Cutler 04 - Midnight Whispers

to Mommy?
    "Oh, sure. There must have been insurance. So . . . your mother's . . . gone." He shook his head and looked at the woman. "Why don't you put up some coffee?" She smirked as if he had asked her to perform a major feat and reluctantly strutted toward the kitchen. "That's er . . . that's er . . . Catherine. She's a singer at one of the studios in town. Here," he said, moving toward the sofa to clear away some of the clothing, "have a seat. Tell me about yourself. How old are you now?" he asked as I moved Jefferson and myself to the sofa.
    "I'm sixteen." How could he not remember how old I was? I wondered.
    "Oh yeah, sure. And how old's . . ." He nodded toward Jefferson.
    "Jefferson's nine," I said.
    "Almost ten," he added.
    "Well, that's a ripe old age," my father quipped, but Jefferson didn't smile. He simply stared up at him with that characteristic fixed glare of his that unnerved some people. My father laughed. Then he sat on the easy chair, not bothering to remove the skirt that had been draped over the back of it.
    "So . . . it must have been horrible for you guys . . . a fire, and they couldn't get out." He shook his head. "She was something else, your mother, quite a beautiful woman and quite talented. I could have made her a singing star, but . ." He shrugged. "So," he said, "who's in charge of you guys? Your uncle?"
    "No," I said quickly. "We don't want to live with him."
    "Oh no?" He leaned forward. "Why not?"
    "He and our aunt Bet are not very nice to us," I said. Something my real father detected in my expression or tone made his eyes narrow as he weighed my words. He had shrewd, sophisticated eyes that seemed to know all the wicked and tricky ways of the world.
    "I see."
    "Neither is Richard and Melanie," Jefferson added.
    "Who?"
    "Their children, twins," I said.
    "Uh huh." His eyes shifted to our suitcases. "Now let me understand this. You two left and came here on a bus?" I nodded. "Does your uncle know this?"
    "No. We ran away," I said.
    "Oh, I get it now. How did you find me?" he asked with interest.
    "I just called all the Michael Suttons until I found the right one."
    He laughed.
    "Well," he said, clapping his hands together, "you guys have got to go back. You can't just run off like this. Everyone back there is probably worried sick about you."
    "We're never going back," I said firmly.
    "Well honey, you didn't expect . . ." He smiled. "You didn't imagine you could live here with me, did you?" I said nothing; he understood. His smile faded and he sat back, contemplating us a moment. "How much money do you have with you?" he asked.
    "Only twenty-three dollars left," I replied.
    "Twenty-three . . ." He shook his head again. "Well, what about inheritance? You must have inherited quite a bit."
    "I don't know," I said. "I don't care."
    "Well you should care. It's yours. You can't let your uncle take it all. I'm sure there are legal documents. Sure. You can go back and in a few years, you'll get your share of the hotel and property and . . ."
    "I don't care about the hotel. I can't go back," I said vehemently. I wished I could tell him everything, but it was like talking to a complete stranger and I couldn't get myself to describe what Uncle Philip had done to me.
    "Well, you can't live here, honey. I don't have the room for you and besides, I don't have any right to take custody of your little brother there. You could get separated from him," he added.
    "Separated?" Jefferson's hand found mine quickly. "No, we'll never be separated," I said firmly.
    "And you shouldn't be. That's why you have to go back. After a few years, when you're eighteen, or when you've gotten your inheritance, you'll call me and I'll come out," he said, smiling. "Sure. We'll have a real father-daughter relationship then, okay?"
    I said nothing. Disappointment put tears in my eyes.
    "Coffee's ready," the woman said, standing in the doorway. "I'm not serving," she added, fixing her eyes on me. "So come get your own cups."
    "I don't want any coffee," I said.
    "I need a cup," my father announced. "Maybe we got some milk and cookies. look." He stood up. "You sing too?" he asked.
    "No. I play the piano," I said.
    "Great. Before you go, you can give us a little recital. That would be nice, right, Catherine?" She smirked.
    "We got to go to Mr. Ruderman, don't forget."
    "Oh yeah. I got a little problem with the IRS and have to see my accountant today. Nothing serious," he said, then added, "I hope. Let me get some coffee." He went