The Darkest Time of Night

by Jeremy Finley

  As he started scraping his fork to gather the last remnants of the angel hair pasta, I rubbed my temples. When the base of his wineglass caught the edge of his plate and made a sharp clang, I scooted my chair back, walked over to the sink, and began to rinse the plates before putting them in the dishwasher.

  “I guess you don’t think we should do it,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Of course I think you should do it. We aren’t doing it.”

  “It’s Diane Sawyer, Lynn. She’s giving us an hour in prime time.”

  “I know who she is, Tom. And I think it’s the right decision. For you to do.”

  “Lynn, you need to take part in it. People are going to be more sympathetic to someone like you than some perceived beltway insider. You or Anne—”

  “No,” I laid the dishrag down on the countertop. “Not Anne. Not Chris. No one but you. This family is hanging on by a thread. I won’t put Anne through it—”

  The knock came at the door, and he checked his watch. “Deanna said she’d be here at seven. Listen to what she has to say, Lynn. She’s a communications expert; she’s been a valuable asset. And the FBI has already signed on to this.”

  I dried my hands, then put on too much lotion. The October air was already wreaking havoc on my skin. When I turned back around, Deanna Ruck, Tom’s communication manager, who I’d met on the porch the day of the news conference, was setting down her briefcase.

  “Hi Mrs. Roseworth. Nice to see you again.”

  “Hi Deanna. Can I offer you some coffee?”

  “No, thank you, I’ve smoked too much for one evening, and I don’t think my nervous system can handle caffeine too.”

  “Have a seat,” Tom said quickly, knowing I refused to clean his clothes when he’d been smoking.

  Deanna produced a thick folder. “So here are the talking points, all approved by the FBI. ABC is giving you an hour, so they will need a lot; enough to keep the story line moving along until the last quarter hour—”

  “Story line?” I winced.

  “Lynn…” Tom gave me a weary glance. “She means we want to keep viewers tuned in until the end of the hour, when I reveal the increase in the reward.”

  “We’re not a TV drama,” I replied softly.

  “Please go on,” he said to Deanna.

  “As we discussed, you’ll take Diane and the crew through the woods. You’ll provide all of the new photos of William approved by your daughter. ABC is asking again if Anne or Chris—”

  “No,” I insisted. “They will not be doing an interview. No other member of the family.”

  “Have you given any thought…” she began.

  “I won’t. I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  She nodded. “Here’s where we have to have a tough discussion. Senator, Mrs. Roseworth, forgive me, but I have to ask: Is there anything—anything at all—that could be considered controversial about your family that you haven’t already disclosed? No pattern of runaway behavior by William? No affairs by Anne or her husband? Drug use? Nothing that would make the tabloids?”

  “We’ve gone over this repeatedly with the FBI. We’re terribly boring,” Tom said.

  “Because if there’s one single bit of information that’s outrageous, anything that casts doubt on the family or your sensibilities, you will lose the public’s sympathy in a heartbeat. A sideshow will disrupt what really matters. I’m sorry to be so crass. The producers have made it clear: The information about Brian is a nonnegotiable.”

  “Nonnegotiable?” I asked.

  “Lynn, they have to have something to tease,” he said.

  “Tease?” I was gripping the side of the table now.

  “We have a daughter who works in television news, Lynn, who has spoken to us at length about this. Kate has spoken to you about this. The more the producers can tease that they have obtained new information, the more people will watch, and the more people will be on the lookout for William. I will discuss briefly that Brian may have witnessed it and has been in a traumatized state ever since. End of discussion, Lynn. Deanna, do we have a list of questions?”

  I envisioned walking over to the cake plate, calmly taking the last piece of iced banana bread, and throwing it in Tom’s direction. But instead I sat with my hands on the table.

  “The network won’t provide questions, but we know the ballpark. You need to be prepared. That’s what’s in the talking points—”

  “I need to assume questions about the VP offer. And if William was a troubled kid; if we acted quickly enough in contacting police; domestic terrorism—”

  “Does it have to go there?” I asked.

  “It can go there and it will, Lynn.” Tom was getting angry now. “You don’t get it: ISIS is converting suburban high school kids into extremists and teaching them through social media to shoot up military institutions and attack the government any way they can. I’ve read the files. You couldn’t stomach them. Of course, they could have staked out our family and waited for just the right moment. You think kidnapping a family member of the only Democratic senator who led the charge to increase military presence in Iran to bomb those fuckers is out of the question?”

  “It could have been any of you, truly,” Deanna said. “But after the magazine came out…”

  I stood up and walked to the stairs.

  “I’m sorry, but that question will certainly be asked.” She sounded more irritated than apologetic.

  Tom was on his feet. “Lynn! Come on, Lynn. God dammit!”

  I hurried up the stairs, my hand on my mouth. I went through the bedroom and into the bathroom, closing the door. I ran the water to mask my sobbing.

  Nothing outrageous, Deanna warned. Nothing salacious or controversial should come out about any of us.

  I roughly wiped the tears from my face. The small amount of mascara I’d earlier applied streamed down my cheeks. I grabbed a Kleenex and leaned into the mirror.

  I stopped. A flushed face with weepy eyes and smudges of black beneath reflected back.

  The desire to smash the mirror was so strong that I actually began to step back, to contain myself. But instead, I leaned in closer, looking at every detail of my pathetic face.

  I would burn that image in my memory to use as ammunition, should I begin to doubt what I had to do.

  * * *

  The bells above the door to the Peddler announced my arrival, and I could see Barry Manilow’s face on the computer screen reflected in Roxy’s glasses. She was obviously so engrossed in her online research into his denials of plastic surgeries that she only held up her finger. “Be with you in a minute.”

  “Don’t keep the customers waiting too long,” I responded.

  “Well, good morning. What a nice surprise.”

  I rubbed my shoulders. “It’s cold this morning. You’ve done a nice job with the Thanksgiving decorations. I can’t thank you enough for tending to the shop during all this. And I’ve been such a terrible friend, I haven’t even asked about how Ed was doing this month.”

  “A few more rounds of chemo and he’s done for a while, I hope.”

  “I am so sorry, Roxy. I should be checking on him at least once a week.”

  “Ed’s tough. He’ll beat it, like he’s beat it twice before. In fact, he practically shoves me out the door every day. Imagine if the two of us were pecking on him all the time—he barely survived being around us every day of high school. He doesn’t even the let the boys do work around the house for him.”

  I bit my lip. “I hate to ask you this, but do you think that Ed is well enough for you to go visit your brother in Little Rock?”

  “Excuse me? You know I hate my brother’s wife.”

  “I was hoping you’d like to go. And that you’d insist I come with you.”

  Roxy tried to hide in the pity in her smile. “Honey, say the word and we’ll be out the door in two shakes. Tom stopped by and told me about the interview with ABC tomorrow. I know you don’t want to be here when they come. You need a break
from all this. But I do think we should screw Little Rock, let’s go to Tunica—”

  I shook my head. “No one would believe that. Certainly not the girls. They have to believe I’m going to Little Rock. And you have to go—for a week, that’s all. Then you can come back. We’ll schedule it that we arrive back at the same time.”

  “You’ve lost me. I’m going to Little Rock … but you aren’t coming with me?”

  “I’m not done. I need you to rent a car for me. I don’t want to use my debit card for Tom to see. Of course, I’ll pay you back immediately. I also hope you can drive me to the Enterprise over on Charlotte Avenue. And then when we both get back, you can pick me up there. It will look like we’ve been together the entire time.”

  “Where are you actually going?”

  “I need to go somewhere alone. And the girls would be too worried if they knew.”

  “If you’re going to have me lie, which I only do under the most important of occasions—such as telling Ruth Boster last week that the bleach is really hiding the hair on her upper lip—then the tradeoff is that I’m going with you. I don’t know where you’re going or why, but I will be going. I lie, I travel. Comprende?”

  * * *

  I slowly opened the door to the room Brian had shared with William. Two twin beds were tucked into the corners, one with Spider-Man sheets and the other with Batman. The red sheets with webs had remained untouched since summer.

  As he did each day, Brian sat in a chair facing a bay window overlooking his backyard. The books that Stephanie, the tutor, had read aloud, trying to get him to respond, were stacked near his ankles. I gave Stephanie two more weeks, tops.

  “Brian bear, it’s Nanna.”

  He continued to stare, motionless. Even his blinking seemed mechanical.

  “Honey, Nanna has to take a trip. I really wish you would talk to me before I leave.”

  A strand of hair drifted across his eye. When he made no effort to remove it, I gently brushed it back. I’ve never just come out and asked him. I have to do it.

  “Brian. Brian, honey, did William … disappear into lights? Lights from the sky?”

  When Brian failed to respond, I closed my eyes. I might as well have been talking to a statue. I looked out the window at the trees beyond.

  Not wanting to look again at his vacant face, I leaned down and kissed his cheek, and started to walk out, when I stopped at the door.

  I tasted his tear on my lips.

  * * *

  West Side Story took us from Tennessee to Paducah, Kentucky. Camelot blared as we blew through Southern Illinois. After a dramatic accompaniment to “If Ever I Would Leave You,” Roxy frowned at the construction off Interstate 57 onto Route 13. “Glad we got to avoid that mess. I suppose you’ll tell me when I actually need to get off the interstate?”

  I nodded.

  “Thinking about the girls?”

  “Kate—and Tom, for that matter—seemed relieved I was leaving. They’re both practical thinkers and know the TV shoot will go easier without me acting like an old guard dog. Stella was suspicious; she knows it’s not like me to leave in a crisis. Anne looked so panicked when I told her I was going with you to Little Rock. I know she won’t take part in the interview, but I feel like I’m abandoning her. It was like seeing her again at six years old, after I took her to the first day of kindergarten. I promised to call her twice a day, and I told her I would only be about five or six hours away, which really isn’t that untrue.”

  “Ah-ha! At last, a clue. So we’re going five hours away, then. Took us three and a half to get here, so…”

  “You know we’re going to Champaign, Roxy. You’ve known since I first told you I had to go to Illinois.”

  “Well, I guessed it, but I thought maybe you needed to go to Chicago. Or maybe Springfield. I still don’t understand why, though.”

  I closed my eyes and leaned back. Roxy took a swig of her Diet Pepsi and pointed to the console. “If you’re still going to be evasive you’re going to have to listen to Evita. And not that Madonna crap, I’m talking Patti LuPone.”

  After Evita came Phantom of the Opera, and then Chicago. Roxy was about to launch into “All that Jazz” when she spied a Cracker Barrel and announced her bladder was full.

  After lunch, as Roxy puttered around the souvenir shop, I sat in the booth and stared out at the leafless trees. We were nearing Mattoon now, which meant I was close to breaking the vow I’d made to myself all those years ago, whispering to the baby inside me, promising to never return to this desolate part of the world. It was spring then, and I felt with every mile the world was getting greener. I was escaping, I had my baby girl with me, and Tom could join us once he graduated. If I had had to walk home to Tennessee, I would have. More likely, I would have run.

  “OK, I’ve overloaded myself with crap, including those peg puzzles no one can ever figure out but that still get passed on to grandchildren,” Roxy announced as she returned to the table. “I bought one for each of your brood, they were on sale. Of course, my sons are depriving me of grandchildren, only giving me tattooed girlfriends. I’ve paid. Thelma, it’s time to tell Louise what exactly we’re doing.”

  I slid out from the booth and swept Roxy’s hand. “Not yet.”

  * * *

  When we at last arrived in Champaign, I repeatedly blinked; a bad habit that surfaced when I was surprised at something. Logic suggested that a college town I hadn’t seen in forty years would of course look very different. But I had seen towns in Tennessee sit unaltered for longer than that.

  As Roxy gassed up her pickup truck, I marveled at the sprawl of neighborhoods and gas stations, feeling a surprising twinge of fondness for the brick buildings. It was what I remembered the most about Champaign: the red brick, as if the founders of the university and the town knew that if the people were to survive the blistering winds and mounds of snow of winter, wooden structures weren’t going to cut it. The buildings on campus were brick, the restaurants were brick, even many of the new gas stations were brick.

  “OK, sister, where to now?” Roxy tapped on the window.

  I gave the directions, relying mostly on Google Maps on my iPhone, which was one of only two apps I had mastered. I had no choice but to conquer texting or else Stella would have driven me insane, and Tom insisted I understand the map app in case I got lost in Atlanta or Savannah. Though the streets surrounding the university had multiplied and the campus expanded, I was able to rest the phone on my thigh as we entered the school and give directions by memory. When I directed Roxy into the parking lot of the mostly plain (brick) building, my throat started to tighten.

  Roxy threw the truck into park. “Says I need a sticker to park here, but maybe the truck looks beat up enough that they’ll assume I’m a student. Are we going in?”

  I swallowed. “Give me a minute. Keep the truck running.”

  Roxy looked out the window. “Having done this now, I feel like a moron that I never came to visit you here. Six hours away in Illinois seemed like driving to Canada to me when I was twenty-two. Now, I know I should have gassed up that Chevy and headed up here all the time. It may have eased the pain.”

  “The pain?”

  “It was the worst time in my life when you came here. We’d been together every day since the second grade. I felt like I’d lost you to the north, like some pining widow of the Confederacy. Do you remember how we cried when you moved? I think Tom had to pry us apart.”

  “The feeling was mutual.”

  “I don’t remember much about all those years you were away. Did we not talk on the phone? Why do I have so few letters from you? Do I need to be taking gingko for memory loss?”

  “I made a firm decision not to talk about my life here. It wasn’t a happy time.”

  “Then why are we back here?”

  I sighed and pivoted in the truck to face her. “Remember when I worked for the astronomy department here, while Tom was in school? I ended up doing extra work for a professor on a pro
ject. He was involved … in researching missing people. Now … I just want to see if maybe his research could help us.”

  “For God’s sake, Lynnie. It’s completely against your nature to do anything irrational, and I know that grief can cause a lot of smart people to do a lot of stupid things, but this isn’t ridiculous at all. Why wouldn’t you tell me from the beginning? And why would an astronomy professor do research into missing people?”

  “Let’s go in before I lose my nerve.”

  We walked across the lawn, brown grass crunching beneath our shoes. Roxie bemoaned her lack of scarf and hat. “Good God, this wind is so strong! And cold! Does it blow down all the way from Chicago? How can anyone stand this?”

  “There’s nothing to block the wind,” I replied, turning up the collar on my coat.

  While the astronomy building too had been remodeled over the decades, it still clung to its original boxy shape. I was so taken back by the familiar silence of the building, and the smells of coffee and old paper, that I stopped, my hands fidgeting.

  “What time are they expecting you?” Roxy asked.

  “I didn’t make an appointment,” I said, turning away from what I knew would be a look of exasperation on her face. I led her down the main halls, past the grandiose photographs of the former deans of the department, to the office where I began my new life as a wife. The door was closed and a yellowed sign read, “Supply closet.”

  A female student passed by and I quietly asked where we could find the office manager for the professors. The girl shrugged and mentioned there was a student worker at the front desk, around the corner.

  We headed in that direction and found a room with a long desk and a very bored-looking young woman checking her cell phone. She smiled at our approach and set the phone to vibrate. I appreciated the gesture.

  “Hello. Are the professors’ offices still that way?” I asked.