Cutler 04 - Midnight Whispers

behavior at the table that night. He had been complaining about Jefferson's personal habits from the moment he moved into the room with him. As a result, Jefferson had begged me several times to let him sleep with me. All I could think of was Mommy and Daddy forced to sleep in a sofa-bed pull-out when they were children. Why should something like that be happening to Jefferson and me? We had all this room and beautiful furniture. But I couldn't be mean to Jefferson, so I let him crawl in beside me that first night. Now he wanted to do it every night, and especially tonight because of the turmoil at the dinner table.
    "You have to stay in your own room, Jefferson," I told him when he asked me later. "Don't let Richard terrorize you and force you out. It's your room, not his."
    Reluctantly, he returned and tried to do what I said: ignore Richard. But in the morning, he came to my room howling. At first I thought Richard had hit him, but Richard wasn't a physical boy. I could see that the idea of striking someone and someone striking him back frightened him.
    "What's wrong now, Jefferson?" I asked, grinding the sleep out of my eyes and sitting up.
    "He's hidden my clothes," he moaned. "And he won't tell me where my shoes are."
    "What?" I got out of bed and put on my robe. "Let's see what's going on here," I said, taking his hand. I led him back to his room, but Richard wasn't there.
    "See," Jefferson said, "my shoes are gone."
    "Did you look in your closet?" I asked. He nodded. I looked anyway and saw his favorite shoes were not there. I looked under the bed, too. "This is ridiculous," I said. "Where is he?"
    "He always goes to Melanie's room in the morning," Jefferson revealed.
    "He does? Why?" Jefferson shrugged. I stalked out of the room and went to Melanie's door. When I knocked, she said, "Come in." I opened the door to find Melanie seated at the vanity table. She was still in her pajamas. Richard stood behind her, still in his pajamas too. He was brushing her hair. They both turned and gazed at me with expressions so similar, it was frightening at first. Both looked angry about being disturbed—their eyes wide and blazing, their lips curled.
    "What are you doing?" I asked, more out of surprise and curiosity than anything else.
    "I'm brushing Melanie's hair. I do it every morning," Richard said.
    "Why?" I couldn't help smiling in confusion. "I just do. What do you want?" he demanded, showing his impatience with me.
    "Where are Jefferson's things—his shoes, his clothes?"
    "I told him if he leaves them lying around sloppily, I would hide them forever and I have," he replied and started to brush Melanie's hair again.
    Rage first nailed me to the floor and then exploded in my chest, sending me charging toward him. He looked up with surprise when I grabbed the brush out of his hand and raised it threateningly. He cowered and Melanie screamed.
    "Who do you think you are? What right do you have to do these things in our house?" I screamed.
    "What's going on in here? What is it?" Aunt Bet cried from the doorway. She had come running from what was now her and Uncle Philip's bedroom. She was still in her nightgown, her hair under a sleeping cap, her face white with cold cream. It made her lips as pale as dead worms and her small eyes like two dull brown marbles.
    "Richard has hidden Jefferson's shoes and clothes," I said. "And he won't tell where."
    "He left everything lying on the floor again and his shoes in the middle of the floor. Someone could trip over them in the middle of the night," Richard cried in his defense. Aunt Bet nodded.
    "You did the right thing, Richard. Jefferson must learn to take care of his things. Richard's not going to be his valet. Jefferson's old enough to know what to do, how to be neat and clean," she told me.
    "If he doesn't tell me this moment where Jefferson's things are hidden, I'll sneak into the room in the middle of the night when he's asleep and set a fire under his bed," I threatened. I don't know from where I got the idea or the strength to say such a thing, but it drove a knife of astonishment and terror into Aunt Bet's heart. She gasped and brought her hands to her throat.
    "That's . . . horrible . . . a terrible, terrible thing to say. What's gotten into you, Christie?" she complained.
    "I won't permit my brother to be tormented," I said firmly. Then I turned to Richard. "Where are his things?"
    "Tell her, Richard," Aunt Bet said. "I want this deplorable incident to come to an end