The Longest Night

by K. M. Gibson

  Archie Guillory sat across from Catherine, with his head propped up against his fist. He slapped her manuscript over the desk several times. Finally he looked at her, his expression something akin to boredom. That was how he seemed to look all the time. She met his eyes, unfaltering.

  “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Archie said. “I hate romance novels. Never published one in my life.”

  “Nor have I.”

  “Ha!” Archie slapped the manuscript on the desk once more, rubbing his eyes while he chuckled. “Well, I would normally retort with something sarcastic like ‘I can tell’, but honestly…I usually don’t publish romance novels for the sole purpose that they’re crap. Yes, they sell, but they’re usually a great waste of trees. I could make a good buck off of them but I would hate every moment of it. When I was younger, my father always tried to get me into the romance novel market. My God, if they weren’t trash that my grandmother could have written.”

  She remained poised, unchanging, unbreakable. She knew she had to turn a new leaf, appear strong if she were to do this.

  “This here, it’s not Shakespeare, mind you, but it’s got cojones of a gentle sort. Not only will it sell, but it’ll ruffle some feathers, I bet.”

  “But?”

  “There might be infringements on people’s rights here.”

  Her guard wavered slightly. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that even though this book is great, it’s based off real people. We can’t publish this without worrying about a lawsuit.”

  “I don’t think I’ve violated any infringement law.”

  “I can read you like a book. No pun intended,” he added quickly. “I can see a true-events inspired story when I see one. You’re going to have to get permission from a few people if you want to keep clear of the court room.”

  Was it truly that obvious? In a way, she was publishing her book to be obvious, but only to him. Archie barely knew her; while she wasn’t close to many people, she feared that those who were could see through her story all too easily.

  “It’s original,” she said flatly, attempting a crude poker face.

  Archie sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. He already knew about her and her mother, and could very easily put two and two together about the main character and her mother. And he could only guess that the man of the novel was also a person from her experience.

  She was sceptical about meeting with Archie at first, and in fact he was also sceptical of meeting with her. He, the big-shot agent, helping make books by more successful, more substantial, more mature writers; she, the undergrad student of no renown. It turned out that the editor who had agreed to read over her manuscript had recommended her to Archie. She wanted to go through a less pretentious agent, but her editor insisted. As for Archie, he bitched and moaned about it, but he had read the book anyway.

  Archie’s hands slid off his face and he leaned back in his leather chair. “Tell you what. I want to publish this book, I really do. But in order to do that, I need your word on paper.”

  “Which means?”

  “You sign an agreement binding your name to all the legalities of the work, and if a lawsuit comes down on our heads, it falls right on your shoulders.”

  “You make it sound like it’s under the counter.”

  “It wouldn’t be a problem. All that would be left is you being aware of the dangers surrounding it. Books face lawsuits, but in your case, it might be legitimate if someone doesn’t like the fact that they’re being represented in a book for the entire world to read.”

  She didn’t even know his name, so how could she surely know his nature? How could she know he wouldn’t charge her? How could she know that he wouldn’t hate her for what she did? It was a possibility, a very dangerous possibility, that he would find out and he would reject, retaliate, ruin.

  If she didn’t do this, she would do worse to herself.

  She had been staring off behind Archie’s shoulder as she pondered, and without looking at him, nodded slightly. “Do it.”

  Archie nodded back after a moment’s pause. “All right, then we’re done here. I’ll have Ed take down your number, and he’ll call you to book another appointment to sign more documents and arrange things with art designers and what-not.” Archie had waved a hand at her as he spoke, as if dismissing the entire process as useless. She felt safe enough to break a smile, and she leaned across the desk to shake Archie’s hand.

  “Thank you, Mr. Guillory.”

  “Please call me Archie. It’s the only way I can retain my youth.”

  She kept smiling and rose from her chair.

  “Catherine. Now that that’s all past us, is it true? The story?”

  Yes. “No.”

  She looked back at him blankly, but she felt herself breaking under his stare. He wasn’t glaring up at her from his seat, but his forehead was wrinkled by his arched eyebrows. He played with a cigarette he had pulled from his breast pocket.

  “I hope he gets the message, then,” he said to her, stuffing the cigarette in his mouth and rising up out of his seat. She stood on the spot. Her mouth opened once to reply, then closed. As he dug through his pockets for a lighter, she grabbed her bag and left the office quietly.

  She dealt with Ed quickly. Train after train passed her at the station that she deliberately missed; twenty minutes filled with so many thoughts it may as well have been five. Finally she ventured home. As she came through the front door, her mother asked her where she had been, and Catherine fabricated a story of going to the library. After a small visit, she sat in her room at her desk, her hand resting on her laptop in contemplation.

  She hoped he would get the message too.

  She awoke shivering on the couch, wrapped in a ball, hugging her knees loosely to herself. It was day again. Sunlight was diluted by a thick sheet of grey sky. She sat up on the couch and looked through the doorway to the bedroom. He was still sleeping, lying in the same position she had left him in.

  The sharp ache in her hips called her attention. She headed for the bathroom. In the medicine cabinet was the jug of washroom water, which she placed on the toilet lid. She then undid her jeans and pulled them down.

  The jeans had melded so closely to her she had to peel them off. Every inch was felt. Once shed, she surveyed the damage. Blood had caked over her hips and thighs. A harsh red line traced the place where the rope sat naturally against her – where the pressure had been, carrying him all this way.

  She used the water judiciously on yet another strip of shirt. Each wipe was brutal so she took it slow. But he sewed up his own skin. So she held her breath and applied more pressure to properly clean herself. The worst of the pain abated. It was to bring him here. This she would carry until her last.

  She went into the kitchen and opened the old oven, now a wood storage. With a bundle of twigs and branches in arms, she planted herself by the blackened pit in the living room floor and prepped a fire. Using another sheet of old newspaper as kindling (the headline read: SAVS-1 Suspected Connection With Meteorite Crash in Northern Ontario), she lit it. Within minutes the fire was growing quickly, an insatiable creature, and in turn she felt her fingers and toes come back to life. She used and dumped her chamber pot, then changed into the fresh red sweater and blue jeans she had stowed away in the dresser, all the while very aware that he was nearby and she was so exposed. She felt new in the crispness of the sweater, as if it was freshly laundered. She inhaled deeply, but the relatively fresh smell had a dampness behind it, as if even neglected by moths. The cold still lingered on her coat like the smell did, and the excitement of wearing fresh clothes was chilled away.

  As she sat before the fire, she reflected. Who was luckier? Though she had saved his life, he had given her back hers. But he knew of a place that had shelter, food, and probably even protection. She certainly was worried of what she would do when the day came that she had scavenged every last thing there was to eat. With little game and no chance of harvesting a
nything substantial for a winter, she knew she would eventually starve to death. It used to be an issue she invested little care into, before she had found her reason to live.

  She got up to go check on him. She knew he would be fine, but she peeked in on him just about every second she was standing because it put her at ease. When she got to the doorway, she leaned against the frame, watching him sleep. Even though she knew how obsessive and borderline insane she was, she stayed right where she was and kept on studying. She felt so serene standing there.

  Something was on the floor by the bed, and Catherine stepped closer to see what it was. When she bent over to pick it up, her hand stayed and she froze, stooped there on the floor.

  A single black leather glove.

  She picked it up, holding it in both her hands, feeling it, turning it over slowly. She had seen this glove once before. It had held her as well.

  She clutched the sides of the paper, watching the story unfold before her eyes.

  She dragged him along quickly, trying to swallow her screams. He squeezed her shoulders so tight she couldn’t feel them anymore. The footsteps echoed from afar, but it was getting closer. One of them snarled. Death upon them soon.

  The southbound train suddenly pulled up, and Catherine jumped as she was pulled back to the present. So engulfed was she that she hadn’t seen him descend the stairs – she hadn’t once looked up until now. He was walking towards the train as it slowed, and she watched him go with disappointment. As he stepped closer to the train, waiting his turn to board, a glove fell from his pocket.

  She wanted to call out, but the words were caught in her throat. All the while he walked closer to the train, leaving the glove on the platform. Her eyes flickered between him and the small article. She tried to force her feet forward, but she stayed planted on the spot, feeling her heart quicken and her fingers tingle.

  When he boarded, a small noise escaped her throat. Dammit, Catherine. She stared at the glove, feeling like it would turn and bark at her to stop being so detestable.

  She looked around the platform. When she was certain no one was watching she slowly approached the glove like she was approaching the man himself. She stooped and picked it up. It felt soft under her hands, aged and worn. There was a small hole between two of the fingers. A tag on the inside had long since faded away from days upon days of wear. These details were him. Then she remembered she felt apprehensive of even touching it, like she was violating some sort of rule, or simply just being repugnant. But her hands explored it like she was feeling silk for the first time.

  The realization that she was looking at a glove so closely, crouching on the platform gave her the distinct feeling that she was Gollum, holding his Precious. She stood abruptly at the thought and held the glove down at her side as inconspicuously as she could.

  There were two options. One, she could drop the glove off at the lost and found and he could pick it up whenever he realized it was missing, if he would even try to recover such old gloves. Two, she could give it to him herself. While that idea was compelling and heart-racing, she felt frightened at the very thought of it. She hadn’t said anything to him in three years for good reason, and she didn’t think she would be able to do it now. But now that she had the opportunity…what would she do? What would she say? What would he say?

  When the northbound train arrived, she put the glove in her pocket hastily and rushed onto it. The entire day she was conscious of it being there in her coat, and she would frequently glance at it, wanting to pull it out and hold it again. It felt so strong, yet so soft, and holding it made her feel like she was standing on the edge of a precipice. At her lunch break, she did pull it out, and she set it next to her book as she read.

  When she arrived home, she did her homework, studied, ate a frozen dinner by herself (her mother was working the night shift at the hospital), and spent the entire evening with the glove in sight. At night she held it once more, looking it over, memorizing its detail, before she placed it in her bag and went to bed. Tomorrow she would give it to him, she decided.

  In the morning, she showered, dried her hair, did her makeup, and even put on some perfume. After she dotted some up her jawline, she paused, looking at herself in the mirror. “What are you doing?” She put away her things quietly, then prepared for school. She kissed her mother on the cheek (who was passed out in bed, still wearing her scrubs) and left for the train.

  Catherine stood there, without “Judgement Day” in her hands, or even a newspaper. She kept rehearsing in her head what it was she wanted to say, and she felt herself growing increasingly nervous the more she spoke to herself. Her introduction would be of the glove. “Here, you dropped this yesterday, I think.” But beyond that, Catherine had no idea what to say. She was even more worried of what he would or wouldn’t say. Would he be thankful, humble? Would he chat her up for a while, ask her things about her day or what she did? Or would he be so unpleasant that he would insult her? She was terrified of the answer, and the longer time went on, the less confident she became.

  The usual group of people finally descended the steps, and there he was at the end. Catherine watched him, flexing her hands to rid herself of the numbing feeling that crept into them. She reached for the glove in her pocket. As soon as she wrapped her fingers around it, she halted. Every scenario she had thought up of for this moment came back tenfold, all at once. For the moment she had forgotten how to command her arm; her hand remained in her pocket, her elbow locked in place, her eyes set downcast.

  He took his spot by the heating lamp. This was the moment. She had these words rehearsed, and she would say them. You dropped this yesterday…You boarded the train before I could give it to you.

  She spent five minutes trying to will herself to move, and she hadn’t realized the time go by until the southbound train pulled up to the platform. Her eyes widened and her hand stiffened around the glove, and she merely stood there as she watched him board.

  She had no problem pulling the glove out then. She looked it over, contemplating it. She was aware of just how shy she was, but this…

  After school, she went to the services desk at the transit centre and dropped the glove off with the lost and found. When the clerk asked her if she wished to provide a name, she replied, “Anonymous.”

  She smiled as she turned the glove over in her hands. It felt almost the same as it had back then, only now it was a little more aged, a little more worn out. Just like he was. Like they both were.

  Her eyes drifted over his face briefly, and then she put the glove on the side table by the old, long-since-lived alarm clock. The hands forever pointed to 4:53. This moment. She left and sat by the fire, thinking.

  Fatigue was overcoming her. Her head nodded back and forth as she fought off sleep. Once the fire has subsided some, she pulled herself onto the couch and fell onto it heavily. After the previous night, she felt she could sleep for days, or simply never bother with waking up again. Her eyes closed gently, her last sigh slipping away before she let herself be carried off.

  Flashes of colour and blurs came first. She remembered none of it. None of it except him looking back at her on the platform two years before. It would come back over and over, and the thought I don’t have to imagine him here anymore brought her floating back to the surface. She awoke to the sight of the ceiling and smoke billowing through her shabby flue. It took her a moment to realize that that was her ceiling, her flue, and her blanket.

  The blanket she had put on him.

  She sat up quickly, looking to the bedroom. He was gone.

  It dropped through her belly. She whipped her head around in a frenzy, and her eyes settled on a black figure outside her window, seated by the frozen shore. She tossed the blanket to the floor, sped out the door and around the house, and followed the jagged footsteps to the lake. A chunk of ice had been chipped out near where he sat.

  As she approached him, he laughed sheepishly. “Good thing you came. I’ve been having trouble getting up again.�
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  “What are you doing out here?” she asked sternly, kneeling down beside him.

  “I wanted to collect a water sample.” He held up one of the tubes he had had in his bag. Melting ice was in it. Each end of the tube was based with a thick black mound, which had a label with a code on it.

  “What’s it for?”

  “To test it. The virus. It does things to water too.”

  “Is that why you left? That place up north, I mean?”

  “Partly,” he replied breathlessly. He looked out over the lake.

  “Let’s get you back inside.”

  His face was so haggard, it seemed paper thin. Eventually he nodded. “Yes.”

  She made sure she was close enough for him to grab onto her shoulders, and after his arm hooked around her, she hoisted him up, straining. He screamed in her ear, gripping his side like he was being sliced open. Gasping, he limped along with her back to the cabin, their arms wrapped around each other.

  She dragged him through the streets, burning from the effort, him growing heavier by the moment. They were all they had left of anything, and their strength was waning dangerously.

  She walked him around to the front door. There was a moment she nearly spilled him on his head when his knees folded and he let go. With the last of her willpower she lunged forward in time to land him on the couch. Getting him to sit on it properly was even harder. Inch by inch, she shifted him until he was upright. Both of them were breathless, covered in sweat. Her arms were lead. His hands hovered over his stomach. Tight-lipped.

  “We should check your wound,” she said.

  He moved just enough to unbutton his coat. Fresh blood had soaked through his shirt. The dressing bloomed red. He untied the rope and moved the rag. The skin around the stitches was straining. Dark puss leaked from the corners. She stood immediately on sight and retrieved her kit. There was still some vodka left. Had her hands always been this slow? Once open, she poured it directly on the stitches. The scream. She dabbed at him with her old shirt as he writhed, then tore off a strip of it and bundled it against him, tying the rope around him as loosely as she could with enough give to hold it in place.