Midnight Whispers by V. C. Andrews
I saw Jefferson scurrying quickly from the living room to rush into Daddy's arms. He lifted him and kissed him and carried him in to join Mammy and me.
It was a world of smiles and love, of music and laughter. I opened the door and looked out at the darkness that awaited. Then I took Jefferson's hand in mine and stepped forward, closing the door behind me.
The music and the laughter died.
All I heard was the beating of my frightened heart.
We were truly orphans, fugitives fleeing from the great curse. Could we escape its hold or would it trail behind us through each and every shadow that awaited?
10
A REAL FATHER
WE WALKED ALL THE WAY INTO CUTLER'S COVE. JEFFERSON had never been outside this late. The stillness around us, the gleam of the stars on the inky calm ocean and the depth of the pockets of darkness in every corner kept him clinging to my side, his little hand wrapped tightly around mine. The only sounds we heard were the squeaks and creaks of the docks and Mats as the waves lifted and fell, and the click-clack of our own footsteps over the sidewalk and street. It wasn't until the street lights of the seaside village loomed brightly ahead of us that Jefferson relaxed some. His surprise and excitement overtook his fear and fatigue and he began to throw questions at me.
"Where are we going, Christie? Why are we walking so much? Why don't we just ask Julius to drive us?"
"Because I don't want anyone to know we're leaving, Jefferson. I told you―we're running off," I said, my voice low. It just seemed natural to whisper.
"Why?" Jefferson whispered too. "Christie?" He pumped my hand. "Why?"
I spun around on him.
"Do you want to stay and live with Aunt Bet and Uncle Philip, Richard and Melanie for the rest of your life? Do you?"
Frightened by my outburst, he shook his head, his eyes wide.
"Neither do I, so we're running off."
"But where will we go?" he demanded. "Who will we live with?"
I walked on faster, practically dragging him along. Where were we going? It wasn't until this very moment that I actually thought of a destination. We couldn't go to Aunt Trisha. She was on a road trip. Suddenly, I had an idea.
"We're going to New York City," I said finally. "We're going to find my real father and live with him. Nothing can be worse than where we're living now and whom we're living with," I muttered.
I didn't look back to see how Jefferson had reacted to the idea; I just continued along, moving us down the side of the street, clinging to the shadows for protection. I didn't want anyone to see us and report us.
One of the only places open in Cutler's Cove this late at night was the bus depot. It was a small station with a lobby that had just one worn wooden bench, a water fountain and a cigarette machine. Behind the counter was a man who had salt-and-pepper curly hair, the spiraling curls falling over his forehead. He looked at least fifty years old. When we entered, he was reading a paperback novel. For a moment he didn't realize we were there. Then he sat up quickly and gazed at us, his squirrel-like eyes full of curiosity and surprise.
"Well, what are you two doing out so late?" he demanded, his slightly gray eyebrows lifting and turning like two question marks.
"We're here to catch the next bus to New York City," I said, trying to sound older. "My cousin dropped us off at the wrong place and we walked," I added. He scrutinized us suspiciously.
"How much is it to New York City?" I asked firmly. "And when is the next bus?"
"New York City, huh? Well, round trip fare is . . ."
"No, just one way," I said quickly. He looked up sharply. "We have another way to get back," I added.
"Hmm . . . well, his fare would be half," he said, nodding at Jefferson. He considered me. "You would pay full adult," he said. I didn't want to put out the extra money, since we didn't have all that much, but I was happy he thought I was old enough to travel alone with my brother. "Bus don't run directly to New York from here, you know," he added and began punching up the tickets. "It stops at Virginia Beach and then again in Delaware."
"That's all right," I said, setting down my suitcase and stepping up to the counter.
"Actually, you're in luck because we've got a bus due through here in twenty minutes. But it's only a shuttle that runs through two more stations before it reaches Virginia Beach. You'll have to get off there and take the . . ." he checked his schedule card. "The first one's the eight-forty. Goes to Port Authority station, New York City."
"Port Authority is fine," I said and counted out the money on the counter carefully. He raised his eyebrows again.
"You been to New York before?" he asked skeptically.
"Many times. My father lives there," I said quickly.
"Oh, I see. One of them families where the father's one place and the mother's another, huh?"
"Yes," I replied. His eyes softened and he seemed more sympathetic.
"And your mother don't want to take you to see your father, I imagine?"
"No sir." He nodded, smirking.
"Well, I suppose I could squeeze you in for the cheaper fare. It's no skin off my back," he added.
After I got our tickets, I directed Jefferson to the bench. He stared at the ticket seller until the man went back to his paperback book. Then he turned and fixed his eyes on me with that sharply inquisitive gaze.
"Why did you tell all those lies?" he demanded.
"Shh," I said. I pulled him closer. "If I didn't, he wouldn't sell us the tickets. He would call the police and tell them he had a pair of runaways."
"The police would arrest us and put us in handcuffs?" Jefferson asked, incredulous.
"They wouldn't arrest us, but they would take us back to the hotel."
"Mommy said it's wrong to tell lies," he re-minded me.
"She didn't mean these kinds of lies; she meant lies that hurt other people, especially people you love and who love you," I explained. Jefferson narrowed his eyes and considered it. I saw him digest the idea and then sit back with approval. Shortly afterward, the shuttle bus arrived. There were a half-dozen other people on the bus, sitting mostly in the center and rear and apparently asleep.
"Up awful early," the driver said.
"Yes sir."
"Well, it's the best time to travel," he said. He took our suitcases to put in the luggage compartment and then he went in to talk to the station attendant. I settled Jefferson and myself in the second seat on the right and looked at the driver and the ticket seller through the window. They both gazed our way. My heart was pounding. Were they discussing us? Would they call the police? After a few more minutes, the two of them laughed about something and the bus driver returned. He closed the door and started the engine. I held my breath and tightened my grip on Jefferson's little hand. A moment later we were pulling away from the station. The bus turned down the main street of Cutler's Cove and the driver accelerated. We drove past the stores and shops I had known all my life. We passed the mayor's office and the police station and then we passed the school. Soon we were on the road to Virginia Beach, and Cutler's Cove fell farther and farther behind us. This was my first time traveling alone, but I closed my eyes and swallowed my fear.
Jefferson fell asleep during the ride to Virginia Beach and was practically walking in his sleep when I led him off the bus to wait at the much bigger and busier Virginia Beach station. But the activity and noise were not enough to keep his eyes open. He drifted off again, falling asleep against my shoulder as we waited for the next bus.
This time, after we boarded and took our seats, I fell asleep too. Hours and hours later, when we stopped again to pick up passengers in Delaware, I awoke and found that it was raining. Jefferson's eyes snapped open a few moments later and he immediately asked to go to the bathroom.
"I hope you're not afraid to go in by yourself, Jefferson," I said. "I can't go in there with you."
"I'm not afraid. It's just a bathroom," he declared bravely, but he looked very worried as he went in. While he
"I wanted scrambled eggs," Jefferson complained when I handed him a container of milk and some oatmeal cookies. "And toast with a glass of orange juice."
"We'll get good things to eat when we get to New York," I said.
"Does your real father live in a big house, too?" he asked. "With a maid and a butler?"
"I don't know, Jefferson."
"Does he have a wife who will be our new mother?" he inquired.
"I don't know if he ever got remarried. I don't know much about him at all," I said sadly. "So please don't ask any more questions, Jefferson. Just sit and look at the scenery, okay?"
"It's boring," he complained, folding his arms across his chest and pouting. "I should have brought one of my games. Why didn't I bring any toys?" he whined.
"Jefferson, we didn't have time to pack a lot of things. Please, just be good," I pleaded, practically in tears. What was I doing? Where would I really go?
Jefferson shrugged, drank his milk and ate his cookies. He drifted off and on during the rest of the trip, as did I. The rain slowed down to a slight drizzle. Finally, I saw the New York skyline in the distance. As we drew closer and closer, it seemed to grow higher and higher, the tops of the buildings practically scratching the gray sky. When I saw a sign that said Lincoln Tunnel and I knew we were about to cross into New York City, my heart began to pound. I started to recall all the things Mommy had told me about New York—how it was so big and how there were so many people, it was hard to be a stranger there. But I also remembered how much Aunt Trisha loved New York. If she was so excited by it, it couldn't be all that bad, I hoped.
Jefferson became excited when we entered the Lincoln Tunnel. It seemed to go on and on forever, and then, suddenly we burst out into the light and the streets of New York. The traffic and the noise was just as Mommy had described. No one seemed to mind or care that it was still raining lightly. Jefferson kept his face glued to the window, drinking in everything: the street vendors, the taxicabs, the policemen on horseback, people begging and sleeping in entryways, and many fancily-dressed people hurrying to and fro, some with umbrellas, but most without. Moments later, we pulled into the huge bus station and the driver announced: "New York, Port Authority. Watch your step getting off."
I took Jefferson's hand, holding him so tightly, he grimaced with pain as we stepped down. We waited as the driver pulled our small suitcases out from the luggage compartment. I took them, handing Jefferson his, and then we entered the station. People were rushing about everywhere, everyone else seemingly knowing where to go.
"Where's your real father?" Jefferson asked, looking around.
"He doesn't know we're here yet," I said. "I have to find his phone number and call him." I spotted a wall of pay phones and hurried us to them. The size of the telephone book was overwhelming. Jefferson's eyes bulged with amazement.
"That's a lot of telephones!" he exclaimed. "Watch our suitcases and my pocketbook while I look up his number, Jefferson," I said. He nodded and I began to turn the pages. When I came to Sutton, however, my heart sank. There were more than two pages of Suttons and more than a dozen had either Michael, Mike or just M. as first names,
"I've got to get more change," I said. "Lots more." I took out my remaining money and looked about for a place to get change. I saw a newspaper stand and hurried over.
"Excuse me," I said when the man turned to us. "Could I get change for the telephone?"
"What do I look like, the Chase Manhattan Bank?" he replied, pulling the corners of his mouth into his cheeks. "Buy something, you get change," he said.
"But . . . all right. Give us a Hershey bar," I said. I handed him five dollars. "All in change, please."
"Who you calling----everyone in Manhattan?" He shook his head but gave us the change. Jefferson was happy with the Hershey bar.
I began to make the phone calls, my fingers trembling as I dialed the numbers. What would I say? How would I begin? What would I call him when he answered—Daddy? Michael? Even Mr. Sutton? No one answered at the first number. An elderly lady answered on the second.
"Is this the home of Michael Sutton, the singer?" I began.
"Singer? No. Michael's a plumber," she said. "I'm sorry."
Down the list I went, some people politely replying no, some very annoyed with the phone call. One man thought I was making a prank call and started to curse. Finally, I called one of the M. Suttons and after four rings, a woman answered, her voice sounding dry and deep like the voice of someone who had just been woken.
"I'm looking for Michael Sutton, the singer," I began.
"So am I," she interrupted.
"Do I have the right number?" I asked.
"Who are you, one of his students?"
"Students? Yes, ma'am," I said. "And I'm sup-posed to have a lesson with him today."
"Well, I hope it's not until this afternoon," she said curtly.
"It is."
"Well what do you want?" she demanded. "Is he there now?" I asked.
"In body but not in spirit," she replied. She followed it with a laugh.
"Can I speak with him, please?"
"He's sort of indisposed at the moment. Call back in about . . an hour," she said.
"But . . ."
She hung up before I could say another word. At least I had the right Michael Sutton, I thought, and copied the address out of the phone book. Jefferson, who was sitting quietly and observing all the people and noise around him, looked up expectantly.
"All right," I said. "I've found him. Let's go find a taxicab."
"A taxicab? Okay," he replied with excitement. I followed the signs that directed us to the 41st Street entrance. When we stepped out, we saw the line of taxicabs parked along the curb. The rain had stopped, but it was still very gray and dismal. The driver at the first cab moved toward us quickly. He was a tall, thin man with a thick brown mustache.
"You need a cab, miss?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Well you got one," he said, taking our bags and putting them into the trunk. "Get in," he said, nodding toward the rear seat. Jefferson slipped in quickly and immediately looked out the window on the other side. "Where to, miss?" the driver asked after he got in.
I told him the address.
"Oh, Greenwich Village, huh?" He turned on his meter and pulled out into the thick traffic as if we were the only vehicle on the street. Horns blared, people shouted, but he turned and accelerated with indifference after the light changed. In moments we were flying down the city street, both Jefferson and me holding on to the handles for dear life.
"Your first trip to New York City?" the driver asked us.
"Yes sir."
He laughed.
"Thought so. You looked pretty terrified when you first came out of the building. Don't worry. Just keep your nose out of other people's handkerchiefs," he said, "and you'll be all right."
"Ugh," Jefferson chortled.
The driver made a few turns, took us down a long street and then made another turn around a corner where there was a restaurant and a flower shop. He drove slower and finally stopped. I gazed out the window at a row of old-looking buildings. Most had faded and worn-looking front doors with chipped stoops. The buildings themselves looked gray and dirty; the windows on the lower levels were streaked with dust and grime hardened after the rain.
"This is it," the driver said. "That'll be five forty."
I took out six dollars and handed it to him. "Thanks," he said and stepped out of the taxicab to get our suitcases.
"Which one is eight eighteen?" I asked, looking at the stoops.
"Numbers are a bit faded, but if you look closely, you'll see eight eighteen right in front of you, sweetheart." He got into his cab and drove off. Jefferson and I stood on the sidewalk and stared up at the front door of the building in which my real father lived.
"Come on, Jefferson," I said, lifting my suitcase.
"I don't
"Just come along, Jefferson," I ordered and took his hand. Reluctantly, he lifted his little suitcase and followed me up the stoop to the front door. We walked into a small entryway. On the wall were boxes for mail and above each were the names of the tenants. I found the name Michael Sutton next to Apartment 3B. Just seeing the name made me so nervous I could barely move. Slowly, I opened the second dour and we entered the first floor. I saw the stairway on the right, but I didn't see an elevator.
"I don't want to walk upstairs. I'm tired," Jefferson moaned when I started us toward the steps.
"We have to," I said. "Soon you will be able to sleep in a bed."
I tugged him along and we began to climb up the stairs. When we reached the third floor, I stopped to look around. It was a dark, dingy corridor with only a small window at the far end. It looked as though no one ever washed the glass.
"It smells funny in here," Jefferson said, grimacing. It did smell musty and stale, but I didn't say anything. Instead, I went down the corridor until we stood before 3B. Then I took a deep breath and pressed the buzzer. I heard nothing, so I pressed it again. Again, there was no sound.
"Maybe it doesn't work," I muttered and knocked gently on the door. We listened for footsteps, but heard none.
"Maybe he's not home," Jefferson suggested.
"No, I just spoke to someone here," I insisted and knocked again, this time a lot harder. Moments later, the door was thrust open and we were facing a woman who had thrown on a man's faded blue robe. Her bleached blond hair, with its thick dark roots showing, was unbrushed. She wore no makeup and had sleepy eyes. A lit cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth.
"What?" she demanded.
"I'm here . . . we're here to see Michael Sutton," I explained.