Cutler 04 - Midnight Whispers

let Jefferson do a page. He was anxious to do well in front of Homer and did do better than usual. When he was finished, I handed the book to Homer. He looked up at me, surprised.
    "Can you read any of it, Homer?" I asked. He nodded and stared at the page, but he didn't begin. "Go on, read some for us," I said. "Didn't you go to school at all?" I asked him when he continued to hesitate.
    "Yes, but I left after the third grade to help with the chores."
    "And no one came looking for you?" He shook his head. "That's too bad, Homer. If you learn to read better, you'll learn a lot more." He nodded. I leaned over and pointed to some letters. "What you've got to do is sound them out, Homer. This A sounds like the a in hay. The b is like the first sound in boy and the l is like the l in little. You don't pronounce the e at the end. It's called a silent e. Just put the sounds together fast."
    "A . . . ba . . . 1111," he said.
    "Able. That's good. Right, Jefferson?" Jefferson nodded quickly. I smiled and leaned back. When I did so, I gazed at Homer's neck and just under the strands of hair that were usually down the back of his neck but were now off to the sides, I saw the birthmark. There was no question in my mind—it looked like a hoof. I felt a cold chill, recalling Charlotte's tale of her baby.
    What did this mean? How could Homer have the same birthmark? Did Charlotte make everything up? I practiced reading with Jefferson and Homer for another half hour and then stopped to let Jefferson show Homer the painting he had done in the room off the library. As soon as they left, I told Gavin what I had seen on Homer's neck.
    "So?"
    "Don't you remember the story I told you about Charlotte's baby―the doll in the crib, all of it?"
    "Yes, but I thought that was just a story like the stories about spirits flying around and Emily on a broom and . . ."
    "Gavin, it's all so strange. The neighbors finding a baby left to die, Homer practically living here most of the time, and now the birthmark. I'm going to ask Luther about it," I decided.
    "I don't know. He might not like your poking around. He can get angry pretty quickly. I saw it out there in the fields."
    "There's nothing for him to get angry about, but I'd like to know the truth."
    "Maybe it's none of our business, Christie. Maybe we shouldn't stir up old memories," Gavin warned.
    "It's too late, I'm afraid. I feel something every time I wander through the house. Spirits have already been stirred."
    "Oh boy. All right," he said. "When are you going to ask Luther these questions?"
    "Right now," I said. Gavin closed his book and sighed.
    "Daddy always says curiosity killed the cat."
    "I'm not a cat, Gavin. I'm part of the world here at The Meadows. Maybe not through direct bloodline, but still, it's what I've inherited. It's my fate," I said boldly. Gavin nodded, still smiling at me. "Laugh if you want, but I want to know the past that haunts this house and this family."
    "Okay, okay," he said and got up. "Let's see what Luther will tell us."
    Charlotte told us Luther was out in the barn changing the oil in the pickup truck. It was a very warm night with a sky full of stars. So far away from busy highways and the sounds of traffic and people, we could hear how noisy nature was. Usually, the sounds people made distracted or drowned out the peepers and crickets, the hoot owls and raccoons. To both Gavin and myself, it sounded as if every night creature in the wild had an opinion about something or other. Ahead of us, the glow of Luther's lanterns lit up the barn. We could see him crouched over his truck engine.
    "Hello Luther," I called as we approached. I didn't want to startle him, but he looked up surprised. "Can we talk to you?" He wiped his hands and nodded.
    "Homer go home?" he asked, looking beyond us.
    "No. He's inside with Jefferson. But that's what we wanted to ask you about, Luther," I said quickly.
    "Oh? Ask about what?"
    "Homer. Who is he really, Luther?" I blurted quickly. Luther's eyes narrowed.
    "What'dya mean, who is he? He's Homer Douglas, the neighbor's boy. I told you that before," he said.
    "Charlotte took me to the nursery," I began, "and told me the story of her baby."
    "Oh that. Charlotte pretends a lot," he said, looking at his engine again. "She always has. It was her way of escaping a hard, cold life."
    "She doesn't have a hard, cold life now," I said. "Why is she still pretending?" Luther ,didn't respond.
    "Then she didn't really have a baby?" I pursued.