Cutler 01 - Dawn

in and over the hotel and grounds, swishing around the building:
    I sat up with my back to the headboard, keeping the blanket wrapped around me. Then I decided to get up and get dressed. I needed to talk to someone and Philip was the first person who came to mind. But when I. went t. open the door, I found it locked. pulled on the handle, disbelieving.
    "No!" I cried. "Open this door!"
    I listened, but all I heard was silence. I turned the handle and pulled. The door wouldn't budge. Being locked in this small room suddenly filled me with panic. I was sure my grandmother had done it to add salt to my wounds, to punish me this way because she hadn't found the necklace in my room as she had expected.
    "Someone open this door!"
    I pounded the door with my small fists until they grew red and my arms ached. Then I listened. Someone had heard me. I could hear footsteps in the hallway. Maybe it was Sissy, I thought.
    "Who's there?" I called. "Please, help me. The door is locked."
    I waited. Although I didn't hear anyone speak, I sensed someone was there. I could feel someone's presence on the other side of that door. Was it my mother? Or Mrs. Boston?
    "Who's there? Please."
    "Dawn," I finally heard my father say. He spoke through the crack between the door and the jamb. "Please, unlock the door and let me out," I said.
    "I told her you didn't take the necklace," he said.
    "No, I didn't."
    "I didn't think you would steal."
    "I didn't!" I cried. Why wasn't he opening the door? Why was he speaking through a crack? He must be standing right up against it, I thought, with his lips to the opening.
    "Mother will get to the bottom of it," he said. "She always does."
    "She's a very cruel person," I said. "To do what she did and then lock me in my room. Please, open the door."
    "You mustn't think that, Dawn. Sometimes she appears hard to people, but after she makes her point, people usually see she's right and fair and they're happy they've listened to her."
    "She's not a god; she's just an old lady who runs a hotel!" I cried. I waited, expecting him to unlock the door, but he said nothing and did nothing. "Father, please open the door," I pleaded.
    "Mother just wants to do the right things, bring you up the right way, correct all the wrong things you've been taught."
    "I don't have to be locked up in here," I moaned. "I didn't live like some animal. We weren't thieves, dirty, and stupid," I said.
    "Of course you weren't, but there is much you have to learn that's new. You're part of an important family now, and Grandmother Cutler just wants you to adjust.
    "I know it's hard for you, but Mother's been in this business for more years than even I've been alive, and her instincts about people and things are excellent. Look what she's built here and how many people come back every year," he said in a soft, reasonable tone of voice through the crack.
    "I'm not going to wear that dumb nameplate," I insisted, my eyes burning with determination.
    He was silent again, this time for so long that finally I thought he had left.
    "Father?"
    "When you were stolen away from us, you weren't just taken away from your mother and me; you were also taken away from Grandmother Cutler," he said, his voice now louder. "When you were stolen, her heart broke, too."
    "I can't believe that," I declared. "Wasn't she the one who decided to put a monument in the cemetery with my name on it?" I couldn't believe I was talking to him through a door, but in a way it made it easier for me to say what I wanted.
    "Yes, but she did that only to save my sanity. I thanked her for it later on. I couldn't work; I was no good to Laura Sue or to Philip. All I did was call police departments and chase around the country whenever there was a slight lead. So you see, it wasn't such a terrible thing."
    Not a terrible thing? To symbolically bury a child who wasn't dead? What sort of people were these? What kind of family had I inherited?
    "Please, open the door. I don't like being locked in."
    "I have an idea," he said instead of opening the door. "People who don't know me well call me Mr. Cutler and other people, close friends and family, call me Randolph."
    "So?"
    "Think of Eugenia the way I think of Mr. Cutler and Laura Sue thinks of Mrs. Cutler. How's that? Your friends are always going to call you by your nickname."
    "It's not a nickname; it's my name."
    "Your informal name," he said, "but Eugenia could be your . . . your hotel name. How's that?"
    "I don't know." I stepped back