Cutler 02 - Secrets of the Morning

paint. There was rusted and broken farm equipment everywhere and chickens ran freely over the driveway. Some even paraded arrogantly over the portico. I thought I saw a sow waddle just around the corner of the main house.
    Luther stopped short.
    "You might as well git out here," he said. "I gotta go on back to the barn."
    I opened the door and slowly stepped out. When he pulled away, a cloud of dust rose from the driveway and nearly choked me. I fanned the air and when it cleared, I looked up at the tall plantation house. The windows in the gabled dormers were like mirrors reflecting the quickly blackening night sky overcast with brooding clouds. For the moment they looked like dark eyes peering down angrily at me. Above them, the peak of the roof seemed to touch the dark sky. I embraced myself. The wind that whistled past me was chilly and quickly turned my cheeks red.
    I hurried up the shattered front steps to the enormous entrance. My boots clacked over the loose slats of the porch floor and blackbirds that had been hovering out of the wind just inside the columns rose in an ebony splash and flew into the night, complaining loudly of my intrusion.
    I found the brass knocker on the tall panel door and let it tap on the metal plate behind it. A deep, hollow echo reverberated on the other side. I waited, but nothing happened, so I let the knocker rap again and again. Suddenly the door was jerked open, its rusted hinges rattling. At first I saw no one. There was barely any light on within the long entryway that led down a dark corridor to a circular stairway. Then, a tall, dark figure looking more like a silhouette stepped before me from the side, holding a kerosene lamp in her hands. Her appearance was so abrupt and silent, I felt like I had been greeted by a ghost in this dying house. I couldn't help but gasp and step back.
    "Don't you have any patience?" she snapped. When she moved closer to me, I was able to see her face in the dim light of the lamp. It cast an amber glow over her long, ashen visage, turning her eyes into deep, dark sockets. Her mouth was a pencil-thin crooked line drawn across her narrow face. She had her long, thin gray hair knitted in a big knot behind her head.
    "I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't think anyone had heard me."
    "Step in so I can close the door," she commanded. I did so quickly. Then she held out the lamp and ran the light over me. "Humph," she said, confirming some expectation. When she brought the light closer to herself again, I was able to see more of her face.
    There were resemblances to Grandmother Cutler, especially in the steel-gray eyes that gazed back at me with a similar iciness. Grandmother Cutler's face was just as thin now, the cheekbones just as prominent. Perhaps this woman was a little taller and had broader shoulders. She certainly stood as firmly with the same arrogant pride as she threw her shoulders back to gaze down at me.
    "My name is Miss Emily," she said. "You are always to call me Miss Emily, is that clear?"
    "Yes, ma'am," I said.
    "Not ma'am, Miss Emily," she retorted.
    "Yes, Miss Emily."
    "You're too late for anything to eat," she said. "We eat dinner early and those who miss the dinner bell go without."
    "I'm not very hungry anyway," I said. The ride in the smelly truck had taken care of any appetite.
    "Good. Now march yourself up those stairs and I'll show you where you will stay." She started ahead of me, holding the kerosene lamp up to light our way. The entryway walls were bare except for a portrait of a dour-looking southern gentleman, his hair as white as milk. I had only a glimpse of him as the light washed away the shadows, but I thought I saw resemblances to Grandmother Cutler and Miss Emily, especially in the forehead and eyes. I imagined it was a portrait of their father or perhaps their grandfather. Lighter spaces along both sides of the walls indicated that there had once been other pictures displayed.
    "Have my things arrived yet from New York, Miss Emily?" I asked.
    "No," she said sharply without turning around. Her voice reverberated down the long, empty corridor and sounded like a chorus of "no's."
    "No? But why not? What will I do? What I am wearing is all I have," I cried. She stopped to turn back.
    "So?" she said. "What does it matter? You're not here to entertain yourself. You're here to give birth and then leave immediately after."
    "But . . ."
    "Don't worry, I have something for you to put on. You will have clean bedding and clean