Cutler 3 - Twilight's Child (45 page)

"So?" she said. "You're mad because I told Jimmy about you seeing Michael Sutton, I suppose."

"I'm mad about that, yes—mad because of the way you went about it—but that's not why we want to speak to you right now," I said.

She lifted her eyes with new interest.

"Then what is it?" she asked.

"This," I said, holding out the magazine. As soon as she realized what was in my hand, her face blanched and her eyes filled with fear. She tried to cover it with anger.

"You went snooping in my things?" she cried.

"Dawn doesn't go snooping in anyone's things," Jimmy said sharply; stepping up beside me.

"That's not what's important here, Fern," I said. "It's what's in this magazine, what you read and memorized and pretended had happened to you."

"I didn't," she cried, real tears emerging.

"You did! You did!" I insisted, slapping the magazine over my open palm. It sounded like a gunshot, and her sobbing stopped instantly. "We're not going to pretend anymore, and you're going to tell the truth once and for all. And I warn you, Fern: If you lie to us just once—just once, mind you—we'll ship you out of here. If the Osbornes don't want you, you'll go to a home for wayward girls."

I don't know where I garnered the strength and coldness to pronounce these words, but as I spoke them I saw flashes of Grandmother Cutler before me, her face stern, her shoulders hoisted, her fury fierce.

Fern cowered.

"I . . . I hated it there," she said.

"All you had to do was tell us the truth," Jimmy said.

"I knew you couldn't get me back, because I was legally theirs."

"So you made it all up, copied the ideas from this story?" I demanded. I had to have her confess it. She hesitated and then nodded. "What?" I said.

"I made it up. But please, please don't send me back to them. Clayton is cruel, he really is mean, and he doesn't love me, and Leslie doesn't help. He treats her like a child, too," she claimed.

"In that shoe box in your closet there is a lot of money," I said, nodding toward it. "How did you get it? All of it?"

"I stole it," she muttered.

"What?" Jimmy asked, wanting her to speak louder and own up to her crimes.

"I stole it," she shouted through her tears. "Some of it from Leslie and Clayton, and some of it from the front desk," she admitted.

"Why would you steal from us?" Jimmy asked. "We never denied you anything you needed or wanted."

"I thought you might ask me to leave someday, and I was going to run away if you did, so I needed money."

"You did a terrible thing, Fern," I said. "Not just the stealing of the money, but the attempt to steal our love and concern for you. You tried to win our love by turning us against the Osbornes. No matter what life was like with them, it was wrong to make such accusations about him."

The tears grew heavier, thicker down Fern's cheeks.

"Are you sending me back?" she asked, looking from me to Jimmy.

"That's up to Dawn," Jimmy said firmly. Fern's eyes widened, and then she looked at me, expecting the worst.

"We should," I began. "You said you came home with us because you wanted to be with a family where there was love in the home, but you have tried in all sorts of ways to hurt us." She looked down. "Jimmy and I love each other as much as two people can love each other in this world, and nothing can change that," I said. "But that doesn't mean we can't love other people very much, too. It's because we have such love for each other that we understand how important it is.

"You can't be selfish if you want people to love you, Fern. But more important," I said, "you can't love anyone if you love yourself more. Do you understand?"

She nodded, but I didn't think she understood nor wanted to just yet. She still had defiance in her eyes.

"Do I have to go back?" she repeated.

"No," I replied. "You can still stay with us."

She looked up, surprised.

"Because we want you to stay, we want you to be a better person, we want to love you and have you love us. But that will happen only if you don't lie and cheat and steal. It will happen only if you are honest and really care."

"You will be on probation here with us," Jimmy said sternly. "You understand that?"

"Yes, Jimmy."

"All right, then. First thing you do is take the money you stole and go over to the hotel and give it back to Mrs. Bradly, along with the' best apology you can dream up," he commanded.

"I can't!" she cried.

"It takes a lot more courage to do right sometimes than it does to do wrong, but once you do it, you're gonna feel a lot better about yourself, honey," Jimmy said.

"Everyone's going to hate me and think horrible things about me," she moaned.

"For a while, perhaps," I said. "But if you want them to think better of you, you will have to earn it."

"Go on, Fern," Jimmy commanded.

Fern swallowed hard and slipped off the bed. She went to the shoe box and counted out the money she had stolen. She stuffed it into her pocket and left the room.

"Do you think she's going to change?" Jimmy asked.

"I don't know, Jimmy. You don't erase years and years of misbehavior, distrust and deceit overnight. But," I said sighing, "we'll give her the chance."

Jimmy put his arm around my shoulders.

"Did I ever tell you that you're just about the best reason for me to get up every morning?" he asked.

"Not for a couple of minutes, you haven't."

"Well, let me just do that. Better yet," he said, turning me toward our bedroom, "let me show you."

19

A GREAT MANY CHANGES OCCURRED IN OUR LIVES THAT WINTER.

Unfortunately, Fern's turning over a new leaf was not one of them. Despite her promises, her behavior at school continued to be a problem for us. On two occasions Jimmy had to leave work to have a meeting with the principal and Fern's teachers. She was still being insolent in class. We would punish her for a while, and for a while she would improve, but then she would do something to throw us all back to step one.

She continued to be selfish and inconsiderate, playing her rock-and-roll music so loud it vibrated through the walls, finding reasons not to help with household chores and breaking curfew after curfew. She would go into mood swings that took her from utter tragedy, where she would cry at the drop of a pin and peck at her food like a bird, to periods of ecstasy, when she would float through the house dreaming of a new boyfriend.

She did become a budding dark beauty. She let her hair grow long and sat at her vanity table brushing it for hours while Christie sat beside her on the floor jabbering away. Unfortunately, Fern continued to choose school friends much older than herself. Even so, we tried to be understanding and permitted her to go to her first school dance. She went with a boy three years older, and she marched into the house that night two hours after her curfew.

Jimmy was beside himself. He bawled her out, threatened, imposed new punishments, and did all that he could. Fern fell back on familiar excuses for her bad behavior. She used them so often, they became her anthem: "I had a horrible childhood. I was deserted by my real family. I'm trying."

As usual, in the end Jimmy felt bad and softened, and she was forgiven.

"I guess it's just going to take her a little longer," he said.

That spring Christie performed her first piano recital for our hotel guests. She wore a pink chiffon dress with crinoline under the skirt and had her long golden hair brushed down until it fell softly to the middle of her back. She melted hearts just marching into the room and curtsying. Then she sat down and played a piece of a Mozart concerto, as well as Brahms' Lullaby. Philip and Betty Ann's twins, Richard and Melanie, sat in the first row. They wore matching outfits and clapped vigorously, their little palms turning red. Afterward we served tea and cakes. Jimmy and I were so proud of Christie and the adorable way she accepted all the compliments, batted her eyelashes at the older gentlemen and permitted their wives to kiss her on the cheek.

"She works a party better than Mrs. Cutler used to," Mr. Updike remarked. "She's a natural hotel owner."

I laughed, but I thought I wanted better things for her. She was too special.

In late spring Daddy Longchamp, Edwina and Gavin made their second visit. Gavin was very excited about their return and about being with Christie and Fern and the twins, all of whom he considered family now. Daddy told us how he bragged about his brother's and stepsister's big hotel back east.

"He's been asking regularly to come back since the day after we returned from the first trip," Daddy said.

Fern didn't behave any more warmly toward Daddy Longchamp. If anything, I thought she was ashamed of him. She sat and answered his questions politely because we were watching her, but the moment she could, she excused herself and went off to talk on the phone to her new boyfriend.

"She's getting more and more beautiful," Daddy Longchamp said. "I know she's a handful for you, but you and Jimmy are doin' a great job with her, Dawn. I'm mighty proud how you all turned out," he added.

So many good things were happening to us, one after the other, that I kept looking around corners and waiting for that brisk, cold wind to come or the dark clouds to return. Jimmy scolded me about it.

"You've got to stop looking for trouble, Dawn," he lectured. "If there's trouble ahead, it doesn't need you to find it. It will find us, but until it does, let's be happy. Let's enjoy our lives.

"You still don't let yourself relax," he chastised. "Being uptight and nervous makes it harder for the good things to happen," he added. I knew what he meant. The doctor, on more than one occasion, had placed the blame for my not getting pregnant again on my emotional and mental attitudes.

"I'm trying, Jimmy," I said. "I am. I'm just . . . cautious," I said.

"Well, throw caution to the wind for a while, will you? You're working too hard anyway," he complained.

I couldn't deny that. Our expansion of the hotel had proven successful. We were serving an additional one hundred and twenty-five people, and that meant we had to increase the staff and everything that went along with it. Almost everyone's responsibilities grew, not just mine.

In late spring, right around the time Daddy Longchamp came with his family, we booked our first convention. It wasn't a very big one, but it made Mr. Dorfman very nervous nevertheless. It was the most dramatic change I had made at the hotel, because it was something Grandmother Cutler had fought doing for years and years. As Mr. Dorfman inspected and watched everything occur I could see the tension in his eyes. Every once in a while he would look behind his back, as if he expected Grandmother Cutler to come flying down a corridor and furiously chew him out for permitting such a thing.

But it proved successful, and Philip decided he would make conventions a major part of his responsibility. At our weekly meetings we were already talking about another expansion, this time building onto the ballroom so we could book larger and larger groups.

The only truly dark and depressing note in our lives these days came from Beulla Woods. Shortly after Clara Sue's death a dramatic change came over Mother. She began to keep more to herself. Her extravagant formal dinners diminished until she rarely held any, and she was hardly seen going anywhere with Bronson. There were physical changes in her as well. She stopped dyeing her hair and permitted the gray strands to appear. She ceased the multitudes of beauty treatments, the mud baths and facials, and the once-endless stream of beauty experts at Beulla Woods came to an end.

I was so busy these days that I didn't even notice how few times she phoned me and how long it had been since I had last seen her, but one day Bronson telephoned to beg me to visit and see if there was anything I could do to pull her out of the doldrums.

"She's back to being the emotional and psychological invalid she was when she lived at the hotel," he complained. "Some days I can't get her out of the bed, much less the room. And you wouldn't believe the weight she's gained."

"Mother? Gained weight?" Bronson was right: I couldn't believe she would have permitted herself to add an ounce. She had been terrified of having a double chin.

"She lies there and eats sweets all day," Bronson said. "She knows what's happening to her. A few days ago she asked the maid to put a sheet over the vanity-table mirror. She doesn't care to look at herself anymore.

"I know she went to extremes with these things before. I let her spend a fortune on new miracle products to stop aging, but I would much rather have her that way than the way she is now. For the past few days she's barely eaten. All she does is sleep and sleep. It's as if she wants to fade away," he added, his voice breaking.

"I'll be there tonight, Bronson," I promised.

"That's good. Actually, you're my last hope," he confessed. "She thinks so highly of you now. I bring home all the good news about the hotel and the children. I'm very proud of you myself," he concluded.

After I hung up I sat back and thought how ironic it was that Mother depended on me. I couldn't find the hardness in my heart to refuse to help her. If the tragedies of my own life had taught me anything, it was to be more tolerant and sympathetic toward others. In one way or another we were all victims of a sort. Only Grandmother Cutler, whose spirit still haunted us somehow, remained unworthy of any sympathy, I thought.

When I arrived at Beulla Woods later in the day Mother was, as Bronson had described, cloistered in her room, lying listlessly in her great canopy bed. Seeing her without her makeup, unadorned by expensive jewelry, her face pale and her hair unbrushed left me speechless for a moment. It didn't seem to matter, for when I entered the suite she appeared to be in a daze herself, looking through me. Bronson, standing right beside me, whispered in my ear.

"She's worse than I told you," he confessed. "For the last few days she's barely uttered a word to anyone."

I stepped forward.

"Mother?" Her eyes blinked, and her head turned slowly toward me. I saw no note of recognition in her eyes. My heart began to flutter nervously. I looked at Bronson, who stared at her with concern.

"Laura Sue, it's Dawn. You asked about her, and here she is," he said.

Suddenly Mother laughed, but it was a strange, almost hideous peal of thin laughter. Then the mad and bizarre smile left her face, and she glared at me angrily.

"Who are you?" she demanded. "Another one of her nurses? Answer me. Who are you?"

"Oh, dear," Bronson said.

"Who am I? Mother, you don't know who I am?" I drew closer to the bed.

"No!" she cried, cringing. "Go away. Go away. It's not my fault. All of you," she said, turning to Bronson, too. "Leave me alone!" She began to wave her hand in the air as if she were chasing away flies.

"Laura Sue, what's come over you?" Bronson asked, rushing to her side. She seemed to shrivel up under the blanket, shaking her head, her eyes wide.

"I don't understand," Bronson said to me. "What's happening to her?"

"This hasn't happened before?" I asked.

"No. Up until now she's just been . . . withdrawn. Laura Sue, please," he cajoled.

She started to cry, grimacing like a child.

"I didn't mean it. It's not my fault, Daddy," she moaned.

"Daddy? Dear God, what's happening to her?" Bronson cried more frantically.

"Mother," I said, seizing her hand, "snap out of this. What's wrong with you?"

"They're all looking at me," she whispered, shifting her eyes to the side. "All of them, whenever I go downstairs. They know. They know it all. She told them; she's got them against me. She's spreading the lies, and they believe them." She grabbed my arm with her other hand and squeezed hard. "I want you to help me," she pleaded. "Make them understand it wasn't my fault."

"All right, Mother. I will," I said, deciding it was best to humor her.

"Good," she said, easing her grip. "Good." She turned toward Bronson. "Doctor, I need something stronger, something that will make me forget. Don't you have anything powerful enough? I can't sleep," she cried. "Every time I close my eyes I think it's going to happen again. And even if I do fall asleep, I wake up and hear his footsteps outside my door. I hear him breathing hard through the cracks. He's whispering my name, calling to me. I want another lock on the door," she demanded. "And no one is to come up here but the servants. No one, do you understand?" She turned to me, and I saw the fear in her eyes, the fear and the sadness, and I felt very sorry for her.

"She's reliving Old Man Cutler's attack on her," Bronson said.

"Mother," I said softly. "You're safe. No one will come into your room unless you want them to. I promise," I said.

She stared at me, and then her lips began to tremble more and more until she was crying again.

"One more time, please. Let me look at her one more time. I won't touch her," she said, seizing my arm. "I just want to look at her. I can say good-bye, can't I?"

She tilted her head and smiled.

"She won't know; she's too small to know. She won't remember, so it doesn't matter, does it? Please, one more time."

"She's talking about you, you know," Bronson said sadly. "All right, Mother. All right. It's going to be all right." She looked away, not at Bronson, not at me, but at something she saw in her own mind. Her eyes grew smaller, and she shook her head slowly.

"I'm saying good-bye again, aren't I? Another one's been taken away from me. She had . . . such . . . golden . . . hair," Mother said, and she dropped back against the pillow, her eyes closing.

"Laura Sue," Bronson cried, taking her hand in his.

"I'm so tired," she muttered. "Just let me sleep a little while. And then I promise I'll get up and get dressed and look beautiful again." Her eyes popped open, and she smiled madly once more.

"I'll show her," she pledged. "I promise. I'll be beautiful. The more she hates me, the more beautiful I'll be. And while she grows older and older, I'll get younger and younger. Put out the lights, please," she said. "I need my beauty rest," she added, and she turned her head, her eyes tightly closed. In moments she was asleep.

Bronson looked at me, and I shook my head. I fixed the blankets around her. Bronson put out the light, and then the two of us left.

"I'm sorry," he said in the hallway, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. "I didn't know it had gotten as bad as this."

"She needs treatment, Bronson. You might have to send her away."

"Oh, no," he said firmly. "Whatever she needs, it will be brought here. No one must know, either, except for .the immediate family. She's going to get better," he said, his eyes small with determination. "She's going to recuperate and be the beautiful woman she once was. You'll see.