Secrets of the Morning (Cutler 2)

At this point we are afraid of the bad influence she will have on Philip and Clara, who are both doing so well.

Rest assured, I will not forget you.

Sincerely yours,

Lillian Cutler

Trisha looked up at me and then put her arm around my shoulder.

"The entire letter is one big lie," I said. "One big, horrible, cruel lie. A bad seed, sexually promiscuous, spoiled, a liar and a thief! And she hates my mother, hates her," I said through my tears. "I can't believe she wrote that I would be a bad influence on Clara. You know some of the things she did to me and to Jimmy."

"You expected something like this," Trisha said softly, her hand on my shoulder.

"I know, but to actually see it all in writing. She's the most atrocious, loathsome woman I have ever met. I wish there was some way I could get back at her," I said, clenching my teeth.

"Just be a success," Trisha said calmly. "Be everything she says you're not."

I nodded. "You're right. I will try harder and harder and every time I get an A or receive a compliment, I'll think of how she has to accept it."

"We better put this back," Trisha said, returning the dreadful letter of lies to its envelope. She shoved it between the mattress and the box springs again and then we slipped out of Agnes's bedroom and quietly made our way out of the corridor, but when we turned toward the stairway, I paused and looked back. I just had the feeling there were eyes on us in the darkness. A shadow moved.

Trisha didn't know I had stopped. She kept moving up the stairway, but I took a step back and saw Arthur Garwood, his back pressed against the wall. Because he was so thin and he was wearing his usual black shirt and black slacks, it was nearly impossible to see him. Although he must have known I had spotted him, he didn't step forward. Instead, he continued to press himself to the wall and cling to the darkness. I started to call out to Trisha, but didn't. Instead, I just turned back and followed her up the stairway to our room. As soon as I closed the door behind me, I told her.

"He just kept standing there in the dark?" she asked.

I nodded and embraced myself because the incident had left me cold.

"He doesn't want us to know he was spying on us. Don't worry, he won't say anything to Agnes," she assured me.

"How did he know we were going to sneak into her room?" I wondered.

"He might have just been following us or . . ." Her eyes went to the door. "Maybe he's been listening in on our conversations," she concluded. "If I ever catch him doing that, I'll give him something to be sad about. Forget about him," she said quickly. "He's just weird."

I nodded, but it was easier said than done. Arthur's slim silhouette lingered on the inside of my eyelids. For a moment I wondered if maybe it hadn't just been a shadow, my overworked imagination. I went to the door and opened it a crack to peer out just to see if I would catch him returning to his room. I saw nothing.

"Forget about him," Trisha advised again. "He's not worth the worry."

I closed the door and Trisha turned on the radio so we could listen to music while we did our homework. Afterward, I had a terrible time falling asleep because of the letter. My mind reeled with the images and memories of my every conversation and confrontation with Grandmother Cutler, from the first time we met when she told me I would have to change my name from Dawn to Eugenia to our showdown when I let her know I had discovered the truth about my abduction and her involvement in it. She wasn't a woman who took defeat gracefully. In ways I feared I was yet to discover, she would work her revenge.

At the end of the summer session, the Bernhardt School closed down. Some seni

ors remained to practice and prepare for auditions, but most teachers and students took advantage of the short break between the summer and the fall semesters to go on holiday. I had already decided that I wouldn't return to the hotel. I really didn't want to return, and no one at the hotel, my mother included, even asked if I were returning, much less insisted I do. Agnes seemed to expect it.

Trisha went home of course. I couldn't blame her. She was anxious to see her parents and her boyfriend, as well as some of her old friends. She kept inviting me to go home with her, but I thought I would only be in her way.

"Maybe you'll change your mind afterward," she said and wrote out directions for me to take a bus upstate.

"I'll call you in a few days," she warned, "and nag you to come. I hate leaving you here alone," she added, looking as if she would burst into tears.

I was to be alone. Even Arthur Garwood left. His parents stopped by to pick him up the day before Trisha left, and we happened to be downstairs at the time, so we got to meet them. When Agnes introduced me and Trisha to Arthur's mother and father, I thought he might very well have been adopted. He didn't look anything like either of them. Arthur's father was short and almost completely bald. He had a pudgy face with a small, tight mouth and beady hazel eyes.

Arthur's mother was an inch or so shorter than his father and built like a pear. She had strawberry blond hair, light blue eyes and fair skin.

The only thing I sensed they shared with Arthur was their dour personalities. They hardly spoke and seemed only concerned about keeping to their schedule. They were embarking on what they called a work-holiday. They were going to participate in a chamber music recital in Boston, after which they would do some sightseeing and go to Cape Cod. Arthur was reluctant to go along, but they were insistent. He didn't say goodbye to anyone, but just before he walked out the front door, he turned and looked at me with those large, melancholy eyes and for the first time, I felt more sorry for him than anything else.

I didn't realize just how lonely I would be without Trisha until everyone was gone and I was upstairs, alone in my room. I did some reading and then decided I would go out and buy a notebook to keep as my journal. Our English teacher had suggested we do something like this, for other reasons. He wanted us to write down impressions and descriptions we could then draw upon later when an assignment required them. I wanted the journal as a way of helping myself to understand my kaleidoscope of emotions.

I kept busy during the day helping Mrs. Liddy, who said she always used the end of the summer break to do a thorough cleaning of the house.