In a Midnight Wood

by Ellen Hart

  “Don’t bitch about my dad,” said Scott, knocking back the other half of his bourbon. “He’s okay.”

  “I doubt Sam would have seen it that way.”

  “It wasn’t all Dad’s fault.” He rose from the couch and walked over to his sound system, on a shelf by the TV. After turning on some Coltrane, he returned to the couch. “You weren’t there. Sam was always pushing boundaries, doing the exact opposite of what Dad asked him to do. When he got caught, he’d respond with his usual load of snark.”

  “Your dad is a bully.”

  “Yeah, okay, but so was Sam.”

  “What are you saying? That he bullied you?”

  “Sure. All the time.”

  She remembered what Kurt had said, that Scott and Sam had been fighting about something before Sam died. “Anything specific?”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I’ve heard rumors that you and Sam were pretty angry at each other before he died.”

  His reaction was swift. “That’s total bullshit.”

  “So, it’s not true?”

  “We argued all the time. Meant nothing.” He slipped his arm around her and leaned in for a kiss. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  Even though he wanted to change the subject, she could tell his mood had darkened. She supposed that everyone dealt with grief differently. “You want to talk about what happened to him?”

  “I want to talk about you.”

  “Me?” She cocked her head. “Not that much to say. I’ll be heading home this time next week, but you already know that. I guess we better make the best of the time we have left.”

  He pulled away. “You mean you’re still planning to go back?”

  “Of course.”

  “But I thought … what about us?”

  She touched his face. “It’s been wonderful being with you this summer. You’ve single-handedly restored my faith in men. But I can’t stay away from home forever.”

  “But you said your marriage was over, that you and your husband had separated.”

  “We have.”

  “So? I’m here and I love you.”

  “You what?” He’d never used that particular word before.

  “We could have a great life together.”

  “Scott, come on. I thought we understood each other.” This was a conversation she’d never thought she’d need to have with him. She assumed they saw their relationship the same way, nothing but a delicious summer fling. Sure, she’d come to care about him, but the last thing she wanted was another marriage. “I have a daughter, Scott. She’s fifteen. I can’t just leave her to be with you.”

  “Why can’t she come here and live with us?”

  Was he totally clueless? She tried to be patient. “Verity’s whole life is in Mountain View. Her school. Her friends. I can’t just uproot her. That would be cruel.”

  “Kids are pliable. They can roll with the punches.”

  “Really? And you know this how? Do you have a kid hidden around here I’ve never met?”

  His eyes showed a flicker of anger, something Emma had never seen in him before. “No, no children. It doesn’t disqualify me from having a valid opinion.” He poured himself another bourbon. “Okay, so how about this: She lives with Philip during the school year and comes to stay with us during the summer.”

  “You’re not hearing me.”

  “I could say the same for you.”

  She tried to get up, but he put his hand on her arm and gripped her hard. “You’re hurting me.”

  “Don’t leave. Stay the night. We need to talk this through.”

  She yanked her arm away. “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why. I have houseguests. And I’m still a married woman.”

  “Didn’t stop you before.”

  This was getting plain weird. For just an instant, she had the sense that he might physically prevent her from going. “I can’t.” She swerved around the coffee table and reached down for her scarf. Once out in the hall on the way to the elevator, her heart still hammering, she tried to make sense of what had just happened. Maybe it was the booze. That had to be it. He was drunk. He’d never behaved like that before.

  As she left the building, she realized she had another problem. How was she going to get home? She’d assumed Scott would drive her, as he had before. That wasn’t going to happen. She’d need to figure out another way.

  Crossing into the alley next to the bar, Emma walked quickly through one of the rougher areas of town to Mill Avenue, where tiny houses lined both sides of the street. It wasn’t an area she was familiar with. She walked along, looking behind her as she went, until she came to a white house. The light next to the front door was on, revealing the number 617. It was narrower than some of the other houses, but it was a two-story, or maybe one and a half, and it had a cozy-looking front porch. When the bell didn’t seem to work, she pounded on the door. A moment later, Danny appeared.

  “Oh, Mrs. Anguelo,” he said, looking surprised. “Um, I mean, Emma.”

  She smiled uneasily. “Can I come in?”

  “I guess.” He backed up.

  As she entered, she saw that the interior of the house was larger than it had looked from the outside. The walls were painted the color of a paper bag. The trim was white. Large framed art posters made the space seem both dramatic and funky. Danny had been sitting on the couch in the living room with a bowl of popcorn. The TV was on. “I’m sorry to interrupt—”

  Danny reached for the remote and stopped the movie.

  “Is your father here?”

  “He’s out in the backyard. It’s right through there.” He pointed to a room that wasn’t much bigger than her closet at home in California. A table pushed up to the window was filled with books, papers, stacks of file folders, and a laptop. Since Danny wasn’t in school anymore, she assumed this was where Kurt worked. When she passed through the kitchen, she found a row of homegrown tomatoes in varying degrees of ripeness resting on the windowsill, and a freestanding butcher block table with a small bouquet of summer flowers—zinnias, snapdragons, and a few wispy cosmos—under the window.

  Coming down the back steps, she heard Kurt’s voice. She found him by a picnic table talking on his phone, facing away. He was still wearing the clothes he’d worn to the cocktail party, though he’d taken off his suede jacket. His body language suggested he was upset.

  “Yeah, it sure as hell was out of the blue.“He turned slightly, pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s a lot to drop on a guy.” He listened again, longer this time. “Fine. I told you I’d think about it and I will. But right now, I gotta go.” He clicked the phone off and stuffed it back into his pocket. “Screw it,” he muttered, grabbing a bottle of vodka off the picnic table and taking a swig.

  It must be the night for the men in Emma’s life to get drunk.

  Kurt weaved away from the table and hefted a log onto a chopping block. Emma noticed a stack of cut firewood next to the house. Pressing a splitting wedge into the center of the log, Kurt backed up, wiping a hand across his mouth.

  “I’m not sure you should use your lumberjack skills when you’ve been drinking,” she said.

  He whirled around. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough to know you should leave that ax where it is.” She nodded to one resting against the concrete steps.

  His phone rang.

  “Go ahead and answer it.”

  “Not interested,” he said, removing the phone from his pocket and slapping it on the picnic table. “What are you doing here?”

  She sat down at the table, reached for the vodka, and took a sip. “The party ended right after you left. You want to talk about … whatever it is that’s got you so upset?” She nodded to his phone.

  He dropped down on the other side of the table. “No.”

  “You’ve listened to me bitch about Philip all summer. Listening to your romantic travails is the least I can do.”


  “Why do you assume my problem is romantic?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  He didn’t reply.

  She shrugged. “You’re too nice a guy not to have someone important in your life. I realize you like your privacy, but expressing your feelings doesn’t make a man weak.”

  “You’re saying everyone has to pair up, otherwise life is meaningless?”

  She laughed. “Hardly.”

  “I have no problem expressing my feelings, Emma.”

  “Really?”

  “You’re mixing me up with Sam. I’m not as complicated as he was.”

  She didn’t believe any of it, but let it pass. She gazed up at the house, a bit surprised that she’d never considered what kind of place he lived in before. She knew he owned a home because he’d given her the address, but that was all.

  “Not exactly a palace, is it?” he said, grabbing the vodka back. “But it’s more than I ever thought I’d have. I love the place.”

  “What’s the square footage?”

  “Maybe nine hundred.”

  “Seems bigger.”

  “That’s for the first and second floors. The basement is dry and clean, but we don’t use it for much other than storage. I hate basements.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Since Danny turned four. My dad helped me with the down payment. It was a dilapidated wreck, so I got it cheap. Danny and I were living with my parents at the time—after Vickie left. Mom babysat every evening for almost a year while Dad and I made it livable.”

  “It’s wonderful.”

  “How diplomatic.”

  “No, I mean it.”

  “What are you doing in town?”

  “I was still in a party mood, so I thought I’d have a drink with some friends at The Outpost. Jane and Cordelia dropped me off on their way to go take a look at the fire. I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything more about that?”

  He shrugged. “No. Why would I?”

  He seemed unusually defensive, which she put down to the phone call. “I thought maybe a neighbor had said something, or that you’d heard about it on the news.”

  “Nope.”

  “Look, Kurt, the reason I’m here is because none of my friends showed up at the bar, so I need a ride home.”

  “Oh.” He started to get up.

  “No, no. You’re not taking me anywhere in the condition you’re in.”

  “Suppose you have a point. Danny can do it.” He headed for the back door.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Emma, I’m in no mood to argue. Let him drive you or don’t. It’s up to you.” He disappeared inside the house, letting the screen door slam behind him.

  KURT

  August 28, 1999

  He finished his apple as he undressed. He’d spent the afternoon at the butcher shop working the counter and later helping his mom clean the walk-in refrigerator. His parents had come home briefly to shower and change and had left almost immediately for a church supper. Kurt was left to make his own. The apple was easy, so he’d grabbed that, thinking he’d heat up some frozen pizza rolls later.

  As he was coming out of the shower, the telephone rang. Standing in the hallway, a towel around his waist, he answered it. He assumed it would be Vicki. Instead, Todd Ott’s voice came over the line.

  “Hey man, I scored two six-packs of Grain Belt. Come over and help me drink it.”

  “How’d you manage that?”

  “Simple. Theft. Old man Hanson left them in a cooler on his back porch.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “They’re playing board games at a friend’s house.”

  “Who else is coming?”

  “The usuals, depending on who’s around. So stop with the twenty questions and come. I’m in the basement. I’ll leave the back door unlocked.”

  Todd’s place was a couple miles away. After pulling on some clean jeans and a T-shirt, Kurt jumped on his old Murray Cruiser and pedaled over to the house. When he sailed into the drive at the back of the property, he saw that Sam’s motorcycle was parked next to Todd’s junkyard heap, a Ford Taurus. He hadn’t seen or heard from Sam all week, which was good, because he had no idea what to say. As he headed up the walk, he found Sam standing by the side of the house, smoking a cigarette.

  “Hey, man,” said Kurt, feeling his stomach twist.

  “Hey,” repeated Sam. With his eyes fixed on the tip of the cigarette, he said, “You gonna hit me?”

  “Hit you? Why would I do that?”

  Sam’s sullen look instantly changed to a smile. “Absolutely no reason I can think of.” Flipping the cigarette into a flower bed, he entered the back door, with Kurt following behind. They trotted down the basement steps and found Todd and Jim already ensconced in two of the four ancient recliners. Kurt figured this basement was where recliners went to die.

  Jim spent the next few minutes ragging on one of their classmates. Kurt didn’t know the guy all that well, so he just sat back and sipped his beer. He was glad when Sam weighed in on something because he could watch him without feeling weird. He realized that he’d never really looked at Sam before, not carefully and certainly not curiously. Kurt didn’t consider himself an expert when it came to beauty, but thought Sam was definitely good-looking.

  As Todd passed around a fresh set of beers, Kurt glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye and saw him looking back. The look felt like a jolt of electricity and almost made him jump.

  “So, here’s the good news,” said Jim, pulling the tab off his beer. “Corey Lang’s throwing a party on Saturday night, two weeks from now. You all know him, right? Graduated last year?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “His parents will be away the entire weekend, so when the cat’s away the rats, that’s us—and whoever else wants to come—will play. He said he’s getting a keg and a couple of his buddies will have the harder stuff. You know where the Lang farm is, right?”

  “I don’t,” said Kurt.

  “It’s up Lawson Road, maybe five miles out of town. I’ll draw you a map. So who’s in?”

  “Can we bring our girlfriends?” asked Todd, tipping the last few drops of beer into his open mouth.

  “Absolutely. Bring whoever you want. I can get us some weed. It’s gonna be epic, a real end-of-the-summer blowout.”

  Kurt had never been much of a partygoer. His parents frowned on drinking, though they probably knew he did it.

  “I’ll be there,” said Sam, grinning as he crushed his empty beer can against his forehead.

  After their third beers were gone, the group began to break up. Jim took off first. Todd walked up the stairs after him, carrying a sack with all the empty cans. Kurt stayed where he was and watched Sam to see what he’d do. Nothing was said. Eventually, Sam got up. Halfway up the steps, with only his feet visible to Kurt, he turned and came back down.

  “You’re gonna be there, right?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” said Kurt.

  Sam waited a second, an unreadable look on his face, then pressed a finger to his lips and gave a slow wink.

  11

  Monday morning dawned in a cold drizzle. On his way to his father’s house, Dave saw a red Hyundai Sonata pull into traffic and follow him. He knew who owned the car, so before he reached his dad’s place, he stopped along a quiet side street, put his cruiser in park, and slid out.

  “Come with me,” said Dave as soon as Monty cracked the door. His two boys were in the backseat, each playing on their phones. As they stood together in front of the sedan, the kids out of earshot, Dave asked Monty where he was going.

  “My wife picked up a shift at the hospital, so I decided to take the boys out for breakfast.”

  “No school today?”

  “Nope, it’s some teacher conference.”

  One of the things Dave admired about Monty was his obvious devotion to his children. “Why were you following me?”

  “Because I need to know what’s happeni
ng with the Romilly thing.”

  “Nothing’s happening,” said Dave, folding his arms and leaning back against the hood of the car. “I told you, I’ve got it handled. In fact, the more I think about it, the more it seems to me that nobody’s ever going to figure out what really happened. How could they?”

  “You sent the backpack to the BCA in St. Paul. Why the hell would you do that?”

  “Who told you that?” snapped Dave.

  “People were there, asshole. They’re talking.”

  “Look, everything we found had to be shipped to the BCA. I had no say in it.”

  “What else don’t you have any say in?”

  “Just chill, okay? Don’t I always take care of things?”

  Ever since Dave could remember, Monty had been part of his life. As kids, they’d lived next door to each other and were always together. Monty’s mother was a wonderful woman, and Dave’s dad was great. Monty’s dad was a horror show and so was Dave’s mom. They often said that, between them, they had one decent set of parents.

  “Nobody came forward twenty years ago,” said Dave. “Nobody’s going to now.”

  “Yeah, right.” Monty unzipped his windbreaker and looked up at the sky. “Your optimism makes me want to puke.”

  Dave laughed. “You working today?”

  Monty managed a motel on the edge of town. He’d married the owner’s daughter, so the job was part of the package.

  “After Sarah gets home, I’ll pick up the second shift.”

  “How is everything at the Bates Motel?”

  “Shut up, man. Don’t call it that. Too many people in this town repeat the same stupid joke. It’s the Avalon Motor Inn.”

  People began calling it the Bates Motel long before Monty took over as manager, mostly because it was so run-down. As soon as Monty was put in charge, he went to his father-in-law and made a deal: If the father-in-law would buy the paint, Monty would paint the place himself. Actually, he’d made it look pretty good. Still, the joke persisted.