Waking Light

by Rob Horner

  Something had happened to bring these evil things into our world, and something, or someone, had responded by giving us the power to fight them. That much I accepted. Everything else, all of it, posed questions for which we didn't have answers.

  The only question that mattered then was, what did I intend to do about it?

  Demons or aliens or nuclear-spawned parasites, did I intend to turtle-up, tuck my head in, hunch my shoulders, and try to ride this out?

  Or did I try to fight back? Did I assume that's why I was given this ability, and try to use it?

  What would my father do?

  That one was easy, which made my decision even easier.

  Chapter 15

  Holy mothers and glowing daughters

  It took less than five minutes to return to Tanya's house. Mrs. Fields' blue Pontiac Grand Am sat on the sloped driveway. It hadn't been there on our last visit.

  "There's something I have to tell you about Tanya's mother," I said as we parked.

  "What? Is she, like, really strict, or something?"

  "Not exactly," I answered, grinning. "She is very religious, though, so be careful what you say around her. Almost anything can set her off."

  A particular instance flashed through my mind, in which I'd heard something that relieved me. It was 1989, and Mark Rypien, quarterback for the Washington Redskins, just went down under a nasty sack. For a few minutes which seemed to last forever, Tanya and I watched, breath held, to see if he was okay. When the trainers backed away and he was finally allowed to get to his feet, waving to the crowd, I let out a whispered "Thank God." But Radar-Ears Mrs. Fields heard it and launched into a diatribe.

  "Thank God? Yes, son, you better thank him for everything. Thank him for the air you breathe and the ground you walk on. Thank him for those relatives of yours that are putting themselves out in order to take care of you. Thank him for the free schooling you receive. Thank him for the..." and on and on and on. In hindsight it was funny. She never meant any harm when she went off on a tear; there was no sense of her judging you. Still, after that, I was very careful with my words around her, remembering my ears burning, seeing Tanya's whole body shaking with silent laughter, her face lit up with a smile, as she sat across from me. She'd always had a beautiful smile.

  "...careful," Crystal's response broke my reverie.

  "What?"

  "I said, I'll be careful what I say to her," she repeated, smiling. Crystal had a pretty smile, too, but it didn't compare to Tanya's. Not that it mattered, of course.

  Returning her smile, I opened my door and exited the car. Across from me, Crystal did likewise. Together, we walked across the professionally maintained lawn to the front door. I knocked twice, paused, then three more times. Crystal looked at me curiously. I mouthed "later" at her and repeated the knock. It was a code, of course, worked out between Tanya, her mother, and whatever few friends they shared it with. Mrs. Fields was a solitary woman by nature, despite her religious activities. She never answered the door for a stranger. We'd have been standing out there until Tanya came home from school if I hadn't remembered the special knock. There was a story behind the need for a code, but it hadn't yet been shared with me. I accepted the need for the extra sense of security as a part of who she was.

  Only a few seconds passed before we heard the heavy tread of Mrs. Fields coming to the door. She would have been close, waiting from the first knock to see if it was repeated. There was a moment's silence, during which time she'd be checking us out through the peephole. Even before she got the door unlocked and opened, we heard a surprised "Johnny!" and I braced myself. Then the door came open and Mrs. Fields bustled onto the porch and wrapped me in her arms.

  Mrs. Barbara Fields was a handsome woman of about forty-five, of a height with Crystal, though with a matronly figure that somehow radiated health and fitness despite tending toward stoutness. She had a full head of thick, dark brown hair that was starting to gray, small pockets like streaks running from her scalp back into her traditional bun. The bun, and the printed dresses she favored, gave her something of a homely look. She and her husband married later in life, so Tanya didn't come along until she was almost thirty. They'd never had a second child, and her husband had died of cancer almost a decade before.

  Having only known them for about four years, I'd never seen Mrs. Fields as anything other than the woman before me, religious, with a slight aversion to the outside, and to other people, until she warmed up to you. I hadn't asked if she'd been different before losing her husband. Sometimes, you just don't wonder these things and you certainly don't ask about them.

  "John, now where on Earth have you been keeping yourself?" she said as she stepped back from her embrace. Then, sizing me up, she said, "Look at you! Looks like you've gone and grown another inch or two since the last time I saw you." She seemed to notice Crystal for the first time. "Have you been keeping yourself with the Lord's teachings?"

  Crystal blushed, and I could feel the heat creeping up my neck. "Yes, as well as I can," I answered, clearing my throat nervously.

  "That's as good as I'm ever like to get out of him." She made this comment to Crystal, and it seemed to put her at ease. "So, boy," she said, still looking at Crystal, "where are your manners? Aren't you going to introduce us?"

  Smiling despite myself--Mrs. Fields had that effect on me--I said, "Of course. Mrs. Fields, this is Crystal, my friend from school." Crystal smiled. "And Crystal, this is Mrs. Fields, Tanya's mother."

  "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Fields," Crystal said, proffering her hand.

  But Mrs. Fields would have none of it. "Now don't you go calling me Missus anything! Make me feel old! No, the Missus is only for the boys; got to keep them in line. But you, young lady, you can call me Barbara."

  Crystal was openly smiling now. "All right, Barbara."

  We stood for a moment, looking at each other. Finally, Mrs. Fields broke the silence. "Lord, now where have my manners got to? Won't you two come inside? I've got some fresh lemonade ready, if you'd care for any."

  "We'd love some," I said. "Thank you."

  "Shucks." Then she went back inside, holding the door for us.

  The inside of the Fields' house was like nothing anyone is ever prepared for. From the outside, with the power-washed siding and landscaped lawn, one might expect something tasteful and decorous, straight out of House Beautiful. After hearing my description of a very religious matron, you might modify the picture to include a religious undertone. Or maybe, after meeting her, you might throw all of that together with something from Southern Living. None of it would come close to the truth.

  Mrs. Fields was an avid fan of rock music, mostly from the sixties and seventies. Though I'd never been able to get her to talk about it, I fancied her a reformed hippie who'd probably sang and danced her heart out at Woodstock. She'd filled three full floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with music from the first era of rock, and the rest of the house reflected that interest.

  If there was a story of her change from rock-groupie to revival tent pulpit-polisher, it hadn't been revealed to me. It was just one more aspect of her personality that you accepted and were thankful for.

  So, take your outdoor perfection, her southern charm and overt appreciation for Rock and Roll, and add to that an irresistible attraction for religious-themed pieces of art and memorabilia, and you got something of a messy mash-up that worked, if you could tune out some of the obvious dichotomies.

  The basic decor was simple: tasteful, functional furniture in earthen tones, light peach walls, and a light brown, carpeted floor. But the decorations she'd added, the embellishments: walls filled with pictures of various rock groups, The Beatles, Elvis Presley, Peter, Paul, and Mary...coffee and end tables cluttered with knick-knacks, statuettes of various performers on the mantle over the fireplace, which also boasted several of those Franklin Mint Limited Edition plates, all painted with the faces of various singers. It went on and on. And while this might be acceptable to most people, what i
nvariably struck you as peculiar was that every one of these collectibles portrayed a religious meaning. There were The Beatles, kneeling in prayer. Elvis had a crucifix in hand, raising it in praise. Chubby Checker had a microphone in one hand and a Bible in the other.

  It was all a little overwhelming.

  Crystal handled it well, better than me the first time I visited. I grew up listening to the golden era of rock, courtesy of my parents. None of that "I hate my country," Vietnam-era, folksy crap, but the real music which defined the 50s and 60s. These were the artists whose influence jumped a decade and gave rise to Aerosmith, Clapton, and Petty. So, when twelve-year-old me walked into this house for the first time with all those icons lining the walls and shelves, my mouth dropped open, and Mrs. Fields became one of my best friends, as well as my best friend's mother. Crystal just gave an appreciative whistle at the collection, which was enough for Mrs. Fields, who motioned us to the loveseat while she hurried into the kitchen to pour our lemonade.

  "Whew, you weren't kidding, were you?" Crystal whispered into my ear after the older woman left.

  I shook my head no, then reiterated my warning about not speaking too loudly.

  "Now, what're you two doing in there, so quiet?" she called from her kitchen. Her voice was light and mischievous. She probably thought we were making out which, in her parlance, was anything that involved touching, such as holding hands.

  "Nothing," I called back, just as she returned to the room.

  "Oh, please, you expect me to believe that? Young buck like you got yourself a pretty little girl like this, and you think I don't know what you two were doing?"

  She was still smiling, playing with us, as she handed us our lemonade and set two coasters on the coffee table for our glasses. Unsurprisingly, the coasters featured another rock group, three different shots of The Eagles, singing in what looked like a church.

  She worked her way back to the couch and sat down slowly, easing herself onto the cushions. She took a long swallow of her drink, which reminded Crystal and I that we hadn't yet touched ours. We drank. Which is what she wanted, of course. Like everything else about her, the lemonade was sweet and refreshing.

  Satisfied that she had performed her hostess duties as expected, she asked, "So what brings you back around here, Johnny? And with such a pretty, new girlfriend, too?" Suddenly she looked up at the Neil Diamond-faced clock above her mantle, gave a gasp, then added, "And during school hours, at that?"

  "Well," I began, struggling for words a little, "we actually came here to ask a favor of you..."

  "Well, or course I'll help you if I can, Johnny."

  "I'm glad you feel that way, Mrs. Fields," I continued. If anything, my speech came a little slower, trying to be very careful in my wording. One wrong turn of phrase could earn me a lecture, which wouldn't be too bad, or perhaps a call to my aunt and uncle, which might be disastrous. She wouldn't be dissuaded, either. If she decided she needed to call someone, nothing short of snatching the phone out of her hand, and the cord out of the wall, would stop her.

  "First of all, the reason we're here so early is because, well, Crystal and I share the same last period, which is marketing. And because we both have part time jobs, we're allowed to leave early." It was a lie, of course, but I had no better explanation. If I told her we'd skipped school, she'd have been on the phone immediately. Crystal kept her face expressionless, trusting me to know what I was doing.

  There was no way we could tell her the whole truth. Even if she didn't immediately think we were on drugs, or mentally unstable, I simply didn't want to involve her any more than we already had. She was a nervous person to begin with. She didn't need another reason to be looking over her shoulder for the rest of her days, jumping at shadows.

  Mrs. Fields bought the lie, even saying, "You know, Tanya's been thinking about doing the same thing, come next semester. I keep telling her that she doesn't need a job, that she needs to concentrate on her homework. But you know her, never listens to reason." She shook her head sadly. This was one of the very few times when I knew more about her daughter than she did. The Fields had money, though I didn't know if it was from her father's death, or if there had always been money in the house. Tanya didn't need to work, but she wanted to. Like many teenagers, she wanted the chance to develop herself, try to see who she could be without always being dependent on her mother.

  I took the hint to continue. "Anyway, Crystal's parents are going through a divorce right now, and she doesn't really want to be at home with them."

  This was almost true. Crystal's parents had gone through a rather messy divorce almost five years previously. I only knew this because of an off-hand comment during our day at the carnival. I was trying to be flippant and asked how her parents could let someone as pretty as her run around a carnival all day all alone.

  "Anyway, I promised her I'd be there for her, you know, to comfort her. But my aunt and uncle won't let her spend a couple of nights at my house."

  Her face took on that lecture look, and I hastened to elaborate. "I told them she could sleep in my room and I'd stay down on the couch, but they wouldn't listen."

  "Now, Crystal's got nowhere else to go, and both my aunt and uncle are furious at me for even suggesting that she stay with us. So, I did the only thing I could think of. I brought her here."

  The lecture look faded, replaced by a look of concerned sympathy.

  "Now, I know it's asking a lot, and boy! Do I ever feel like a beggar for even suggesting it. But do you think you could let her sleep in your spare room, just for a couple of nights? And could you let me stay too? That way I can take her to school in the morning." As much as it hurt my hopes to do it, my next words were probably the only thing I could promise that would seal the deal. "I promise I'll sleep on the couch."

  She knew I meant it. I may be able to lie like a bear skin rug when I must, but I've only broken my word once in my life, and even that was out of my control.

  It does involve Crystal and Tanya, but we’ll get to it later.

  All through my hurried explanation, Mrs. Fields listened attentively. When I mentioned staying with Crystal, she began to grow alarmed. But when I promised to behave myself, she calmed down.

  "You poor dear." She turned to Crystal, got up from the couch, and hurried to embrace her. I don't know if it was just a very good act, or whether she felt comforted by the motherly Mrs. Fields, but she began to cry. "Of course, you can stay here. And you, too, Johnny," she threw over her shoulder at me. "Though I'm going to hold you to your promise."

  "I know," I answered through clenched teeth. To say I felt bad would be an understatement. I felt like a world-class douchebag. This was one of the nicest people I'd ever met, sweet, loving, nurturing, and I'd lied to her just so Crystal and I might have someplace to stay without me having to dip into my piggy bank.

  I also felt horrible for another reason. Burning, in a way, over what I'd promised away. There is never a moment when sex is not at least a subconscious urge for a young man, and a good portion of every day is spent either thinking about it or trying to tamp down reactions to stray thoughts which might be embarrassing. There hadn't been any discussion of the topic between Crystal and I, but for a guy, the potential is always there until it isn't.

  What isn't specifically denied might still happen.

  Come to think of it, guys are like that at pretty much any age.

  I had promised. So, for now at least, I had to stuff all those urges away.

  Damn.

  Crystal recovered herself soon after, mumbled something about drying her face, and went in search of a bathroom.

  "Poor darling," Mrs. Fields muttered. "Why do people get married if they're not going to stay together?"

  Not wanting to get caught up in a sermon about the absolute holiness of Holy Matrimony, which was imminent, I offered a non-committal grunt and got up to peruse her record collection. Crystal stepped back into the room just as a horn sounded from outside. It was really two honks,
a pause, followed by two more. A new code, I imagined, letting Mrs. Fields know her daughter had come home from school.

  A few seconds later, Tanya burst through the door, books in arm.

  I've managed to mention Tanya in several chapters now without giving a description of her. There was a reason for that.

  Sometimes you can see someone, girl or guy, that you can't look away from. There might not be any one feature which attracts your eye, or there might be several, but you can't choose which is most appealing. When asked to describe this person, you might stammer through a few aborted attempts to avoid the one word that sums up how your mind perceived him or her: perfection.

  She was as beautiful as I'd ever seen her, face flushed with excitement. Taller than her mother at five-six, she had hair the color of chocolate hanging to her shoulders, framing one of those perfectly symmetrical faces, with skin that always looked tan, large, brown eyes and full lips. She was as lean as she was tall, slightly narrow in the shoulders, chest, and hip. Athletic.

  And she was smiling. Have I mentioned her smile yet? Even as she turned and looked at me, then noticed Crystal, and I heard Crystal gasp, she kept on smiling. "Mom, come here! You've got to see this!"

  "She's glowing!" Crystal whispered as loud as she dared, practically pulling me down to her head height in her urgency. "My God, she's glowing like a spotlight, Johnny. She's even brighter than you are!"

  Did I still think this was all coincidence? Just an accidental spray pattern of white-out drops?

  Could it be both accidental and intentional at the same time?

  Did it matter?

  Mrs. Fields spun around, catching her daughter's excitement like a contagion. "Lord Almighty, girl! What is it? You are positively on fire, you look so excited."

  "You're not far off," Crystal mumbled.

  "Oh Mom, Johnny, it's the most wonderful, weirdest thing," she began, tossing her books onto the couch. "I can't really tell you. I've gotta show you.