Cutler 2 - Secrets of the Morning

by V. C. Andrews

  I decided I would try to write to him at least twice a month.

  One afternoon, a few days after Arthur had asked me to read his poetry, I heard a knock on my bedroom door. Trisha was still at dance practice. I was sitting on the floor, my back against the bed, doing my English homework.

  "Excuse me,” he said when I said, come in. He stood back, not daring to take a step in.

  "Hello, Arthur. What can I do for you?" I asked. He had the strangest way of peering at me, making his eyes small and leaning so that his shoulders turned in, making him look like a bird.

  "I was wondering, if you weren't too busy that is, if you would want to look at my poems."

  He was carrying a notebook under his arm. "Sure," I said. "I'd love to. Come on in."

  He hesitated a moment, looked back and then entered.

  "Sit down," I said, patting the spot beside me.

  "On the floor?"

  "Sure, why not? It's very comfortable down here. Trisha and I always sit on the floor when we do our homework."

  It took Arthur a few moments to fold those long legs of his comfortably, but he did it and then handed me his notebook. It was a thick one.

  "You have a lot of poems," I said, impressed.

  "I've been writing them a long time," he said dryly.

  "Who else has seen them?" I asked, opening the cover.

  "Not too many people," he said, "that I wanted to see them. Of course, there are always people who will poke their noses into someone else's business," he added and I guessed he was referring to Trisha who had told me she had once snuck a look at his poetry when he left the notebook on a table in the sitting room.

  I turned the page and read. Trisha had been right. All of his poems were about dismal subjects: animals dying or being deserted, stars that burned out and became black spots invisible in the night sky and someone dying from some horrible disease. I thought they must be good, even so, because they made me feel sad and afraid and reminded me of my own bad times.

  "These poems are very good, Arthur," I told him. He turned his head and allowed his eyes to meet mine. They looked like dark pools in the forest, deep and so still they seemed frozen. Looking into Arthur's eyes was like looking through a keyhole of an otherwise locked door. I saw the sadness and the loneliness inside and I felt the emptiness. "I know they're good because they make me sad and make me remember when I felt like this in the past.

  "But if you can write so well, why don't you write poems that will make people feel happy?"

  "I write what I feel," he said, "and what I see."

  I nodded, understanding. When I read the poem about the beautiful dove that broke its wings and had to stay on a leafless branch until its heart gave out, I thought about Momma Longchamp growing weaker and weaker after Fern's birth until she was like a beautiful bird whose wings had been clipped. I recalled the day her heart gave out, and in remembering I felt anew my need for a mother or daddy to hold me close and stroke my hair when I was sick or scared.

  Tears began to stream down my cheeks.

  "You're crying," Arthur said. "No one has ever read my poems and cried."

  "I'm sorry, Arthur," I said. "It's not because your poems are bad." I handed the notebook back to him. "It's just hard for me to read these things and not think about my own painful times."

  He looked astonished for a moment. Then he nodded slowly, his thin lips pressed together with understanding and his protruding Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.

  "You don't like your family, do you?" he asked and before I could reply he added, "I know about the letter of lies your grandmother wrote to Agnes."

  "You followed us that night and saw us sneak into her room to read it, didn't you?" I accused him sharply.

  "Yes. I know you saw me that night." He looked down at his long-fingered hands folded in his lap and then looked up. "I listened through the door and heard how angry you and Trisha were after reading it. Why does your grandmother dislike you so?"

  "It's a long story, Arthur."

  "Are you angry about my following and spying on you?" he asked, holding his breath.

  "No. But I don't like to be spied on. It makes me feel dirty all over and gives me the creeps."

  He nodded, and we were both silent and tense for a long moment.

  "I don't like being with my parents," he confessed. "I hate going home and I can't stand going on holiday with them."

  "That's terrible, Arthur, a terrible thing to say about your mother and father. Why do you say it?"

  "They're always disappointed in me. They want me to be a professional musician. They're determined that that's what I will be. I practice and practice, but I know I'm mediocre. My teachers know it too. The only reason they tolerate me is because of who my parents are."

  "Why don't you just tell them how you feel about it?" I asked.

  "I have, dozens of times, but they refuse to listen. All they say is keep practicing; it takes practice. But it takes more than practice," he emphasized, his eyes widening. "It takes some talent too. It has to be in you to be something. My parents can't see that they want to make me into something I'm not."

  "You're right, Arthur. They're just going to have to understand. Someday, they will, I'm sure."

  He shook his head woefully. "I doubt it. I don't even care anymore." He took a deep breath, his narrow shoulders rising and falling. Then he looked at me with those beady eyes again.

  "I'm going to write a poem, just for you, Dawn," he said quickly. In fact, it will be about you," he said, "because you're different," he added and then blushed when he realized how emphatically he said it. "I . . . I mean . . . you're very nice." He stood up so quickly that he almost stumbled and fell over.

  "That's very kind of you, Arthur," I said. "I look forward to reading it."

  He stared at me a moment and then smiled for the first time. A moment later, he was gone.

  I shook my head in amazement and wiped the last lingering tear from my cheeks.

  The next day I had a wonderful surprise waiting for me when I returned from school. Jimmy had written to tell me he was getting his leave the following week and he would use the time to visit Daddy Longchamp and then swing around to see me. He would be in New York on the weekend and be at our apartment house by twelve o'clock to take me to lunch. I couldn't contain my excitement. Every night I planned the things I would wear. I wondered aloud about changing my hair style. Trisha said I was driving her insane.

  "You would think a movie star was coming," she said. "I never got so excited about my boyfriend's visits," she said a little enviously.

  "It's been so long since I've seen Jimmy and so much has happened to both of us. Oh Trisha, what if he's met so many pretty girls that he thinks I'm still a child next to them," I moaned.

  She laughed and shook her head.

  "If he likes you as much as you say he does, nothing can change the feelings you have for each other," Trisha declared.

  "I hope you're right."

  The next day we went to Saks Fifth Avenue. I was in luck because there were two beautiful models in the cosmetics department lecturing customers on the proper way to apply makeup. I chose a different shade of lipstick and bought some perfume. The model showed me how to put on eye liner and blush and even gave me some advice about my hair. I used some of the money my mother had sent me to buy a new sweater and skirt outfit I had seen in a fashion magazine.

  I was on pins and needles from the moment my eyes snapped open the day Jimmy was to arrive. I had been practicing with the makeup just the way the model had shown me, and after I was finished I brushed my hair long and hard till it shone like a fairy princess's. I put on my new sweater and skirt and then I nervously looked in the full-length mirror. I couldn't believe my eyes. Excitement had made my cheeks flush pink and my eyes sparkle, and the soft blue wool molded itself gracefully around my breasts and waist before falling to my knees, like a dancer's skirt. I couldn't help thinking, conceited though it was, that I looked beautiful.
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  I was too nervous to eat breakfast. Although summer had lingered into late September and it was still warm, the sky was overcast and dreary. I was afraid it would rain—I'd had so many fantasies and daydreams about Jimmy and I walking through the city, his strong hand holding mine. Trisha went to the library to get some research books for a term paper we had to do. By the time she returned, it was after noon and Jimmy still hadn't arrived.

  "He's late," I cried. "Maybe something happened and he can't come."

  "He would have called you, wouldn't he? Stop worrying. It's not so easy traveling through New York, you know. You're chewing your nails down to your finger bones," she declared. I pulled my fingers from my lips.

  "Here," she ordered, giving me one of the books. "Take out your notebook and go down to the sitting room and read and wait."

  "Oh, I just couldn't, Trisha," I moaned.

  "It will help you pass the time until he comes. Just do it," she commanded. "I'll sit and wait with you."

  We went downstairs. As the hours ticked by I began to get discouraged. I took out my mirror and checked and rechecked every few minutes, primping and patting my hair. Arthur Garwood returned from Saturday instrumental practice and looked in, his pencil-thin lips twisting into a smile, but when he saw Trisha was there with me, he snapped himself back as if he were connected to an enormous rubber band and continued up to his room. Finally, after we'd waited nearly four hours we heard the door buzzer sound.

  Trisha and I looked up at each other. Agnes was out shopping with friends and Mrs. Liddy was in the kitchen.

  "Should I let him in?" Trisha asked.

  "No, no, I'll do it," I said and took a deep breath. "How do I look?"

  "Not any different from the way you looked five minutes ago when you asked," she said, laughing.

  I stood up and went to the entrance. I closed my eyes and for a moment pictured Jimmy back at the hotel in the hideaway when we had told each other our most secret feelings and thoughts about each other. Those moments and those words seemed more like part of a childhood dream, a fantasy. Had time and distance changed the way we felt? My heart began to pound in anticipation. I opened the outer doors to greet him.

  Jimmy looked so much taller in his uniform. His face had lost its innocent softness and become firm and full in a mature way. His dark hair was short, of course, but that didn't take away from his good looks. It seemed to emphasize his hazel-brown eyes, Momma Longchamp's eyes. He stood tall with his shoulders back, confidence radiating from him. As he looked down at me, I saw his eyes soften and warmth flooded through me.

  "Hi," he said. "I'm sorry I'm so late, but a bus broke down and I got a little lost. You look so pretty."

  "Thank you," I said. I didn't move. It was as if we had both jumped ahead years and years and were afraid to treat each other the way we had when we were growing up side by side as brother and sister.

  "Aren't you going to invite him in?" Trisha asked, standing directly behind me.

  "What? Oh. I'm sorry, Jimmy. This is Trisha, my roommate. Trisha, this is Jimmy."

  Jimmy stepped forward and took Trisha's hand.

  "Pleased to meet you," he said. He nodded toward me. "Dawn has told me a lot about you."

  "And she's told me a lot about you, too," Trisha countered. They both looked at me as if I had given away state secrets about each. "Shall we go into the sitting room?" Trisha asked, that silly smile frozen on her lips.

  "What? Oh, yes," I said and led Jimmy in.

  "Very nice place," he said, sitting down on the small sofa and gazing around at the pictures and mementos.

  "Would you like something to drink?" Trisha asked. "Dawn seems to have forgotten her manners," she teased. "Agnes would be very upset."

  "No thank you," Jimmy said. There was a long moment of silence and then we all started talking at once.

  "How is Daddy Longchamp?" I asked.

  "How's school?" Jimmy asked.

  "What's it like being in the army?" Trisha asked.

  We all laughed. Then Jimmy sat back, a lot more relaxed. He seemed so different to me, so calm and so much stronger. I had always felt so much younger than him, so much like his little sister. Now his quiet maturity made me feel even more distant.

  "I like the army," he said. "Like they tell you at boot camp, I've found a new home."

  I raised my eyebrows on the word "home," and he turned to wink at me.

  "But it's okay. I like the guys I'm with and I'm learning about engines and mechanics in a way that will be handy when I get out." He turned back to me. "I'm sorry about being late. I was supposed to take you to lunch, now it will have to be dinner. If that's all right, that is," he added.

  "Oh . . . of course," I said.

  "You'll have to tell me a good restaurant. I don't know much about New York," he explained to Trisha.

  "Oh, go to Antonio's on York and Twenty-eighth," Trisha suggested.

  "That's too expensive," I said. We had never gone to eat there, but we had stopped to look in at it and it looked very fancy.

  "Don't worry about it," Jimmy snapped, that fiery light I remembered in his dark eyes flashing for a moment to announce his pride. "Anyway," he said, his eyes filling with a mischievous twinkle, "you're too dressed up for anything cheap."

  I blushed so fast and hard, I felt the heat rise in my neck. When I looked at Trisha, I saw that silly, satisfied smile on her lips.

  "Well, then, let's go," I said. "I'm starving."

  "She should be; she's been too nervous to eat all day," Trisha revealed.

  "Trisha!"

  Jimmy laughed. We got up and walked out. "Have a good time," Trisha said.

  "Thank you," Jimmy said.

  "He's very handsome," she whispered in my ear. When we stepped out of the apartment house, I discovered he had a taxi cab waiting.

  "Why didn't you say something, Jimmy?" I cried, knowing what that would cost. "The meter's been running all this time."

  "Don't worry about it," he said. "After what I've been through, I deserve to splurge and there's no one I care to splurge with more than you, Dawn. You really do look great," he added as he led me to the cab.

  Suddenly, a brilliant sun peeked through the dreary clouds and across the street, trees in vivid colors lit up. It warmed my heart, but made me feel like I had entered a dream, stepped into one of my fantasies.

  Here were Jimmy and I, practically two orphans who had been brought up a step past utter poverty, getting ready to go to a fancy New York restaurant. How strange and confusing time and events had been.

  It was hard to determine what was real and what was a dream. Maybe for the moment, I thought, it was better not to try.

  The restaurant was as fancy as it looked. When we entered, we were asked if we had reservations. Of course we hadn't, but the maitre d' studied his book and then nodded his head. I think he was impressed with Jimmy's uniform.

  "I can take care of you," he declared and showed us to a corner table. It seemed to me that everyone at the restaurant was looking at us as we walked through it to sit down. I was so nervous I nearly sent my silverware flying to the floor when I took the napkin out from under it to put it on my lap. We were asked if we wanted cocktails.

  Cocktails! I thought. How old did the waiter think I was?

  "No, we'll just go right to dinner," Jimmy replied and smiled. "We're starving."

  "Very good, sir," he said and left us with the menus. When I saw the prices, my heart stopped.

  "Oh Jimmy, some of these dinners cost as much as our week's food bill was."

  "I told you not to worry about it," he said. "I haven't spent a penny of my army pay until now," he admitted. And then he told me with pride thick in his voice how he had given Daddy Longchamp some money.

  "Tell me how he really is, Jimmy," I said after we had ordered. Jimmy's eyes darkened and the corners of his mouth tightened the way they would whenever he fought back anger or sadness. He gazed down at the table and fingered his silverware.

&n
bsp; "He looked a lot smaller and a lot older to me, guess prison does that to you. His hair was grayer, his face thinner, hut when he set eyes on me, he brightened considerably. We had a long talk about what had happened and he explained why he and Momma did what they did, how they thought they were doing the right thing since your real Momma and Daddy didn't want you and since he and Mamma had tried and failed to have another baby."

  Jimmy looked up quickly, his eyes watering.

  "Of course, he still admits it was wrong and he's very sorry for the pain and suffering he caused all of us, but I couldn't help but feel more sorry for him than I felt for myself. It's broken him and with Mamma gone, he really has nothing."

  I wasn't as strong as Jimmy; I couldn't keep my tears from pouring over and out of my lids. He smiled at me and leaned over the table to wipe the tears from my cheeks.

  "But he's happier now, Dawn, and he sends you his love. He's made some new friends; he likes his new job."

  "I know. He wrote to tell me that."

  "But I bet he didn't tell you he has a lady friend," Jimmy said with a wry smile.

  "Lady friend?"

  "She's cooking for him and I had the suspicion she was doing a lot more, but they didn't want me to know about it just yet," he said, his smile spreading.

  Of course I was happy that Daddy Longchamp had found some companionship and wasn't going to be lonely any more. I knew what it meant to be lonely and how it made your heart heavy and even bright sunny days look gloomy and dark. But I couldn't help thinking about Momma and that made hearing about Daddy Longchamp and another woman painful to me. My expression must have shown my confusion because Jimmy reached across the table and took my hand in his.

  "But he told me no one could ever replace Momma in his heart," Jimmy said quickly.

  I nodded, trying to understand.