Jefferson had stopped sobbing and had lifted his head from my shoulder.

"I hafta go back and help Buster," Jefferson said.

"Go on," Uncle Philip replied.

"He should be punished," Aunt Bet insisted. "He should . . ."

"He didn't do it, Aunt Bet," I cried and threw my hateful glare at Richard.

"But he . . ."

"Betty Ann!" Uncle Philip shouted. "Let it be," he said slowly and firmly. She bit down on her lower lip.

"Very well," she said after a moment. "I believe we have established our unhappiness and given fair warning that if anything like this should ever happen again . . ."

Her words were left hanging in the air. Jefferson walked out of the living room slowly, rubbing his eyes. I handed the jar of honey back to Mrs. Stoddard and the twins scurried out of the room and up the stairs like two mice who had miraculously escaped the claws of a cat.

Aunt Bet was terribly frustrated by her failure to prove conclusively that Jefferson had vandalized the piano, and she demonstrated that frustration in many ways, the chief one being her tone of voice whenever she spoke to my little brother. Whereas she would speak softly, kindly, respectfully to the twins, she wouldn't speak to Jefferson without snapping at him and making her eyes like two cold, polished stones. She criticized him every chance she had, still finding fault with the way he ate, with what he wore and how well he washed his face and hands. She even criticized his posture and walk. If there was a smudge on a wall or a spot on the floor, it was always Jefferson's fault. Jefferson tracked in dirt; Jefferson touched things with stained hands. The peace of the day and night was continually shattered by Aunt Bet's shrill voice crying, "Jefferson Longchamp!" Her scream was always followed with some accusation.

When I complained to her about the way she was picking on him, she gave me her small, icy smile and replied, "It's only natural for you to defend your brother, Christie, but don't be blind to his faults or he will never improve."

"He won't make any improvements if you continue to shout at him and pick on him," I told her.

"I don't pick on him. I point out his faults so he can concentrate on eliminating them. Just as I do with my own children."

"Hardly," I said. "According to you, your children are perfect."

"Christie!" she said, pulling back her shoulders as if I had slapped her. "That's impudent."

"I don't care," I said. "I don't like being disrespectful, but I won't stand by quietly and watch you tear my little brother into pieces."

"Oh my. . ."

"Just stop it," I said. Even though tears flooded my eyes, my backbone straightened like a flag pole, my pride waving. All Aunt Bet could do was stutter and rush off.

"Well . . . well . . . well," she said.

It wasn't hard to predict that the trouble between us would not end soon. Her ego was bruised and the more Uncle Philip defended me or Jefferson, the angrier and meaner she became. Her smiles were cold and short. Often I would catch her glaring at me when she didn't t

hink I would see. Her thin lips were pursed together to become a fine line or her small nostrils flared. I knew she wasn't thinking nice thoughts about roe because blood would flood her face as if she had been caught red-handed doing something cruel.

I put all of this in my letters to Gavin and waited for him to write back or call. When nearly a week passed and no letters arrived and he didn't phone, I phoned him to see if something was wrong.

"No, nothing's wrong," he said. "I've written back twice."

"I don't know why I didn't get the letters," I said.

"The mail can be slow. Anyway, the good news is I will be coming to see you in three weeks," he said.

"Three weeks! Oh Gavin, that sounds like three years to me," I replied. He laughed.

"It's not. It will pass fast."

"Maybe for you," I said, "but life here is so unpleasant now, every day seems like a week."

"I'm sorry. I'll see what I can do to speed it up," he promised.

Two days later, I inadvertently discovered why I hadn't received a letter from Gavin for over a week. Mrs. Stoddard had made the mistake of putting out our garbage the night before instead of early in the morning of the pick-up, and some stray dog or perhaps a squirrel had torn open a bag and strewn the contents all around the can. I got a rake from behind the house and began gathering up the debris when I happened to notice an envelope addressed to me. I stopped and picked it up.