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2nd Ed. Copyright 2018 by Joan Hall Hovey 2011
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
It was nice to be alone. As she brushed her hair, Gail launched into her favorite fantasy—buying her sister a white Ferrari. Ellen’s birthday was coming up in May. She’d have the car delivered right up to the door, a big red bow tied on the antenna. Dream on, girl, she told herself, grinning at her reflection in the mirror.
Tiger padded into the room just then, winding his sleek, warm body around her bare ankles, purring like an old washing machine.
"I owe her so much, Tiger," Gail said, reaching down to stroke the cat’s soft, glossy fur. "If it wasn’t for—"
Suddenly, Tiger’s back arched under her hand and he hissed. Gail’s heart leapt in her breast and her hand drew back as if it had been burned. "What the—?"
But Tiger, fur standing on end, had already fled the room. Gail turned in the chair just in time to see his electrified, retreating tail.
Then she caught a movement from the corner of her eye. Turning, she froze at the sight of the closet door slowly opening.
The closet door was at the top of the stairs at the end of the hall. To get to it he had to pass by two doors, one on either side, both now partly open. He could hear talking, very low. Farther away, the sound of running water. In three quick strides he was past the doors and inside the closet. He knew he was smiling. He felt excited the way he always did when he got past them. Even if anyone had got a glimpse of him, it wouldn’t really matter. He was invisible. The invisible man.
The secret door was to his right, just behind the wide rack of musty-smelling winter coats in varying sizes. He ducked beneath them, and opening the door, let him into the narrow, cave-like space.
The space separating the inside and outside walls went nearly the whole way round the third floor, stopping abruptly at the wall of the stairwell where he had to turn around and go back the way he had come. Once, this space had been used for storage - old bed springs, broken chairs, trunks - but the doors, except for the one in the closet which he had come upon quite by luck, and through which he had come again and again, had long since been replaced by sheetrock and papered over with rose-patterned wallpaper.
It was pitch black in front of him and all around him, like he was all-alone in the world. He had his flashlight, but didn’t turn it on. He knew the way. Besides, it might shine through someplace.
As he made his way along the darkened corridor, breathing in the stale, hot air, his progress slowed by the long, heavy skirt he wore, he had to stoop. At seventeen, though narrow-shouldered, he was nearly six feet tall.
Sweat was trickling down between his shoulder blades, and under the wig, his head felt squirmy, so he took the wig off and stuffed it into his pants pocket, under the skirt.
And then he was there. He could see the thin beam of light shining through, projecting a tiny star on the wall. It was coming through the place where two Sundays ago, when they were all at Chapel, he had made a peephole. He’d made it by simply pounding a nail through, then drawing it cleanly back out so that there would be nothing detectable on the other side—no more than a black dot.
A giggle floated through to him and the smile froze on his face, his fists clenching involuntarily. No, it can’t be me they’re laughing at. They can’t see me. They don’t know I’m here. You’re invisible, remember?
Calming himself, he slowly brought his face to the wall.
Eight narrow, iron-framed beds faced him, each covered by a thin, gray blanket with a faded red stripe across the top and bottom. Twelve beds in all, but the two at either end were cut from his view. A few religious pictures hung above the beds. The one facing him said "Suffer the Little Children to Come Unto Me." It had a picture of a lamb on it. Only three of the beds were occupied. It was still early. Some of the girls were probably downstairs watching their allotted hour of TV. Others would still be doing kitchen duty. At least one troublemaker would be doing "quiet time."
He grinned. He understood now that the laughter he’d heard had come from one of the two girls sitting on the edge of the bed flipping through a teen idol magazine. He’d caught a look at the cover—some weirdo with a green punk hairdo and a guitar slung around his neck. The two sluts, heads together, were still at it, giggling, whispering, low and secretive. He felt a hot surge of hatred course through his veins. He wished SHE would walk in on them right now. He knew what they were doing. They were talking about who they liked, who they thought was "cute," who they would let do it. They were thinking and talking about that.
Two beds over, a fat girl with short brown hair that looked as if someone (guess who? Ha-ha) had cut it around a bowl, lay on her back with her hands behind her head, staring at the ceiling. A jagged scar traveled from a spot between her eyebrows right up into her hairline. He could tell she’d been crying; her raisin eyes were all red and puffy, practically disappearing in her moon face. They cried a lot in here. Mostly in the middle of the night when they thought no one could hear. It always excited him hearing their soft muffled sobs. Sometimes though, it just made him mad like it did when they laughed. Then he wanted to fix it so they didn’t make any sound at all.
His gaze wandered back to the girl who had first caught his attention, the one who sat under the lamb picture, and who he’d wanted to save for last. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, a writing tablet balanced on her knees, her long, pale hair fallen forward, though some damply dark ends curled against her neck. He watched as she scribbled a few lines, then frowning, looked over what she had written. She would chew on her yellow pencil, then write some more, the pencil making whispery sounds on the paper. He watched her for a long time, taking in the flushed, shiny cheeks that made him think, as had the dark damp curls, that she might just have stepped out of the bath. Yes, he remembered hearing the water running. He liked to see them when they just got out of the bath—all that damp flowing hair, pinkly scrubbed skin, soft necks.
Sometimes they changed into their flannel nightgowns right there on the edge of their beds, right there in front of him—though of course they didn’t know that. That was the best part. Them not knowing. It didn’t matter that they dressed so hurriedly and so fast that he often didn’t get to see much. Though occasionally there was a flash of white shoulder, a curve of breast. I’m watching you, he thought, and had to stifle a giggle of his own. And then she raised her head and those clear blue eyes were staring right at him, stabbing fear into his heart. He couldn’t move.
She was frowning, not in the way she did when she was thinking of what to write, but with her head cocked to one side, as if she were listening for something. A terrible thought struck him. What if he hadn’t just almost laughed, but actually done it, right out loud? Adrenaline pumping crazily through his body, he backed slowly away from the peephole. Standing perfectly still with his back against the wall, he waited. When after several minutes there were no screams, no sudden cries of alarm to alert the other girls—and HER, especially HER—he began to relax. His heartbeat returned to normal; once more he brought his eye to the hole. She was back to writing.
Of course she was. He smiled to himself. He hadn’t laughed out loud, after all. And she hadn’t seen him. Of course she hadn’t. His gaze slid down to her breasts, their shapes round and firm as little apples under the flannel nightgown.
But you will, he thought. You will.
Standing on the top rung of the stepladder, Ellen rose up on her sneaker-clad toes and carefully fitted the silver angel on the top of the tree. Its shadow shivered on the ceiling, then was still.
"Hand me that blue bulb, Myra, please," she said from her rickety perch.
Silent Night was playing on the stereo—a new London Philharmonic tape. It was the first Christmas Ellen Harris had celebrated in three years.
"Christ, will you be careful," Myra said, having returned from laying another log on the fire. "I swear, you had to be a tightrope walker in your last life, you’re so damned sure-footed." She started to set her glass of wine down on the blond coffee table, caught herself, and slid a coaster under it, which brought a faint smile from Ellen. Behind Myra, the fire crackled and leaped to life, the flames lighting the sherry in her glass a lovely ruby red. A twin tree bedecked in colorful bulbs and tinsel was reflected in the window. Beyond the window, fat snowflakes fell softly—just like in the snow-scene painted on the Christmas bulb.
A perfect dress rehearsal for Christmas Eve, Ellen thought. And what was it they said about a good dress rehearsal? Oh, hell, knock it off, she told herself as Myra’s hand hovered above one of the boxes lined up on the sofa, chose one.
"No, the steepled one next to it," Ellen said. "Yeah, that’s it—thanks." She gingerly reached for the bulb.
"Pretty," Myra commented, handing it up to her. "Looks old-fashioned."
The scenic ornament was electric blue in color. Ellen held it in her upturned hand as if it were a precious jewel. "It is." Her smile was wistful. "Hand-painted. It belonged to my mother, and to her mother before her." She searched for a bare spot on the tree, found just the right one. "Gives me a sense of continuity, I suppose," she said, studying the effect. "And maybe it sounds crazy, but it sort of makes me feel a small part of Mom and Dad will be here, sharing Christmas with me and Gail." It felt so good to be finally able to say that and mean it. Her parents wouldn’t be fighting, of course. They never fought in the ideal scenarios of Ellen’s imagination. Well, at least she didn’t hate them anymore, and that was something.
"It doesn’t sound crazy at all," Myra said, picking up her glass and taking a sip of wine. "Maybe a little sentimental, but what the hell? Sentiment’s good. Actually, I wish I could say the same about..." Her words trailed off, but not before Ellen heard the old note of bitterness creep into her friend’s voice.
Ellen said nothing. She knew only too well that for a lot of people, the Christmas season was not a time of good cheer, nor did it necessarily start up visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads. This, in fact, was the clinic’s busiest time. People got depressed, even suicidal during the holidays. She wouldn’t be in the least surprised if the season had more than a little to do with Myra’s recent nightmares. Memories of childhood horrors, more or less successfully held at bay during the rest of the year, strangely seemed to gather strength in December.
"What time does Gail’s plane get in?" Myra asked, deliberately changing the subject.
"11:20 in the morning. I can’t wait to see her. Imagine, my little sister signing on with a major record label." Giving a final straightening to the silver angel, Ellen climbed down from the ladder. She stood back to admire her artistry.
Myra plucked an icicle from the shoulder of her blouse and tossed it among the decorations. "I expect any day now I’ll come over here and be confronted with life-sized standups of Gail all over the house—you know, the kind like the Kodak people put out of Bill Cosby."
"I wouldn’t do that to you. You’d see them on the lawn first." Ellen grinned and left the tree to begin tidying the sofa, which was strewn with paper and boxes. Myra followed, glass in hand.
"Seriously, you guys have such a super relationship. I envy you. Most sisters can barely stand to be in the same room with each other. Or so I’ve heard." She finger-combed her hair over the forehead, a habit, to hide the scar that resulted from a childhood sledding accident. "Being an only child, of course, I wouldn’t know."
Ellen was thoughtfully stacking the empty boxes out of sight on the closet shelf. It was true. She and Gail were close. Closer than any sisters she knew. She suspected it had a lot to do with growing up in a boozed-fertilized battleground. Moving from the closet to the sofa and back again, she said, "Gail and I love each other, of course, but it’s more than that. There’s a kind of desperation at the bottom—an ‘us against the world’ thing." She gave Myra a wry smile.
"Yeah, I know what you mean." Myra was standing behind her at the open closet door offering the last of the boxes. "Listen, I—I hope I didn’t bring you down with my talk of nightmares."
Ellen turned, surprised. "No, of course not. Why would you think that?"
"I don’t know. It’s just that you’ve been acting sort of... preoccupied, I guess. Anyway, enough of the heavy crap, okay? We’re supposed to be celebrating here. Christmas is just five days away and your sister is arriving tomorrow. So lighten up, Ellen."
"Kiss my ‘you know what’," Ellen said pleasantly, taking the boxes from her.
"Ass, dear. The word is ‘ass.’ God, but you’re a prude."
Ellen laughed. If Myra could defy the dark, then so could she. Compared to the hell of Myra’s childhood, hers and Gail’s would read like the Walton’s. "Well, what do you think of it?" she asked brightly, gazing up at the tree. "Is that a masterpiece, or is that a masterpiece?" Just for an instant did the old pang of loss hit her. Ed had always been the one to decorate the tree, while she had been perfectly content to sit and watch the transformation, which seemed nothing short of magical, take place.
But Ed had died of a heart attack three years before at the ripe old age of thirty-six. Just the previous night they had talked about adopting a child. He’d seemed fine. Just fine to her.
"He said he was cold," the assistant foreman had told her the next afternoon, as he stood shifting his feet in their big boots, his eyes tearing. "Then he sat down on some lumber—and he was gone."
They called it SCA—"sudden cardiac arrest".
"It happens," the weary-eyed doctor had told her sadly, apologetically, as Ellen listened in disbelief. "A seemingly healthy young man—no one really knows why. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Harris... so very sorry..."
"It’s a beautiful tree, Ellen," Myra was saying, bringing her back, fading out the remembered sounds and smells of the hospital. "In fact, the entire house looks fabulous. Especially this room. I love it. It just seems to wrap itself around you."
Looking around, Ellen couldn’t help feeling a warm glow of pride. The room really did look nice, kind of rustic colonial, if there was such a thing. Most of the furniture was antique, pieces she’d picked up in flea markets and second-hand shops and refinished, working evenings and weekends. The rich, taffy-colored tables and sideboard reflected the fire’s glow.
New slipcovers in soft floral chintz revived the old sofa and chair. When she and Ed had moved into the old farmhouse, there’d been worn, ratty carpeting on the floor. To her delight, when she’d lifted one corner, she discovered hardwood flooring underneath. A good cleaning and a coat of varnish had restored it to its original beauty.
The oval braided rug on which she and Myra now stood, she owed to her Sears’s credit card —"owed" being the key word. But she’d wanted everything to be perfect for Gail’s visit. With Gail working in New York, they didn’t get to see one another nearly often enough, and now with the promotional tour coming up after the holidays, it would be even less.
The anxious feeling was back. Even with the aromatic scent of spruce permeating the air, and Christmas music playing in the background, Ellen couldn’t shake the sense of something not right. It had been with her from the moment she opened her eyes this morning, and kept coming at her all day, little spasms that made her chest feel suddenly tight and her hands get busier. Mere seasonal anxiety? Had to be. What else?
"You’ve got a real talent for decorating," Myra said, having wandered over to admire the large print hanging above the redbrick fireplace. Sepia-toned, it was of a gentle-faced woman in a long dress bathing a child in a round metal tub. The blond, curly-haired cherub had a daub of soapsuds on his softly rounded, Victorian chin. This particular treasure she’d come upon at a garage sale one Saturday morning last spring. It had been hard not to appear too eager and weaken her bargaining position.
"Almost as much as you do for helping the walking wounded," Myra went on. "In my house, you’d be lucky to find a chair to sit down on without having to clear it of old clothes and magazines first."
"You’ve got three kids to clean up after," Ellen said, putting an arm around her friend’s shoulders. "C’mon, let’s go out to the kitchen. I need a coffee." Catching Myra eyeing her empty glass, Ellen dropped her arm, saying, "But you go ahead and have some more wine; it will help you sleep."
Myra didn’t need any coaxing. While she poured, Ellen couldn’t resist another admiring look at the tree. Returning the wine decanter to the sideboard, Myra said, "You know, I always feel a little like a parasitic lush drinking your booze while you’re having coffee or a coke."
"Well, don’t. Some of us can handle an occasional drink and some of us can’t." With that, she headed out to the kitchen, a suddenly silent Myra at her heels.
At the kitchen counter, Ellen plugged in the kettle, caught a distorted image of herself in the shiny chrome—dark blue eyes, tiny lines fanning out from the corners. Light auburn hair in its unfamiliar chic new cut.
The hairdresser said it would make her look younger and more "today." Ellen didn’t know. She wasn’t used to it yet. It was short at the back, longer on the sides, the ends swept toward her chin. Her neck felt oddly breezy, making her feel even taller than her five foot eight, like an ostrich with its feathers plucked.
Spooning Maxwell House instant into her cup, she could feel Myra sitting at the kitchen table waiting for further explanation. She supposed, after springing it on her like that, she owed her one. Without turning around, she began haltingly, "I-uh, developed a bit of a problem after Ed died. Every morning I went to my job, part of which, as you know, is counseling the adult children of alcoholic parents. And every night I came home, and before I even took off my coat, fixed myself a hefty vodka and soda, light on the soda. By nine o’clock I’d be smashed and dead to the world in front of the television set."
The water had begun to bubble, the only sound in the ensuing silence. Ellen poured it over the coffee grounds. The pleasant aroma wafted up to her. When still no response came from Myra, she glanced over her shoulder. "Don’t look so shocked," she said quietly.
"I can’t help it," Myra said, her dark eyes big. "I am. I knew you didn’t drink, but I always figured it was because of your parents and what happened. I thought you hated—"
"Don’t hate it at all. Got a real taste for the stuff, in fact. I have what is known in clinical terms as ‘a predisposition toward alcoholism’. In real terms, I’m a drunk waiting to happen."
"My, God, Ellen, I feel awful. You’ve done so much for me. You always seem so strong. I never dreamed... why didn’t you say something?"
"I couldn’t. I didn’t tell anyone." She came and sat down across from Myra and blew a little on the steaming coffee, sending heat up to warm her face.
Looking out the kitchen window, she saw that the snow was coming down harder. It occurred to her that it might not let up and Gail’s flight would be canceled. She banished the thought.
"I was ashamed," Ellen said after several moments. "I, of all people, should have known better. I can’t begin to tell you, Myra, how many women have told me they vowed as children never to touch alcohol, and yet at some point in their lives find themselves... well, where I found myself. Alcoholism doesn’t happen all at once. It’s a clever disease; it creeps up on you. But I caught it in time. I was lucky, many aren’t. So now you know. End of subject." She sipped her coffee.
"But—how come you keep booze in the house?" Myra asked incredulously.
"I like a challenge," Ellen said, and laughed, then grew serious again. "But enough of that. I want to hear more about those nightmares you’ve been having lately." It hadn’t been so bad, telling, but she was definitely more comfortable in the counselor role—the old "needing to be in control" thing.
"There’s not much more to tell," Myra said, still clearly not quite recovered from Ellen’s confession. "I wake up out of a sound sleep and there’s this looming dark shadow at the foot on my bed... Damn, Ellen, I should have known. I’m your friend, for God’s sake. I should have been there for you. I should have—"
"You couldn’t. I didn’t want you to," Ellen said flatly. She laid a firm hand over Myra’s. "And you were there for me after Ed died. I don’t know what I would have done without you. Now, enough already." She withdrew her hand. "So tell me—you wake up in a sweat. What else?"
Myra sighed, shrugged lightly, stared into her sherry. "Just this awful feeling of terror. I can’t move or speak." Her voice had grown small and childlike. She was playing with her hair again. "It fades quickly—the shadow, but I still get a feeling of someone out there—in the room with me. Someone—evil. If it was part of a dream, I don’t remember the dream."
"Do you think it has anything to do with your father and—"
"No," she cut in, shaking her mane of chestnut hair as if for emphasis. "I knew you’d think that. I guess it’s natural you would. But it has nothing to do with my father. I’m certain of that."
Ellen nodded. "Good. Does Carl know?"
"No. I started to tell him a couple of times, but, I don’t know, something stopped me. Maybe I just didn’t want him to think it was all starting up again." She grinned dryly. "At least I didn’t wake up screaming."
She had, in the old days. Myra had come to Ellen several years ago as a client, a victim of incest, her psyche in shreds, her self-esteem at zero point, dragged even lower by a series of self-destructive relationships.
With help, and Myra’s own incredible strength and natural need to be happy, she’d managed to piece her life together. There was no talk, of course, of "getting over" her horrendous childhood. It was Ellen’s contention that no one ever got over anything that devastating. You just learned to come to terms with it, to stop beating up on yourself for something you had no control over. One step at a time. One forward, sometimes three backward.
By the time Myra met Carl, she was a single mother of two, clerking in a fashionable dress shop, soon to work her way up to assistant manager. Carl had proved to be her "rock" instead of the usual quicksand type. A quiet man whose love and good humor seemed boundless. Carl treated the boys as if they were his own and they reciprocated by adoring him. Then along came Joey, a dark-eyed imp whose grin could melt the hardest heart.
Still, three boys were a handful. Myra needed her sleep. Ellen could see now the dark circles under her eyes—bruised shadows that hadn’t been visible in the soft light of the living room. So why the nightmares? Why after all this time? Had something happened recently to trigger old memories? Could it all be starting up again?
"Hey, we’re supposed to be celebrating here," Myra said suddenly, brightly, intuiting Ellen’s thoughts. "So stop looking at me like I’m a bug under a microscope."
"Was I?"
"C’mon, Ellen, I had a couple of nightmares, so big deal. I probably won’t have anymore. And why does there have to be a deep, dark reason, anyway? You told me yourself it’s our night dreams that keep us from going insane. By the way, did I tell you I love your hair that way? Makes you look younger, more sophisticated. Okay if I have some more cheer?" she said, already getting to her feet.
New York’s Shelton Room was jam-packed and noisy with excited anticipation and pre-holiday spirit. A high-ceilinged room with oak paneled walls, brass accents and plenty of exotic plants, it was dimly lit by tiny globes hanging like a hundred pale suns from the ceiling. An expanse of burgundy carpeting covered both this floor and that of the Shelton’s adjoining dining room, leading just through the double oak doors at the side. Glass-encased red candles centered each and every table. Christmas decorations shimmered here and there like bright surprises. There was even an enormous tree decked out in red velvet bows to greet patrons upon entering the lobby. But the tall man with longish dark-blond hair, seated at the back of the room at one of the smaller tables, had no interest in Christmas or in the club’s décor; he’d barely noticed either. Nor did he join in the enthusiastic applause that erupted the instant Gail Morgan stepped her silver-sandaled foot on stage, though he did feel the hot quickening in his loins the way he always did when the hunt was successful. Though admittedly, he hadn’t had to look too hard for this one.
He’d unbuttoned his dark overcoat for the benefit of the doorman, revealing the obligatory shirt and tie, though he’d been careful to avert his face, pretending to be looking for someone in the crowd. And then the doorman had gotten busy with someone else, and there was no further need for charades. He hadn’t bothered to check his coat; he wasn’t planning on staying long.
Taking a slow sip of his Miller Lite, he watched without expression, though not without interest, as the spotlight followed the singer in the white, strapless dress, the skirt flowing about her legs like liquid, to center stage.
In the same moment, a waitress clad in the required black slacks, white shirt and black bow tie, moving quickly through the maze of tables balancing a tray of beer and drinks in her upturned hand, hesitated at his table. Then, seeing his glass nearly full, she moved on. She’d blocked his view for only an instant, but it was enough to provoke a rush of anger in him.
Gail was beaming a dazzling, if slightly shy smile, out at her audience, who, even now, as she adjusted the microphone to suit her diminutive height, continued to applaud and cheer. She was tinier then he’d expected from seeing her picture in the paper. Hardly bigger than a kid, though she looked nothing like the snapshot in the file. He couldn’t make out the color of her eyes from here, but he knew they were blue; he had her statistics. He had all their statistics. Her hair was blonder, and now instead of the short, parted-on-the-side cut, it fell softly to her bare shoulders. And she was painted up, of course. Painted up to look like a whore.
Just like his mother had painted herself up. And Debby Fuller. He had been just a kid, then. She’d thought he was some kind of fool, coming on to him the way she had, and then when he’d tried to give her what she asked for, she went all crazy on him, screaming at him, slapping his face. He’d shown her then who the real fool was. He’d fixed that snotty bitch—fixed her good. Maybe he ought to pay Debby a little visit one of these days. Fix her permanently. He grinned, thinking about it. And then all thoughts of Debby Fuller faded into the background as a hush fell over the room, and Gail Morgan began to sing.
She was prettier than either his mother or Debby; he had to admit that. Tiny and perfect as a doll. His gaze lingered on her bare shoulders, smooth and white as marble. He imagined how they would feel to his touch. His eyes went to her throat. He could almost feel it, warm and throbbing, and the thought started up a hot tingling in his hands.
Without taking his eyes from her, he fished a cigarette from the crumpled pack of Pall-Malls on the table and put it between his thin lips. The paper had described her voice as "bluesy" and "bittersweet", an exciting cross between Billie Holiday’s and Peggy Lee’s. He didn’t know who Billy Holiday was, but his mother had liked Peggy Lee, he remembered. She had all her old records and played them on an old record player—all the "oldies but goodies" she’d say. When she got drunk, she’d play Is That All There Is? over and over again, dancing by herself around the kitchen floor with a sad, stupid smile on her face. "Come dance with me, baby," she’d say, holding out her pale, slender arms to him. "Come and dance with Mommy."
He pushed all thoughts of his mother away and concentrated his attention to the girl on stage, to the rich, throaty voice that floated around him.
He didn’t know or care much about music, but it made him feel kind of nice hearing Gail sing. Maybe she would sing just for him alone. He’d like that. He might even let her live if she did. Sing for your supper, Gail. Sing for your life. If not, then she’d soon be singing a different tune. He smiled at his own perceived wit, a smile that did not reach the pale, cold eyes behind the glasses.
He watched as a few dreamy-eyed couples left their tables to wander onto the small, crescent-shaped dance floor near the stage. Gail was smiling down at a gray-haired woman who had deliberately maneuvered her partner so that they were directly in front of Gail, the woman beaming up at her, giving Gail the "thumbs up" sign.
Pathetic old fool, he thought, as he removed the chimney from the lighted candle on the table and, leaning forward in his chair, touched his cigarette to the fire.
Twin orange flames danced in the dark-tinted glasses.
~ * ~
At intermission he slipped away, leaving a half-smoked cigarette floating in his beer, hissing softly to silence, a thread of smoke trailing upward.
Outside it was snowing and blowing, swirling white around utility poles, pink in front of the neon lights, stinging his face, banging a sign nearby.
Hunching inside his coat collar, he waited for a break in traffic, then dashed across the street where his brown van was parked in an out-of-business gas station. A "For Lease" sign hung crookedly in the plate-glass window. From here, he could look across the street and see her own car parked in the club’s parking lot—a red Mustang, an old model, but in good shape. A few people walked hurriedly along the sidewalk, heads lowered into the storm.
He eyed two kids huddled in a doorway, faces intent, passing what he guessed to be a joint back and forth. No one looked in his direction.
Turning back to the van, he began brushing the snow from the windows, then quickly slipped into the driver’s seat and switched on the ignition. The motor purred to life. The clock on the dash said 10:18 p.m. She got home shortly after midnight. He’d followed her three nights running, staying just far enough behind the Mustang to avoid being spotted. Her routine never changed.
It would tonight.
Tonight she wouldn’t be coming home to just her cat. Chuckling low in his throat, he flipped the signal light and began working his way out into the steady stream of New York traffic. A speeding taxi cut him off, horn blaring. Anger scalded through him. Easy, he thought. Plenty of time. Her building was only a twenty-minute drive from here. Not a good idea to draw attention to himself.
As he drove, he began thinking about the way she’d looked on stage. She’d been looking at him, too, of course, trying to let on she wasn’t. Teasing him. But he knew she wanted him. Yeah, she was hot for him, all right. He kind of liked it that she wasn’t just some little nobody the way the others had been, hardly worth a mention in the paper. Hadn’t he read that she’d got some big recording contract and all that? Well, tomorrow they’d be reading about her again.
But they’d be thinking about him.
It was just after eleven when Ellen got back from driving Myra home. Though Myra lived only a mile from her, the road was treacherous, and Ellen, never a happy winter driver, was glad to be off it. Too, Cutter’s Road, named for the logging road it once had been, while pleasant enough to walk along during the day, was dark and desolate at night. Only a few old farmhouses left, most had fallen into neglect and disrepair, long-abandoned.
She’d sat in the idling car until a slightly tipsy Myra was safely inside the house. Ellen felt guiltily responsible, but what harm if it would get her through at least one night without the nightmares.
Christmas lights had winked seductively at her through the curtain of snow. In an upstairs window, she thought she glimpsed Joey’s face, and felt a twinge of envy. She would like to have had a child—something of Ed to help ease the loneliness. But that was another of those "nobody knows why" situations.
"You’re wallowing again," she said aloud, unbuttoning her coat and hanging it in the closet.
She went upstairs, showered and put on her terrycloth robe. Finding she was not in the least sleepy, she came back downstairs where she now sat with a steaming mug of cocoa, in front of the fire.
The scrapbook, bulging with clippings of Gail’s each and every achievement, lay open on her lap. She’d started keeping a scrapbook eight years ago, when Gail, barely out of high school, had gone off to New York to seek her fame and fortune. Gone with only a couple of tattered suitcases, some free publicity photos taken by a budding photographer friend who Gail promised to make famous as soon as she "made it" and the two thousand dollars Ellen had managed to save toward her education. There’d been no talking her out of it. And perhaps, seeing how determined she was, Ellen hadn’t tried as hard as she might. Besides, she believed in Gail’s talent. Never mind that the thought of her little sister all alone in the big, bad city terrified her.
"I know there are grants and scholarships available if I really wanted to go," Gail had said when Ellen tried to persuade her on the necessity of a college education. "And I could work part-time, but that’s not where I want to put my energies. All I ever wanted was to be a singer."
They were living in the small flat on Albert Street, sitting at the kitchen table when Gail had told her, "Having something to fall back on suggests the possibility of failure, and that’s a possibility I don’t dare let myself even consider, else it might become a self-fulfilling prophecy. I used to lie in bed at night when I was little, Ellen, dreaming of how it would be—imagining myself on stage, hearing the applause that drowned out the sounds of Mom and Dad fighting—and other times, too."
Her big blue eyes had beseeched Ellen for understanding, for support, but they’d been unflaggingly determined, too. "I want to be somebody, Ellen. I want my turn at the brass ring."
Well, you’ve got a good grip on it, now sweetie, Ellen thought, smiling, picking up the latest article, which included a particularly glamorous picture of Gail. She’d cut it out of the paper a couple of weeks ago, but hadn’t gotten around to pasting it in the book yet. She read it for the hundredth time. LOCAL GIRL HITS BIG TIME
Maine blues singer Gail Morgan, has landed a major recording contract with Genesis. The Genesis deal will see her recordings, including her recent independent record, "Do You Know Me?", available in the United States and Canada. She has also signed a contract with Beli International to distribute her recordings in Belgium, the Netherlands, Luxembourg, Austria and The United Kingdom. In addition, Morgan travels to Holland in February for a five show concert tour through the Netherlands. The Evansdale, ME, native is also in pre-production for an NBC special which will begin taping later this month.
Not bad, kiddo, Ellen thought. Not bad at all. Turning the article over, she read idly about a sale at Regan’s Shoe Store over on Elm, and, not to be outdone, Welton’s Pharmacy was having a fifty percent markdown on Christmas wrapping. Next was a brief write-up on the now abandoned and boarded over Evansdale Home For Girls, which the city council had deemed fitting, since it was both "a blight on the land and a hazard to children." It was to be torched by the fire department, thus providing them with useful exercise in fire-fighting, and at the same time sparing the city the expense of having it demolished by other means.
Good riddance, Ellen thought, not missing the irony. She pasted the article onto the page with a bit more force than necessary. Just as she was returning the swollen scrapbook to its drawer in the sideboard, thinking she’d soon have to get a new one, the phone ran. The wall clock said 12:24. Smiling, Ellen picked up the receiver. "Hi, sweetie."
"I always knew you were psychic," came the familiar voice. "Then again, who else would be calling you at this time of night, right?"
"I’m glad you called. I was too excited to sleep, anyway. You just getting home from the club?"
"Yeah. The roads are a bitch-and-a-half. I practically had to crawl. Fender-benders everywhere. I was getting worried they might start canceling flights; I’d go nuts if they did. But the weatherman says sunny and clear for tomorrow, so everything’s a go."
"Great. I was getting a little concerned myself. Oh, Gail, I can’t wait to see you. This is going to be the best Christmas ever. We’ve got so much to celebrate."
"Yeah, the Morgan girls haven’t done too bad for themselves, considering."
"Especially Gail Morgan," Ellen said, smiling into the phone and thinking she just might break her cardinal rule and break open a bottle of champagne so they could toast Gail’s success—maybe even a few times.
"Thanks, Ellen. I couldn’t have done it without you, and I mean that. Oh, I can’t wait to get there. It’ll be kind of like it used to be. Remember how we used to lie in bed and talk half the night?"
"I remember."
There was a pause. Then a solemn, quieter Gail said, "I wasn’t thinking about when we lived with Mom and Dad. I was thinking about those two rooms you rented on Albert Street so you could spring me from the home."
"I know you were." Ellen was flung back in time. She was seventeen again, sitting in the hard-backed chair in the visitor’s room of the Evansdale Home, with its dark green tiled floor, and the air smelling of creosote and something else Ellen could not define, something that made it hard to breathe. Miss Layton, her teacher, had come for moral support, and was sitting beside her. She patted Ellen’s hands, clutched in her lap, white-knuckled against her blue plaid skirt.
Ellen had barely recognized the small gray figure that stepped so tentatively into the room, eyes questioning, yet accepting. Behind her, the stern-faced matron was steeled for the first sign of trouble, ready to spring into action.
There would be no need. Gail stood before them, before those who would decide her life, hands clasped politely in front of her—a good little girl, bearing little resemblance to the sassy, spirited sister Ellen remembered. And then those blue eyes were gazing into hers, filling with a shy, cautious hope that wrenched Ellen’s heart.
"Hi, Ellie." She smiled. In the face of all that had happened, she smiled.
At first, Ellen feared they were not going to let her take Gail, but Miss Layton had vouched for Ellen, said she was a responsible and capable young woman and both girls would be quite fine, and that, after all, was the objective, wasn’t it? Unless Gail was being held prisoner for some wrongdoing? In the end, they could think of none, and so they had, however reluctantly, released Gail into Ellen’s care. Ellen had often wondered since if her teacher had signed something saying she would accept responsibility if anything went wrong. And yet, though they always exchanged Christmas cards, Ellen had rarely seen Miss Layton after she dropped them off in front of their building that day.
"That was such a dump," Ellen said, when Gail brought her back to the present. "Remember how we had to share a common bath with the rest of the tenants, and how that awful landlady was always screaming at everyone to turn off the hall lights? And, God, that awful lime-green hallway—remember how it always reeked of pee and wet plaster?"
"You made Kraft Dinner that first night," Gail said. "It was the best meal I ever ate. And those two rooms on Albert Street were better than any mansion."