In the Middle of the Night (13 page)

Are you still going to help me, Baby?

He’s such a nice kid, Lulu. You said that yourself. I’d hate to see him in pain.

He won’t have any pain
, she says.
But the pain of his father, that will last forever. The pain of knowing that his son is paying for what he did.

I know my words will be useless, having been said so many times, but I have to say them:

The father didn’t do anything, Lulu. The authorities cleared him.

And her answer is the same:

The authorities
! Speaking with contempt.
They covered up. Politicians always cover up. He was in the balcony and he started the fire and the balcony fell down on us. One and one, Baby, still adds up to two.

Then, going to the window and looking out, she says,
I don’t want to talk about it anymore.

I know what she really does not want to talk about, that one thing like a shadow that has fallen between us, separating us from what we used to be and what we are now.

She will not talk about what happened to her while she was dead.

What she saw and did.

Whether she was in heaven or hell. Or limbo, the place Aunt Mary told us little babies went to who aren’t baptized.

Lulu used to joke with her about that, but a serious kind of joking.

You mean
, she’d say to Aunt Mary,
that babies can’t get into heaven because a priest didn’t splash them with water?

That was my old Lulu, fresh and sassy.

I’m only saying what the church teaches
, Aunt Mary would respond.

I like the thought of limbo, though
, Lulu would say.
Neither heaven nor hell. Sounds like a great place to be.

I wonder if limbo is where Lulu went. But she won’t talk about it.

Other people talk about it
, I tell her.
They see a beautiful light. They float and drift. They feel happy and contented and don’t want to come back.

She only stares at me with those terrible eyes filled with something I can’t describe, her mouth a cruel slash and her cheeks taut. Her face like a mask that hides the real Lulu, my old Lulu who used to tickle me and make me laugh.

That Lulu is gone.

And this new Lulu makes me lie awake at night, and makes me hide what I’m writing so that she can’t see it.

W
ith Halloween approaching, the color scheme everywhere in Barstow was orange for pumpkins, black for witches and white for ghosts. The warmth of September had surrendered to chilled October days and nights, sudden winds which brought leaves down extravagantly, and dull slate skies. No rain, however, and everything crisp, autumn-toasted leaves creating small whirlwinds before littering the streets and sidewalks.

Denny trekked homeward from the bus stop, kicking absently at the leaves. He shook his head in disapproval at the pumpkins on doorsteps. The latest craze: painting weird faces on pumpkins. He remembered his father patiently scooping the pulp out of a pumpkin, painstakingly carving out eyes, a nose and a gap-toothed mouth. A candle placed inside brought it spookily to life. He wondered
whether he was too old to ask his father to carve him a pumpkin this year.

Passing by the 24-Hour Store, he saw that Mr. Taylor, not Dave, was standing at the cash register. Disappointed, he turned toward home. As he turned into the driveway, he checked his watch: 2:46. Time to spare. Lulu always called between 3:00 and 3:30, never earlier, never later.

At home, the pulse in his temple leaped erratically as he climbed the stairs thinking of Lulu. He opened the screen door and was instantly nauseated.

Later, he wasn’t sure which came first, the terrible smell or the sight of what was piled on the doorstep. Probably both at once. Retching miserably at the banister, unable to vomit despite his nausea, he knew that his hopes for the twenty-fifth anniversary’s passing without incident had probably ended. There had been only two nighttime phone calls in the past week. Only one letter, which his father flushed down the toilet without opening. No publicity at all. The reporter from the
Wickburg Telegram
had not returned and there had been no approaches from the television or radio stations. Best of all: his own telephone calls. From her. That voice, those words. He had hoped, vaguely, that in some way those calls had stopped all the mischief.

But what he found on the doorstep filled him with dread.

What next?

Before thinking about that, he had to clean up the mess before his mother and father got home.

He went down to the cellar, looking for something to pick it up with. Under the stairs, he found an empty shoe box. Tore down one side to form a kind of dustpan. Would use the cover as a brush to scoop it up. Went upstairs, dreading the sight and stench of what was waiting for him.

Taking a deep breath, he swept it into the box, missing some, of course, doing it again, trying to avert his eyes, trying not to breathe but breathing anyway. He knew he would have to scrub the stoop later with soap and water.

Standing there with the reeking shoe box, he thought: Now what do I do?

He did the obvious—flushed it down the toilet, rinsed the box, scrubbed the doorstep with an old rag, placed box, cover and rag in a plastic bag and dropped it into one of the rubbish barrels in the driveway.

Back in the apartment, he waited as usual for the telephone to ring. He skipped his after-school lunch, his stomach still queasy from the chore he had just performed but his heart fluttering, anticipating Lulu’s voice on the telephone.

He sat in his father’s chair, next to the end table on which the telephone stood. He took off his watch and propped it against the phone, the better to see it. 3:09. The phone could ring anytime now. 3:16.

The apartment still, like a museum after hours. 3:21.

She might not call today. She sometimes skipped a day or two.

Restless, he got up, stretched, yawned that old boredom yawn, went to the porch door, swung it open, looked down to see if any stain remained. He shuddered, recalling the smell, as fresh now as at the moment of discovery.

He remembered what Lulu had once said about people doing things to his father.

A devastating thought:

Had Lulu placed that pile of stench on the doorstep?

Was it her shit he had flushed down the toilet?

No, it couldn’t be.

She could never do such a thing.

Not Lulu.

“Lulu.”

He said her name aloud, loved the sound of it. She hadn’t told him her name at first, seemed reluctant to identify herself, which added to the mystery of her calls. But she’d finally told him.

She’d been teasing him about his own name. She said she preferred Col-
bair
to Colbert. “Colbert is so hard and harsh, but Col-
bair
is soft and French and …”

He caught the beginning sound of an s, and wondered, excited, whether she was about to say “sexy.”

Flustered, he said: “You know my name but I don’t know yours …”

“Do you want to know my name?”

“Yes.”

“That makes me happy, Denny. Makes me feel that I mean something to you, that I’m more than just a voice.”

Thrilled and embarrassed, puzzled that he should be thrilled and embarrassed, he said, “I like talking to you.”

“I do, too. In fact, I like
you
, Denny.”

He figured she was avoiding his question, did not really want to tell him her name.

But she surprised him:

“Lulu. Call me Lulu.”

Call me Lulu …

“Is that your name or just what people call you?”

“Lulu is my special name. Only people who are close to me call me Lulu. And you’re close to me, Denny. So close …”

Aroused, looking down at himself—what’s happening here, what’s happening to me?—he could not speak.

“Denny, are you still there? I hear you breathing—are you all right? Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” he said, the word strangling in his throat as he tried to bring himself under control.

She always spoke softly, breathlessly, as if there were no one in the world except the two of them. As if they were friends—no, more than friends: as if they shared deep secrets. That smoky voice.

She made a dull day dance, made the most ordinary things sound exciting. Like September.

She was sad about September because it was over.

“Like a lovely woman gone away,” she said.

“A woman?”

“Yes, September’s like a woman. Beautiful. Voluptuous. You know what voluptuous means, don’t you, Denny?”

“Of course,” he said, heart racing:
voluptuous
, conjuring up visions of beautiful women, knowing in his heart that Lulu must be beautiful, too. And voluptuous.

Lulu’s voice was mesmerizing, a hypnotist’s voice—
you are getting sleepy, sleepy
…—but he wasn’t sleepy at all, exactly the opposite, wide awake, every pore open, soaking her words and her voice into every part of his body, and his body responding. He squeezed his thighs together.

“October’s a woman, too, Denny. But a witch. A ghost or a goblin. That’s why I don’t like October, hate it, because it ends with Halloween.” Her voice was suddenly bitter, sending chills through his bones. Then warm again and playful: “What month do you think I am, Denny?”

He thought of frigid January and warm July, hot August, himself suddenly hot and perspiring, as if August had arrived. He swallowed hard, squirming, the words not coming at all.

“I hope you think I’m September, Denny, and not February, not cold and freezing …”

“September,” he said, stammering a bit, heart tumbling inside of him, like a September leaf in the wind. Finding the courage, at last, to say: “Yes, definitely September.”

He wondered how old she was. Her voice provided no clue. If she’d been calling his father all these years, she couldn’t be young. But a part of him denied that she could be old. He wanted her to be young.

Finally, mustering his courage, he asked: “How old are you, Lulu?” He loved saying her name.

“How old do you think I am?”

Like a teacher, answering a question with another question. But never a teacher in school like Lulu.

“I don’t know.” Not daring to guess.

“When you hear the sound of my voice, Denny, do you think I’m old? Or young?”

“Young.” Hoping.

“Ah, Denny …”

She
had
to be young.

“Do I sound nice? Or not so nice?”

“Nice,” he said. Said it again: “Nice.”

“That’s good. I want you to think I’m nice. So that you’ll keep talking to me. I look forward to these calls. The days when I can’t call you, I feel lonesome …”

“I do, too,” he heard himself saying.

“Know what, Denny? I don’t call your father at night anymore. Maybe other people call him, but I don’t. Know why?”

“No.”

“Because I’d rather talk to you. I like talking to you …”

“I like to talk to you, too,” he said, wondering if she heard the tremor in his voice, if she knew what was happening to him.

And didn’t care whether she was young or old.

Now he looked at the clock.

3:31.

Today’s big moment hadn’t arrived. She hadn’t called. The apartment, suddenly desolate, the bright sun mocking him as it splashed on the carpet. Should be raining to match his mood.

He drilled his eyes at the phone, commanding it to ring.

But it didn’t.

“
H
ey, Denny, I saw your sweetheart the other day.”

Dracula stopped pummeling Son of Frankenstein to make the announcement.

Denny pretended indifference, acted as if he had not heard what Dracula said. He did not trust the little monster. Even at twelve years old, he had the manner of a gangster from old movies, and looked, in fact, like a juvenile James Cagney.

Even
sweetheart
was a James Cagney kind of word.

“Where did you see her?” he said, voice crackling, which did not help his act of indifference very much.

“I dunno,” Dracula said, bored with hitting Son of Frankenstein and turning toward Denny. “Downtown.”