Cutler 04 - Midnight Whispers

wouldn't like her telling him what to wear. As I expected, when she went to his closet and began picking things out for him, he glared defiantly.
    "My mommy says I can wear that only on special occasions," he snapped at her.
    "This is a special occasion, Jefferson. You can't greet people looking like a ruffian, can you? You want to look nice."
    "I don't care," Jefferson retorted. His face flamed red.
    "Of course you care, dear. Now you will wear this and then, let's see . . ."
    "I'll pick out the proper things for him to wear, Aunt Bet," I said, coming in behind her quickly.
    "Oh." She stared a moment and then smiled. "Of course. I'm sure you'll choose the right things. Call me if you need anything, dear," she said and pivoted to leave.
    "I'm not wearing what she wants me to wear," Jefferson repeated, his cheeks still crimson with anger.
    "You don't have to," I said. "You can wear this outfit instead," I suggested. "If you want," I added. He glared a moment and then softened.
    "Okay," he said. "But I'm not taking a bath."
    "Suit yourself," I said, shrugging.
    "Are you taking a bath?"
    "I have to shower before I put on clothes," I said. "Mommy always liked you to be clean," I added pointedly. He thought a moment and then nodded.
    "I'll take a shower too."
    "Do you need any help?"
    "I can do it by myself," he said sharply. I watched him begin to organize his clothes. He resembled a little old man. Tragedy and great sorrow, I thought, make us grow older very quickly.
    Gavin, Edwina and Granddaddy Longchamp arrived late in the evening. Uncle Philip had them put up in one of the guest houses we used when the hotel became overbooked. One look at Granddaddy Longchamp's face was enough to tell me how much the tragedy had crushed and overwhelmed him. In one fell swoop, he had lost his son and the young woman he had always considered his daughter. He looked years older, the lines in his face sharply deeper, his eyes darker and his skin paler. He moved slowly and spoke very little. Edwina and I hugged and cried, and then Gavin and I had a chance to be alone.
    "Where's Fern?" Gavin asked.
    "No one seems to know," I said.
    "She should have been the first one here to help you with Jefferson," Gavin said angrily.
    "Maybe it's better she's not. She's never been much help to anyone but herself," I said. "Maybe she's feeling bad that she and Daddy had such a terrible argument the last time she saw him."
    "Not Fern," Gavin concluded. We stared at each other. We had just naturally wandered away from everyone and found ourselves in the den. Mommy and Daddy often used it as a second office. There was a large cherrywood desk and chair, walls of bookcases, a big grandfather's clock and a ruby leather settee. Gavin gazed at the family pictures on the desk and shelves and at the framed letters of commendation Mommy had received for her performances at Sarah Bernhardt.
    "She was so proud of those," I said. He nodded. "I can't believe it," he said without turning to me. "I keep thinking I'm going to wake up soon."
    "Me too."
    "She was more than a sister-in-law to me. She was a sister," he said. "And I always wanted to be like Jimmy."
    "You will be, Gavin. He was very proud of you and never stopped bragging about you and how well you do in school."
    "Why did this happen? Why?" he demanded. Tears flooded my eyes and my lips began to tremble. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said, quickly coming to me. "I should be thinking of what you're going through and not be so concerned about myself." He embraced me and I pressed my face against his chest.
    "What are you two doing in here?" Aunt Bet demanded. She was standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with surprise. I lifted my head slowly from Gavin and wiped my eyes.
    "Nothing," I said.
    "You shouldn't be alone here with everyone gathered in the living room," she said, gazing from Gavin to me and then to Gavin. "It's not . . . proper," she added. "And besides, Jefferson's not behaving. You had better speak to him, Christie," she said.
    "What's he doing?"
    "He won't sit still."
    "He's only nine years old, Aunt Bet, and he's just lost his mother and father. We can't very well expect him to be as perfect as Richard," I retorted. Her face flamed red.
    "Well, I’m just trying to—"
    "I'll see to him," I said quickly and took Gavin's hand. "I'm sorry," I said after we had rushed past her. "I shouldn't have been so short with her, but she's been taking over everything and bossing everyone around. I just don't have the