Cutler 03 - Twilight's Child

better than others. On those days she actually recognized us and enjoyed the children; on other days we were no different from complete strangers, or she saw us as people from her past. One of her nurses got her to do needlework, and that seemed to be the best therapy. She would sit for hours and hours working on a project and always seemed disappointed when it was finished.
    Bronson never completely lost his optimism, but it waned considerably, and he began to accept the possibility that this was the way it would be forever. I felt very sorry for him and actually went up to Beulla Woods more for his sake than for Mother's, especially on her bad days, when she had no idea who I was or who he was. He had spent so much of his life caring for his invalid sister, and now he was burdened with another invalid of sorts.
    It took its toll on him, too. He began to show his age, and that once-dapper look, that spring in his gait wilted. It was as if they had both tripped and fallen headlong into the autumn of their lives.
    With the coming of a new summer resort season—one promising to be bigger than any we had had before—we all became occupied with our duties. We still made time for Mother, but our visits had to be shorter and fewer. I thought nothing could take my attention away from my demanding work now. I was living and breathing the hotel.
    One day, as I was rushing down a corridor to check on something in the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of myself in a wall mirror and stopped dead in my tracks. I backed up and gazed at my reflection.
    It's no wonder Mother doesn't recognize me anymore, I thought. I barely recognized myself. Concern, worry and responsibility had deepened the lines in my forehead. I wore my hair brushed back more severely than ever, and I had taken to wearing cotton suits and blouses. Even though I was never one to wear a great deal of makeup, I did use lipstick and some eye shadow, but now I was going for long periods of time without a touch of color on my lips and eyes. This view of myself actually terrified me. It was as if Grandmother Cutler's spirit had begun to enter my body and change me.
    But before I could think more about it, Fern came running to tell me there was a funny-talking man on the telephone demanding to speak to Lillian Cutler.
    "Lillian Cutler? You know who that was. Did you tell him she's passed away?"
    "Yes. I told him you were the boss now, too. Then he demanded to speak to you. He said you would know who he was for sure, for dang sure," she mimicked, and she grimaced.
    "Dang sure? What's his name?"
    "Luther somebody," she replied.
    "Luther?" Luther, I thought. Luther, from The Meadows. But why was he calling?
    I gazed once more at myself in the mirror and thought I saw the satisfied smirk of Grandmother Cutler coming back at me. Then I hurried off.
     
    "It's Miss Emily," Luther said after I picked up the receiver, told him who I was and said hello.
    "What about Miss Emily, Luther?" I asked.
    "She's gone and died," he replied.
    "Died?" I didn't think that cruel, hard woman was capable of dying. She was too mean and ugly for even death to touch her.
    "Yep. I'm calling you from Nelson's General Store," he declared, as if that were the most important fact of all. Of course, I remembered they had no phone at The Meadows.
    "What happened to her, Luther?" I asked.
    "Her heart run out, I guess."
    Heart? She didn't have a heart, I thought, just some chunk of meanness beating away under her breast.
    "Charlotte come out to tell me Miss Emily didn't get up to make breakfast this morning, so I went up to her room and knocked on the door, but she didn't reply. I went in and found her sprawled on her back, her eyes and mouth wide open," Luther continued.
    "Did you call a doctor?" I asked.
    "Doctor? What for? She's dead as last Christmas. Ain't nothing a doctor gonna do for her now," he replied.
    "You still have to call a doctor, Luther. She has to be declared legally dead, and you have to make arrangements for the burial," I said.
    "No arrangements necessary. I'll dig a grave in the family plot on the grounds and drop her in," he said.
    "You can't do that without first calling a doctor, Luther," I stated, even though I didn't think that hateful woman deserved any better.
    "I don't know where she kept her money for such things," he told me.
    "Don't worry about money. I'll see to that. How's Charlotte?"
    "She's all right. She's singing in the kitchen and making herself some eggs," he said, not