Beyond Midnight

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  He was rubbing her upper arm idly as his voice meandered around, groping for words. "Something happened, Helen," he said unsteadily. "Something that sent me out of the bedroom, out of the house. . . and straight here. There's no one I can tell this to. No one but you."

  There was, in his voice, a low note of awe that spoke to her more profoundly than mere words could ever do. Helen shivered, and pressed against him, and when he seemed reluctant still to speak, she sat up and took his hand in hers.

  "What happened in your bedroom, Nat?" she said, returning the gravity of his look. "Tell me what you saw."

  He sucked in his breath, then seemed to forget about it as his eyes darted from right to left, focused on something she couldn't see. He might have been reading a ticker tape. He let out his breath in a rush, then shook his head.

  "Not what I saw. What I smelled. Enchantra, Helen. The room was redolent with it. I must've been dozing; I know I was agitated ... restless ... but I think I dozed off. And the scent—the scent was overwhelming enough to wake me up."

  He had become restless all over again. He needed to stand up; to pace. "Linda rarely went into that room; the bedroom we used is now Katie's," he explained. "I had the new room completely done over to suit me. Almost nothing in it is from ... before."

  Here, Helen could not help correcting him. "The commode alongside the bed."

  Wincing, he paused to say, "Yes. That's from our old room." His face turned suddenly querulous, as if he couldn't remember how it had got there. He rubbed his temples wearily, then abruptly resumed his pacing. "But more than that: there was something more ... something intense going on. I could feel it, Helen," he said, more to himself than to her.

  He was rubbing the back of his neck, stumbling through his spiritual encounter all over again while he paced and talked. Helen watched him closely, unable to look anywhere else. He was wearing beat-up khakis and an old blue shirt, the kind of thing he might've worn to clean leaves out of the gutters. With his stubble of beard, uncombed hair, and—Helen couldn't deny it—a turbulent look in his eye, he might easily have passed for a street person.

  "I didn't see her or anything, not in any clear way. But there was a sense of her, a ... a presence. Ah, hell, I can't describe it," he said, and then proceeded at once to try again.

  He turned to Helen and said, "It was... she was ... benign. I mean, it wasn't like Nightmare on Elm Street. She was filled with sorrow ... but she forgave me. That was somehow clear."

  "Forgave you?" Helen whispered.

  He was standing above Helen now; suddenly he fell to his knees in front of her and slid his arms along the outside of her thighs, and dropped his forehead onto her lap.

  "I wronged her, Helen," he said, dragging the words out in a moan. "I wronged her in a way I can never forgive myself for. I loved her... and then I turned on her ... and you were right: Linda was perfectly innocent. Whatever happened, she didn't mean to take a life, hers or anyone else's. Whatever happened, that was my son who died with her. God in heaven!" he said in a choked voice. "How can I ever forgive myself?"

  His agony was shocking, unbearable; it tore Helen up in a whole new way. She laid her hands on the back of his head in a kind of benediction and said, "No, no, it wasn't your fault. Not in the way you think. You were misled ...."

  He seemed not to hear; he was completely focused on pouring out his heart to her.

  "In my wildest dreams I wouldn't have known I could experience this. Any of this," he said in a voice twisted with pain. "And yet—God help me—I love you more, Helen. I love you still."

  And then he sighed and said in a low bleak whisper, "Forgive me, Linda."

  He looked up at Helen then, his gaunt, handsome face streaked with tears. "I'm sorry. I love you. I'm sorry."

  There was so much Helen wanted to tell him, so much he needed to know. But the moment was sacred; she would not defile it. "I love you, Nat," she whispered. "With all my heart. My soul."

  They went upstairs after that, and made love. He came into her with more sorrow than passion, more stillness than joy. And Helen held him fast and would not let him go— or come—because in all the wild ferment of rumor and loss and squandered emotion, this, at least, was real. He was real, and she was, and their love for one another.

  They lay without moving for a long time, he in her, she around him, until the obvious, the inevitable, happened: their need to be released overcame their desire to hold on. In utter silence, he brought her to a deep, rhythmic climax, and then he himself shuddered, and sighed, and lay still.

  Relishing his weight on her the way she would a heavy, comforting blanket on a bone-chilling night, Helen touched her lips to his shoulder in a gossamer kiss.

  "I love you," she whispered.

  "We'll find him," he said again.

  Their limbs locked together, they passed what was left of the night in a kind of desperate sleep, gathering strength—because now they knew that the most dangerous demons prowled around in the day.

  ****

  The sun was bright; the air was clean and fresh. While Nat showered, Helen—energized and filled with the sense that they both had Linda's blessing—sneaked down the hall into her daughter's room.

  "Becky, honey ... don't be alarmed," she said, shaking her gently by the shoulder. "But I just wanted to warn you."

  Becky moaned and buried her nose in her pillow. "Mmmmph ... what about," she said in a muffled voice.

  "Well ... about Nat. He's in the shower."

  Rolling her head to one side, Becky opened one eye in a squint. "Whose shower?"

  "Whose. Mine. Whose do you think?"

  "Did he run out of water at his house?"

  "No-o-o."

  "Are we taking in boarders?"

  "No-o-o."

  "Mmmph." She closed her eye again. "Okay. I'll sleep in."

  "Thanks, sweetie," said a blushing Helen, bending over to kiss her daughter's cheek. "That'd be so much easier, for now."

  Helen was halfway out the door when Becky called her back. "Mom?" she murmured with a sleepy smile. "Would you like me to put a spell on him?"

  "That's not very funny, missy," Helen said, grimacing at her daughter's black humor. "And besides," she added with a relenting smile of her own, "you'd be a little late."

  "Mom?"

  "Yeah, snot?"

  "It's nice to see you happy again. Even this much."

  Helen said softly, "This much is pretty much," and closed the bedroom door shut.

  She went down to the kitchen and began rummaging for something to cook. The cupboards were bare: three slices of bacon, a few tired blueberries, the last of the Bisquick. She hadn't shopped all week; but then, no one had eaten all week.

  Aunt Mary had brought over some chicken soup, with apologies for messing it up and making it thin. And without salt. Or carrots. The soup, still in the fridge, was a constant reminder to Helen that she had to get her aunt in to a doctor, and fast.

  If I have to drag her kicking and screaming, Helen thought, I will. It all seemed suddenly so much more doable.

  The bacon was sizzling and the pancakes, fashionably thin, were stacking up in the oven when Nat came up behind Helen and slid his arms around her waist.

  "Mornin'," he whispered in her ear. "I love you."

  Despite her agony—because of her agony—Helen needed desperately to hear those words. "Tell me again," she whispered without turning around. Her eyes stung with tears. In the middle of so much joy, she was feeling so much pain.

  She turned to face him. "Please. Tell me again."

  He cradled her face between his hands and murmured, "Let me start at the top, then. I love your black shimmering hair—it reminds me of the way night falls over a crystal clear lake in winter. I love your gray-green eyes, and the way your lashes stick together when you cry. When you cry you're so heartbreakingly beautiful that I want to cry with you.

  "I love your nose," he said, continuing his journey south. "It has character, and a certain regalness tha
t makes me want to fall to one knee and beg you to make me your knight. And I definitely love your mouth. It wants to be kissed."

  To prove it, he kissed her.

  "Your chin has strength; your neck—well, if a neck can show kindness, then that's what yours does."

  She laughed, despite herself, and he kissed her again to silence her. "Your shoulders have a set to them that tells me I want you always on my side. Which brings me to your breasts," he said with a devilish smile, cupping his hands under them and skimming over her nipples with his thumbs through the thin fabric of her shirt. "Ah, those breasts. I'm repeating myself here, but—"

  The rest of the compliment was overtaken by the shrill ring of the kitchen phone. It was early, six-forty-five; Helen broke from Nat's embrace and tore the phone from its cradle on the wall.

  "Hello? Hello?" She waited in agony. "Who's there? Who is it?"

  Silence. "No, please .... Russ, if it's you, please ... please talk to me."

  Silence. And then a dial tone.

  Biting her lip, Helen hung up slowly, needing the time to beat back the tears. Head bowed, she turned around into Nat's waiting arms.

  He encircled her and held her tight. "I have a call out now to the guy I told you about," he said. "The father of the Lollapalooza kid."

  "The one who never came back from the concert?" she murmured into his shirt.

  "That's the one. I'm telling you, who could be harder to track than that? But this guy's a whiz at locating missing kids. He's the best there is. We'll find Russ, Helen," he whispered in her ear. "I promise you."

  The bacon, burning black, set off the fire alarm, which Nat charged out to disengage. Helen moved the cast iron pan to a cold burner and began salvaging the three charred strips. She was thinking, How can I love Nat when I don't have my son back? As for the preschool, she couldn't even think about it. And yet every day it became a more compelling crisis.

  Nat returned shaking his head. "Geez, Becky is a heavy sleeper."

  Helen looked up from her reverie and gave him a distracted smile. She was back in her agony, big time. It was even worse now, because she had the added guilt of having felt happy for a couple of hours.

  Nat gave her a thoughtful look, then went over to an open plate rack and took down plates and mugs. He said, "I called Peaches after I showered, incidentally, and talked to Katie, too.''

  "So early?"

  "Katie's a morning person—as you'll see. Anyway, she's fine. She'll be going to school today."

  "Did Peaches ask you where you were?" Helen asked, swinging open the oven door with such surprising force that she nearly took it off its hinges.

  "Peaches wouldn't do that," he said quietly.

  "I suppose not." She took out the warmed plate of pancakes, put out napkins and a bottle of syrup, and they sat down to their forlorn-looking meal. Helen didn't bother to apologize; she knew Nat would understand.

  In the meantime, her mind had veered suddenly and completely over to Peaches. She wanted fiercely to believe it had been Russ who'd called—just to hear his mother's voice—but the call had felt like Peaches. It could've been just another infuriated parent, but—the call had felt like Peaches.

  Helen couldn't explain that sensation to Nat, any more than she could explain her bizarre theory of the ergot. She didn't dare. As much as she distrusted—even despised— Peaches, she knew too well what unfounded charges could do to the heart and soul of a human being. She would not give voice to her suspicions; not yet.

  Nat broke into her reverie with a gently worded query. "Are you thinking of going to The Open Door today?" he said. "Because I can stay here for you—"

  "No, no. Becky will be in all day. Or Aunt Mary can stay here, in a pinch. Besides, don't you have to be at work? Eventually?"

  He said, "I've told you, Helen; I'm winding down on that. This was my last trip." Then he gave her a wry smile and said, "But of course I can't expect you to believe something I said in the heat of passion. So I'll say it again, over pancakes: I'm winding down."

  She sighed, then said, "Whereas I have to put in an appearance. Janet can't be expected to do my job for me. It's so unfair to her, if anyone's going to be stoned, it should be me."

  Nat's wry smile faded as he reached across the table for her hand. "Is it really so bad as that?" he asked her seriously. "You honestly think you may lose the school?"

  The words, coming from someone else, made it sound all too possible. Helen nodded, not trusting her voice. Then she said, "You don't think like a woman, Nat. You don't think like a mother. If my child were in a preschool in a situation like this, I'd have second thoughts. I know I would, no matter how well I trusted the staff. Even now— even after what's happened to me," she whispered, "I know I would."

  Nat said, "Maybe you should try talking to Anna's parents."

  "I did try talking to them—as soon as Becky told me about the cat. They referred me to their lawyer. God only knows what they're planning."

  "Suppose I find out," he said grimly.

  "No! Your job is to nail down the new investigator," she said, picturing Nat on a white horse charging up Anna's front porch. "I'll go to school later and. . . I don't know. See how bad it is. But, God, I don't want to," she admitted, dreading it.

  She knew that Nat had been in favor of the direct approach all along. Now he said, "You should want to, damn it! That school is as much a part of you as Russell; as much a part of you as I plan to be. You can't turn your back on part of yourself!"

  Suddenly he stood up, went behind her ladderback chair, lifted it from the floor—with her still in it—and turned it toward the door to the hall. "Put on a dress and get out of here. You've got call forwarding now; you've got a cell phone. You're not going to miss his call. C'mon—up!"

  Helen let Nat haul her from the chair, then promised him she'd go back into the rubble of The Open Door and salvage what she could. He left after that, and Helen—well, she stalled. What if the call forwarding didn't work? Or the new cellular phone? So she did the dishes. She looked over her list. She checked on Aunt Mary. She gave instructions to Becky. She fed the cat. She fed the cat again.

  And all the while, when she wasn't staring out the front windows, she kept staring at the phone, willing it to ring. It finally did, at nine o'clock; but it wasn't Russell. It was the second of the three herbalists she'd originally contacted. He spoke perfect English.

  And he was able to get Helen up, dressed, and out the door in no time flat.

  Chapter 27

  The bastard! Where did he get off, walking away in the middle of the night? Bastard!

  Peaches had got up early, made a gourmet breakfast for two, and waited. When Nat didn't show up in the kitchen at his regular time, she ventured to knock on his door, then to throw it wide open. He was gone. His bed had been slept in, all right; but he'd left before dawn: a four A.M. thunderstorm had ripped through one of his open windows, soaking the Oriental carpet below it. She hadn't heard the Porsche. In fact it was still parked at the house.

  Bastard! When he called, it was all she could do to sound surprised and civil. "Oh, Nat, I assumed you were sleeping in," she'd said mildly.

  Sleeping in was exactly what he'd been doing. The question was—in whom? He hadn't bothered to say, of course; just asked to talk to his daughter and to make sure that Peaches was taking her to school, even if it was for the last day of the week.

  Bastard. He'd been besotted from the start with the Evett woman. Peaches had watched with growing disbelief. Nothing had seemed to shake him. At one point Peaches really did believe she had him backing away from Helen Evett, after which the cat episode should've provided the coup de grace to the relationship.

  But she'd misread Nathaniel Byrne. He wasn't like the others. She'd tried every trick she'd ever used to bring well-bred men to their knees. Hints of decolletage, eye contact, carefully indiscreet remarks, accidental brushups against him—shit! Nothing worked on him. She should've been more direct. No doubt that's how the Evett wo
man snagged him. All that work—wasted. She'd have to take what she could and cut her losses.

  But first she wanted to be sure that he was with Evett. The call Peaches had made from a pay phone just before seven told her only that the boy was still missing. She couldn't be sure that Nat was there, and the stakes were too high to make easy assumptions. Now it was almost nine, and there was still no sign of him.

  She shoved another candy bar at Katie Byrne and dialed the number of Helen Evett.

  The voice that answered was old, frail, uncertain: obviously, the aunt. Peaches assumed a professional tone and said, "I wonder if I could speak with Nathaniel Byrne, please."

  The old lady sounded even more muddled than at the Ice Cream Social. "Nathaniel? Now let me think. I do know that name. Oh! Nat. I'm sorry; you must have the wrong number. He doesn't live here."

  "I know he doesn't live there. But is he there?"

  "My dear, I've just told you," the old woman said in a sweetly patient voice. "It's a workday, you know."

  "Yes, I—well, never mind. Is Mrs. Evett in?"

  "Helen?"

  "Yes," said Peaches, grinding her teeth. "That's the one." It was always possible that she and Nat had gone off together. "I tried The Open Door," she lied. "But Mrs. Evett wasn't there."

  Now the old woman became suspicious. "Are you one of those parents that keeps calling and saying cruel things? Because if you're trying to hound my niece—or my grandniece—"

  "No, no, not at all. I'm sorry. I should've said who I was. This is Peaches Bartholemew," she said in a reassuring way. "Mr. Byrne's nanny?"

  "Oh, for goodness' sake," the old woman said, relieved. "Why didn't you just say so? We've never met. I'm Helen's Aunt Mary."

  The introductions behind her, the aunt said, "No, I haven't seen Mr. Byrne. As for Helen—well, she's supposed to go to the school sometime today, but the girl went tearing off just now to see some, what did she call him? Herbalist. As if she doesn't have enough on her mind!"