Cutler 04 - Midnight Whispers

him every chance she had, still finding fault with the way he ate, with what he wore and how well he washed his face and hands. She even criticized his posture and walk. If there was a smudge on a wall or a spot on the floor, it was always Jefferson's fault. Jefferson tracked in dirt; Jefferson touched things with stained hands. The peace of the day and night was continually shattered by Aunt Bet's shrill voice crying, "Jefferson Longchamp!" Her scream was always followed with some accusation.
    When I complained to her about the way she was picking on him, she gave me her small, icy smile and replied, "It's only natural for you to defend your brother, Christie, but don't be blind to his faults or he will never improve."
    "He won't make any improvements if you continue to shout at him and pick on him," I told her.
    "I don't pick on him. I point out his faults so he can concentrate on eliminating them. Just as I do with my own children."
    "Hardly," I said. "According to you, your children are perfect."
    "Christie!" she said, pulling back her shoulders as if I had slapped her. "That's impudent."
    "I don't care," I said. "I don't like being disrespectful, but I won't stand by quietly and watch you tear my little brother into pieces."
    "Oh my. . ."
    "Just stop it," I said. Even though tears flooded my eyes, my backbone straightened like a flag pole, my pride waving. All Aunt Bet could do was stutter and rush off.
    "Well . . . well . . . well," she said.
    It wasn't hard to predict that the trouble between us would not end soon. Her ego was bruised and the more Uncle Philip defended me or Jefferson, the angrier and meaner she became. Her smiles were cold and short. Often I would catch her glaring at me when she didn't think I would see. Her thin lips were pursed together to become a fine line or her small nostrils flared. I knew she wasn't thinking nice thoughts about roe because blood would flood her face as if she had been caught red-handed doing something cruel.
    I put all of this in my letters to Gavin and waited for him to write back or call. When nearly a week passed and no letters arrived and he didn't phone, I phoned him to see if something was wrong.
    "No, nothing's wrong," he said. "I've written back twice."
    "I don't know why I didn't get the letters," I said.
    "The mail can be slow. Anyway, the good news is I will be coming to see you in three weeks," he said.
    "Three weeks! Oh Gavin, that sounds like three years to me," I replied. He laughed.
    "It's not. It will pass fast."
    "Maybe for you," I said, "but life here is so unpleasant now, every day seems like a week."
    "I'm sorry. I'll see what I can do to speed it up," he promised.
    Two days later, I inadvertently discovered why I hadn't received a letter from Gavin for over a week. Mrs. Stoddard had made the mistake of putting out our garbage the night before instead of early in the morning of the pick-up, and some stray dog or perhaps a squirrel had torn open a bag and strewn the contents all around the can. I got a rake from behind the house and began gathering up the debris when I happened to notice an envelope addressed to me. I stopped and picked it up.
    It was a letter from Gavin and it was dated only last week. Someone had taken it from the mailbox before I had gotten to the mail and had ripped it open to read it and then dropped it in the garbage.
    Outraged, I stormed into the house.
    The twins were sitting on the floor in the parlor playing Scrabble. Aunt Bet was reading one of her society papers and Mrs. Stoddard was in the kitchen. Uncle Philip and Jefferson were already at the hotel.
    "Who did this?" I asked and held up the letter. "Someone took my mail and threw it away."
    Aunt Bet shifted her gaze casually from the paper and looked up at me. The twins paused, both nonplussed.
    "Whatever are you talking about, Christie?" Aunt Bet asked.
    "My mail, my mail," I raged, frustrated. "Some-one took it before I could get to it and read it and threw it away."
    "I don't think anyone here would be interested in your mail, dear. It must have been thrown out by accident. Perhaps you did so yourself."
    "I did not!"
    "Christie, I must insist you stop this tantrum immediately. In our house we are not accustomed to such outbursts," she said.
    "This isn't your house! It's my house. Which of you did this?" I asked, turning on the twins. Both cowered as I stepped toward them.
    "Christie, leave them alone. They're playing so nicely," Aunt Bet warned.
    "You did this,