Cutler 03 - Twilight's Child

said, throwing her eyes back. "People in Cutler's Cove will be talking about this for generations."
    "I don't think Randolph was worried about that, Mother," I said caustically.
    "No, of course he wasn't. He's gone. None of this will matter to him anymore," she flared. Then she used her small fists to grind away her thick tears and pulled herself into a sitting position. "Mr. Updike keeps calling me to ask dreadful questions concerning the funeral," she moaned. "I don't want to hear another word about it. You will have to take charge."
    "What about Philip or Clara Sue?" I asked.
    "Clara Sue won't come out of her room," she said, "and Philip is getting to be more and more like his father. He says whatever I want. Well, I don't want," she said flatly, without emotion. "What I do want is for all this ugly business to end," she concluded firmly.
    "I feel so sorry for him," I said, "but I told you how serious it was getting. I told Philip, too. No one seemed to care," I said, a bit more sharply than I had intended. But I was getting tired of how Randolph's death was inconveniencing all his loved ones.
    "Don't you start blaming me for this, Dawn," Mother said, pointing her forefinger accusingly. "There was nothing I could do for him. He was obsessed with his mother and her memory. He was always in awe of her, worshiping her as if she were some goddess and not just his mother. He never saw her for what she was; he never saw her meanness or her viciousness. Everything she did was all right, according to him. All she had to do was nod in a direction, and he would rush off to do her bidding. He wanted to be with her, so he's with her," she asserted, nodding.
    "I'm sure he didn't want to die on her grave like that, Mother. He wasn't well," I said softly.
    "Believe me, Dawn. He wanted to die that way," she said, waving away my protest. "He was crazy, yes, but he knew what he was doing. Well, it's over," she said, taking a deep breath and sighing. "At least that part is. Now there is this unpleasantness to face. Well, I'm not well either, so I can't be pressured with dreadful details. I want it all to go as quickly as possible. Will you see that it does? Will you?" she begged.
    "We'll do what is proper and what shows respect, Mother," I said, pulling my shoulders back. I couldn't help it. I knew I must look like I was mimicking the one woman despised the most. The way Mother's eyes widened with surprise confirmed it. "And you will find the strength to perform as a loving wife should at her husband's funeral. You can expect it will be heavily attended, and many of the people you admire so much will be watching you."
    "Oh dear, dear," she moaned, closing her eyes. "How will I have the strength?"
    "Somehow you will find it, I'm sure," I said sharply. "I will phone Mr. Updike immediately and see what's left to be done, and then tell you what you are to do," I said, and I turned to leave.
    "Dawn," she cried.
    "What is it, Mother?"
    "I'm so happy you're here . . . to lean upon," she said, smiling through her crystal tears.
    "Well, you can thank the security guard who recognized Daddy Longchamp and told the police so they could come and get me," I replied. Her smile wilted.
    "How can you be so cruel to me at a time like this?" she cried.
    Jimmy's words returned: ". . . for the Dawn I knew wouldn't be worried about revenge." Was he right? Was I changing? Was I permitting Grandmother Cutler to make me into someone like her and, in effect, destroy me?
    I softened.
    "I'm sorry, Mother," I said. She looked pleased. "I'll do what I can to make things easier for you."
    "Thank you, Dawn. Dawn," she called again as I reached the doorway. "I did love him . . . once," she said in a small, sad voice.
    "Then when you mourn him, Mother, mourn the man he was and not the man he became," I advised, and I left her sobbing into her lace handkerchief.
     
    Both Mr. Updike and Mr. Dorfman thought that just like Grandmother Cutler's funeral procession, Randolph's should stop at the front of the hotel for a last good-bye. The minister would say a few words from the front entrance. Mother moaned as if in dire pain when I told her.
    "Not that again. Oh, what dramatics," she cried. But she went along with it. In fact, once the funeral arrangements were all confirmed, she suddenly had a burst of new energy. She decided that the dress she had worn to Grandmother Cutler's funeral was not good enough for Randolph's.
    "I didn't care what I looked like then," she