Charles Grant - Night Songs

The light carved a cavern out of the dark.

He was ready to call out, but the moment his lips parted he knew he would sound like a little boy scared of slimy creatures in the corner. He swallowed instead, looked at the shack, and continued to back away.

The shadow beneath the trees stepped into the red-gold.

On any other day in any other month he would have laughed and shook his head at his own foolishness. But tonight she stood there in the black mourning dress, her hair snaked across her face, her arms rigid at her sides. She said nothing, and she moved no closer, but the light flared again and Eliot bolted.

His shoes thumped on the hard sand, hissed on the soft, and he threw himself over the first dune and slid into the trough on the seat of his pants. He looked up. She was standing there, in her black mourning dress and her eyes opened wide. He gagged and ran on, up the next dune, down the slope and onto the road, nearly tripping over the curb he'd forgotten was there. He didn't stop until his arms thrust out and he slammed hard into the front of the patrol car, gasping, his fingers trying to take hold of the paint.

Jesus. Jesus.

His head lowered and his lungs worked and he kicked at a tire until the pain stopped him. Jesus.

The hood was cool, and the touch calmed him, suddenly made him ashamed that some grief-crazy woman had terrified him into cowardice. It was stupid. He was stupid. There was no other word for it. Yet when he looked over his shoulder, his mouth wide, nearly wheezing, he couldn't bring himself to go back. Jesus. She must think him drunk out of his mind for running like that. It was that dumb shack, that's what it was-that godawful smell and that candlelight, enough to spook even Garve. But he couldn't go back; he wanted to, but he just couldn't. Not with the shack, and the light, and her not saying a word.

"Goddamn fool," he muttered as he pushed away from the car and hitched at his belt. "Idiot. Jackass!"

He kicked the tire again as hard as he could, stepped toward the door, and paused when he saw the woman by the rear fender.

Oh, Christ, he thought wearily, I don't need this now.

"What is it?" he said, not bothering to be polite. "Somebody dig up your garden?" He shook his head and waved her away. "Why don't you call in the morning, okay? Call the office. It's late and I'm off duty, and if you don't mind, I'm going home to bed."

He opened the door without bothering to wait for an answer, sat behind the wheel and reached for the door's handle.

Tess Mayfair grabbed his elbow.

Behind them, in the Estates, the lights blurred in the fog.

"Hey!" he shouted, trying to jerk his arm free. "Jesus, Tess, that hurts!"

Tess pulled again, dragging him half out of the cruiser, his hip catching the wheel and burning. He swung at her with his free hand, but it was too awkward-he was pinned, and she didn't seem to care. Then she pulled again, hard, and Eliot screamed as he heard his shirt tearing at the shoulder, screamed once again when his arm tore from its socket.

"I suppose you realize that the last time something like this happened was when Claudette Colbert stretched a blanket across the room to stop Clark Gable."

Peg nodded, but didn't turn around; she was spreading sheets and covers over the sofa.

Colin leaned against the windowseat, arms folded across his chest. "I'll bet he didn't sleep all night."

She grunted.

"That's from It Happened One Night, you know." She nodded and slapped the pillow against the armrest. "Peg-"

"I know," she told him kindly as she sat on the center cushion. "I know." From a one-sided smile: "You could always take a cold shower."

"I could, but they're cold."

Then he gave her a martyr's sigh and pushed himself back until he was sitting cross-legged, his spine against the window. The panes were cool, and without turning he could feel the fog climbing from the lawn. At his side was a snifter of brandy Peg had poured for him earlier, after she had returned with Matt and had seen him to bed. They'd talked for quite a while, of his past and hers, of the casinos and the past season that had been one of the island's most successful.

They talked of everything except Lilla, Gran D'Grou, and Warren.

He watched her until she looked down at her hands. He watched the lamp's light shimmer off her blouse and catch fire in her hair, watched the play of her lips and the stretch of her neck. It was a curious feeling, to see her suddenly ill-at-ease. The sly remarks and the innuendos had vanished the instant they both realized what it was they had done.

"I love you," he said softly.

She looked up without raising her head. "I know. I love you, too." A quick smile, and a deep breath. "What are we going to do?"

"Get married, I guess."

"No," she said. "About Lilla."

He shrugged. "We'll have to tell Garve, and Hugh, and then… then I suppose someone will have to go out there and get her."

"Oh, hell."

"Yeah."

He took a long sip of the brandy, shuddered, and uncrossed his legs. At the same time, Peg rose and stood in front of him, waiting until his arms slipped around her waist. Then she lay her head against his chest.

"Her eyes."

"It was the light," he said, much too quickly.

He turned with her still in his arms and looked out the window. All the lights were burning in Hattie Mills' place, and a few were still on at the Adams'. He kissed her hair softly. "I'll bet Rose has seen everything that's happened over here."

Peg turned her head and saw the second-story window glowing, the shades up, the curtains tied to one side. "She'll tell Mitch, and he'll clean your room a hundred times Monday, hoping to get gossip for her."

They stood for a long moment, a quiet moment, feeling shirt against blouse, trousers against skirt, the idea that it all felt too right for them to move.

"Tomorrow," he whispered finally.

"Huh?"

"Tomorrow," he whispered louder. "Soon as we let Garve know what happened we'll pack a ton of crap food and tooth-eating soda and we'll go to the cliffs for a picnic."

"It's going to rain."

"Nope."

She leaned back and looked up, smiling. "You sure?"

He smiled back. "I have arranged it, m'dear. You and I and Matt are going to have a hell of a good day tomorrow. Besides, it seems to me we owe ourselves some sort of celebration."

She agreed with a wink, then frowned as she looked at him from the corner of her eye. "We have to announce it, you know."

"I suppose."

"In the paper?"

"With our pictures and everything?"

"Or," she said, "we could do it at the party tomorrow night."

He drew back his head and stared. "You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?"

"Jesus, you're terrible."

"Yeah. I know."

They kissed, softly and for a long time before she leaned back. Her hand reached out to cup his cheek, poke the tip of his chin. "God help me, I do love you."

"Yeah," he said softly. "Yeah."

They kissed again, and he could feel the warmth of her lips and the press of her breasts and the way her legs stirred against his. His palm stroked her back; her palm cupped his head. He pulled loose her skirt and scratched lightly along her spine to her shoulders. She shuddered, moved her head to lay it in the hollow beneath neck and shoulder.

"Don't," she said when his hand paused. "Please, Colin."

He kissed her hair, kissed her cheek, shifted so he could unhook her bra strap. She sighed, lips brushing his neck; she sighed, and stood far enough away for his hands to come around to the front. When they reached her breasts she sighed again and half-closed her eyes.

"Your hands are cold," she whispered without protesting.

"Cold hands, warm heart," he said, "to coin an old cliche."

She kissed him suddenly, hard, and looked to the sofa.

He nodded and kissed her back, and they had taken one step when they heard a noise on the staircase. "Mom?" Sleepy, worried.

He almost told her to ignore the boy, almost turned himself to send Matt back to bed. Then, when she couldn't help a smile, he repeated his martyr's sigh and shook his head in defeat.

"It's all right," she called to Matt. "It's all right," she said to Colin. "I'll take that shower for you. Turn out the lights when you go to bed." And she was out of the room and up the stairs without looking back.

He waited for several minutes, standing there listening, then took a deep breath and let himself grin. A grin that banished Warren and Lilla and the fog and the island. His doubts were gone as he turned from the window and headed for the couch. His fears for the time were smothered by a buoyant growing bubble that expanded in his chest and made him feel giddy, making him wish he were back at the cottage so he could throw his arms up and shout.

Boots and socks off, shirt and jeans laid across the coffee table, the blanket pulled to the hollow of his throat, his ankles propped on the armrest, his head on the pillow. He was going to have a stiff neck in the morning, but for the moment he didn't care. For the moment he would deal with murder and madness and shuffle them back to, the bottom of the deck.

He reached up awkwardly and switched off the light.

The room settled into pale gray from the spray of the streetlamp.

There was a chill from the night that made him shiver once and draw the blanket higher. But he was warm, and he liked it, and he hoped Peg would let him be there when she told Matt the good news.

A slow exhalation to beckon sleep from the corners, and just as his eyes closed the streetlight went out.

"Here," Colin said, shifting on Matt's bed and taking up a red pencil from the pile scattered over the quilted spread. "What you want to do, see, is give the bird not exact detail so much as the illusion of detail. If you want pictures, get out a camera, otherwise you…" He studied the sketch pad in his hands, cocked his head and put the pencil to work. Matt sat Indian-fashion on the mattress beside him, frowning just as intently, every so often leaning almost nose to paper to see what Colin had done to make the gull look as if it would realize where it was at any moment and break free into the room.

"It's the wrong color, of course, unless it has a sunburn."

Matt nodded.

"But what the hell, right?" He glanced up, then, and put a finger to his lips. "Sorry. I'm not supposed to talk like that in front of you."

"Yeah," the boy said solemnly. "I'm too young."

"Right."

Matt giggled and covered his mouth with a palm.

Colin yanked at his hair and handed him the pencil. "You try it. Nothing special, mind. Just…" He reached out and held the boy's wrist with thumb and two fingers, guiding it gently.

Matt's tongue poked between his lips. "You and Mom are getting married, aren't you?"

Colin leaned back, startled, suddenly realized he was on the edge of the bed and snapped out a hand to keep himself from falling. The mattress rippled, and Matt's pencil skittered across the paper.

"That was close," he said.

"Well, aren't you?"

The sheet was torn from the pad, crumbled, and tossed to the floor onto a shallow pile of other sheets similarly discarded. They had been there since breakfast two hours ago, Colin studying the pictures Matt had done outside school. He'd grown excited as he spotted the tempering of raw talent the boy seldom showed him in his homework, saw it in the eye for detail and the imagery that did not always match what a camera might capture. What was missing was guidance, formal work, and the only thing Colin was unable to give him-experience. Living. A growing that altered the consciousness that was reflected on the paper, on the canvas, in stone and marble. The boy was naive; with growth he might become a Romantic.