Darkest Hour (Cutler 5)

I stood there a few moments longer, holding her hand and staring down at her until her breathing became soft and regular and I realized she was asleep again. Then I let go of her hand and turned very slowly, feeling as if I were drifting away like a balloon in the wind, expecting to be tossed and tugged in the rough winds that awaited, the string that had slipped from a child's hand trailing beneath it.

Over the next few days, I really began to wonder myself whether or not the devil had possessed Papa to do what he had done to me. Papa made no reference to the incident, nor did he do or say anything to make me feel uncomfortable or ashamed. Instead, he rained compliments on me day after day, especially in Emily's presence.

"Lillian's better than a business manager," he declared. "She whips up those figures in no time and she spots mistakes with an eagle's eye. Why, she found where I've been paying too much for hog feed, didn't you, Lillian? People are always trying to squeeze an extra dollar out of you and they will, if you don't watch out. You done good work, Lillian. Mighty good work," he said.

Emily's eyes narrowed and she pursed her lips but she was forced to nod and tell me I was on the path of righteousness now.

"Just don't stray off it," she warned.

At the end of the week, the doctor came to see Papa and told him he should get a wheelchair and crutches and get up and out of the room.

"You need fresh air, Jed," he declared. "Your leg's broken, but the rest of you needs at least a little exercise. Seems to me," the doctor added, gazing my way, "you're being spoiled by all these pretty women waiting on you hand and foot, eh?"

"So what?" Papa snapped back. "You spend all your life working yourself to the bone for your family. It ain't no big deal for them to look after you once in a while."

"Of course," the doctor said.

It was Emily who suggested that Eugenia's old wheelchair be taken out of storage and given to Papa. Charles brought it up after he had oiled and polished it until it looked brand-new. That afternoon, Papa's crutches were delivered and he was up and out of his bed for the first time since the accident. But when Emily suggested he move himself down and into Eugenia's old bedroom, Papa balked.

"I'll be fine wheeling and moving around up here," he said. "When I'm ready to go downstairs, we'll work that out."

The thought of being in Eugenia's bedroom and sleeping in her bed seemed to terrify him. Instead, he ordered me to wheel him about the upstairs. I took him in to see Mamma and then he decided to take me for a tour through parts of the upstairs, describing the rooms, who lived in them and where he played as a little boy.

Getting out of his room raised his spirits and stimulated his appetite. Later that afternoon, I helped him shave and put on one of his nicer shirts. I had to cut the leg off one of his pairs of trousers so he could get them over his cast. He practiced with the crutches and worked at the desk. I was hoping that all this meant my days and nights of nursing him were coming to an end, but Papa didn't send me to my own room to sleep.

"I can get around, Lillian," he said, "but I still need you to help a while longer. You're willing, aren't you?" he asked. I nodded quickly and busied myself so he wouldn't see the disappointment in my face.

Papa began to receive some of his friends and one night, a few days later, he had a card game in his room. I brought them some refreshment and left to wait downstairs. Before all the men left, I had fallen asleep on the leather sofa in Papa's office. I heard them laughing as they came down the stairs and I hurried up to see what Papa wanted before he went to sleep. I found him in a very angry mood. He had drunk a lot and apparently had lost a lot of money, too.

"I'm just in a bad streak of luck," he muttered. "Help me get these things off," he cried a moment later and began tearing off his shirt. I rushed to him and helped him undress, pulling off his boot and socks and then tugging off his customized trousers. He wasn't very cooperative, tossing about and cursing his hard luck. He kept reaching for his glass of bourbon and when that was emptied, demanded I fill it up again.

"But it's late, Papa," I said. "Don't you want to go to sleep now?"

"Just pour my whiskey and don't nag," he snapped. I did it quickly and then folded his clothes.

I cleaned up after Papa's friends and tried airing out the room. There had been so much cigar smoke that the very walls stunk, but Papa didn't seem to care. He drank himself to sleep, muttering about his mistakes at cards.

Exhausted, I finally turned in myself. Hours later, I awoke to the sound of his crashing on the floor. From what I could gather, he had forgotten his broken leg and, in a drunken stupor, tried to get up to go to the bathroom. I got up quickly and rushed to help him, but lifting him was beyond me. He was a dead weight, doing nothing to assist my efforts.

"Papa," I pleaded. "You're on the floor. Try to get back to bed."

"What . . . what," he said, pulling me down to him in an effort to pull himself up.

"Papa," I pleaded, but he held me down against him, my body twisted so awkwardly, I could barely turn or twist myself free. I thought of yelling for Emily, but feared what she would say if she saw me entwined in Papa's arms like this. Instead, I pleaded

with him to let me go. He mumbled and groaned and finally turned enough for me to break free. Once again, I tried to get him to help himself. This time, he took hold of the bedpost and pulled enough to get his upper body back on the bed. I lifted and pushed until I had him on the bed again. Exhausted, I stood by panting.

But suddenly Papa laughed and thrust out his hand to seize my wrist. He pulled me down to him. "Papa, no," I cried. "Let me go. Please."

"Bed warmer," he muttered. He took hold of my nightgown and yanked it up as he rolled me over and under him. Pinned down by his weight, I could only try to slither out, but my movements only pleased him and encouraged him even more. He laughed and muttered names I had never heard, apparently confusing me with women he had known on his business trips. I started to scream, but he clamped his big hand over my mouth.

"Shh," he said. "Or you'll wake the house."

"Papa, please, don't do this again. Please," I pleaded.

"You gotta learn," he said. "You gotta know what to expect. I'll teach you. . I'll teach you. Better me than some stranger, some dirty stranger. Yes, yes . . . just let me show you . . ."

In moments he was in me again. I turned my head away as he grunted and heaved his body over me. I tried closing my eyes and pretending I was somewhere else, but his smelly hot breath invaded my thoughts and his lips moved quickly over my hair and forehead, sucking, licking, kissing. I felt his hot explosion inside me and then felt his body grow limp. He groaned and slowly turned over.