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"As much as I know," he pledged. "When everything's calmed down, you and I will spend an afternoon together just talking about the past and your family, okay?"
I nodded.
"Thank you, Bronson."
"I was very, very fond of your mother, Christie. She developed a certain wisdom beyond her years, maybe because of some of the difficult things you know about and will learn about, but she had unique insight, patience, understanding. I'm sure you've inherited it. You'll see," he said and then he left.
No one looked in on us after that. The funeral reception took on a lighter tone as it dragged into the evening. I heard more laughter, more cars coming and going, doors slamming, people calling to each other. Jefferson woke up and cried for our mother. I comforted him and he fell asleep again. While he slept, I sat on the floor by my closet and thumbed through old photo albums, smiling and crying over pictures of Mommy and Daddy.
She had been so beautiful, I thought, so very, very beautiful.
I embraced my knees and lowered my head to them, trying to restrain the sorrow and tears that threatened to ravage my body. While I was still on the floor by the closet, my door was thrust open.
"Oh, there he is," Richard said.
"What do you want? Don't you knock first?" I demanded. He smirked.
"Mother sent me looking for him. He's got to move some of his things or move them," he added.
"What are you talking about? He doesn't have to move anything," I said standing up. "Especially tonight."
"Mother says it isn't right for Melanie and I to be sleeping in the same room. We're too old for that. She says boys should be with boys. She is going to have some men move my bed into Jefferson's room. I want him to make room for my stuff in the closets and dresser drawers. If he doesn't, I'll do it myself," he threatened.
I shuddered to think of it. Jefferson would hate having Richard hovering over him day and night, and
Richard wasn't like any other twelve-year-old-boy I knew. He was so prim and proper with his things. He would surely get into terrible fights with Jefferson over the messy way Jefferson took care of his possessions.
"Don't you dare touch his things," I cried.
"What . . . what's the matter, Christie?" Jefferson said, sitting up quickly and rubbing his eyes.
"Nothing. Go back to sleep. I've got to go downstairs and speak to Aunt Bet," I said and marched out of the room, practically pushing Richard out of my way.
There were still many people in the house having coffee and cake. Some stragglers had come in to feast on what remained of the trays and trays of food Mr. Nussbaum and Leon had prepared. I looked around for Aunt Bet or Uncle Philip. People smiled at me and some stopped me to offer condolences, but I went quickly from room to room until I found Aunt Bet saying good night to some people on the front porch. I didn't know where Uncle Philip was; I hadn't seen him anywhere in the house.
"Oh Christie, dear," she said when I appeared.
"You've come down. How nice. Are you hungry, dear?"
"No, Aunt Bet, I'm not hungry," I snapped. She held her smile. "I'm upset. Why are you having Richard's things moved into Jefferson's room tonight of all nights?"
"Oh, I just thought the faster they started to share things, the better it would be for them. I thought Richard would be good company for him and comfort him. And really, dear," she said, stepping up to me, "you don't want me to keep Richard and Melanie sleeping in the same room any longer than I have to. Melanie's becoming a young lady and all young ladies need their privacy and their space, don't they?" she said. "You do," she added dryly.
"I'm not saying no, Aunt Bet, but Jefferson has just been at his parents' funeral. He doesn't need to be upset any more tonight. We can wait to discuss the sleeping arrangements," I retorted. "I think we should have-something to say about it anyway. This is our house," I added, my flag of pride hoisted.
Aunt Bet held her smile.
"Where's Uncle Philip?" I demanded.
"He's in and out, dear, but he's been too upset to really be of any help right now. I'm only trying to do what's best," she said.
"What's best is not to shove Richard into Jefferson's room tonight. It's going to be hard enough for him to go to sleep, and he's much too tired to start rearranging his closets and dressers now."
"Very well, dear," Aunt Bet said. "It will wait until morning, if that makes you happier." She smiled, but something about that smile seemed false. It was a queer, shadowy smile.
"Not having it happen at all would make me happier," I said.
"We've all got to make compromises right now, Christie," she replied somewhat sternly. "Your loss is great, but we've lost much too. We've lost our home and the hotel and . . ."
