Midnight Whispers (Cutler 4)

Uncle Philip appeared, his eyes ablaze, his mouth twisted in an ugly grimace of horror and sadness. His hair was wild and he looked as though he had run all the way from the hotel to our house.

"Philip!" Aunt Bet said. "What . ."

"It's my mother," he said. "My mother . . ."

"Oh dear." Aunt Bet's hands flew to her throat like frightened birds.

"What happened to Grandmother Laura, Uncle Philip?" I asked softly, my heart pausing, my breath still.

"Mrs. Berme . . . found her on the bathroom floor . . . a stroke," he said. "My mother . . . Dawn's mother . . . Clara Sue's mother . . . she's gone," he finished. "Gone, forever."

He turned to the left and stopped. Then he looked back at us as if he didn't know us. In confusion, he walked out the way he had come bearing the burden of new sorrow. Aunt Bet fell back in her seat, overwhelmed for the moment. The twins went quickly to her side, each taking one of her hands. Numbly, I shook my head. I had gone dead inside. My heart felt empty and cold. Poor Grandmother Laura, confused and lost in her maze of thoughts. She had spent her final days grappling with her memories, desperately trying to sort out her life, but moving about in circles like someone who had wandered into a wall of spider webs and struggled to get free. And now she was dead.

I went to the front window and gazed out at Uncle Philip. He was pacing back and forth on the front lawn, talking out loud, gesturing wildly with his hands as if he had come into contact with all his descendants. The family of ghosts had gathered around him to hear about the latest victim to fall under the shadow of the great curse.

Another funeral, and so soon with all my funeral memories still fresh, was upon us. Once more we were all draped in black; once more people only whispered to each other in our presence; once more the sea was gray and cold and the sky was overcast, even if there were no clouds.

Neither Jefferson nor I had really gotten to know Grandmother Laura as well as we should have known a grandparent. For as long as I could remember, she was confused and distracted, some-times clearly recognizing us and sometimes gazing at us as if we were strangers who had wandered into her life.

After I had learned the truth about my mother's kidnapping and Grandmother Laura's complicity in it, I asked Mommy if she hated her for what she had permitted to be done. Mommy smiled a little, her blue eyes softening, and shook her head.

"I did once, very much, but as time went by, I grew to see that she had suffered deeply for it and there was no need for me to add any punishment to the one her conscience had already inflicted upon her.

"Also, I longed to have a mother and in time, we began to share some precious, lost moments, the kind of moments a mother and daughter should share. She changed when she went to live with Bronson. She mellowed, I should say. He is a strong influence on her, making her aware of the consequences of her actions and words. All it takes is for him to lower those brown eyes in her direction and she quickly becomes less selfish. She becomes . . . a mother," Mommy told me and laughed happily.

Now, as I sat in the church beside my little brother and listened to the minister's sermon, I could only remember Grandmother Laura asleep in her wheelchair. I couldn't envision her when she was still pretty and active. But when I looked at Bronson, I saw a soft smile on his face, the kind that reveals a wonderful memory being replayed inside. Surely he was able to recall her as a beautiful young woman spinning on a ballroom dance floor, her laughter music in itself. I had only to take one look at him to see the deep love he had borne and realize how much he had lost. I cried for him more than I cried for myself or Jefferson or even Grandmother Laura herself.

Uncle Philip was surprisingly devastated. I recalled how much he used to complain about going to dinners at Buella Woods. He was always grateful when Mommy volunteered to do something with Grandmother Laura if it meant that he was relieved of the responsibility. One time, when Mommy had to leave in the middle of a busy afternoon to go to her, I went along. I remember feeling so badly for her because of how nervous she was, thinking about the work she had left behind.

"Why can't Uncle Philip go?" I demanded. I don't think I was more than ten or eleven at the time, but I was capable of great indignation when it came to something hurting or bothering Mommy.

"Philip is incapable of facing reality," she re-plied. "He always was. He refuses to see Mother the way she really is; he wants only to remember her as she was, even though he used to make fun of

her all the time. The truth is he was very attached to her and adored her. He was proud of how beautiful she was and made light of the effects of her self-centeredness, even when it affected him. Now, she's as much of a stranger to him as he often is to her."

She sighed and then added, "I'm afraid there is more of Randolph in Philip than Philip cares to admit to, and," she said, her expression darkening, her eyes small, "maybe more of Grandfather Cutler too."

I remember that frightened me and remained under my skin like a persistent itch.

But today, in the church, Uncle Philip looked more like a lost and frightened little boy himself. His eyes went hopefully to anyone who approached him as if he were expecting one of the mourners to say, "None of this is really happening, Philip. It's just a bad dream. In a moment it will be over and you can wake up in bed." He shook hands vigorously and accepted kiss after kiss on the cheek. When it was time to leave, he looked about in confusion for a moment until Aunt Bet took his arm and started him off behind the casket.

We all got into the limousine and followed the hearse to the cemetery for the final rites at the gravesite. As soon as it ended, I went right to Bronson and hugged him. His eyes shone with unshed tears.

"She's at rest now," he said. "Her ordeal has ended."

"Are you coming to our house?" I asked him. Aunt Bet had made arrangements for another funeral reception. She was becoming an expert. "No, no. I'd rather just be alone for a while. I'll speak to you soon," he promised and walked off, his shoulders slumped with the weight of his deep sorrow.

There were far fewer mourners at our home than there had been for Mommy and Daddy, and the reception was quite subdued. Uncle Philip sat in one chair the whole time gazing out at people and nodding or smiling only when someone came directly to him to shake his hand or kiss him.

Both Jefferson and I were tired and over-whelmed, the impact of this funeral tearing the scabs roughly off our recovering feelings. Early in the evening, I took Jefferson upstairs and helped him go to bed. Then, instead of returning to the wake, I retired myself, anxious to close my eyes and escape the sorrow. I didn't even want my small night light on as usual. I wanted to pull the blanket of darkness over me quickly, and that urge was stronger than my childhood fears. I did drift off quickly and never heard the mourners leave.

But some time in the middle of the night, I woke to the sound of my door clicking shut. It was as if someone had nudged me with a finger. My eyes snapped open. I didn't move and for a moment, heard nothing and guessed I had only dreamt it. Then I heard the distinct sound of heavy breathing and the shuffle of footsteps. A moment later I felt the weight of someone's body on my bed and turned to see Uncle Philip silhouetted vaguely in the darkness. My heart began to pound. It looked like he wore no clothing, not even his pajamas.

"Shh," he said before I could utter a word. He reached out and put his fingers on my lips. "Don't be frightened."

"Uncle Philip, what do you want?" I asked.

"I feel so alone . . . so lost tonight. I thought . . . we could just lie beside each other for a while and just talk."