by Gayle Wilson
In the faint light provided by the night-light, she could see her reflection again, distorted by the mullions and the waviness of the old glass. Given the multiple images portrayed in the window, she had to fight the urge to look over her shoulder to make sure she was alone.
She turned into Maddie’s room, expecting the little girl to be as distraught by the storm as she was. Instead, Maddie was lying on her side, just as she had been when Blythe had gone downstairs. Her eyes were closed.
Instead of the relief she should have felt, Blythe’s first reaction was a renewed sense of uneasiness. How could the child sleep through the noise of the storm?
She tiptoed closer to the bed, spending a few seconds watching the regular rise and fall of Maddie’s breathing. The little girl’s lashes rested unmoving against her cheek.
Although her inclination was to pull the piled quilts over her daughter’s small, exposed shoulder, Blythe stepped back from the bed. It would be stupid to take a chance on waking Maddie, who was obviously fine.
And obviously dealing with the storm much better than you are.
Blythe turned, intending to make her way to her own bedroom. If she couldn’t sleep, there was a sack of paperbacks that her grandmother had pressed on her when she’d picked Maddie up after work yesterday. Most of them would be romances, but maybe that was exactly what she needed. Something positive. Life affirming. With a happily-ever-after guarantee.
She had already reached the doorway to Maddie’s room when the tapping came from behind her. She whirled, looking immediately toward the window to her right.
There was no doubt in her mind that something had struck its glass. She walked across the room, leaning over the small secretary she’d placed in front of the window.
Below was the roof of a narrow screened porch that had been added to the original structure. There were no trees. No branches to brush against the house, even if there had been enough wind to move them. And, she remembered, there were no shutters on the windows at the back.
Realizing that she still held the flashlight in her hand, she pushed the switch forward, pointing the beam outside the window. Rain streaked the glass, but there was nothing out there. She leaned forward as much as she could, directing the flashlight in a circle—above, to the right, below the window and then to the left. Nothing.
She straightened, trying to understand how she could have been wrong about the direction of the sound. It had come from here.
Obviously, it didn’t. You were wrong. So what else is new?
Her thumb had already begun to apply pressure to the off switch when the tapping came again. This time there was no mistake. The sound was right in front of her. She could even see the glass tremble slightly in its frame.
The cone of light from the flashlight was focused directly on the window. With a growing sense of horror she realized that there was nothing out there. Nothing touching the window. Nothing moving against it. Nothing that could move against it. Nothing.
Even as she came to that realization, the beam blinked out, leaving her looking at an empty blackness beyond the glass. Despite her success downstairs, she didn’t even try to shake the thing back on.
She backed away from the window instead. Then, without being conscious of having made a decision, she ran across to the bed and pulled back the covers. She scooped Maddie up and had already started to carry her across the room when the little girl’s eyes opened.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she lied. “I thought you might like to sleep in my bed. Because of the storm.”
Her voice trembled, but she prayed that, roused from a deep sleep, her daughter wouldn’t notice. The wide blue eyes looked over her shoulder, seeming to fasten for a moment on the window above the secretary.
Then Maddie turned her head, looking up at her. “Don’t be frightened, Mama. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s only the rain.”
Unable to speak, Blythe nodded.
No doubt there was a perfectly logical explanation for what had just happened. Whatever that might be, right now she wasn’t interested.
All she was interested in at this moment was getting Maddie out of this room. And maybe even out of this house.
2
A s he entered his utility room, Cade Jackson struck his rain-soaked uniform hat against his leg before he hung it on one of the row of hooks by the back door. Then, sitting down on the bench, he removed his lowtopped boots and socks, both of which were even wetter than the rest of his attire.
The Sheriff’s Department had been asked to help the state troopers work a tanker-trailer wreck out on the interstate. Cade and his deputies had done little more than direct traffic around the area of the possibly toxic spill. The thunderstorm, which had grown in intensity while the highway crews had worked to clean up the mess, had complicated things, dragging out the final all-clear for several hours.
As a result, Cade was cold and tired and hungry. And right now he wasn’t sure which of those pressing needs should take precedence.
Shower first, he decided, standing again to slip out of his yellow slicker. The hotter the better. To be followed by a couple of packets of aspirin powder to put a dent in the headache that had developed as he’d squinted through the driving rain at the oncoming headlights. Once those two things were accomplished, then he could think about taking something from freezer to microwave and out again in a matter of minutes.
He walked into the kitchen, fingers working over the buttons on his shirt. The light on the answering machine that sat on the counter was blinking.
Whatever this was, given the night he’d had, it couldn’t be good. Still, delaying wouldn’t make the news any better. Blowing out a breath, he stabbed Play.
While he waited for the message to begin, he pulled his shirt out of his pants to undo the last of its buttons. He was in the act of shrugging out of the damp garment when Teresa Payne’s voice, with its distinctive nasal drawl, came through the speaker.
“Hey, Cade. Just touching base. When you get in, give me a call about tomorrow night.”
Returning this particular call was way down on his list of priorities. He had run out of excuses to avoid Teresa’s invitations. And he wasn’t up to coming up with anything creative tonight.
So tell her the truth. Tell her you aren’t interested. And that you aren’t ever going to be.
There was enough of his good-ol’-boy upbringing left that he knew he was incapable of being that blunt. At least at this point. If Teresa didn’t figure it out pretty soon, he wouldn’t have much choice. As for tonight…
Carrying the balled-up shirt in his hand, he walked down the hall, not bothering to turn on a light. He’d grown up in this house. He knew every crack and crevice of it. Every squeak of the cross-sawn oak floorboards.
He flipped on the overhead in the bathroom. Dropping the shirt onto the floor, he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his uniform pants. He stepped out of those, leaving them on the tile beside the discarded shirt.
With one hand, he reached back and gripped the fabric between his shoulders to pull his T-shirt over his head. He pitched it to lie on top of the pants and shirt. Seconds later, his boxers had joined the growing pile.
He shivered a little in the cold. He should have turned up the thermostat, he realized. If he had, by the time he’d finished his shower, the house would be habitable.
Nude, he stepped out into the hall and pushed the lever up with his thumb. The furnace in the basement came to life with a whoosh, sending heated air through the vents.
He went back into the bathroom, reaching into the shower to turn on the hot water. Given the location of the heater, it would take longer for that to get warm.
Since Maria had come today, the racks had all been stripped bare for the washing machine. As he reached for a clean towel from the stack above the john, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
Dampness from the rain had spiked his hair. It glistened like jet in the light of the fluorescen
t. Even the twin swatches of gray at his temples were darkened by the moisture.
He had shaved around five this morning, but the ever-present afternoon stubble now made him look slightly sinister. And the shadows under his eyes made him look old.
Hell, you are old. Thirty-seven going on a hundred. Especially on nights like this.
As he turned away from the image in the mirror, exhaustion in every aching muscle, he wondered if he could be coming down with something. Probably not that lucky, he decided. The luxury of a couple of days off, spent inside a warm house, would work wonders. Both the cold and the rain were supposed to continue well into next week, and he would have no choice but to be out in them.
He slid back the glass door and stepped in, turning his back to the water. For several seconds he didn’t move, letting the force of the spray pound the bunched muscles between his shoulders. After a couple of minutes, he leaned his head back, eyes closed, to let the shower slough the cold moisture of the rain from his hair.
As his body began to lose the bone-deep chill, his tiredness, too, seemed to ease. He scrubbed every inch of his skin, literally trying to wash a way the day’s tensions.
It seemed to work. When he stepped out of the shower, the bathroom was at least ten degrees warmer than it had been when he’d entered. He grabbed the towel he’d taken from the shelf, using it first to dry his hair and then his body.
When he was finished, he wrapped the towel around his waist and opened the bathroom door. Steam wafted out into the cooler hall as he headed toward his bedroom.
Left hand on the top of the chest, he fished a pair of clean pajama bottoms out of the second drawer. He sat down on the end of the bed, which was made—the last time it would be until Maria showed up again next week—and put them on.
He stood, pulling the pajamas up to his waist. He went back to the chest of drawers for a clean T-shirt. Now all he needed were the aspirin and something to eat.
Two packets of powdered aspirin, a product everyone in the department swore by, had begun to make inroads on his headache by the time the microwave sounded. Ignoring the baleful light of the answering machine, he carried his dinner, still in its black plastic tray, along with a fork into the den.
He sat down on the couch, putting his food on the coffee table in front of him. Despite the tempting aromas of meat loaf, potatoes and gravy, he used the remote to turn on the TV.
He wolfed down the contents of the plastic tray, almost without looking at them, while he watched a rain-fogged video of the wreck his men had worked. When the local news cut to commercials, he glanced back into the kitchen.
The unanswered phone call would nag at him until he’d returned it. When he had, and had made a final check-in with the department’s dispatcher, he could crawl into bed and forget about the needs of the citizens of Davis County until the phone—or better yet, the alarm—woke him.
He pushed up from the deep cushions of the couch and made his way back to the kitchen counter. He listened to the message again, before he glanced down at his watch.
Decision made, he called up the number on caller ID and then pushed Talk. He listened to the electronic beeps, trying to decide what he was going to say this time.
“Hey, Cade,” Teresa said. “I was afraid you were still out working that mess on 65.”
“Got in about half an hour ago. The state finally decided that whatever the guy was hauling, it wasn’t a public threat.”
“That’s good to know. Hope you all don’t catch pneumonia from standing out in this rain.”
“Yeah, me, too.” He leaned against the cabinet, allowing the silence to lengthen.
Nothing was going to change. He was only delaying the inevitable. He might as well get this over with so he could go to bed.
“About tomorrow night…” he began and then hesitated.
This whole thing was his fault, and he knew it. He should never have opened the door even the crack he’d allowed. When it had started, he hadn’t seen the harm in their friendship. By the time he did, it was too late.
Teresa laughed. The sound was soft, but its bitterness apparent. “I can hear it coming.”
“Hear what coming?”
“Whatever you’ve got on. You’re either working. Or you’ve promised somebody you’ll do something for them. Or help them do something.”
“Teresa—”
“And that isn’t ever going to change, is it? Why don’t you just tell me to quit bothering you?”
“You aren’t bothering me.”
“Oh, hell, Cade. Don’t lie. That just makes it worse.”
“Look, why don’t we—”
“No. No pity arrangements. You and I are a little old for those kinds of games.”
There was nothing he could say to that. She was right. They were both too old for games. He had been for five years. Ever since Jean had walked out on him.
“I don’t blame you,” she said, speaking quickly now. “I just thought that maybe…I don’t know. There aren’t that many singles our age in Crenshaw. I just thought we had a lot in common. At least I hoped we did.”
They did. More than Cade and his ex-wife had ever had.
And look how well that worked out.
At least he and Teresa had had the same upbringing, right here in Davis County. And like him, she wasn’t interested in living anywhere else.
Despite knowing that, there was nothing there. No spark of interest. Not on his part. Knowing himself as he did, he knew there would never be.
He resisted the urge to offer more platitudes. The quicker they got through this, the less painful it would be. For both of them.
“I guess I was wrong,” she added.
“I’m sorry.” Despite his intentions, the apology slipped had out.
He hadn’t meant to hurt her. The fact that he wasn’t interested in a relationship didn’t have anything to do with Teresa. Maybe if he told her that…
“It isn’t you.”
“Oh, Lord, Cade. At least spare me the crap.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And for God’s sake, stop saying that.”
He obeyed, willing himself not to prolong this. Again the silence grew.
“You’re a good man, Cade Jackson,” Teresa said finally. “Even if you aren’t, and won’t ever be, my man. You don’t owe me any explanations, so don’t bother trying to think them up. Just…If you ever change your mind…”
He waited, lips pressed together. She never finished the sentence. Instead, there was a low click and then the dial tone in his ear.
After a moment he put the receiver back on the stand, stopping the sound. Despite his exhaustion, despite the promise he’d made to himself, he didn’t move. Not to cut off the light or to head to bed.
You and I are a little old for those kinds of games. That went along with what he’d been thinking when he’d looked into the mirror tonight. Thirty-seven going on a hundred.
In every way that mattered, Teresa Payne was far too young for him. And he no longer believed he was ever going to find someone who wasn’t.
She had been right last night, Blythe realized. There was no overhanging branch up there. No shutter. And absolutely nothing to bang against that window.
“What are you looking at?”
Blythe turned to find Maddie standing at her elbow, blue eyes shifting from her face up to the bedroom window. The little girl was wearing only her nightgown. Although it was made of thick flannel, with long sleeves and a deep flounce, long enough to brush the winter-browned grass, it offered too little protection against the early morning cold.
“There was something bumping against your window last night. I could hear it. I thought maybe I could see whatever it was from down here.”
She had come downstairs and out through the screened porch as soon as she’d woken up, leaving Maddie asleep in her bed. Or so she had thought.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“You don’t remember?”
“I didn
’t hear it.”
This was the same kind of stonewalling with which Maddie replied to questions about her nightmares.
Stonewalling? She’s four. If she says she doesn’t remember, then she doesn’t. She isn’t capable of that kind of deception.
And how does a little girl not remember something tapping against her window? Or dreams that make her scream hysterically?
“Well, whatever it was, it doesn’t seem to be there now,” Blythe said, turning to look down at her daughter with a smile. “How about some breakfast?”
“Egg McMuffin?”
“Not exactly what I had in mind. How about bacon and eggs and toast?” That was the kind of food she never had time to prepare in the mornings as she was rushing to get Maddie ready for Ruth’s and herself ready for work.
“That’s what Delores always fixes.”
Of course. Delores and Miz Ruth couldn’t imagine starting the day without a cooked breakfast.
“So what would you like? Other than McDonald’s.”
“Cereal. Coco Charlies.”
The Egg McMuffin would probably have been a more nutritious choice, Blythe thought. Death by sugar.
Despite the unfortunate choice of words, Blythe managed to hold on to her smile as, hand between the small shoulders, she turned the little girl back toward the house. “Coco Charlies it is.”
“It makes its own chocolate milk,” Maddie said cheerfully, skipping along in front of her.
With its concrete floor and open walls, the screened porch was almost as cold as the outside. The small kitchen, however, had already warmed in the few minutes since Blythe had turned up the heat. This house might have its problems, but at least the plumbing and the furnace were reliable.
Fingers crossed.
While Maddie took her place at the table, Blythe retrieved the box of cereal from the old-fashioned pantry. On her way across the room, she opened the fridge and took out a quart of milk. She set both on the table and reached into the cabinet above the sink for a bowl.