Midnight Whispers by V. C. Andrews
And while she ranted and raved at me, waving the book Aunt Fern had given me in my face, Uncle Philip stood by like a statue of himself, the only movement in his face coming from his continually blinking eyelids and the tremble in his lips.
"I will keep this book," she said.
"You're probably going to take it to read it yourself," I muttered hatefully.
"What? What did you say?" she demanded. I embraced myself and stared at the floor, unable to keep my shoulders from shaking with my sobs.
"You had no right to go snooping in my room," I complained mournfully.
"I didn't go snooping in your room. Mrs. Stoddard happened to see this book while she was cleaning and told me about it. I came to your room to ask you about it and discovered you had snuck out for some rendezvous. Then I looked for myself, hoping what Mrs. Stoddard said wasn't true. Unfortunately, it was."
I didn't believe her, but I was too tired to argue any more.
"From now on, I don't want you leaving the house after eight without specific permission from either your uncle or myself. And we have to know where you are going and with whom. Is that clear? Is it?" she demanded, stabbing her words at me like tiny daggers when I wouldn't reply.
"Yes, yes," I said and stormed past her and into my room, slamming the door behind me. I threw myself on the bed and buried my face in the pillow, which soaked up my stream of tears. I cried until my spring of sorrow was empty and then I sighed and sat up slowly. I ran my fingers over the gold watch Mommy and Daddy had given me. My heart ached because I missed them so very much.
Defeated and exhausted, I got up and began to dress for bed. Increasingly sleep had come to resemble a path of escape. It frightened me to realize how much I looked forward to closing my eyes and retreating from what had become this dark and woeful world. I would want to sleep longer and longer until . . . I'd want to sleep forever, I thought.
I washed my face and put on a pair of flannel pajamas, a pair Mommy had bought me. I couldn't get the chill out of my body and even after I had crawled under the blanket, I shuddered and trembled so hard, my teeth clicked. I tried clamping my eyelids shut in hopes of falling into a deep sleep, but moments later, I heard the sound of a gentle rapping at my door. At first, I thought I had imagined it, but it came again.
"Who's there?" I called weakly. The door opened and Uncle Philip entered, closing the door softly behind him. He was in his pajamas. In the tiny glow of my night lamp, I saw his small smile. "What is it now, Uncle Philip?" I asked.
He came directly to my bed and sat down beside me.
"I didn't want you to go to sleep unhappy," he said. He lightly brushed the back of his hand over my cheek. Then he took my hand into his. "Betty Ann can be a bit too harsh at times. She doesn't mean to be; it's part of her nervous condition," he explained.
"She doesn't have a nervous condition," I snapped, pulling my hand from his. I was tired of hearing excuses for her. "She's just mean."
"No, no, she's simply frightened," he insisted.
"Frightened? Of what? Of me?" I started to laugh. "She does whatever she wants here no matter what I say anyway—torments Jefferson, fires Mrs. Boston, sets down her strict rules and insists we walk a fine line," I rattled.
"She's frightened of caring for and being responsible for a mature young lady," he said.
"Why? She has Melanie, doesn't she?"
"Yes, but Melanie's still a child. You're a blossoming woman who is obviously feeling a woman's needs and desires," he added softly, his eyes smaller. He ran his tongue nervously over his lips. "You can tell me the truth. Did you meet someone tonight?" he asked softly.
"No. I went for a walk. It helps me think," I said. I wouldn't dare tell him I had gone to the cemetery. He might easily guess I had been there the night he was at my mother's grave.
His smile widened.
"I believe you," he said. Then he grew very serious. "But these feelings, these new desires, they can confuse a young person so badly that he or she thinks he's going mad at times." He clutched at his chest and closed his eyes. "These feelings twist and torment you inside, making you feel as if you might explode if you don't find relief. You want to touch something, feel something, press yourself against something that will . . . will calm you down. Am I right? Is that what's been happening to you?"
"No, Uncle Philip," I said. His eyes were wide when he spoke, the glint in them maddening and frightening to me.
"I know," he said smiling again, "that it's a bit embarrassing for you to tell me these things. It's something you would rather discuss with your mother. But alas," he said, wagging his head, "your mother's gone and Betty Ann . . . well, Betty Ann's not the sort who is receptive to these thoughts and discussions. I understand your need to confide in someone who cares a great deal for you. I came here tonight to offer you myself. I want to help you," he said quickly. "Oh, I know, I can't replace your mother and I don't even want to try to do that, but you can trust me, Christie. I will keep your secrets locked tightly in my heart."
"I have no secrets, Uncle Philip," I said.
"I don't mean secrets exactly. I mean feelings," he said. "That's why you were so eager to accept that book from Fern, right? You wanted to know about these things, and it's only natural you do. You're at that age. Why should you flounder about, ignorant of what goes on between a man and a woman, just because your mother's no longer here to explain things to you?
"Well," he continued, smiling again, "I'm here. Can I help you? Can I answer a question, explain a feeling?"
I shook my head. I didn't know what to say. What sort of questions did he expect I would ask? My hesitation didn't discourage him.
"I realize," he said, nodding, "that you can't get yourself to put these feelings into words. It was the same for me as it was for your mother.
"When I first met her, she wasn't much older than you are now, and I was about your age, you know. We confided in each other then," he said in a whisper. "We revealed our innermost thoughts and feelings. We trusted each other. If she trusted me, you certainly can."
He pressed his right palm over the small of my stomach and slid it slowly and smoothly up a few inches. I jumped at his touch, but that didn't dissuade him. He didn't care or seem to notice how I cringed under him.
"You know, I was the first boy, the first man, to touch her here," he said, moving his palm lightly up and over my breast. My heart began to pound so hard, I thought it might beat his hand away. I held my breath, unable to believe what was happening.
"I helped her to explore, to understand," he said. "I can do that for you, too. You don't have to go to books and read them secretly in your room to discover these things. Just ask me anything you want . . . anything," he said quietly.
I couldn't move; I couldn't speak; I couldn't swallow. He closed his eyes and moved his hand from breast to breast slowly over my pajama top, his thumb pressing a bit harder, until he touched my nipple. I jumped and he opened his eyes.
"Uncle Philip!"
"It's all right; it's all right. There, there, don't be frightened. “You want to understand everything, don't you?" he asked. "So you don't get yourself into trouble. Sure you do," he added nodding. "Too many young girls your age falter about and fall into the wrong hands. They don't know how far they should go and they get themselves into desperate situations. You don't want that to happen to you, do you?"
"It won't happen to me, Uncle Philip," I man-aged to say and pulled myself up in the bed so that his hand dropped from my breasts. Quickly, I embraced myself, covering my bosom with my arms protectively.
"Don't be arrogant and overconfident about it," he warned. "You don't understand what goes on in a man and how he can lose control of his own emotions. You should know what not to do," he advised, "what sort of things can drive a man to lose control of himself. Don't you want me to help you understand that?"
I shook my head.
"If Betty Ann is right and you're meeting someone . . ."
"I'm not," I said.
He stared at me a moment and then his smile returned and he reached out to stroke my hair.
"It's just that you're so pretty, and at a desirable age. I'd hate to see anything, anyone ruin you, spoil you, especially some oversexed teenage boy," he added, his expression changing to one of anger and indignation. "I'd feel terrible; I'd feel responsible. I'd feel I hadn't done my duty," he added.
"That won't happen, Uncle Philip."
"But you'll promise me you will come to me if you have any questions, any confusion. Promise me you'll trust me and let me help you," he said.
"I promise." I would promise anything at this moment to get him to leave, I thought.
His smile returned and he took a deep breath.
"I'll calm Betty Ann down and see to it that she lifts her restrictive curfew from you," he promised. "Can we . . . can I . . . have these personal talks with you from time to time? We won't tell Betty Ann," he added quickly. "She wouldn't understand and she's far too nervous to appreciate how important this can be. All right?" he persisted. His hand was on my knee.
"Yes," I said quickly.
"Good. Good." He patted me on the thigh and stood up. "Sleep well and remember I am here for you. I will be a mother and a father to you. You don't even have to call me Uncle Philip, if you don't want to. You can just call me Philip. Okay?"
I nodded.
"Okay. Good night, my sweet one," he said and knelt down to kiss me on the cheek. His lips felt like two tiny flames on my face and I snapped back quickly, but he didn't notice. His eyes were closed and he wore a look of deep satisfaction. He remained beside me a moment and then stood up again. "Good night, princess," he said and finally left me.
Even after he had gone and closed the door behind him, I couldn't move. My body felt frozen in a cake of ice. What had happened seemed more like a nightmare. Had it happened or had I indeed dreamt it? The memory of his fingers on my breasts was too strong and remained too vivid for it to have been anything but real, I thought.
Aunt Bet tormented Jefferson and me with her horrid rules and her insane attention to neatness and cleanliness; the twins were spiteful and jealous and sought only to make our lives more miserable, and Uncle Philip terrified me with his strange sexual advances and weird ideas.
How miserable our lives were now, and for what reason? What had we done to deserve this wretched and contemptible fate? Surely, I was right to believe there was a curse on our family. It wasn't something anyone else could appreciate or understand. I felt the inherited strain of disaster running through our destinies, saw the perennial gray clouds of gloom hovering over our heads, and understood that no matter how hard we tried, how fast we ran, or how much we prayed, the cold rain of anguish and grief would drop torrents of misfortune on our heads.
This spell had begun because of some horrible sin committed by one of our ancestors. Whoever he or she was, he or she had shaken hands with the devil and we were still paying for that evil act.
Somehow, some way, I hoped I could discover what it was and beg God's forgiveness. Perhaps then and only then, we would be free and safe, as much as anyone could be free and safe in this world.
I said a little prayer for myself and Jefferson and then, finally, fell asleep.
The next day Aunt Bet was like a hot and cold faucet. In the morning at breakfast, it was as if nothing terrible had happened between us the night before. I imagined Uncle Philip had done what he had said he would—calm her down. She didn't bring up Lady Chatterley's Lover or our confrontation. Instead, she rattled on and on at the breakfast table about all the changes she was planning on making in the house—the curtains she would replace, the carpets she would tear up, the painting she planned to have done. Then she declared she wanted to have Julius take us all shopping in the new mall that had just opened in Virginia Beach.
"We'll go on Saturday," she said. "Christie needs some new things to wear, especially something new for her first recital since . . . since the fire."
All of Mr. Wittleman's students were to participate in a recital the first week of August. I had no enthusiasm for it, but I didn't refuse to participate. Aunt Bet was well aware that the recital was an affair usually attended by the most influential and wealthiest citizenry of Cutler's Cove and its immediate surroundings. I knew she was looking forward to attending and sitting in the front row.
"I don't need anything new," I said.
"Of course you do, dear. You want to bring your wardrobe up to date, don't you?" she asked sweetly.
"It is up to date. Mommy bought me some of the latest fashions before she died," I replied.
"Your mother was never really up on what was fashionable and what wasn't, Christie," she said with that syrupy false smile on her lips. "She was always far too busy at the hotel and she didn't subscribe to the proper magazines or read the fashion columns as religiously as I did and do."
"My mother never looked out of fashion a single day of her life," I said vehemently.
"I never caught Dawn looking unattractive," Uncle Philip agreed. "Not even when she was exhausted at the end of the day."
Aunt Bet snapped herself back in her chair.
"I didn't say she was unattractive. It's one thing to be attractive, but another to be in fashion," she lectured. "You will always be attractive, Christie. You've been blessed with pretty features, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't be in style, does it?"
"I don't care," I said, tired of the argument. She took that as my admitting she was right and she smiled and chattered on like a happy canary once again. Jefferson kept his head down and ate his food. Whenever he looked up, I saw by the darkness in his sapphire eyes that he was listening to his own thoughts. Thankfully, he had gotten so he could turn Aunt Bet off and on at will. The twins, of course, sat perfectly straight and listened to everything she said attentively.
After breakfast I retreated to the parlor and my piano, moving through each part of the day like a somnambulist, vaguely aware of where, I was and what I was doing. When I ate lunch, I chewed mechanically and swallowed without really tasting my food. When I read in the early afternoon, my eyes drifted off the page and my gaze seemed to float about the room like an aimless balloon. The only time I came to life was when the mail was delivered and I ran out to see if a letter from Gavin had arrived. Since my mail had been tampered with, I tried to make it my business to be around when the mail was delivered.
There was a letter from him, a short one, but a wonderful one because in it, Gavin told me he had sold his valuable collection of baseball cards and made the equivalent of another week's wages. It meant he could come to see me a whole week earlier than he had originally planned. I hated the idea that he had sold something he had cherished, but he wrote that nothing was more important than his getting back to see me. He had already discussed and confirmed it with Granddaddy Long-champ.
The news washed away my recent unhappiness and depression. When I returned to the piano, I played lighter, happier music, my fingers dancing over the keys. I permitted the sunshine and blue sky to find their way into my heart, and my music was filled with renewed energy. Mrs. Stoddard interrupted her housework to come in to listen.
Afterward, I ran upstairs to write back to Gavin, but I wasn't spread out on my bed and writing for long before I heard the screaming across the hall. I opened my door and listened. It was Aunt Bet. Her faucet had turned cold again. This, time she sounded hysterical, her voice so high-pitched, I thought she would break her vocal cords.
"HE'S JUST A LITTLE ANIMAL!" she cried. "HOW COULD HE NOT KNOW WHAT HE STEPPED IN? HOW COULD HE TRACK IT INTO OUR HOME?" She appeared in Jefferson's bedroom doorway, Richard beside her looking very self-satisfied. Her arms were extended so that the shoes she held in her hands were as far away from her as could be. She pulled her head back as well and turned her nose away.
"What is it, Aunt Bet?" I asked in a tired and disgusted voice.
"Your brother, your little beast of a brother . . . look!" she exclaimed, holding the
"Richard was complaining about an odor in his room. I sent Mrs. Stoddard up here to redo the rug, but nothing seemed to help. Then I came up and looked in Jefferson's closet and found this on the floor. How could he take off these shoes and carry them up here without noticing the stink? How could he? He must have done it deliberately. It's another one of his horrible pranks," she said, drawing up her puckered little prune mouth like a drawstring purse.
For a moment I wondered if it really could have been one of Jefferson's shenanigans. Jefferson would have loved to have found a way to torment Richard, I thought. I was unaware that the possibility had brought a small smile to my lips.
"Do you think this is funny?" Aunt Bet demanded. "Do you?"
"No, Aunt Bet."
"The moment he comes through that front door, I'm sending him upstairs," she declared. "The very moment." She held the shoe away from her and started away. "I should just throw these in the garbage. That's what I should do instead of giving them to Mrs. Stoddard to clean," she muttered and descended with her eyes closed, Richard trailing behind her and guiding her down.
It was terrible to think it, but I had come to the point where I hoped Jefferson did do it deliberately. I returned to my room and described the whole incident to Gavin in my letter. I was sure it would bring a smile and laughter to his lips. When I was finished writing, I went downstairs and out the back door where I found Mrs. Stoddard cleaning Jefferson's shoes. She worked with a pail of soapy water and a sponge.
"He's a terror, that one," she said shaking her head, but I could see some amusement in her eyes.
"I don't know if he did it deliberately, Mrs. Stoddard, but I'll find out when he comes home."
She nodded and started to dry off the shoes with an old towel. Suddenly though, I took a closer look at the shoes.
"Let me see them please, Mrs. Stoddard," I asked. She handed the right one to me and I turned it over, thinking. "Jefferson doesn't wear these shoes anymore, Mrs. Stoddard. He's outgrown them. My mother was going to give them to the Salvation Army."