Passing Through Midnight
Read Passing Through Midnight Online
Authors: Mary Kay McComas
By
Mary Kay McComas
"So," Gil
said, trying to sound unruffled, his hands finding hers in
the darkness, "will you be out stargazing again tonight?"
"Yes. Maybe. Probably. I guess. I'm not sure," Dorie said
softly.
He shifted his weight and looked uncomfortably at their
entwined fingers. "Dorie." He used her name like a plea for
understanding. "I get into all sorts of trouble trying to guess what
other people are thinking."
"You mean women?"
He nodded and smiled a little. "I mean especially women."
"Then talk to me as you would a man or the way you'd talk
to the boys. And I'll do the same to you," she promised.
He gave it some thought, then spoke. "Later, after the
boys are in bed… if I come to your door, will you let me in?"
It was the best he could do. She could hear it in his
voice. His words were as plain as he could make them. He was like a
blind man groping in the darkness for her. Feeling his way carefully
toward tenderness and harmony with another human being. With her. He'd
picked her to reach out to, as if she was someone special.
"Dorie, if I come, will you let me in?" he asked again,
gently demanding an answer.
"Yes…"
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PASSING THROUGH MIDNIGHT
A Bantam Book/January 1995
Copyright
©
1994
by Mary Kay McComas
.
Back cover art copyright
©
1994
by Barney Plotkin
.
Floral border by Joyce Kitchell.
ISBN 0-553-44485-9
For my longtime good friend,
Honey Kay Ely
Worked any miracles or made any trees lately?
To the people of Colby, Kansas.
Please forgive any and all
license I've taken in the creation or this story. Years ago, I would
hum along with John Denver's song "MATTHEW" while I walked the floors
for hours with my colicky infant son—Matthew. The words told
of a place where gold grew in the wheat fields and the only definition
for blue was a summer sky; where joy was commonplace and love was
simply a way of life. I thought Colby sounded like a wonderful place
for a little boy to grow up strong and happy.
"When I grow up I wanna be a fire engine."
The words came to her in a half-sleep state. The shadows
in her mind began to form the silhouette of a huge red fire engine. It
had big round headlight eyes on the front of it; a pudgy little nose
with freckles, and the shiny front fender was a mouth that never
stopped moving.
"You can't be a fire engine, stupid. That's a thing. You
have to be somethin' real. Somethin' human."
Dorie rolled over and opened her eyes. It was the man and
his sons again. The crisp air of early spring carried their voices like
bubbles in water, bursting outside her open window.
"Then I'll be a fire
-man
and drive a
fire engine. I can do that, can't I, Dad?"
"Last I heard, you can be anything you want, pal. And
don't call your brother stupid," the man added, subtly changing his
tone of voice as he addressed first one son, then the other. She liked
the father's voice. It was soft and deep, like a subterranean river,
slow flowing and penetrating. It had a way of rumbling around inside
her head for hours after she heard it.
She yawned and stretched her body from the head of the bed
to the bottom, pulling at stiff, aching muscles as if she were trying
to pop out of her skin. Going limp on the mattress, she tilted her head
toward the alarm clock on the nightstand to see if the man and his sons
were arriving or leaving.
Eight-fifteen. They were leaving.
The man—tall, lanky, and broad shouldered in
blue denim. And his boys—one dark like his father, wearing
similar pants and a jacket, the other a redhead in faded blue overalls
and a thick canvas winter coat. She could set the clocks by them. They
always came at seven in the morning and six in the evening, and they
were usually gone an hour later.
They came in a big black and silver stretch-cab pickup
truck, parked anywhere they felt like parking in the space between the
house and the barn, wandered off to do something to the cows in the
fields beyond, stopped at the barn at least once, sometimes twice, and
then they left. Every day.
Dorie watched them sometimes from an upstairs window. The
little boy was cute and full of energy. The other boy was all arms and
legs, gangly and gawky, showing signs of inheriting his father's
stature. The father, Gilliam Howlett was his name, walked with a long,
confident stride, as if he knew where he was and where he was going all
the time. He took each step as if he were on intimate terms with every
rock and pebble and particle of dirt he stepped upon—and knew
he'd never fall. It was as if he'd walked the city block between the
house and the fence a gajillion times and wasn't tired of it yet. She
envied him.
"Will she come out today? Do you think we'll see her?" she
heard the high, hearty voice ask.
"Don't know."
"Maybe she's sick and can't come out. Maybe we should go
in and look at her." The little boy's voice was as full of concern as
it was curiosity.
"Maybe she died the first night she got here. Maybe she's
in there rotting all over the floor, with maggots crawling in her eyes
and…"
The younger boy made a half-excited, half-terrified noise
as the father broke in, "Knock it off, Fletcher. The lady's just fine,
Bax. She'll come out and meet us when she's ready. Hop in, it's time to
go."
"Can I leave the map, Dad?"
A hesitant pause. "Sure. Why not?"
"Maybe we should write her a note and tell her not to be
afraid of us."
Dorie got out of bed and tiptoed over to the lace-draped
window. Though raised only enough to let the smell of old dust and
emptiness out of the house, it was also enough to let the sound of
their voices in—and to freeze the wax on the wooden floor
beneath her bare feet.
"No," Gil said slowly, rejecting the idea of leaving his
mysterious neighbor a note. "You did a fine job on that map. I think
she'll get the picture. Hurry, now."
The little boy scrambled into the cab of the truck,
slipped out with a tube of paper in one fist, and bounced off toward
the house. She heard his footsteps trip across the wide front porch
below. The storm door squeaked and slammed closed.
"Can I drive?" the older boy asked, standing next to his
father on the driver's side of the truck, his hand palm up to receive
the keys.
"Nope."
"Why not?"
"You know why."
"I got a D. You said I had to pass algebra, and a D is
passing."
"Not in my book."
"I drive the four-wheeler and the tractor…"
"On private property, in an open field…" the
father injected as if he'd had this conversation before.
"… all the way over to the Beamans' place."
"… eight miles, in first gear."
"So, it's okay to drive if it's convenient for you, but
until I get a C in algebra, I can't drive when I want to?"
"You got it. Now, get in the truck or you'll be late for
school."
"Who cares?" the youth muttered, stomping around the front
of the truck, shuffling his feet impatiently as he waited for his
brother to climb onto the seat, closing the door with a single angry
flick of his wrist.
"I do," Gil said, his door closing much more quietly. "And
watch your mouth, or you'll die of old age before you get to drive
again."
"Dad! Dad, look! It's the lady!"
All three of them craned their necks down and upward to
stare at the second-story window through the windshield.
Dorie stepped back quickly, though she didn't miss the
little boy's friendly, vigorous waving or his brother's eager curiosity
or his father's worried frown. She held her breath for a moment or two,
then edged her way back to the window to see what they were doing.
There was a dread-filled moment when she thought they
might come up to the door and knock again. She wasn't ready to see
anyone. The day she moved in, they'd come to her door twice, when
they'd first arrived and again before they'd left. When she didn't
respond, they had made no further attempts to contact her. She'd
appreciated their discretion. She'd also stayed well out of their sight
until today.
The engine revved, the tires crunched over wet gravel, and
she sighed her relief as she watched the truck drive away. The Howletts
were naturally curious. They were trying to be neighborly. But they had
no idea what they were asking to see—or what it would cost
her to show them.
She tried not to feel guilty for shunning them, and she
succeeded. She didn't want to see anyone, and she didn't wait anyone
seeing her. She didn't feel like being polite, and she didn't want to
have to pretend to be nice. If that was rude and inconsiderate, she
wasn't going to feel guilty about it.
She turned from the window and caught sight of herself in
the warped mirror above the old mahogany chest of drawers. The puckered
red scar on her left thigh peeked out below her T-shirt. The patch of
hair stubble growing over the healing gash on her left temple was too
obvious, as the dark brown hair on the other side of her head hung in
loose waves to her shoulder.
But it was the dark green and black discoloration around
her eyes and the thread-thin scars on her cheek and chin, still too
bright to cover with makeup, that kept her away from quizzical
stares… Well, the scars and the fact that she was sick to
death of people, she thought, turning from her image in disgust.
The farmhouse she'd rented three weeks earlier was big and
old and quiet. She descended the stairs, hearing nothing but an
occasional creak from the wood in the steps, the now-familiar hum of
the refrigerator in the kitchen, and the constant whir of thoughts in
her head.