The Dark Hour

by K. J. Young

  Monica takes a step back and frowns. “Where did you get that?”

  “It was Lisa’s,” he explains, holding it out to her. “The chain is broken, but the cross might be worth something. I thought maybe your jeweler friend could take a look.”

  She shakes her head. “Mark, I have to say I’m disappointed in you, trying to profit off someone who committed suicide.”

  He’s not used to this particular mode of disapproval coming from Monica. She gives him the business often enough, but it’s usually in the form of high-handed sarcasm. He says, “It’s not as if she needs it anymore.” He is trying for a joke, but from the look on her face the effort falls flat. “So you don’t want it?”

  “No, I don’t want it.” She shudders like he’s offering her a dead mouse. “Get rid of it.”

  When Roy returns, he tells Monica, “We won’t be back until after lunch, so you might as well eat without us.”

  Gesturing to the breakfast dishes, she smiles and says, “Take your time. I have plenty to keep me busy here.”

  The two men head out the door to the Excalibur, still parked out front from the day before. Once Roy is buckled in, Mark clicks his own seat belt in place, and they take off. Already he’s starting to think of this as his car. Roy’s presence in the passenger seat is temporary. Soon enough Mark won’t need anyone’s permission to drive this vehicle.

  Driving down the block, Mark stops at the next intersection and sees Doug coming from the opposite corner, languidly striding across the street. He’s in front of the vehicle when he faces the car, wagging a mocking finger and contorting his face like a kid, then sticking out his tongue. Mark hits the horn, but Doug just laughs and keeps going, hopping up on the curb and striding down the sidewalk. “I hate that guy,” Mark says.

  “What guy?” asks Roy, who’s been looking out the passenger-side window.

  “That one.” Mark points as they continue on. “The old hippie who hangs around by the building next door. Every time I see that guy, he says crazy things about me being in danger.”

  “Do you think he’s on drugs?”

  Old people always think young people are on drugs. “Maybe. Whatever his problem is, he’s damn annoying.”

  Roy shrugs. “I find that if you ignore annoying people, they eventually go away.”

  “I’ll give that a try.” Inwardly, though, Mark vows that if Doug continues to harass him, he’ll break his jaw. He’s had just about enough of him.

  Mark is determined not to let Doug ruin his mood, since today is a very good day. At the bank his name is added to four accounts, and he is given an extra key to the safe-deposit box. The bank manager, Mr. Barden, views Mark with suspicion, taking Roy aside to ask if Mark has somehow coerced him into adding him to his accounts. Roy adamantly says no, clapping Mark on the back and saying, “Mark Norman may not be related to me, but he is family all the same. I would expect that when he comes in, you’ll give him the same courtesy you’ve always given me.”

  Inwardly, Mark beams. It feels wonderful to get the respect he deserves.

  From the way the bank teller and manager treat Roy, Mark gets the impression that Roy has quite the impressive bank account. He desperately wants to ask how much money the accounts contain, but admirably, he holds back. Patience is key here. He doesn’t want to look greedy. Besides, what does it matter? Someday it will all be his, but today is not that day. Everything will come to him eventually.

  When they’re done, Roy says, “This calls for a celebration.” It’s too early for lunch, so they drive around town with the windows down, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. When it gets closer to lunchtime, Roy announces that they should return to Grenadier’s, the fancy restaurant they visited on suit-buying day.

  The dining room is the same: framed, spotlighted landscapes on the walls, dark-suited waiters milling about, and linen tablecloths on every table. Most of the other patrons are businessmen, drinking cocktails and talking seriously about landing new accounts and brokering deals. At Mark and Roy’s table there are no cocktails, and the conversation is quite different. After their roast duckling with orange glaze is delivered, their waiter ceremoniously drapes linen napkins across their laps. Once he’s gone, Roy waxes philosophical on the meaning of life. “I’m going to impart some of my years of wisdom right now, Mark, and I hope you’re paying attention.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Roy lifts his fork. “Today is momentous because in entrusting you with my money, I’m also handing over the baton, so to speak. Life has seasons. You are in the spring of life, while I’m experiencing the worst of winter days. For you, life is just beginning, while my days are drawing to a close.”

  “Not necessarily, Roy. Some people live to be ninety or a hundred. You could live for many years yet.” This is, Mark knows, the polite thing to say.

  “No.” Roy shakes his head. “The end is near. I can feel it.”

  “I’m sorry.” What else is there to say?

  “Don’t be. Death is inevitable for all of us.”

  “Time and tide wait for no man.”

  “Exactly,” Roy says, laughing. “I can tell you that faith is what keeps me going. The only reason I’m not devastated to have lost my sister is that I have my faith to comfort me. I don’t know how people function without it.”

  A server comes and tops up their water glasses from a silver pitcher with a napkin tied around it. All the better to absorb condensation, Mark thinks. “Faith is important,” he agrees.

  Roy continues. “Here’s something else for you. Most people think that the end of their life is their darkest hour. Some even call it the dark hour, but I like to look at it a little differently.”

  “Oh?” Mark raises an eyebrow.

  “The way I look at it, life is like a party.”

  “A party?”

  “Yes.” He shakes his head vigorously. “When you first arrive at a party, you might enter the room a little hesitantly. You’re finding your way into a place you’ve never been before, scoping out the hors d’oeuvres, deciding what you want to drink, and looking around to see who else is in the room. After some time, you feel more comfortable and start to have fun. Then the music comes on and everyone begins to dance.” His eyes gleam. “And it feels wonderful to move to the beat. You might take some beautiful woman in your arms and think that she’s perfect, and the potential is there that you might hit it off. You’re having an amazing, glorious time, and you wish it would never end.”

  Marks smiles. “I’d like to go to that party.”

  “Oh, but you’re already there, my boy. You just don’t know it.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of it,” Mark says, attempting a joke.

  Roy says, “That’s because most people don’t realize how all this works until it’s over. And it will be over, believe me.” He takes a sip from his water glass. “Eventually, if you stay too long, the party gets to be a slog. The other partygoers get on your nerves. The music is too loud, and you become tired of it, weary of the people and the nonstop talking and the smoke-filled air. The jokes cease to be funny, and you’ve eaten enough delicious food, had more than your share of liquor. And that’s when you decide you’ve had enough. It’s time to leave the party. Other people, fresher, younger folks may enjoy it, but it’s not for you. You need to go home.” He smiles at Mark. “And that’s how life is like a party.”

  “Because at your age you’ve been at the party too long and want to go home.”

  “Right you are.”

  “And home is a metaphor for heaven.”

  “Presumably. I guess that remains to be seen.” Roy spears a piece of duckling and pops it into his mouth.

  “Well, thank you for the wisdom.”

  “You’re welcome. It’s the least I can do, considering all that you’re doing for me.”

  After lunch, Roy announces he’s in no mood to go home. “The house is empty without Alma,” he says glumly. Mark cheers him up by taking him for another lengthy drive
. Eventually they end up at a local florist, where Roy insists on buying a present for Monica. “She made the most delightful breakfast,” he says. “I haven’t had crepes in years. I want to show my appreciation.” He picks out a potted gardenia covered in blooms. Once it’s paid for, Mark carries it like he’s holding a baby.

  When they arrive back at Alden Manor, Mark pulls the car into the garage and helps Roy out of the vehicle. Monica comes to greet them, and Roy presents her with the flowers. She buries her nose in the flowers and says, “How thoughtful of you. I love them! I’ll put them in the blue room so we can all enjoy them.”

  For dinner that night, Monica makes spaghetti and meatballs, with garlic bread and a tossed salad. Despite having had a good-sized lunch, both Mark and Roy chow down. Roy tells her, “These meatballs are delectable.”

  “An old family recipe,” she says with a smile, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “It’s all in the seasoning.”

  Mark smiles at this new Suzy Homemaker act of hers. Not bad for the only girl in her fourth-grade class who didn’t have an Easy-Bake Oven. “I didn’t want one,” she once explained to him. “Even then I thought it was the tool of male chauvinists trying to keep women in their place.”

  After dinner, Monica insists on making the brandy manhattans. “You know I used to bartend,” she tells Roy.

  He chuckles. “A woman of many talents. I think we’ll keep you around.”

  “You better!” Her back is to the room because she’s facing the drink cart, but there’s no mistaking her flirtatious tone.

  Mark says, “I think I’ll take a pass tonight.”

  “A pass from what, my boy?” Roy asks.

  “The manhattans.”

  “You must be kidding.” Monica turns, holding a silver tray. “I’ve already made one for you.” And sure enough, three drinks grace the tray, each one garnished with a cherry and orange wedge. The garnish is a nice touch, but it doesn’t make the drink any more tempting for Mark.

  “I’ve been drinking too much lately,” he says apologetically.

  “Ah,” she says and nods. She lowers the tray to Roy, who takes a drink, and then she walks over to Mark, holding the tray toward him. “Just take one to sip on. Since I already made it.” Mark hesitates, and she adds, “For me?”

  “Don’t force him,” Roy says. “Not everyone is made for hard liquor.”

  Mark cringes at the unmanly notion that he can’t hold his liquor. He takes the drink. “I guess one won’t hurt.”

  As Mark pretends to sip from his drink, Roy tells Monica his theory about life being a party. She is totally enthralled with this metaphor, listening with rapt attention. Mark regards her attempts at ingratiating herself with a dose of humor. Try though she may, the papers have been signed, and Mark’s name is the one on the bank accounts. Monica can flirt and flatter to her heart’s content, but she’s still a young female, and despite all the efforts of the women’s libbers—the protesting, the bra burning, and the chanting for equality—it’s a man’s world, and he’s going to make damn certain he’s the one who comes out ahead in this deal.

  The taste of the manhattan has lost its appeal now that he associates it with the nightmare from the night before. Mark wonders how he’ll dispose of the drink, and then he gets his opportunity when the doorbell rings.

  Startled, Monica jumps up out of her chair. “Are we expecting anyone?” she asks Roy. Mark notes the use of the word we, as if it’s her house.

  “Not that I know of,” Roy says.

  “I’ll go see who it is.”

  As she leaves and Roy’s attention follows her, Mark empties his drink into the gardenia plant. He’s glad to be rid of it, and he’ll be happier still when he can brush his teeth and get the taste of geriatric sex out of his mouth. When Monica comes back a few minutes later, she’s holding a cardboard mask and has a puzzled look on her face. Holding it up, she asks, “Any idea what this is all about?”

  Roy leans forward to get a closer look. “What is it?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t really know. When I opened the door no one was there, but this was on the porch.” Turning it over, she reads something written on the back. “Things aren’t always what they seem.”

  Mark can picture Doug sneaking onto the porch, ringing the doorbell, and running away like a complete wuss. Presumably Mark’s threat worked and Doug will keep his distance, but Doug can’t resist getting in the last word. “Probably just someone’s idea of a prank,” he says. “I’d throw it out.”

  Roy nods. “When you’re right, you’re right, my boy. Most likely just a child playing a joke.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Monica mixes one more round of manhattans before they retire for the night. Mark begs off, but he eventually agrees to take a glass after she says, “You used to be more fun, Mark.” There is no opportunity to dump the second one, but he only drinks half, and he’s glad when she doesn’t push the subject further.

  Roy tells both of them he’s fine to get to bed on his own this evening, so while Monica takes the glasses to the kitchen, Mark goes straight to his own room. He has just closed the door behind him when the rush of alcohol hits his bloodstream. When the vertigo hits, he grabs the wall to stay upright. This is pathetic and inexplicable. How could half a drink make his joints so loose that walking across a room takes a gargantuan amount of effort?

  He is exhausted, but at the same time he feels jittery, his heart fluttering like the flapping of birds’ wings. He needs to calm the fuck down if he wants to get any sleep tonight. He painstakingly makes his way to the bathroom, brushes his teeth, rinses and spits, then braces himself by holding both sides of the sink. He looks at his reflection in the mirror. His hair, which had been so carefully styled earlier, is a mess, and his eyes are sunken in their sockets. While he stares at his image, he feels a catch in his chest, taking his breath away. That is weird. Is he totally losing it?

  If Lisa felt like this for weeks, no wonder she wanted to put an end to it.

  Mark falls back on the bed, too weak to take off his clothes or get under the covers. It’s not the job that’s getting to him, he thinks, it’s the lack of sleep. Maybe he’s getting sick as well. His mouth is dry, and he feels a lump at the base of his throat when he swallows. He’s nauseous and dizzy.

  How long can he keep this up, falling prey to disturbing dreams at night and working while exhausted during the day?

  Quitting’s not an option, though, not this close to the finish line. As the room spins, he thinks about how Dream Lisa advised him to smother Roy with a pillow, and suddenly it doesn’t seem like the worst idea in the world, not if it would make this craziness stop. Roy’s a nice old man, but he’s nothing to Mark, not really, and didn’t he tell Mark just today that he was ready to leave the party?

  If Mark were a different sort of person, he would do it. Roy is lucky that Mark is sensible.

  Afraid of having more bad dreams, he fights sleep, but it comes anyway. When he feels himself slipping under, he makes a wish that he doesn’t have any nightmares tonight.

  It begins with the sensation of being moved. The image of Alma being wheeled out on a gurney comes to mind, and for a moment he wonders if he’s being carted off to the morgue. But no, he’s not on a gurney. The movements are erratic, like he’s a wounded soldier being carried on a stretcher. Through a slit in his eyelids, he looks up and sees that the army medics are Baird and Sam, and they’re carrying him down the hallway toward the front of the house. At least in this dream, he’s clothed.

  Sam makes a small grunt. “He’s heavier than he looks.”

  Even though it’s hard work, Mark tries to look again. He needs to know what’s going on. With great effort he manages to open his eyes, seeing the walls of Alden Manor glide past and getting the sense of other people just out of his view.

  “Stop!” This voice he knows. It’s Monica. “He’s awake! I saw his eyes open.”

  “Not to worry, my dear. I know it’s been a long time, but don’t yo
u remember that we’ve seen this before? It’s a reflex, nothing more.” Mark is glad to hear Roy’s reassuring voice, even if he doesn’t quite understand what Roy’s talking about.

  And now his body is tipped, head lower than his feet, and the movement becomes jerky, leading him to believe they’re carrying him up the stairs. Roy’s voice saying, “Careful, careful,” is accompanied by the sound of clattering footsteps. When they get to the second floor, they head down the hall. Behind his closed eyelids he senses a bright light overhead, signaling to him that he’s in the middle of a dream. He knows this because the lights on the second floor don’t work. Lisa said there were no fuses in the basement fuse box, so they can’t work. It’s impossible.

  When a woman says, “Easy now. We’re almost there,” he recognizes Nurse Darby’s voice, a curious choice for his subconscious mind.

  Someone opens the double doors, and the pace quickens, as if they can’t wait to get there. His eyes are still shut, but he senses the high ceilings and open space. The dream version of this room lacks the stale air and pin-drop quiet he’s come to expect. Instead, he feels air moving across his face as if a breeze is coming through an open window. As confirmation, a car horn honks repeatedly from the street below.

  And then he’s unceremoniously dumped onto a hard, flat surface. Thunk is the sound his body makes as it hits what must be the table in the ballroom. Inwardly, he groans. The resulting bump to the back of his head hurts like hell.

  I’m not awake, he tells himself. This is just a dream. A horrible, awful dream. He wills himself to drift out of this nightmare and away from all this confusion.

  “I’ll get his clothing off,” Monica says, fiddling with the button on his jeans. The tug at his waist and the brush of her fingernails on his stomach is familiar.

  “Wait with that,” Roy says. “Help me up first.”

  And then there are other voices all blending together. He thinks he can pick them out: Baird, Lara, Nurse Darby, Sam, and Neela. Overlapping excited conversations come from the direction of the stage. He hears a woman (Lara?) say, “I thought this day would never come.”