Night Visions

by Thomas Fahy

  Samantha hurries to the front door and up the stairs without waiting for Frank to respond. The night air feels thin and hard, as if she’s standing at five thousand feet. For a moment, she wishes there were more stairs—anything so she could keep moving, so she could climb far away from basement apartments, unanswered questions, and sleepless nights.

  The church is still on Friday night. No choir sings in preparation for Sunday services. No priest hears confession. Only the candles glow steadily in the dim light. Samantha searches for the words to pray, but without music she can’t find a starting tempo. Maybe true prayer is like crying, she thinks. Something that needs to well up inside until it breaks free like water from a cracked dam. She wonders how much longer she will have to wait for the tears of prayer. Her eyes stay dry.

  She has always admired actors who can weep on cue, but she can never trust them. Some things shouldn’t be easy to control.

  Frank coughs, and the sound startles her. The church doesn’t feel the same with him beside her. He’s there because she insisted they stop. She’s there for herself. Neither seems to be the right reason for coming. She knows Frank is impatient to leave, to take her home, then go to Dr. Cooper’s, but Samantha wants to sit for a few more minutes. There is nothing like the silence that comes from the smell of faded incense, cold drafts, and uncomfortable wooden benches.

  She looks up at the cross, studying the spikes through Christ’s palms and feet. The historical inaccuracy never bothered her before. Spikes were driven through Christ’s wrists, not palms, because the flesh there would tear too easily. In this sculpture, his writhing hands seem to struggle for freedom, each finger experiencing a separate agony. What is it about hands that makes artists want to paint and sculpt them? Is it the way hands communicate so much pain and tenderness without speaking?

  Her body and mind ache. From fear, loneliness, uncertainty. Uncertainty about whether the sadnesses of life will keep her awake forever. Uncertainty about her connection to Endymion’s Circle, the count, the crimes themselves. She feels as if she were spinning in the craziness of it all.

  God. Fate. A curse.

  For Samantha, they all seem to be part of the same desire. The desire to believe in something. To explain pain and suffering. To explain the mark carved into her own writhing body. To make sense out of the chaos of life. Frank thinks it’s easier to believe in a curse than to live without answers. But he’s wrong, she thinks. It’s much harder to believe in something we can’t control.

  “I’m ready.” Her voice echoes loudly.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Let’s go.”

  Samantha notices the squad car in front of her apartment as they turn the corner on Twenty-first Street. Frank pulls alongside it, and she rolls down her window.

  “Hey, Frank,” the officer in the driver’s seat calls out pleasantly.

  “Sam, this is Officer Chang. He and his partner will be keeping an eye on you.”

  “Hi. You can call me Wayland.” He smiles. “Officer Brooks is in the building. He’s posted outside your door. If you need anything, just let us know.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll walk you upstairs,” Frank says as he pulls into the driveway.

  On the third floor, a uniformed officer sits on a folding chair by her front door. He fills most of the narrow hallway and has to stand to let them pass. He introduces himself clumsily, and his lanky body, pale skin, and dark hair unfashionably parted on one side remind her more of a high school counselor than a cop. Once she unlocks her door, Frank walks ahead of her. To Sam, this extra precaution seems somewhat scripted, like something in a thriller movie.

  “After I check out Dr. Cooper’s place, I’ll come back. Just to see how things are going.”

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  “I want to.” He smiles.

  “We’re missing something, Frank.”

  “I know.”

  “The change of pattern doesn’t make sense.”

  “We’ll figure it out.”

  As he turns, Samantha places her hand gently on his back. He lingers, and her mind races with reasons and excuses for him to stay. But she can’t ask. Not now. Not with so many unanswered questions about the case.

  “I’ll see you later,” she says, and her words rise in pitch, as if she is asking a question.

  He turns and smiles. “Definitely.”

  Frank steps into the hallway, closing the door behind him. It leaves a hollow sound, a thud that echoes throughout her empty, lonely apartment.

  26

  Mrs. Brinkmeyer

  The muted trumpet of Miles Davis sings with hopeful melancholy, telling the story of someone who waits patiently for love without being afraid of loneliness. Samantha pours a glass of Napa Valley chardonnay and sits on the couch with her eyes closed. She’s not sure if having a cop outside the door makes her feel more or less anxious, but it does make her self-conscious. She sits straighter, tries to make less noise, and wonders about what to wear for the evening. The music shifts seamlessly into a nostalgic stroll. She sips the wine.

  The phone rings a few times before she picks it up. “Hello?”

  “Samantha, dear, it’s Mrs. Brinkmeyer.”

  “Hi.”

  “I haven’t seen you in a while. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I’ve just been really busy.”

  “Do you have a minute to stop by? I have some new cheeses.”

  “Sure, I’ll be right down.”

  Mrs. Brinkmeyer, her seventy-four-year-old landlady, lives on the first floor. Every week, she invites Samantha for wine and cheese. They talk about books, music, the latest idiocy in the White House, education, current art exhibits, property value in the Bay Area. The list is endless. Mrs. Brinkmeyer calls Samantha intelligent, talented, eloquent—and her ego loves it—but in truth, Samantha learns more from listening to Mrs. Brinkmeyer than she could ever offer in return.

  Grabbing her keys, Samantha steps into the hall. Officer Brooks has abandoned his post, leaving a folded newspaper on the chair and an open can of soda underneath. I feel safer already, she thinks sarcastically and walks down the hall. The back stairs lead directly to Mrs. Brinkmeyer’s apartment, and by the second floor, piano music starts to paint the drab, unused space of the stairwell with color. As always, Mrs. Brinkmeyer waits with her door open and a record playing.

  With a warm smile and a kiss on the cheek, Mrs. Brinkmeyer says, “Wonderful to see you, dear.”

  White wine is already poured, and the glasses have been chilled. Today’s cheeses—Roquefort, chèvre, and Brie—are set out with crackers and red grapes. Samantha sits in her usual spot on the firm, pearl-white couch, and they raise a glass to each other. After a sip, Mrs. Brinkmeyer asks, “So?”

  As part of their weekly ritual, Samantha tries to impress her by guessing the composer. “Bach, I think.”

  “His Second Partita.” Mrs. Brinkmeyer moves to the edge of her chair, eager to listen, like an athlete ready to play. “Who’s the pianist?”

  “Glenn Gould.” Samantha takes another sip. “Do you have his recording of the Goldberg Variations?”

  “Yes. Would you like to hear it?”

  “Sure.”

  As Mrs. Brinkmeyer gets up to find the record, Samantha quickly spreads some Roquefort on a sesame-seed cracker. She always feels guilty about eating other people’s food, even at dinner parties and birthdays. Frank used to laugh at her for worrying about such things, but she was raised by a father who taught her to say no to anything she hadn’t paid for or earned. “Just because someone offers you something,” he said, “doesn’t mean they really want you to take it.” And, like so many other things her father had said, that was the final word on the subject. She looks at the cracker for a moment, debating whether or not to eat it, until her stomach growls.

  “So why this piece today?” Mrs. Brinkmeyer asks, turning around to see the cracker halfway in her mouth. Samantha smiles like a child w
ho gets caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

  “Well—” She tries talking with a mouthful of cheese, then decides against it. The music starts humming through the speakers like a faint lullaby, and they listen to the opening while Samantha chews as quietly and inconspicuously as possible. Mrs. Brinkmeyer takes another sip from her glass.

  “Well, for one thing,” Samantha says after she’s swallowed, “it has a very interesting history….”

  By the time Samantha leaves, they have listened to the entire piece. She has told her stories about the count, Goldberg, and Bach’s commission to write the variations. She was worried that she might fall asleep at any moment, but the music had no effect on her tonight. Only the wine made her drowsy—and somewhat buzzed.

  Samantha climbs the stairs slowly, light-headed from two glasses, and pauses to catch her breath on the third floor. She hasn’t eaten dinner, other than Mrs. Brinkmeyer’s cheese and crackers, and is too tired to cook. Then, remembering that there is nothing edible in the fridge, she considers sending Officer Brooks to pick up some Thai food.

  Still smiling at the thought, she sees the empty chair in front of her door. More irritated than concerned, she fumbles through her crowded key chain, imagining all the disparaging things she could say to Brooks but never will. He probably didn’t even notice I was gone, she thinks, putting the key in the lock. The door falls open as soon as she touches it. Did I forget to lock it? She considers going downstairs and getting Coffee-Break Brooks to check out her apartment. She can hear Miles Davis playing softly, and the CD must have repeated, because it’s back to “Someday My Prince Will Come.” She steps inside cautiously. The living room is empty and still. She doesn’t want to seem as if she’s overreacting, so she takes another step inside, leaving the door open.

  With each step, the floor creaks. Everything seems the same until she turns off Miles. She expects silence, but another sound is coming from elsewhere in the apartment. A steady hum…no, running water. She walks to the bathroom door, which is closed. Her legs feel like blocks of cement as she reaches for the knob. She turns it slowly and pushes. The sound of rushing water gets louder.

  Suddenly, the entire floor is covered with water. The light doesn’t work, but a shaft from the living room illuminates the overflowing bathtub. She enters, and water splashes at her feet. Bending over the tub, she turns the faucets clockwise, then counterclockwise. The water stops. She stands up and looks around the room, unsure of what to do next. Through the window, she notices a strong wind rippling the trees.

  Then she sees a dark bulky figure on the floor in the corner. It reminds her of a vision. Water covering a face. Her face? She’s not sure. Without moving, she strains to see more clearly. It looks like a body curled up and turned away from the light.

  She quickly backs away, to get help, to get out of the apartment. Suddenly, her legs slip out from under her. Everything seems to move with exaggerated slowness.

  As a child, she wondered if magicians could really levitate a body. Every time the fair came to town, she and Rachel begged Father to take them to the magician’s tent. Samantha would go to every possible show, standing in the audience and waving her hand wildly in the hope that some magician would choose her as a volunteer. They never did. She wanted to know what it felt like to float several feet above the floor, to fly. For a moment, she remembers these magic men, with their red handkerchiefs, black capes, and silver rings. She remembers what it feels like to be in the audience, standing safely on the ground. And in that brief moment, with her body hovering parallel to the linoleum floor, she knows that, if ever given the chance, she’ll never raise her hand again.

  Samantha’s body slams against the water-soaked floor, and the sound resonates in her head like a drum that gradually fades with each beat until the lights go out.

  27

  Intermezzo

  Her face feels numb against the cold wet tile. She turns her head slowly toward the ceiling and rolls onto her back. Everything seems hazy. The sink, towel racks, hamper, and tub vibrate in and out of focus, and she tries to concentrate on one thing to stop the dizziness. Through the window, the trees are swaying more frantically, and the streetlights seem to reflect off their leaves like Fourth of July sparklers. She wonders how long she has been unconscious. Then she remembers the body. She tries to move, to see something, but her arms feel weighted down. She tries to touch her face.

  Something is wrong with her arms. No, it’s her wrists.

  They’re bound with rope.

  She lifts her arms together, then lets them fall back into her lap. Once again, the room spins into darkness.

  Parasomnia

  DURHAM, NORTH CAROLINA

  MAY 1, 1999

  8:17 A.M.

  Veronica watches him leave—not through the smudgy window of an anonymous motel room or the side-view mirror of a taxi, but from her bedroom. He slept here, in her bed, without sneaking off before dawn or forgetting a wedding ring on the nightstand.

  He kissed her on the lips before leaving. His face wasn’t tortured with guilt or preoccupied with excuses for saying good-bye and never looking back. He kissed her with desire. He kissed her like a man torn between leaving and making love to her again.

  Yes, making love.

  He carelessly left his library copy of Christoph Wolff’s Johann Sebastian Bach: The Learned Musician on her dresser. Does Max play the oboe? Or did he say the clarinet? She will have to ask when she sees him again. She repeats these last words out loud like lyrics to a favorite song—“when I see him again.” Opening the book, she skims for margin notes. None. Just a bookmark about halfway through. The page describes a legend surrounding one of Bach’s keyboard pieces, the Goldberg Variations.

  She closes it abruptly, not wanting to read it before he does. She’ll call to arrange a rendezvous as lovers do—for coffee or dinner or drinks. Just the two of them.

  But he didn’t give her his number. He called her. They met for dinner and came back to her place. Well, his number will be in the library database. She’ll look it up and call under the pretext of returning his book. She wants so much to see his face in the glow of restaurant candlelight again, to hear his deep voice in the dark spaces of her bedroom. She imagines holding hands while stumbling along the uneven sand dunes of Wrightsville Beach. Or getting dressed up for the symphony and drinking a glass of champagne.

  Is this what love does—make people long for stereotypes? She is a librarian, a lover of words, yet she has been reduced to clichés and images from romance novels.

  What does it matter anyway, she thinks suddenly. Angrily. She can’t love him. She knows what will happen if she falls asleep by his side. She will wake up and find him dead. She took that chance once. It was selfish, she knows, but she wanted to feel love.

  What if it’s true? she keeps asking herself. What if the most improbable thing in the world just happened, and someone fell in love with me?

  She shouldn’t see him again. She shouldn’t call. She considers writing his name in a Bible and storing it with the others.

  No, not him.

  For hours, for days, for weeks, she doesn’t call.

  Neither does he.

  For months, it goes on like this. Weeks of silence, then a long night of passionate sex. After the first time, she doesn’t let him stay, insisting that he leave, but this makes him oddly jealous and angry.

  She loves him in spite of herself. She knows other women like this. Afraid of being alone. Taking whatever they can get even when it makes them feel like less than what they are. But she feels something with him that she has never known, and having him to think about makes the sleepless nights more bearable. She starts wearing makeup to cover the bags under her eyes. She uses eyedrops to take away the redness. Anything to appear attractive to him—to keep him, if only for a while.

  Seasons change and more months pass.

  She keeps forgetting to ask about the oboe.

  She has never seen his apartment.

/>   APRIL 19, 2000

  11:17 P.M.

  Max insists on staying, but not for love. Something is bothering him, and he wants to test her. He sits in front of the television in his boxers, another beer in his hand. Veronica wears only a white button-down dress shirt.

  “Are you sleeping with someone else?” Exhaustion gives her the courage to ask. Time goes by quickly when you’re living in denial—when you’re afraid of the changes the truth might bring.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s her name—other than whore?”

  “Catherine.” His eyes stay on the television.

  “Get out.”

  “Like you’re not sleeping with other people.”

  “I’m not, you ass. I’m in love with you.”

  “What about those Bibles?” He looks at her earnestly.

  “How did you—this is about the Bibles? They have nothing to do with you or my life right now.”

  “Then who are all those men?”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  He turns back to the television angrily.

  “Hey, you don’t have a right to be angry here. You’re the one fucking someone else. How long has it been?”

  “A few weeks.”

  “You bastard!”

  “At least I’m honest.”

  “This is your definition of honesty?”

  A loud hissing sound explodes from the television, and Max quickly presses something on the remote. It becomes silent.

  “Get out.” Veronica’s voice has gone cold.

  He looks at her again, then responds evenly, “I think I’ll stay awhile.”

  “Why?”

  Silence.

  “You think someone else is coming over, don’t you?” Veronica says, dumbfounded.

  “Maybe.”

  “You have no idea what you just lost.” Veronica turns, walks to her bedroom, and slams the door. Her face sinks into the pillow, and she feels the moisture of thick tears against her face. She shakes with each sob as if her tired body and broken heart have finally had enough.