Cutler - Midnight Whipsers Part 34

He s.h.i.+fted his gaze at me quickly.

"No," he said. "Are we all gonna stand around here jabberin' while there's real work to be done?"

sensed that Luther didn't like talking about the past.

"I'm not," Charlotte said. "I've got to cut up apples," she added.

"Good," Luther said and hurried out the door, Gavin, Homer, and Jefferson trailing behind him.

The rest of the morning pa.s.sed quickly. I went up to our rooms and dusted and polished. I washed the floors and the windows and then sorted out some more of the old clothing for Jefferson and myself.

After lunch, I went into the library and perused the shelves. The books were so old and unused, they each had a second jacket of dust, but I found all the cla.s.sics, collections of d.i.c.kens and Guy de Mau-pa.s.sant, Tolstoy and Dostoyevski as well as Mark Twain. Some of them were first editions.

I found one of my favorite stories, The Secret Garden, and decided it would be the one I would read to Jefferson and have him practice his reading on, too.

Later, after another day's hard farm work and another nice dinner followed by Charlotte's delicious apple pie, I took Jefferson into the library to read to him and have him read to me. Gavin and Homer followed.

Homer had been here all day, helping Luther, and had eaten dinner with us. Although he didn't talk very much, I saw he listened and understood everything that went on around him, and I also saw how much he enjoyed Jefferson's company and how quickly Jefferson had taken to him. He was a gentle giant of a man with soft dark eyes.

As I read from The Secret Garden, Gavin perused the library and found a book for himself, too.

He went off in a corner to read and left me with Homer and Jefferson. First, I let Jefferson do a page.

He was anxious to do well in front of Homer and did do better than usual. When he was finished, I handed the book to Homer. He looked up at me, surprised.

"Can you read any of it, Homer?" I asked. He nodded and stared at the page, but he didn't begin.

"Go on, read some for us," I said. "Didn't you go to school at all?" I asked him when he continued to hesitate.

"Yes, but I left after the third grade to help with the ch.o.r.es."

"And no one came looking for you?" He shook his head. "That's too bad, Homer. If you learn to read better, you'll learn a lot more." He nodded. I leaned over and pointed to some letters. "What you've got to do is sound them out, Homer. This A sounds like the a in hay. The b is like the first sound in boy and the / is like the / in little. You don't p.r.o.nounce the e at the end.

It's called a silent e. Just put the sounds together fast."

"A . ba . . 1111," he said.

"Able. That's good. Right, Jefferson?" Jefferson nodded quickly. I smiled and leaned back. When I did so, I gazed at Homer's neck and just under the strands of hair that were usually down the back of his neck but were now off to the sides, I saw the birthmark.

There was no question in my mind-it looked like a hoof. I felt a cold chill, recalling Charlotte's tale of her baby.

What did this mean? How could Homer have the same birthmark? Did Charlotte make everything up? I practiced reading with Jefferson and Homer for another half hour and then stopped to let Jefferson show Homer the painting he had done in the room off the library. As soon as they left, I told Gavin what I had seen on Homer's neck.

"So?"

"Don't you remember the story I told you about Charlotte's baby----the doll in the crib, all of it?" "Yes, but I thought that was just a story like the . , stories about spirits flying around and Emily on a broom and . . ."

"Gavin, it's all so strange. The neighbors finding a baby left to die, Homer practically living here most of the time, and now the birthmark. I'm going to ask Luther about it," I decided.

"I don't know. He might not like your poking around. He can get angry pretty quickly. I saw it out there in the fields."

"There's nothing for him to get angry about, but I'd like to know the truth."

"Maybe it's none of our business, Christie.

Maybe we shouldn't stir up old memories," Gavin warned.

"It's too late, I'm afraid. I feel something every time I wander through the house. Spirits have already been stirred."

"Oh boy. All right," he said. "When are you going to ask Luther these questions?"

"Right now," I said. Gavin closed his book and sighed.

"Daddy always says curiosity killed the cat."

"I'm not a cat, Gavin. I'm part of the world here at The Meadows. Maybe not through direct bloodline, but still, it's what I've inherited. It's my fate," I said boldly. Gavin nodded, still smiling at me. "Laugh if you want, but I want to know the past that haunts this house and this family."

"Okay, okay," he said and got up. "Let's see what Luther will tell us."

Charlotte told us Luther was out in the barn changing the oil in the pickup truck. It was a very warm night with a sky full of stars. So far away from busy highways and the sounds of traffic and people, we could hear how noisy nature was. Usually, the sounds people made distracted or drowned out the peepers and crickets, the hoot owls and racc.o.o.ns. To both Gavin and myself, it sounded as if every night creature in the wild had an opinion about something or other. Ahead of us, the glow of Luther's lanterns lit up the barn. We could see him crouched over his truck engine.

"h.e.l.lo Luther," I called as we approached. I didn't want to startle him, but he looked up surprised.

"Can we talk to you?" He wiped his hands and nodded.

"Homer go home?" he asked, looking beyond us.

"No. He's inside with Jefferson. But that's what we wanted to ask you about, Luther," I said quickly.

"Oh? Ask about what?"

"Homer. Who is he really, Luther?" I blurted quickly. Luther's eyes narrowed.

"What'dya mean, who is he? He's Homer Douglas, the neighbor's boy. I told you that before," he said.

"Charlotte took me to the nursery," I began, "and told me the story of her baby."

"Oh that. Charlotte pretends a lot," he said, looking at his engine again. "She always has. It was her way of escaping a hard, cold life."

"She doesn't have a hard, cold life now," I said.

"Why is she still pretending?" Luther ,didn't respond.

"Then she didn't really have a baby?" I pursued.

"And the baby didn't have a birthmark that looks like a hoof on the back of his neck?" Luther opened a can of oil and began pouring it into the engine as if we weren't there. "We don't want to make any trouble. I just wanted to know the truth about this family. It's my family, too," I added.

"Your ma, she was a Cutler, but she hadn't no Booth blood in her from what I understood to be the truth," Luther muttered.

"But we inherited the Booths and their history too. Like it or not," I said.

"It's best you don't know about this family,"

Luther said, pausing. "They was hard, cruel folk who married some religion with some superst.i.tion to come up with their mean ideas and ways. Charlotte, she was blessed with a softness and had suns.h.i.+ne in her face always. Them Booths, especially her father and that Emily, couldn't tolerate it and made her practically a prisoner in her own home. They worked her like a slave and never treated her like kinfolk.

"After Mrs. Booth pa.s.sed on, there was nothin'

left to bring any kindness in that house. Why, they even whipped her from time to time. Emily did it just because she took to thinking there was a devilish spirit in Charlotte making her smile. She tried to whip the smile out of her, but Charlotte . ." He shook his head.

"She didn't understand such cruelty and never gave in to it. You couldn't harden her heart. She forgave everyone everything all the time, even Emily." He spat and fixed his gaze on a memory as he continued.

"She'd come out to me after a beating and I'd comfort her and she would tell me Emily couldn't help it. The devil was in her making her do it . . . stuff like that. I was planning on sending her to the devil myself only . . ."

"Only what?"

"That's how the devil gets you. He makes you commit a sin. Anyways . . . Charlotte and I . . . we got so we comforted each other. After my parents pa.s.sed on, we was both alone. Especially at night. You understand?"

Gavin and I exchanged knowing glances. "Yes, we do."

"She got pregnant and as soon as Emily found out, she declared it was the devil's work and the baby would be an evil child. No one outside of the old man and Emily, and me, of course, knew that Charlotte was in a childbearing way. No one in town much saw her.

"I remember the night she gave birth," he said, looking up at the old plantation house. "I remember her screaming. Emily was happy about that. She did everything she could to make things harder."

"They kept her in the Bad Room?"

He nodded, but then looked down.

"Worse. Emily locked her in a closet when the time come," he said. It looked like he had tears in his eyes.

"What? You mean while she was giving birth?"

I asked. He nodded.

"Left in there for hours and when she finally opened the door . . well, instinct takes over, I suppose.

Charlotte had bit the umbilical cord in two and tied it herself. She was covered with blood.

"Emily let her put the baby in the nursery, but a few days later, I seen her slip out of the house with the baby in a basket. I followed her and watched her put the baby in a field near the 'Douglases' house and after she left, I went to Carlton Douglas and his wife and told them someone left a baby on their property.

"They were happy to take him in. They named him Homer and brought him up as best they could.

Emily was pretty mean toward him and always chased him off the property."

"But Charlotte must have realized who he was, right?" I asked.

"If she did, she never said nothin'."

"You never told her?" Gavin asked.

Luther stared at us a moment and then shook his head.

"I thought it would have been too cruel, too painful for her. Instead, after Emily finally went to h.e.l.l, I brought Homer into our lives more and more until you see he's here all the time."

"Charlotte must see the birthmark, if I spotted it," I said.

"Oh, I think she knows who Homer really is.

She don't say it outright, but then, she don't have to."

"Does Homer know?" Gavin asked.

"Not in so many words. He's the same as her .

he feels things, knows things faster thrower his feelings than he knows them through words. He's part of nature here, as at home in these fields with these animals and with these trees and hills as anything that lives here.

"Well," he said, turning back to his truck engine, "that's the story. You wanted to know it, so you do. I wouldn't be proud of the tooth family history. As far as I can tell, even the ancestors were a hard, mean people. They was the kind of plantation owners who treated their slaves badly, the men raping and beatin' them and the women working the women slaves to death. The west field's full of slave dead.

There are no markers, but I know where the graves are. My daddy showed me. If a slave got real sick, he told me, they'd throw him in the grave before he pa.s.sed on."

"Oh, how horrible," I said, grimacing.

"Still want to own up to the Booth side?" he asked.

"I don't want to disown Charlotte," I said. He nodded.

"Yeah, I guess that's true enough." He wiped his neck with a rag. "Hotter than a henhouse in heat tonight, ain't it?"

Gavin laughed.

"We got a swimmin' hole over the hill toward Howdy Fred's there," he said, pointing. "You just follow the gravel path and bear left when you reach the big oak tree. It's got a little dock with a rowboat.

Water comes from an underground spring so it's refres.h.i.+ng."

He smiled.

"Charlotte and I, we used to sneak off there once in a while."

"Sounds great," Gavin said.

"Yeah, the plantation can't be blamed for the people who owned it, I suppose. Though it must've felt the burden," he added and nodded. "It must have felt the burden."

There was a long silence as the three of us grew deep in thought a moment.

"We better see what Jefferson's up to, Gavin," I said finally.

"Okay."

"Luther?" He looked up. "Thanks for trusting us with the story."