Cutler - Midnight Whipsers Part 15

"He's hidden my clothes," he moaned. "And he won't tell me where my shoes are."

"What?" I got out of bed and put on my robe.

"Let's see what's going on here," I said, taking his hand. I led him back to his room, but Richard wasn't there.

"See," Jefferson said, "my shoes are gone."

"Did you look in your closet?" I asked. He nodded. I looked anyway and saw his favorite shoes were not there. I looked under the bed, too. "This is ridiculous," I said. "Where is he?"

"He always goes to Melanie's room in the morning," Jefferson revealed.

"He does? Why?" Jefferson shrugged. I stalked out of the room and went to Melanie's door. When I knocked, she said, "Come in." I opened the door to find Melanie seated at the vanity table. She was still in her pajamas. Richard stood behind her, still in his pajamas too. He was brushing her hair. They both turned and gazed at me with expressions so similar, it was frightening at first. Both looked angry about being disturbed-their eyes wide and blazing, their lips curled.

"What are you doing?" I asked, more out of surprise and curiosity than anything else.

"I'm brushing Melanie's hair. I do it every morning," Richard said.

"Why?" I couldn't help smiling in confusion. "I just do. What do you want?" he demanded, showing his impatience with me.

"Where are Jefferson's things-his shoes, his clothes?"

"I told him if he leaves them lying around sloppily, I would hide them forever and I have," he replied and started to brush Melanie's hair again.

Rage first nailed me to the floor and then exploded in my chest, sending me charging toward him.

He looked up with surprise when I grabbed the brush out of his hand and raised it threateningly. He cowered and Melanie screamed.

"Who do you think you are? What right do you have to do these things in our house?" I screamed.

"What's going on in here? What is it?" Aunt Bet cried from the doorway. She had come running from what was now her and Uncle Philip's bedroom. She was still in her nightgown, her hair under a sleeping cap, her face white with cold cream. It made her lips as pale as dead worms and her small eyes like two dull brown marbles.

"Richard has hidden Jefferson's shoes and clothes," I said. "And he won't tell where."

"He left everything lying on the floor again and his shoes in the middle of the floor. Someone could trip over them in the middle of the night," Richard cried in his defense. Aunt Bet nodded.

"You did the right thing, Richard. Jefferson must learn to take care of his things. Richard's not going to be his valet. Jefferson's old enough to know what to do, how to be neat and clean," she told me.

"If he doesn't tell me this moment where Jefferson's things are hidden, I'll sneak into the room in the middle of the night when he's asleep and set a fire under his bed," I threatened. I don't know from where I got the idea or the strength to say such a thing, but it drove a knife of astonishment and terror into Aunt Bet's heart. She gasped and brought her hands to her throat.

"That's . . horrible . . . a terrible, terrible thing to say. What's gotten into you, Christie?" she complained.

"I won't permit my brother to be tormented," I said firmly. Then I turned to Richard. "Where are his things?"

"Tell her, Richard," Aunt Bet said. "I want this deplorable incident to come to an end immediately.

Your uncle has gone to supervise the work at the hotel," she added, "or I would bring him in here to see and hear this."

"I don't care if you tell him or not," I said.

"Well?" I asked Richard.

"I threw them out the window," he confessed.

"What? When?" It had started raining after dinner and then rained all night.

"Last night before I went to sleep," he said.

"Everything's probably ruined. Are you satisfied?" I asked Aunt Bet.

"Richard," she said. "You shouldn't have done that. You should have come to me, first," she chastised gently.

"I'm just tired of living in a pigsty," he replied coldly.

"Well, I can understand that," she said. "Maybe Jefferson will take better care of his things from now on," she added, turning to me.

"If he touches any of my brother's things again, he'll be very sorry," I threatened. I slapped the brush into his hand. He winced and backed away.

Then I took Jefferson's hand and we marched out of the room. After I got dressed, we went out and found his shoes, pants, shirt and underwear under the window. The shoes were soaked and I was sure they were ruined. Mrs. Boston said that when they dried, they would probably be out of shape and rough to wear.

Still enraged, I put them in a paper bag and walked over to the hotel to find Uncle Philip. Most of the hotel's main structure had been demolished. Now the workmen were in the process of removing the debris. Uncle Philip was conferring with the architect and the engineers about the rebuilding of the hotel and the changes they would make. He looked up from the blueprints when I arrived. It was impossible to look at my face and not see the anger. My cheeks were crimson, my eyes bright with heat, my lips trembling with fury.

"Excuse me," Uncle Philip said quickly and stepped away from the others. "What's wrong, Christie?"

"Look," I said, thrusting the bag of soaked shoes at him. He took it and gazed inside. Then he felt them.

"What happened?" he asked, a look of concern in his face.

"Richard threw Jefferson's shoes and his clothes out the window last night because he didn't like the way Jefferson takes care of his things. He didn't care that it was pouring and these would be ruined."

Uncle Philip nodded.

"I'll have a talk with him," he said.

"Aunt Bet thinks he did the right thing," I declared. Again, Uncle Philip nodded.

"I know this has been extra-hard for you, for everyone. So many different personalities thrown together abruptly. It's overwhelming at times," he said, shaking his head sympathetically.

"Not for Aunt Bet and Richard and Melanie," I replied.

"Sure it has," he said. "But that doesn't excuse something like this. I'll straighten it all out tonight,"

he promised and smiled. "I want you to be as happy as you can be, Christie," he said, putting his hand on my cheek. "You're too lovely to be made upset and far too fragile, I know."

"I'm not fragile, Uncle Philip. And it's my brother who is being terrorized right now, not me. I can take care of myself, but he's only nine and . ."

"Of course. Calm down. I promise, I'll straighten everything out. I'll make it up to you," he said. "In the meantime tell Julius to take you and Jefferson into the village to buy him another pair of shoes, okay?"

"It's not just the shoes," I insisted.

"I know, but there's no point in turning this into World War Three now, is there? We're all too fresh with sorrow from the tragedy. Do whatever you can, whatever you want to calm things down, Christie.

You're smarter and older than Richard and Melanie,"

he said. For a minute, I thought he was going to add Aunt Bet, too. "I know I can depend on you."

My anger subsided. The men were waiting for him and there wasn't much else I could have him do anyway. As long as he understood and promised to do something, I thought.

"All right."

"That's a good girl," he said and drew me to him to embrace me and kiss me on the cheek, his lips grazing mine as he pulled back. I stared at him a moment and then turned and ran all the way home to get Jefferson and go shopping for his new shoes.

Despite Uncle Philip's promises, one crisis ended only to be followed by another. There were arguments between Jefferson and Richard over use of the bathroom, over toys and games, and over what television programs to watch. It was easy to see they were like two feuding cats put into the same cage.

Peace could be broken at a moment's notice.

Fortunately, most of the time, Richard wanted to be with Melanie. At first I was happy about it, but as I watched them together, I became curious and then revolted by what I saw. They spent nearly all their waking hours side by side. Besides brushing each other's hair, they would cut each other's toenails and check with each other to see what each wanted to wear before either would get dressed. They never seemed to argue like other siblings their age, and I noticed that Richard never teased Melanie. In fact, neither said a negative or critical thing to the other, ever.

Whenever Jefferson and I were in the same room with them, they would inevitably revert to whispering.

"Your mother's so worried about everyone being polite and following the proper etiquette and behavior," I snapped at them, "you should know that whispering is impolite."

They both smirked. Whenever one was chastised or criticized, the other reacted as if it had been done to him or to her.

"You and Jefferson have secrets," Melanie moaned. "Why can't we?"

"We have no secrets."

"Of course you do," Richard said. "Every family has its secrets. You have another father, your real father, but you keep everything about him secret, don't you?" he accused.

"I do not. I don't know all that much about him," I explained.

"Mother says he raped Dawn and that's how you were born," Melanie revealed.

"That's not true! That's a horrible lie!"

"My mother doesn't lie," Richard said coldly.

"She doesn't have to."

"She has nothing to hide," Melanie concluded.

My heart was pounding. I wanted to walk across the room and slap the expressions of self-satisfaction off both their faces.

"My father, my real father, was a famous opera star. He was even in Broadway musicals and he was a teacher at the Sarah Bernhardt school in New York," I said slowly. "That was where my mother met him and fell in love with him. He did not rape her."

"Then why did he run away?" Richard demanded.

"He didn't want to be married and take care of children, but he didn't rape her," I said.

"That's still horrible," Melanie said. Richard nodded and then went back to the game of Chinese checkers, leaving me steaming.

Not having had to spend so much of my day and night with them before, I never realized how infuriating and self-centered the twins were. No wonder neither of them had any friends besides each other, I thought. Who would want to be their friends?

They were so close, they wouldn't permit anyone to come between them anyhow.

One morning, when they left the bathroom door open and they were both inside, I nearly got sick. I saw Richard take Melanie's toothbrush just after she had used it and put it directly into his own mouth.

"Ugh," I cried and they spun around. "You have your own toothbrush, Richard. Why would you do that?"

"Stop spying on us!" he cried and closed the door.

But it was Jefferson who came to me one night and told me the most astounding thing of all about them. I was writing pages and pages of a letter to Gavin, describing all of the unpleasantness that was going on in the house now, when Jefferson appeared in my doorway looking confused and troubled.

"What's the matter, Jefferson?" I asked.

"Melanie's old enough to take her own bath," he said, "isn't she?"

"Of course. She's practically thirteen, Jefferson.

You take your own bath. Either I or Mrs. Boston help you sometimes and you like me to wash your back the way Mommy always did, but . . . why do you ask?" I suddenly said.

"Richard's helping Melanie," he announced.

"Take a bath?" He nodded. "I don't believe that, Jefferson. How do you know?"

"She asked him to. She came in and said, 'I'm going to take a bath,' and he said, be right along.' Then he got undressed, put on his robe and went to the bathroom."

"They're not taking a bath together, not at their age?" I said. Jefferson pressed the corner of his mouth into his cheek and shrugged again. I got up slowly and went to my doorway to peer down the hallway at the bathroom door. It was shut. "You saw them both go in there?" I asked Jefferson. He looked up and nodded.

Intrigued now, I walked quietly down to the bathroom door and listened. I heard their m.u.f.fled dialogue and put my ear to the door. There was the distinct sound of water lapping against bodies and the inside of the tub. This is disgusting, I thought. Surely neither Aunt Bet nor Uncle Philip knew about this. I tried the handle. The door was unlocked. Jefferson's eyes widened with surprise and excitement when I opened the door a fraction. I put my finger on my lips to indicate silence and he bit down on his lower lip quickly. Then I inched the door open until I could get my head in enough to peer.

There they were in the tub together, facing each other. Richard was scrubbing Melanie's hair. Her budding b.r.e.a.s.t.s, like two puffs of marshmallow, were fully exposed. Suddenly, Richard sensed my presence and turned my way. He stopped scrubbing. Melanie raised her head.

"Close that door and get out of here!" he screamed.

"Get out!" Melanie added.

"What are you doing? That's disgusting," I said.

"You're too old to be bathing together."

"What we do is none of your business. Close that door," he demanded again.

I slammed it shut.

"Go back to your room, Jefferson," I said.

"Where are you going?"