Cutler 05 - Darkest Hour

chose Exodus, chapter 9, and read how God had punished the Egyptians when the Pharaoh refused to let the Hebrews go. Emily's voice boomed over the table so hard and loud, even Mamma winced and looked fearful.
    "'So, there was hail, and fire mingled with the hail, very grievous, such as there was none like it in all the land of Egypt since it became a nation."
    She raised her eyes from the page and glared across the table at me, showing that she had every word of the page memorized and recited.
    "'And the hail smote throughout all the land of Egypt all that was in the field, both man and beast . . .'"
    "Emily, dear," Mamma said softly. She would never dare interrupt if Papa were there. "It's a little early in the morning for fire and brimstone, dear. My stomach's churning enough as it is."
    "It's never too early for fire and brimstone, Mamma," Emily retorted, "but it's often too late." She glared at me.
    "Oh dear me, dear me," Mamma moaned. "Let's just start eating, please," she begged. "Louella," she called, and Louella began to bring in the eggs and bacon. Reluctantly, Emily closed the Bible. As soon as she had done so, Mamma broke out into some of the juicy gossip she was going to verify this Saturday.
    "Martha Atwood has just come back from a trip up North and she says the women there are smoking cigarettes in public places. Now the Captain had a cousin," she continued. I listened to her stories, but Eugenia had already retreated to her own thoughts, her own world, wherever that was. But when I mentioned to Mamma that I would be taking Eugenia for an outing, Emily's eyes widened with interest.
    "Just don't overdo it," Mamma warned. "And make sure she's warm as toast."
    "I will, Mamma."
    I went upstairs to choose what I would wear. I checked on Eugenia to be sure she took her nap and all her medications and then promised to wake her up a good hour before we left so I could help her brush her hair and choose what to wear. Mamma had bought her a new pair of shoes and a wide-brimmed blue bonnet to keep the sun off her face whenever she did venture out. I cleaned my room, did some reading, had a little lunch, and then got dressed. But when I went to Eugenia's room to wake her, I found her already sitting up. Only instead of excitement on her face, there was worry.
    "What's wrong, Eugenia?" I asked as soon as I entered. She nodded toward the corner of her room where her wheelchair was always kept.
    "I just noticed," she said. "It's not there. I can't remember when I saw it last. I'm so confused. Did you take it out for some reason?"
    My heart sank, for I hadn't, of course, and Mamma hadn't mentioned anything about it at breakfast when I told her I was taking Eugenia on an outing.
    "No, but don't worry about it," I said, forcing a smile. "It has to be somewhere in the house. Maybe Tottie moved it when she cleaned your room."
    "You think so, Lillian?"
    "I'm sure. I'll go see right away. In the meantime," I said, handing her the hairbrush, "start doing your hair."
    "Okay," she said in a small voice. I rushed from the room and hurried through the corridors, searching for Tottie. I found her dusting in the parlor.
    "Tottie," I cried, "did you move Eugenia's wheelchair out of her room?"
    "Her wheelchair?" She shook her head. "No, Miss Lillian. I don't ever do that."
    "Have you seen it anywhere?" I asked desperately. She shook her head.
    Like a chicken running from Henry's butcher knife, I darted about the big house, looking into one room after another, checking closets and even looking in the pantry.
    "What are you searching so hard for, child?" Louella asked. She was serving Mamma and her guests their luncheon and had filled a tray with finger sandwiches.
    "Eugenia's wheelchair's gone," I cried. "I've looked everywhere."
    "Gone? Why would it be gone? You sure?"
    "Oh yes, Louella."
    She shook her head.
    "Maybe you better ask your mother," she suggested. Of course, I thought. Why hadn't I done that immediately. Mamma, excited about her Saturday luncheon, probably just forgot to mention what had been done with it. I hurried into the dining room.
    To me it seemed as if they were all talking at once, no one listening to anyone else. I couldn't help but think Papa was right when he characterized the gatherings as noisy as a flock of hens clucking over the rooster. But I burst into the room so abruptly, they all paused to look my way.
    "How she's growing," Amy Grant declared.
    "Fifty years ago, she'd be walking down the aisle to