Bump in the Night

by J. D. Robb

  “Are you talking in my head now?”

  “Well, you won’t let me in to talk to your face, and you really shouldn’t be making any unilateral decisions in there on your own. We’re a team, remember?”

  “If you don’t leave me alone I’m going to . . . Ha! I have the entire six-hour mini-series of Pride and Prejudice on DVD in here. You want that?”

  There was a thud on the door and a brushing sound of something sliding to the floor on the other side . . . and then silence.

  Charlotte put her hand over her mouth and laughed silently into it, all the way back to the kitchen.

  Five

  She woke abruptly the next morning from a heavy, dreamless sleep. Which was odd actually, because she usually woke slowly, attempting over and over to reenter the dreams her alarm clock interrupted, or sorting through the shadows and images to determine them too bizarre to revisit. This morning she came wide awake without remnants, several minutes before her alarm rang with only one clear image in her mind.

  “Mel?” She finished tying her robe as she walked down the hall toward the living room. Was it possible? Could the whole previous day have been last night’s dream? “Mel? Are you still here?”

  A muffled “Good morning” came through the front door.

  He was on the floor in the hall with his back against the wall. He’d taken off his red shoes and stuffed his tube socks down inside them; rolled up his pouchy jacket to rest his head on. If he’d slept, he did it sitting up.

  “Have you been out here all night?” she asked after opening the door.

  “Where else would I be?” He started to gather his things and get up. He seemed a little snippy. “I can hardly engage in an active night life without you, now can I?”

  “I guess I thought you would . . . pop out . . . or inside the apartment maybe, after I went to sleep.”

  He stood looking down at her. There was a hurt and a vulnerability in his eyes that was genuine. She felt something go warm and soft, and liquefy inside her. “I am powerless without you, Charlotte. If you want me in your life you have to let me in.”

  “What would happen to you if I didn’t?”

  He gave a little shrug, but she could tell the thought pained him. “Same as last time. You sent me under the bed to look for snakes and spiders and forgot all about me. I stayed there until you stopped worrying about such things. After that, you filled your mind with other issues, bigger problems. I tried to help you then, too, but you wouldn’t let yourself see me. I had to do the best I could from inside your head—in dreams, in deep thought, through your imagination, but you got pretty good at closing me out in there, as well.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” And she didn’t want him to go away again.

  His dark brow furrowed. “I know. It’s a sad fact of life, I believe, that growing up involves doubt and confusion, and that maturing so often becomes synonymous with sacrificing dreams and desires for what is logical and practical.” He motioned to the open door, aware, apparently, that she was now ready to accept him. It was his awareness of it, of her, that was still very . . . weird. Following her inside, he continued. “Don’t get me wrong; logical and practical are necessary. But not to the exclusion of everything else.”

  “And you think that’s what I’ve done. Given up all my dreams and wishes for what’s logical and practical?”

  “Worse. You let your doubts and confusion run rampant and gave up everything for what your parents thought was logical and practical.”

  That hurt. More than she could say. Probably because it was too close to the truth, and mostly because he’d said it out loud. Was he deliberately trying to hurt her?

  “That’s not a very nice thing to say.”

  His smile was small as he dropped his shoes and coat on the couch. “I couldn’t say it if you didn’t already think it, remember?”

  “Damn, that’s annoying. There should be some rule about you hurting my feelings with my own thoughts. Put your shoes on the floor and hang that up in the closet. I like things tidy.”

  She turned on her heel and headed for the kitchen. She couldn’t take much more of him without some coffee. The pot was on a timer and she emerged moments later with a steaming mug full.

  “Actually, there are rules,” he said, sliding into a chair across from her at the dining room table. “I can’t lie to you. I need to be as honest with you as you’ll let me.” He looked sheepish. “I am sorry I hurt you, though. I could have said the same thing with a lot more finesse.”

  “So you’re mad because I left you outside all night.”

  “No. I’m just tired of being ignored.” He sighed and slouched in the chair. “I want everything to change now, today . . . yesterday even. I want it all to be as it could be. . . as it should be. But I can tell you’re still not ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “To listen to what I have to say. To trust me. To act on my advice.”

  “I let you in.”

  “That’s not the same thing.”

  No, it wasn’t. “I just met you. I need more time.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then closed his eyes, pressed his thumb and fingers to the middle of his brow, spread them out and rubbed his temples as if he had a headache.

  “Do you want some coffee?”

  “Do you really want me more awake than you are? And for future reference, that stuff goes straight to my nervous system. A hyper-stimulated imagination can be very scary, you know.”

  She wanted to laugh but just smiled instead. “Are you always this grumpy in the morning?”

  “No, I . . . my internal clock is screwed up. I’m usually more active at night while you sleep, and I rest during the day when your brain is busy. . . .” he waved his hand vaguely, “creating cash and accrual systems . . . and auditing for errors and posting to general ledgers.”

  That’s why she didn’t dream last night . . . he’d been sleeping, too.

  “What happens if you don’t rest?”

  “We get psychotic.”

  Unfortunately, that made sense to her, too.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I missed my dreams last night,” she said, her expression hopeful and cajoling.

  A smile slowly curved his lips, and his eyes lit with reluctant fondness. He wagged his head a little, to appear not to be giving in too easily. “Well, maybe we can work something out. By nature, I’m considerably more flexible than you are. I can sleep anytime, anywhere. I’ll just use my time more wisely.”

  “Like now? Because I’m going into my office to work for a while . . . until about noon.”

  “What about shopping?” He sat up straight. “We should get an early start. We need to work on your makeover plan. At least run down to the drugstore for some magazines. We don’t even have to get a GQ. Ralph Lauren will have ads in everything. All I need is some warmer pants . . . and those shoes are throwing my back out of alignment.”

  “Maybe this afternoon, okay?” She stood with her coffee cup in hand. “I really do have a lot to do. The next few weeks are going to be crazy until I incorporate Dad’s clients with my own.” She sighed as the heavy ache of missing her father settled in her chest, once again. Her throat grew thick, her voice thin. “I should have done it months ago. I knew he wasn’t going to get any better. I knew he was getting weaker and weaker. I just kept hoping . . .”

  She broke off when she saw tears welling in his eyes. It was her pain, her sorrow looking back at her, still fresh and tender and paralyzing if she gave into it.

  “Anyway, I don’t have time right now to . . . start changing a lot of other things.” She went into the kitchen for more coffee, calling, “I have a system. And once I get the clients that I’m keeping set up in my system, I’ll have more time for shopping and . . . and whatever. Plus, I’ll have to close out the companies I’m not keeping, which could take a while if they can’t find someone to take over right away. Dad would just die if I . . . he would expect me to stay with them
until they found new accountants.”

  She returned to find him with his elbow on the table, his fist in his cheek, looking utterly bored.

  “And . . .” he prompted.

  “And what? That’s it. I’m too busy.”

  “Have you ever noticed how easily that flows from your lips? I’mtoobusy. It’s like one word for you. It’s your favorite excuse.”

  “Maybe because it’s true.”

  “Ah-ha.” He put on a long-suffering face and pushed himself to his feet. “Fine. Swell. No problem.” He shuffled slowly over to the couch. “It’s been twenty-eight years, seven months, three days, ten hours and sixteen minutes. I guess we can put life off a little longer.”

  “Oh, stop it.” She watched him lie down and put his hands under his head, the large muscles in his arms straining the sleeves of the Grateful Dead T-shirt. A vision of those arms wrapping around her flashed through her mind and she quickly blacked it out. “I have a life.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said to the ceiling, his tone jaded and dull. “It’s been one thrill right after another so far. I can hardly bear it.”

  “You’re really obnoxious, you know that?”

  “So sue me. You have your work, I have mine. You crunch numbers; I crunch the truth.”

  “You want a blanket?” She’d had enough truth for one day. The sooner he went back to sleep the better.

  “No. I find warmth in your resentment.”

  That tickled her memory. “Where have I heard that before?”

  “You read it in a poem by Isbin Rudger, poet and philosopher, 1422 to 1458, while you were researching a paper for English 404. You used to like poetry.”

  She read autobiographies and spy thrillers now. They were something her parents had liked, as well. They passed them around, discussed them like a mini book club. It was something else the three of them had in common, besides accounting.

  “I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

  “Okay.” He didn’t sound particularly interested.

  Had she stopped reading poetry because she’d lost interest in it or because her parents had no interest in it at all? She couldn’t remember. But then, it probably wasn’t one of those things lost in a single, memorable moment; rather one that slipped away gradually and unnoticed from neglect.

  “You can watch TV if you keep it low.”

  “Great. Thanks.” His tone told her he disliked daytime television as much as she did.

  “Are you going to be mad at me all day?”

  “Neither one of us can tell the future, Charlotte.” He hesitated, then rolled over on his side to look at her. “If it makes you feel any better, try to remember who I am and that I’m more likely to reflect your emotions back to you then to generate my own.”

  He rolled onto his back again and closed his eyes.

  So, she was bored and annoyed with herself. There wasn’t anything new about that.

  And yet, why would it seem so much more upsetting coming from someone else than from within? Was she so used to pleasing other people that pleasing herself had become so insignificant? Had she pushed her dreams aside so often that they didn’t matter any more? Had she given up on them?

  She took one last look at the large male body stretched out on her couch, then left in search of her copy of Emily Dickinson.

  As it happened, Emily still spoke to Charlotte’s soul and she’d missed that kinship. The revelation weighed heavily in her heart; her thoughts tied themselves in knots, with no clear answers.

  She felt stifled in the large back bedroom, where two desks were positioned face to face; computers on the right at opposing angles; the walls lined with filing cabinets and bookshelves full of tax codes and books on marketing, finance and accounting.

  It was her parent’s office for as far back as she could remember—their bookkeeping and accounting business. It specialized in small businesses, which constituted 85 percent of the twenty million businesses in America, and was incredibly lucrative. It was a good business, and now it was hers.

  But when she graduated from college she had plans . . . plans to get an apartment and set up her own office. She wanted to travel and take up scuba diving. She had exciting and wonderful plans for her life.

  Looking back, she could remember the devastating disappointment she felt a few weeks after her mother’s sudden death as she lowered herself into the chair across the desks from her father. It was logical, practical—and besides, he needed her. He was elderly. He’d be lonely. Who else would take care of him?

  She stopped making plans, pictured herself living with her father until she was as gray as he was. She started dressing and acting like the old lady she felt herself becoming. Her perspective narrowed to one monotonous day at a time.

  She couldn’t regret staying with him, especially now, but she could see that giving up on the rest of her life had been a huge mistake, and not one that was in any way his fault. She’d quit. She’d settled for dry meatloaf when juicy prime rib was just as easy to order and eat.

  Finishing her entries much later than anticipated, and vowing to recheck them all a third time for errors the next day, Charlotte tiptoed into the living room.

  She couldn’t believe her good luck to find Mel still sleeping, his big masculine body curled toward the back of the couch, the colorful T-shirt scrunched to show part of his strong back, the football pants looking just as they ought to . . .

  She blew out a short, hard breath to curb the excitement curling low in her belly. He wasn’t real. Her disappointment had her sagging against the hall wall as she watched him sleep. Why was it so hard to remember that? Because she could see him, hear him, touch him, smell him . . . taste him maybe, if he’d let her? Because every sense she used to distinguish what was real and what wasn’t was . . . malfunctioning? All of them? All at once?

  She wasn’t stupid. She’d heard of hallucinations, audio and visual, and how one or both can be so convincing people can actually feel them. People like . . . schizophrenics and drug addicts. She wasn’t taking anything, so was she losing her mind? Was she crazy?

  She listened to Mel’s deep rhythmic breathing and occasional soft snoring noises and thought about it. Seriously. Because if she was nuts, Mel was the most exciting thing in her life since . . . ever, and she found it really hard to care, one way or the other. If she’d gone around the bend, she wanted to keep on going . . . and there didn’t seem to be any reason for her not to.

  Her gaze gravitated along his strong muscled back to the football pants before she caught herself again. If she allowed herself to remain mentally impaired, there had to be rules; she had to draw some lines somewhere, right? Or did she?

  She laughed silently and shook her head. Whatever Mel was, she was having fun. She liked him, except when he was grouchy and being too truthful. She liked having him here. He knew her, knew what she was feeling. He was something to think about besides how lonely and alone she was. He was company. He was . . . well, he was her dream man.

  She snuck out quietly, hurrying over to West McGraw Street, and the one company her father represented that still kept its offices within walking distance of the apartment. Custom Window Coverings. They now had a large factory in Renton and did a booming catalogue business as well, and should have moved their offices out there, too, long ago, which she told the owner, Mike Woodall.

  She was acutely aware that Mike’s wrinkled suit jacket concealed the drape of his blue cotton oxford shirt across his thick shoulders and that his middle-aged spread hid the way it tucked into his baggy pants, and despaired over her negative imaging—but at least she’d tried.

  He was reminiscent and sympathetic about her father, and grateful that she’d stick with them until a new accountant could be found. It was a good meeting, over all.

  On the way home she stopped briefly to pick up the monthly checks, deposits and sales invoices from Al’s Auto Repair, Royal Bowling and finally Garden Palace Chinese Restaurant, where she was always treated more
like a guest than an employee. She traded Mrs. Chin a nice, flat, empty file folder for one that bulged with business receipts.

  “Every month I pick up your folder, Mrs. Chin, and every month it gets fatter.”

  “That is good. A fat folder means good business,” she said in rapid, clear, perfect English. She was barely five feet tall and Charlotte always felt the need to stoop in her presence. “Soon we will open restaurant number two, down the hill, under the Space Needle. Then we will give you two fat folders every month. Do you like hot and spicy?” Before Charlotte could answer, the woman pushed a large brown paper bag at her, saying, “Please try my kung pao shrimp this time. You are not allergic, are you? You can tell me if you like it when you come back next month.”

  “You don’t have to keep doing this, Mrs. Chin.”

  “You do not have to pick up the folder. I have cousins in Renton who have to deliver the receipts themselves. I want to feed you for the pick up.”

  “I like to walk, so it’s no . . .”

  “Walking will make you hungry. So let me feed you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.” She frowned briefly. “You are not married. Do you have a steady gentleman friend?”

  Oh no. Was Set Me Up tattooed on her forehead?

  “Not exactly,” she said, hoping to ward off the inevitable without actually lying.

  “I have a son who is ready to marry. He has been to college for a business degree. He can cook and clean and he lives alone. I am looking for a good wife for him.”

  Lie! Lie! Lie!

  “Well, I am sort of seeing someone. Someone new. Too new to tell really.”

  “Good. That is good. But if it does not work out, you come back and date my son.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  Mrs. Chin nodded and looked pleased.

  Charlotte made one more stop, going several blocks out of her way, to the largest drugstore in the area. They had every magazine under the sun, and she plucked out several indiscriminately, as she combed the many copies for a recent GQ.

  Suits and sport jackets, tuxedos and khaki slacks, button down and polo shirts. Is this how Mel wanted to dress? She contemplated a thick, white cable knit sweater she thought Mel would fill better than the model did and lingered—quite a while—over an ad for a pair of button-up-the-front jeans that lifted her eyebrows half-way up her forehead with the way they fit the bare-chested model. And it wasn’t so much the blue-and-gray striped oxford shirt as the way it was open down the front of a broad and muscled chest with a flat, ridged stomach and the thin line of dark hair running straight down the middle of it to his . . .