Cutler 05 - Darkest Hour

upcoming Sweet Sixteen party for Niles's sisters, the Thompson twins.
    A Sweet Sixteen party was exciting enough, but one to be held in the honor of a pair of twins was exceptionally so. Everyone was talking about it. Invi-tations were as precious as gold. At school, all the boys and all the girls who wanted to be invited began buttering up the twins.
    Plans were being made to turn the Thompsons' great entryway into a grand ballroom. A professional decorator was hired to drape crepe paper streamers and balls, as well as lights and tinsel. Every day Mrs. Thompson added something new to the fabulous menu, but besides being the best feast of the year, there would be a real orchestra: professional musicians to play dance music. There were sure to be games and contests with the evening capped by the cutting of what promised to be the biggest birthday cake ever made in Virginia. After all, it was a cake for two Sweet Sixteen girls, not one.
    For a while I thought Mamma would actually attend. Every day after school, I rushed to tell her new details I'd heard about the party, elaborating on the things Niles told me, and most days she grew excited. One day she even looked through her wardrobe and then decided she needed something new, something more fashionable to wear and began planning a shopping trip.
    That afternoon I had gotten her so enthusiastic, she went to her vanity table and actually began working on her hair and her makeup. She was very concerned about the new styles, so I walked to Upland Station and got a copy of one of the latest fashion magazines, but when I brought it back and showed it to her, she seemed distracted. I had to remind her why we were concerned about our clothes and hair.
    "Oh, yes," she said, the memory revived. "We'll go shopping for new dresses and new shoes," she promised, but whenever I reminded her in the days that followed, she would simply smile and say, "Tomorrow. We'll do it tomorrow."
    Tomorrow never came. She would either forget or fall into one of her melancholy states. And then, she became horribly confused and whenever I mentioned the Thompsons' Sweet Sixteen party, she began to talk about a similar party for Violet.
    Two days before the party, I went to see Papa in his office and told him how Mamma was behaving. I practically begged him to do something.
    "If she goes out and meets people again, Papa, it will help her."
    "Party?" he said.
    "The Thompson twins' Sweet Sixteen party, Papa. Everyone's going. Don't you remember?" I asked, my voice filled with desperation.
    He shook his head.
    "You think all I got to do these days is worry about some silly birthday celebration? When did you say this was?" he asked.
    "This Saturday night, Papa. We got the invitation a while ago," I said. An empty feeling began to swirl around at the bottom of my stomach.
    "This Saturday night? I can't attend," he declared. "I won't be back from my business trip until Sunday morning."
    "But Papa . . . who'll take Mamma and Emily and me?"
    "I doubt your mother will go," he said. "If Emily goes, you can attend. That way you'll be properly chaperoned, but if she doesn't go, you don't go," he declared firmly.
    "Papa. This is the most important party of the . . . of the year. Every one of my friends at school are going and all the families around here are attending."
    "It's a party," he said, "isn't it? You're not old enough to go on your own. I'll speak to Emily about it and leave instructions," he said.
    "But Papa, Emily doesn't like parties . . . she doesn't even have a proper dress or shoes and . . ."
    "That's not my fault," he said. "You got only one older sister and unfortunately, your mother is not well these days."
    "Then why are you going away again?" I snapped back, far more quickly and more sharply than I had intended, but I was desperate, frustrated and angry and the words just popped out on their own.
    Papa's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. His face turned as crimson as a cherry and he rose out of his seat with a fury that sent me stumbling backward until I bumped into a high-backed chair. He looked like he would explode, parts of him going every which way.
    "How dare you speak to me that way! How dare you be insolent!" he roared and came around his desk.
    I cowered quickly, sitting in the chair. "I'm sorry, Papa. I didn't mean to be insolent," I cried, the tears flowing before he had a chance to raise his arm. My crying calmed the storm raging in him and he simply stood fuming over me for a