Cutler 04 - Midnight Whispers

want? It's the middle of the night!" she complained, her eyes opening a little more with each complaint. "Why did you come banging on our door?"
    "It's Jefferson, Aunt Fern. He's sick. He definitely has a temperature and he's complaining about pain in his neck and in his face. We don't know what to do," I said.
    "What is it? What's the matter?" Morton called from the bed. He put on another lamp and sat up.
    "It's my brother," I explained, looking past Aunt Fern. "He's sick."
    "So what?" Fern cried, folding her arms over her breasts. "Kids get sick all the time."
    "Is he throwing up?" Morton asked.
    "No, but his throat hurts and his neck hurts and . . ."
    "So, he's got a cold or something," Aunt Fern said. Her mouth twisted into an ugly grimace. "For this, you wake us up in the middle of the night?"
    "He's in pain," I emphasized.
    "Maybe he's got some kind of flu," Morton said. "Yes," I said, nodding. "Gavin thought that might be it."
    "Get him some aspirin," Morton said. "That's all you can do for now."
    "Yeah, get him some aspirin," Aunt Fern agreed and started to close the door.
    "But I don't think they have aspirin here," I moaned. "I'm frightened for him, Aunt Fern. Really."
    "Damn it," she said.
    "You've got some aspirin in your pocketbook, Fern," Morton said. "We bought it a few days ago after we woke up with hangovers in Boston, remember?"
    "What? Oh yeah, yeah. Wait a minute," she said and hobbled back to the bed. "I forgot where I put my pocketbook," she groaned. "Did I leave it downstairs?"
    "How would I know? I barely remember being downstairs myself," Morton replied and dropped his head back to the pillow as if it had turned to stone.
    "What a pain in the rear end you are," Aunt Fern complained. She turned around and around.
    "There it is!" I cried, pointing to the vanity table.
    "What? Oh. Yeah." She went to it and combed through her things. "I don't see it," she said. My heart felt like a lead brick in my chest. For all I knew, Aunt Fern could have thrown the aspirin away.
    "Please look harder, Aunt Fern. He's very sick. We need the aspirin."
    Sanguine color flooded her face.
    "Either it's you or Jefferson always needing something," she spat. I looked down, afraid she would just throw me out. "Damn, damn, damn," she said and angrily turned the pocketbook upside down and emptied it. "Here it is," she said, finally locating the small tin of aspirin. "Take it," she said, thrusting it at me angrily, "and get the hell out of here so we-can have some peace and quiet and get some sleep."
    I seized it and turned to the door quickly.
    "Don't forget to shut the door. And quit babying him they way they babied you!" she called after me as I started back down the corridor.
    "What did they say?" Gavin asked as soon as I returned.
    "To give him aspirin."
    "The least they could have done was come here and look at him," he muttered.
    "Neither of them are in any condition to look at anyone. At least Morton got Aunt Fern to give me some aspirin."
    I got Jefferson a glass of water and offered him two tablets, but when I put them into his mouth, he cried that he couldn't swallow.
    "It hurts too much, Christie. It hurts!"
    "What will we do, Gavin? If he can't swallow . . ."
    "Grind the aspirin up and mix it in the water. I remember my mother doing that for me when I was a little boy," he said.
    I mixed it as quickly as I could and then held the glass to Jefferson's lips. I started to pour the liquid into his mouth a little at a time, but as soon as it reached his throat, he went into a terrible choking convulsion—his whole body shaking, his eyes bulging.
    "GAVIN!" I cried. "He's choking on the water!" Gavin rushed to take Jefferson into his embrace. "Easy buddy, easy," he said, holding Jefferson upright. He tapped him on the back lightly. "What happened? It's just water and ground aspirin!" I said.
    "Just went down the wrong pipe," Gavin said calmly. "Let him catch his breath and we'll try again."
    My fingers trembled as I brought the glass to Jefferson's lips a second time. He looked like he had passed out; he barely moved.
    "Jefferson, open your mouth just a little," I coaxed. His lips remained shut, his eyelids sewn. "Jefferson."
    "Maybe we should just let him sleep," Gavin suggested.
    I shook my head, frightened. My heart pounded. I had never seen Jefferson this sick, even when he had the measles and chicken pox.
    "It doesn't seem right, Gavin. You didn't have trouble swallowing when you had the flu, did you?" I asked.