Элизабет Чандлер - The Back Door of Midnight

The towel Zack handed me was big and soft. I wrapped myself in it and sat down in the same chair as before. “It’s better if I stay over here and not drip on your stuff,” I explained.

“Very thoughtful of you. Unnecessary, but thoughtful.”

“So, what are you working on?”

“Just some sketches.”

“Of what?” I asked.

He carried his chair over to mine with the sketchpad on its seat. As he opened it, I wondered if I was going to have to say those nice things artists like to hear. But as it turned out, I didn’t have to be insincere; he was good, really good.

Old oyster trawlers, crab pots, nets, men in heavy work gloves, piles of discarded shells, the carcass of a horseshoe crab. “Wow!”

The last three pages were efforts to draw a skipjack under sail, a workup of various angles. “Is this from the photographs over there?”

“Yeah, I have about a million of them. I just can’t get it right. It looks like the boat is pasted to the sky. I can’t get its movement.”

I walked over to the table to look at the photographs, then came back to the sketchpad. “The colors and shading won’t give the movement?”

“They’ll help, but the lines are wrong. I’ll get it, eventually. I love skipjacks. I love things that are both beautiful and useful.”

I glanced up at him. “I love things that are beautiful when you don’t expect them to be.”

“Like what?” he asked softly.

“Oil rainbows on the road. Rain on a car windshield at night.”

“Broken glass in sunlight?” he suggested.

“Yeah!” I met his eyes, then quickly looked down at the paper, pretending I was seeing his sketches rather than his eyes. “What, uh, medium do you work in?”

“Watercolor is my favorite, but it’s the hardest. Do you paint?”

“Just walls and woodwork.”

He laughed. “That’s beautiful and useful.”

I was starting to like his laugh.

“Are you dating anybody?” His blunt question caught me off guard.

“Uh. . no.” I felt vulnerable. I reminded myself of last night’s dream. Dream or not, Erika was real. “No, I’m looking for a jock.”

“A jock! Why do girls always chase sweaty guys?”

“I don’t know why the others do, but I have a lousy track record with artistic types.”

“Oh.”

“A writer, a musician, and a visual artist. That was my senior year.”

“Really. Did you date the artist for long?”

“Till ten o’clock the night before my senior prom.”

“Ouch.”

“When artists need an audience, they find me. And then later on. .”

Zack quickly closed the sketchpad. “You don’t think jocks are looking for an audience?”

“The difference is, they’re up front about it. They don’t pretend to be falling in love with the soul of a girl.”

He gazed at me steadily, as if he could see into my soul.

“Jocks don’t say and do all those romantic thingsprobably because they don’t know how — and then drop you for some hot girl who carries her soul in a purse.”

“I see.”

I stood up. “I should check on Aunt Iris. Thanks for the towel. I’ll bring it back clean.”

“Just leave it here,” Zack replied. “I’ll throw it in the wash.”

But my clothes were wet and clinging to me. “No, it’s not a problem,” I said, and headed home, holding on to my security towel. If only it were as easy to keep my heart safely wrapped up.

TIRED FROM MY first day of work and the swim in the creek, I fell asleep quickly Tuesday night. When I opened my eyes again, I lay in darkness. I waited for the low, vibrating sound, my fingers gripping the edge of the mattress. A bead of sweat trickled down my face. I turned my head to dry my cheek on the pillow, then sat up slowly. I could move, which meant the strange experience wasn’t happening. My alarm clock read 4:08. What had awakened me? I climbed out of bed and turned off the fan to listen. The house was silent, as if waiting to exhale.

Then I heard Aunt Iris’s voice. I tiptoed through Uncle Will’s room to the hall. The first floor was dark, but Aunt Iris was there, in the living room, I thought. She was arguing with someone. I couldn’t hear the other person’s response, just furious rushes of words from my aunt with long pauses in between.

“I’m tired of your opinions,” I heard Aunt Iris say. “I’m sick of you telling me what to do.”

There was a moment of quiet, enough time for someone to respond, then she went on: “You don’t understand, William. You couldn’t possibly, you’re a man.”

William? Was she reliving an old argument with Uncle Will or having a new one with a wooden post? I crept down the steps.

“We have enough room, enough money,” she insisted.

“I’ve made up my mind. We’re keeping the child.”

I paused mid-step: This was an argument about me.

“It’s not interfering!” Iris said, her voice getting shrill. “It’s loving. Don’t you understand? Someone had to say something to her. It may as well have been me.”

There was another silence, a long one.

“How dare you blame me for that! How dare you, William!”

I couldn’t tell if this was one argument or several mixed together. I didn’t know if “her” was myself or my mother.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I flicked the light switch.

Aunt Iris was in the living room, standing five feet from the grandfather clock, staring at its luminous face, her hands clenched.

I didn’t know what she heard or saw, but she suddenly buried her face in her hands and began to cry. “I did what I thought was best.” Her crying became louder. “Stop it, stop it. I don’t care what you think!” She began to sob.

“Aunt Iris,” I said, moving quickly to her side. “Aunt Iris, it’s me, Anna.” I pulled on her hands, trying to get them away from her face so she would see it was just us there, but her arms were surprisingly strong. She kept her face hidden and continued to cry.

“Everything’s okay. It’s just a — a dream,” I said. “You’re having a dream. Aunt Iris, can you hear me? Look at me.” I pulled on her fingers.

Quick as a cat, she struck, making long scratches down my arm. I stepped back, surprised, rubbing my raw skin.

“Aunt Iris, it’s just a stupid clock!”

The crying lessened. Spreading her fingers, she looked through them like a child, peering anxiously at the tall clock’s face.

I walked up to it. “See, it’s ticking and has a pendulum, and hands that show—” I broke off, aware of a strange cold that emanated from the area in front of the clock. The skin on the back of my neck rose in goose bumps.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I walked toward a window, then returned to the clock and walked toward the open hall door, trying to find a source for a draft. The air was stale, motionless, warm — except in front of the clock. I shivered.

“Stop blaming me, William,” Iris said bitterly. “I had no choice. Do you hear me?”

I stared at the clock: painted numbers, hands like delicate arrows, a gold moon setting in its crescent-shaped window.

What was she seeing that I couldn’t?

Her voice began to rise in pitch. “Listen to me!” Her body trembled with anger. “Why don’t you listen to me?” she screamed, and charged the clock, slamming against it, making it rock.

I tried to drag her back from the heavy piece, afraid she would pull it down on herself. I couldn’t loosen her grip. The strength in her arms and hands seemed unnatural.

Uncle Will, I prayed silently, please stop. Please go.

Please leave her in peace.

A second later Aunt Iris ceased struggling. Her shoulders hunched and her hands hung limply at her sides. I eased her into a nearby chair. She sat silently, head bowed, knees together, one bare foot crossed on top of the other.