I said a little prayer for myself and Jefferson and then, finally, fell asleep.
The next day Aunt Bet was like a hot and cold faucet. In the morning at breakfast, it was as if nothing terrible had happened between us the night before. I imagined Uncle Philip had done what he had said he would—calm her down. She didn't bring up Lady Chatterley's Lover or our confrontation. Instead, she rattled on and on at the breakfast table about all the changes she was planning on making in the house—the curtains she would replace, the carpets she would tear up, the painting she planned to have done. Then she declared she wanted to have Julius take us all shopping in the new mall that had just opened in Virginia Beach.
"We'll go on Saturday," she said. "Christie needs some new things to wear, especially something new for her first recital since . . . since the fire."
All of Mr. Wittleman's students were to participate in a recital the first week of August. I had no enthusiasm for it, but I didn't refuse to participate. Aunt Bet was well aware that the recital was an affair usually attended by the most influential and wealthiest citizenry of Cutler's Cove and its immediate surroundings. I knew she was looking forward to attending and sitting in the front row.
"I don't need anything new," I said.
"Of course you do, dear. You want to bring your wardrobe up to date, don't you?" she asked sweetly.
"It is up to date. Mommy bought me some of the latest fashions before she died," I replied.
"Your mother was never really up on what was fashionable and what wasn't, Christie," she said with that syrupy false smile on her lips. "She was always far too busy at the hotel and she didn't subscribe to the proper magazines or read the fashion columns as religiously as I did and do."
"My mother never looked out of fashion a single day of her life," I said vehemently.
"I never caught Dawn looking unattractive," Uncle Philip agreed. "Not even when she was exhausted at the end of the day."
Aunt Bet snapped herself back in her chair.
"I didn't say she was unattractive. It's one thing to be attractive, but another to be in fashion," she lectured. "You will always be attractive, Christie. You've been blessed with pretty features, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't be in style, does it?"
"I don't care," I said, tired of the argument. She took that as my admitting she was right and she smiled and chattered on like a happy canary once again. Jefferson kept his head down and ate his food. Whenever he looked up, I saw by the darkness in his sapphire eyes that he was listening to his own thoughts. Thankfully, he had gotten so he could turn Aunt Bet off and on at will. The twins, of course, sat perfectly straight and listened to everything she said attentively.
After breakfast I retreated to the parlor and my piano, moving through each part of the day like a somnambulist, vaguely aware of where, I was and what I was doing. When I ate lunch, I chewed mechanically and swallowed without really tasting my food. When I read in the early afternoon, my eyes drifted off the page and my gaze seemed to float about the room like an aimless balloon. The only time I came to life was when the mail was delivered and I ran out to see if a letter from Gavin had arrived. Since my mail had been tampered with, I tried to make it my business to be around when the mail was delivered.
There was a letter from him, a short one, but a wonderful one because in it, Gavin told me he had sold his valuable collection of baseball cards and made the equivalent of another week's wages. It meant he could come to see me a whole week earlier than he had originally planned. I hated the idea that he had sold something he had cherished, but he wrote that nothing was more important than his getting back to see me. He had already discussed and confirmed it with Granddaddy Long-champ.
The news washed away my recent unhappiness and depression. When I returned to the piano, I played lighter, happier music, my fingers dancing over the keys. I permitted the sunshine and blue sky to find their way into my heart, and my music was filled with renewed energy. Mrs. Stoddard interrupted her housework to come in to listen.
Afterward, I ran upstairs to write back to Gavin, but I wasn't spread out on my bed and writing for long before I heard the screaming across the hall. I opened my door and listened. It was Aunt Bet. Her faucet had turned cold again. This, time she sounded hysterical, her voice so high-pitched, I thought she would break her vocal cords.
"HE'S JUST A LITTLE ANIMAL!" she cried. "HOW COULD HE NOT KNOW WHAT HE STEPPED IN? HOW COULD HE TRACK IT INTO OUR HOME?" She appeared in Jefferson's bedroom doorway, Richard beside her looking very self-satisfied. Her arms were extended so that the shoes she held in her hands were as far away from her as could be. She pulled her head back as well and turned her nose away.
"What is it, Aunt Bet?" I asked in a tired and disgusted voice.
"Your brother, your little beast of a brother . . . look!" she exclaimed, holding the
shoes toward me and lifting them so I could see the soles clearly. Gobs of what looked like dog droppings were stuck to the bottoms.
"Richard was complaining about an odor in his room. I sent Mrs. Stoddard up here to redo the rug, but nothing seemed to help. Then I came up and looked in Jefferson's closet and found this on the floor. How could he take off these shoes and carry them up here without noticing the stink? How could he? He must have done it deliberately. It's another one of his horrible pranks," she said, drawing up her puckered little prune mouth like a drawstring purse.
For a moment I wondered if it really could have been one of Jefferson's shenanigans. Jefferson would have loved to have found a way to torment Richard, I thought. I was unaware that the possibility had brought a small smile to my lips.
"Do you think this is funny?" Aunt Bet demanded. "Do you?"
"No, Aunt Bet."
"The moment he comes through that front door, I'm sending him upstairs," she declared. "The very moment." She held the shoe away from her and started away. "I should just throw these in the garbage. That's what I should do instead of giving them to Mrs. Stoddard to clean," she muttered and descended with her eyes closed, Richard trailing behind her and guiding her down.
It was terrible to think it, but I had come to the point where I hoped Jefferson did do it deliberately. I returned to my room and described the whole incident to Gavin in my letter. I was sure it would bring a smile and laughter to his lips. When I was finished writing, I went downstairs and out the back door where I found Mrs. Stoddard cleaning Jefferson's shoes. She worked with a pail of soapy water and a sponge.
"He's a terror, that one," she said shaking her head, but I could see some amusement in her eyes.
"I don't know if he did it deliberately, Mrs. Stoddard, but I'll find out when he comes home."
She nodded and started to dry off the shoes with an old towel. Suddenly though, I took a closer look at the shoes.