Cutler 04 - Midnight Whispers

forcefully. She flicked an angry glance at me and then pulled herself up to the table. I left them sitting in silence, which was something I felt they did more often than not.
    I found Jefferson on the swing in our backyard. He was moving very slowly, his head down, dragging his feet along the ground. I sat next to him.
    Above us, long thin wisps of clouds broke here and there to reveal the stars. Since Mommy and Daddy's horrible deaths, nothing seemed as bright and as beautiful as it had been, including the constellations. I recalled a time Mommy and I had sat outside on a summer's night and stared up at the heavens. We talked about the magnificence and wonder and let our imaginations run wild with the possibilities of other worlds, other people. We dreamt of a world without sickness and suffering, a world in which words like unhappy and sad didn't exist. People lived in perfect harmony and cared about each other as much as they did about themselves.
    "Pick a star," Mommy said, "and that will be the world we've described. Then, every time we're out here at night, we'll look for it."
    Tonight, I couldn't find that star.
    "You shouldn't have done that at the table, Jefferson," I told him and took the swing beside him. He didn't answer. "You should just ignore her," I added.
    "I hate her!" he exclaimed. "She's . . . she's an ugly worm," he said, desperate to find a satisfactory comparison.
    "Don't insult worms," I said, but he didn't understand.
    "I want Mommy," he moaned. "And Daddy."
    "I know, Jefferson. So do I."
    "I want them to get out of here, and I don't want Richard sleeping in my room," he added to his list of demands. I nodded.
    "I don't want them here either, Jefferson, but right now we don't have any other choice. If we didn't live with them, we'd be sent away someplace," I said.
    "Where?" The idea both intrigued and frightened him.
    "A place for children without parents, and maybe we wouldn't be together," I said. That ended his willingness to risk an alternative.
    "Well, I'm not going to say I'm sorry," he declared defiantly. "I don't care."
    "If you don't, she won't let you eat with us and you don't want to eat alone, do you?"
    "I'll eat in the kitchen with Mrs. Boston," he decided. I couldn't help but smile. Jefferson had Daddy's temper and stubbornness. That was for sure. If Aunt Bet thought she was going to break him with her tactics, she was in for an unpleasant surprise.
    "All right, Jefferson. We'll see," I said. "Are you still hungry?"
    "I want some apple pie," he admitted.
    "Let's go back in through the pantry door. Mrs. Boston will give you some pie," I said, coaxing him. He took my hand and followed me. Mrs. Boston smiled happily when she saw us. I sat Jefferson at the kitchen table and she cut him a piece of the pie she had just served in the dining room. I wasn't hungry; I just watched him eat. Aunt Bet came in when she heard us talking. She stood glaring angrily in the doorway.
    "That young man should come in and apologize to everyone at the table," she reiterated.
    "Just leave him be, Aunt Bet," I said firmly. When our eyes locked, she saw my determination.
    "Well, until he does, this is where he will take his meals," she threatened.
    "Then this is where we will both take them," I said defiantly. She pulled her head back as if I had spit in her face.
    "You're not being a good big sister by encouraging and excusing his bad behavior, Christie. I'm very disappointed in you."
    "Aunt Bet, you can't imagine how disappointed I am in you," I replied.
    She pressed her lips together until they were a thin white line, pulled up her shoulders and pivoted to parade back into the dining room to tell Uncle Philip what I had said. I'd been brought up by my parents not to talk back or be rude to adults and it made me feel bad to do so. But Mommy and Daddy had also taught me about honesty and justice and kindness to those I loved. I knew in my deepest heart of hearts that Aunt Bet deserved the things I'd said. She was not treating Jefferson and me lovingly or even fairly, it seemed to my grief-scarred mind. Every day in so many tiny ways Aunt Bet was wiping away with her cleaning rag any proof that our family had ever existed. By covering over the comforting and familiar with wallpaper and paint and, worst of all, the new rules that we were told to live by, she was covering up my memories. And they were all I had left of Mommy and Daddy.
    I expected Richard would tease and criticize Jefferson for his