It was the 31st of March and the second full moon of the month spilled its rays into the room where Lydia rocked in their Grandmother’s chair. Margie had gone up to bed and Lydia had not bothered to turn on lights. The muted illumination and the silence were perfect for contemplation. On that night of May, 1969 when her parents were killed, there had been a full moon, also the second one that month. It was a bit strange that thirty years later she was here, in the presence of a blue moon, just as her parents had been that fateful night. Full moons were supposed to have an effect on human emotions, bringing out sensitivities, whether negative or positive. Did that happen that night? Were their emotions heightened? And more importantly, was there something special she was supposed to be feeling right now? Some intuitive insight she was supposed to achieve? Some awareness in the cosmos she was supposed to tune into? Well, if time stood still, or if time could be overcome in some Einsteinian calculation, or by some advanced yogic meditation practice, she could make That Night replay itself and be an observer of what happened. But she had no such calculation, nor was her practice that advanced.
Still, she did have the power of imagination. And it wouldn’t have been the first time she had tried to envision what had taken her parents over to the gym that night, and what had brought on such a violent end. The little she had been told, and read in newspaper accounts, indicated her parents had attended a meeting and gotten home late. Something had attracted their attention. Lights, perhaps? Some noise?
Lydia got up and went to the window. The moonlight on the snow and from the street lights made it quite easy to see the gym and the big oak tree standing in the middle of the drive in front of the school house. She could see the bushes up against the gym, and remembrance of that dream on her first night here flashed through her mind. She had felt the rough brick exterior of the gym in that dream, and the tension of something about to happen. It was Mother, wasn’t it, going over to see what happened when Father didn’t come back. The prickles on her head felt like hair standing on end and she knew she had hit upon a bit of truth. But still, what was it that took her father over? Closer to their house, moonlight made shadows of the fence with its gate that separated the two properties. One would go through that fence to reach the gym, walking either to its front door or the back door. Windows spanned the gym’s curved surface. She was startled for a moment when it seemed there were flickering lights in the gym, but then realized it was headlights reflected on the windows. A car had passed on the road that went in front of the house and school grounds. Its red tail lights trailed off in the distance.
As rare as a blue moon the expression went. What did that mean? Curious, she went to the computer and hooked into the internet and made a search. Lots of references came up. She read a few of them. There were different theories as to the term’s origin. Some attributed it to a Maine almanac that printed the first moon red and the second blue when two appeared in the same month. Others noted that in certain atmospheric conditions the moon appeared blue, but that wasn’t too convincing to Lydia. It didn’t take long for the search to bore her. That wasn’t really the search she was interested in. It was the night of May 31, 1969 she was interested in. Her fingers lightly tapped the keys, not enough to engage them, just a restless movement as she let her thoughts float without direction, float off the words onto the reflections on the screen. In the near dark it seemed the shadows behind her were especially acute, as if the other side of the room, that part of the room in back of her, with the rocking chair, the corner fireplace, the table and unlit lamp, were slowly changing. As if in that space a figure, ethereal, transparent, was looking at her. Lydia stiffened, a chill ran up her spine. The woman was like a reflection of herself. She stared into the computer, her eyes focusing on the reflection, the words on the screen a blur.
“What?” she whispered, just a whisper to herself.
“Why?” came a question and Lydia couldn’t tell whether it was from her own mind or from behind, from the phantom.
“The hands were so strong, Lydia. Why? Tell me why?”
“But I don’t know,” Lydia said, her fingers frozen on the keys, her back as straight as a pin.
“Find out,” came the words, and then a plaintive “please.”
“How?”
“Just ask.” The voice was faint, and when Lydia shifted, the screen changed, started into its shut-off mode. She must have moved the mouse without realizing what she was doing. When she turned around, the room was dark and empty. The moon had moved and no longer shed its light through the window. Sid came meowing through the kitchen door, as if asking why she was still up. He came over and rubbed her ankles. She reached down and gave him the strokes he wanted, then pulled him into her lap and buried her face in his fur a moment.
“Who am I supposed to ask, Sid?” she mumbled. “Was that real, or what?” Of course he had no answer, only it did seem he was happy to see her. “Well, we have a secret, we do, Sid. A secret.” Lydia checked Sid’s water and then went up to bed, leaving the stairway door ajar. Margie didn’t like Sid’s night strolling, but agreed to keep her door closed. Lydia, on the other hand, left hers open just a crack.
The Return Page 8