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"And you won't. I forbid you to read this sort of prurient material in my house," she said.
"Your house?" I muttered. In her mind she had taken over Jefferson's and my lives completely, taken over our home, our possessions, our very thoughts.
And while she ranted and raved at me, waving the book Aunt Fern had given me in my face, Uncle Philip stood by like a statue of himself, the only movement in his face coming from his continually blinking eyelids and the tremble in his lips.
"I will keep this book," she said.
"You're probably going to take it to read it yourself," I muttered hatefully.
"What? What did you say?" she demanded. I embraced myself and stared at the floor, unable to keep my shoulders from shaking with my sobs.
"You had no right to go snooping in my room," I complained mournfully.
"I didn't go snooping in your room. Mrs. Stoddard happened to see this book while she was cleaning and told me about it. I came to your room to ask you about it and discovered you had snuck out for some rendezvous. Then I looked for myself, hoping what Mrs. Stoddard said wasn't true. Unfortunately, it was."
I didn't believe her, but I was too tired to argue any more.
"From now on, I don't want you leaving the house after eight without specific permission from either your uncle or myself. And we have to know where you are going and with whom. Is that clear? Is it?" she demanded, stabbing her words at me like tiny daggers when I wouldn't reply.
"Yes, yes," I said and stormed past her and into my room, slamming the door behind me. I threw myself on the bed and buried my face in the pillow, which soaked up my stream of tears. I cried until my spring of sorrow was empty and then I sighed and sat up slowly. I ran my fingers over the gold watch Mommy and Daddy had given me. My heart ached because I missed them so very much.
Defeated and exhausted, I got up and began to dress for bed. Increasingly sleep had come to resemble a path of escape. It frightened me to realize how much I looked forward to closing my eyes and retreating from what had become this dark and woeful world. I would want to sleep longer and longer until . . . I'd want to sleep forever, I thought.
I washed my face and put on a pair of flannel pajamas, a pair Mommy had bought me. I couldn't get the chill out of my body and even after I had crawled under the blanket, I shuddered and trembled so hard, my teeth clicked. I tried clamping my eyelids shut in hopes of falling into a deep sleep, but moments later, I heard the sound of a gentle rapping at my door. At first, I thought I had imagined it, but it came again.
"Who's there?" I called weakly. The door opened and Uncle Philip entered, closing the door softly behind him. He was in his pajamas. In the tiny glow of my night lamp, I saw his small smile. "What is it now, Uncle Philip?" I asked.
He came directly to my bed and sat down beside me.
"I didn't want you to go to sleep unhappy," he said. He lightly brushed the back of his hand over my cheek. Then he took my hand into his. "Betty Ann can be a bit too harsh at times. She doesn't mean to be; it's part of her nervous condition," he explained.
"She doesn't have a nervous condition," I snapped, pulling my hand from his. I was tired of hearing excuses for her. "She's just mean."
"No, no, she's simply frightened," he insisted.
"Frightened? Of what? Of me?" I started to laugh. "She does whatever she wants here no matter what I say anyway—torments Jefferson, fires Mrs. Boston, sets down her strict rules and insists we walk a fine line," I rattled.
"She's frightened of caring for and being responsible for a mature young lady," he said.
"Why? She has Melanie, doesn't she?"
"Yes, but Melanie's still a child. You're a blossoming woman who is obviously feeling a woman's needs and desires," he added softly, his eyes smaller. He ran his tongue nervously over his lips. "You can tell me the truth. Did you meet someone tonight?" he asked softly.
"No. I went for a walk. It helps me think," I said. I wouldn't dare tell him I had gone to the cemetery. He might easily guess I had been there the night he was at my mother's grave.
His smile widened.
"I believe you," he said. Then he grew very serious. "But these feelings, these new desires, they can confuse a young person so badly that he or she thinks he's going mad at times." He clutched at his chest and closed his eyes. "These feelings twist and torment you inside, making you feel as if you might explode if you don't find relief. You want to touch something, feel something, press yourself against something that will . . . will calm you down. Am I right? Is that what's been happening to you?"
"No, Uncle Philip," I said. His eyes were wide when he spoke, the glint in them maddening and frightening to me.
"I know," he said smiling again, "that it's a bit embarrassing for you to tell me these things. It's something you would rather discuss with your mother. But alas," he said, wagging his head, "your mother's gone and Betty Ann . . . well, Betty Ann's not the sort who is receptive to these thoughts and discussions. I understand your need to confide in someone who cares a great deal for you. I came here tonight to offer you myself. I want to help you," he said quickly. "Oh, I know, I can't replace your mother and I don't even want to try to do that, but you can trust me, Christie. I will keep your secrets locked tightly in my heart."
"I have no secrets, Uncle Philip," I said.
"I don't mean secrets exactly. I mean feelings," he said. "That's why you were so eager to accept that book from Fern, right? You wanted to know about these things, and it's only natural you do. You're at that age. Why should you flounder about, ignorant of what goes on between a man and a woman, just because your mother's no longer here to explain things to you?
"Well," he continued, smiling again, "I'm here. Can I help you? Can I answer a question, explain a feeling?"
