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"You're still thinking only of yourself, Philip," I replied, shaking my head. "What about Randolph?"
I didn't wait for his reply. I left him standing there with his mouth gaped open, and I walked on to Christie's nursery to see how she was doing. Sissy greeted me at the door. Christie was fast asleep.
"It was so terrible," Sissy said, wiping her eyes. I pulled her out of the room so we wouldn't waken Christie. "Clarence told me he heard Mr. Cutler's clothing was ripped and torn like he had been running through barbed wire. He died with his hands clutching Mrs. Cutler's tombstone, his face pressed into the dirt." She shook her body to shake out the chill. "That poor man."
"I know," I said. "How's Christie been?"
"She knows something bad's happened. She's seen and heard all the people cryin' and snifflin' and lookin' downhearted, but Mrs. Boston and me tried to keep her in her room most of the time. 'Course, she's always askin' after you."
I nodded and entered the nursery quietly. I looked down at her asleep in her crib, a curl of her golden hair spun over her forehead. Her perfect little face looked like the face on a porcelain doll. I fixed her blanket and left to put away Jimmy's and my things. But Mrs. Boston, who had heard about our arrival, was already there, doing just that.
"I'm just looking for ways to keep busy," she said, shaking her head, her eyes drowning in tears. We hugged.
"How's my mother?" I asked suspiciously. Mrs. Boston sucked in some air and pulled back her shoulders.
"She shut herself up in the suite and hasn't come out ever since. All she will do is call down for things. I don't think she's gotten out of her bed."
"Who's seen about the funeral arrangements?" I asked.
"I imagine Mr. Updike," she said.
"Well, I guess I've got to go in there sooner or later," I said, and I went to my mother's suite. She had the door to her bedroom closed. I knocked on it softly.
"Mother? Are you awake?" I called. There was no reply for so long a moment, I was about to turn away. But then I heard her small cry.
"Dawn . . . is that you?" she asked.
I opened the door and entered. Mother had never looked tinier in the king-size bed with her head sunk into her oversized satin pillows and the comforter drawn over her. There was only a small table lamp lit, casting a weak, pale glow over everything. Despite her period of mourning, she looked as if she had been brushing her hair for hours and hours. She wore lipstick and some rouge and pearl earrings with a matching pearl necklace.
She sat up slightly and held her arms out for me to run into them and comfort her. I walked slowly to her bed and let her embrace me.
"Dawn, I'm so happy you've come back. It was horrible, just horrible. Have you heard all of it?" she asked, falling back on her pillows as if hugging me had drained her of all her available energy. "How he wandered God knows where, through back alleys, under docks, spoke to complete strangers, babbling about his mother? Can you just die?" she said, throwing her eyes back. "People in Cutler's Cove will be talking about this for generations."
"I don't think Randolph was worried about that, Mother," I said caustically.
"No, of course he wasn't. He's gone. None of this will matter to him anymore," she flared. Then she used her small fists to grind away her thick tears and pulled herself into a sitting position. "Mr. Updike keeps calling me to ask dreadful questions concerning the funeral," she moaned. "I don't want to hear another word about it. You will have to take charge."
"What about Philip or Clara Sue?" I asked.
"Clara Sue won't come out of her room," she said, "and Philip is getting to be more and more like his father. He says whatever I want. Well, I don't want," she said flatly, without emotion. "What I do want is for all this ugly business to end," she concluded firmly.
"I feel so sorry for him," I said, "but I told you how
serious it was getting. I told Philip, too. No one seemed to care," I said, a bit more sharply than I had intended. But I was getting tired of how Randolph's death was inconveniencing all his loved ones.
"Don't you start blaming me for this, Dawn," Mother said, pointing her forefinger accusingly. "There was nothing I could do for him. He was obsessed with his mother and her memory. He was always in awe of her, worshiping her as if she were some goddess and not just his mother. He never saw her for what she was; he never saw her meanness or her viciousness. Everything she did was all right, according to him. All she had to do was nod in a direction, and he would rush off to do her bidding. He wanted to be with her, so he's with her," she asserted, nodding.
"I'm sure he didn't want to die on her grave like that, Mother. He wasn't well," I said softly.
"Believe me, Dawn. He wanted to die that way," she said, waving away my protest. "He was crazy, yes, but he knew what he was doing. Well, it's over," she said, taking a deep breath and sighing. "At least that part is. Now there is this unpleasantness to face. Well, I'm not well either, so I can't be pressured with dreadful details. I want it all to go as quickly as possible. Will you see that it does? Will you?" she begged.
"We'll do what is proper and what shows respect, Mother," I said, pulling my shoulders back. I couldn't help it. I knew I must look like I was mimicking the one woman despised the most. The way Mother's eyes widened with surprise confirmed it. "And you will find the strength to perform as a loving wife should at her husband's funeral. You can expect it will be heavily attended, and many of the people you admire so much will be watching you."
"Oh dear, dear," she moaned, closing her eyes. "How will I have the strength?"
"Somehow you will find it, I'm sure," I said sharply. "I will phone Mr. Updike immediately and see what's left to be done, and then tell you what you are to do," I said, and I turned to leave.
"Dawn," she cried.
