The goblins came after her again. Tearing, pulling, clawing deep within her. They wanted something. Can't let them get it. Mustn't let them win. Can't. Mustn't. NO, NO!
When Mary came to, Miz Gryder was shaking her gently. “What's the matter, Sug'? Was you havin' a nightmare? Are you sick?” “No. I'm fine, Miz Gryder.”
Her landlady's face was contorted in worry. “You was screamin' agin, child. Tell me about it.”
“I don't know. It was all black. Scary. Awful. I'm OK now, thanks.”
Miz Gryder's face relaxed a little, but she didn't make a motion to leave. Mary closed her eyes, and Miz Gryder looked wistfully at her face; now peaceful. If me and Henry could've had a child...
She tugged the patchwork quilt snugly under Mary's chin and stood up.
______
Joe was more attentive than usual. “What's the matter?” he asked. “You look like something's bothering you.”
“Oh, nothing. Just a bad dream.”
Mary was growing accustomed to his daily appearances at the cafe. She missed him when he didn't come. She ignored the demons.
Joe didn't know what to make of her. She was a mystery. No telling what secrets hid inside, deep inside her black, pitch black, sucking-you-in-like-a-black-hole black eyes. Nobody in Centerville knew anything about her. He probably knew more than anybody else, and he knew next to nothing. He suddenly decided he wanted to know more.
“You want to go to the show?” he blurted out. He had been coming to the diner every day for a week. That wasn't what he had planned to say. He had had something a little more sophisticated in mind.
Mary caught her breath. For a moment she couldn't speak. “Sure, fine,” she finally answered.
“Fine.”
“What time?”
“Oh. Eight. The show starts at eight.”
“Fine. See you there?”
“No. -- I mean, I'll pick you up. Seven-thirty?”
“Seven-thirty.”
She had forgotten to ask him what movie was playing. It was a good thing. He hadn't the slightest idea. Nor could she have told you what they saw, minutes after the show let out. But she could have described in detail the shape of his brow, how it reclined at a noble angle, high above his patrician nose, losing itself finally in black, shining locks; or how his eyes, so blue, that they lit up the dark theatre...And he, thinking of her, marveled at how much she was like him, or at least like he wanted to be; like the image he had of himself -- dark, mysterious -- different. He strove to be different, always different from his family, friends, the good folk of Centerville. And there was no denying she was different. And black hair, and black-hole deep eyes. She was from far away, and he wanted to go far away. He thought about things -- deep things. Her eyes hid deep things. She was so much like himself. He liked himself. Mary walked home slowly, looking up at the stars. It was fall, and the cool, crisp night air brought the stars up close like a magnifying glass, with stunning clarity. She could count each one. The air smelled faintly of burning leaves. Mary breathed in deeply and hugged her arms tightly around her chest.
She turned onto Rankin Street. Miz Gryder's house was the next to the last house on the left, just before the street curved to the left and ran into Swallow Street. She was in no hurry to go home. But Miz Gryder, she knew, did not tolerate tardiness. She locked the front door at 9:30 p.m. sharp. And woe unto any straggler who had to knock on that door and ask for admittance.
The dark street was speckled at intervals by the street lights. On both sides, in the comfortable darkness beyond, the darkened houses loomed large. Inside, beds were being tucked and lights were being switched off with contented, relieved, exhausted sighs. Centerville was going to bed.
She shut the demons out. She shut out everything. Everything before tonight was a blank. She was born tonight.
She skipped lightly, and hummed to herself. The darkness like a blanket. The branches of the oak trees hung low, but not threatening tonight; more like a dark sanctuary. Mary ducked her head and walked underneath.
She stopped. She looked up. The stars seemed further away, but a few of them found their way through the dark canopy and winked at her. She stepped out from under the darkness onto the milky sheen of street light on sidewalk and street.
“Mary.” She froze.
The voice, if it was voice, did not repeat her name. She felt uneasy and a bit foolish. She walked on.
She stepped lightly up the steps and opened the screen door to the porch. As she did, Miz Gryder's face appeared in the glass of the house door.
In two steps, Mary crossed the creaking wooden porch, before the key clicked in the lock. Miz Gryder opened the door without a word. Her look said it all.
Mary didn't care. She went to her room, felt for the string and pulled the light switch. She slipped quickly into the cool, smooth sheets, and pulled the patchwork quilt (made from real patches -- no pretty pattern, just scraps -- but warm) up to her chin. Her dreams were splendid.
No comments:
Post a Comment