A Midnight Sun Read online

  I examine the rudimentary wrapping, which makes it look like it was built in an arts and crafts class.

  A chord wrapping around a small peg is holding it closed, I unwind it gently, for it feels aged. The lid lifts easily enough and my heart skips a beat when I open it.

  Inside it, there are these beautifully faded letters on top of a photo of a group in front of a building. They look like a stage troop on some sort of trip or on tour. They are youngish, and all of them squinting in the sunlight and smiling. One on the far left of the picture is shading her face with her hand. The group is arranged in a straight line –six in all, boy-girl, boy-girl, boy-girl. I presume they are stage couples or dancing partners but I can’t tell.

  Under those, there is a toy tractor, a figurine of an angel or a saint, I can’t tell right away but it’s religious anyhow. Two foreign coins clink and I pick them up –one from Ireland and the other from Russia. I blink at my disbelief at the beauty of these old trinkets. Why has my mother kept them in there? I wonder if she forgot them for some reason.

  I put each item aside and my excitement grows with each new treasure. But nothing I have already seen can compare to the next items I bring out.

  An old camera is next –probably turn of the century, boxy and dirty with accumulated dust on the accordion lens cover. “I wonder if it works,” I mutter to myself.

  A row of uncut stamps are tucked inside an envelope that has yellowed with time all around the edges. Some mailed postcards written in other languages –Spanish and Portuguese is my best guess- are also inside the envelope.

  The next item is a picture frame covered in a weathered cloth. Although it’s tattered, I can still see the print of fruits and vegetables. The picture inside the frame is not of people, which I find peculiar. It’s old but not as faded as its wrapping, but the glass is dirty. I clean it with the towel I’ve used to dry my hair and become spellbound with the image.

  A field of blossoms –lilies and daffodils, wimberries and magnolias, lavender and yellow flowers I’ve never seen- crowd almost the entire picture. It is bright and luminous. The sun is high in the sky and glimmering a sunshine that spreads in an aural shroud in every direction.

  The last item, which I hear when I lift the box, clinks shyly in a corner. Bewildered but eager to see it, I pluck it out. It’s a picture locket the size of a quarter. The metals are brilliantly carved and the edges around the silver dome at the center is inlaid with aquamarine and turquoise. I hold it by the chain and some of the old patina rubs off on my fingers. I open the locket and my heart sinks when I realize the picture is so faded, the face is no longer discernable. I can tell it’s a man from the suit he is wearing. His hand is uncharacteristically high on the lapel, holding it with elegance on its right side.

  I make a squinting effort to see what appears to be a ring on his finger – a wedding band.

  My curtains rustle wildly in a sudden gust of wind and snap me out of my thoughts.

  When I look down at my hands again, I notice I’m not holding the locket anymore. I’ve put everything back into the box and the locket now sits in solitude on my bureau.

  “What in the grandest of all f– “

  “Mirim!” I hear from the hallway. I panic and try to hide the box under the bed, frantically pushing it the furthest I can from the door and covering it with a blanket. I feel foolish and childish but can’t help it. When I look up as my door is opening, morning light seeps in and I feel shocked.

  “Mirim dear, breakfast is ready. What’s keeping you?”

  Did I just spend the entire night looking at the contents in the box? I can hardly believe it’s possible. It can’t be. “When did this happen?”

  “What dear?”

  “I don’t…momma? I must have fallen asleep.” Before she can convince me otherwise or hear the confusion in my quivering voice, she smiles and closes the door while shaking her head. “She probably thinks I’m talking gibberish.”

  I give the box another quick inspection before I brush the mess that is now my dry hair, which also looks inexplicably right to have been slept on while damp. I run downstairs for breakfast and try not to think about anything, but decide not to tell anyone about what has just happened. Not right away anyhow.

  Chapter 9

  Marquee

  The Best Party of The Year because Old Characters Come to Visit

  Oahu, December 15th, 1989

  The living room is crowded with guests, and by now, everyone knows about my short stint in the hospital.

  Last night’s events were still floating in my mind. I cleaned the locket and wore it on my neck, somehow not worried my mother would see it concealed under the collar of my turtleneck.

  Surprisingly, few people approach me with more than a stifled laugh and a longish glance.

  With a watered-down cocktail in my hand, I approach the full-length mirror in the foyer to survey my wardrobe. My thighs seem thicker than usual and I blame it on my time at home. Rigorous dance training classes, which keep me fit, are far away in Seattle. I feel the tightness of my thigh muscles over my knee-length skirt while taking a long gulp of my drink, wondering if my muscular physique will have anything to do with how many cocktails might be needed to get me drunk. Seriously drunk.

  I see a reflection to my left and spring turn to a smiling man in smart slacks and a crisply ironed shirt.

  “I haven’t seen you drunk since we were, like, yay high?” He places his hand at thigh level and smirks up at me.

  “For your information,” I say and approach him, “I had stopped drinking by then and I’m currently barely tipsy.” I return the smirk and open my arms to him. We share a long hug that warms me beyond what is physically possible and seeps into my heart, like only an old and loving friend’s hug can. When we break the embrace, he holds my face and stares at me, as if appraising something he may have forgotten. “Admittedly, I lied,” I say softly, “I’m more than mildly intoxicated at present, if you must know.” I notice how flirtatious I sound but instead of backing out of it, I put on a heavier coat of charm. “Hi, Scott. It’s great to see you again.”

  “Well,” he says, placing an arm around my waist and leading me to the living room, “This is something that we can remedy quickly enough. Severe intoxication was my major in college. Come, let me lead you astray and get you more intoxicated.”

  As we walk, I feel his waist and grow concerned. He has gotten thinner, or perhaps it’s my memory serving me wrong. I say nothing for the time being and take in his familiar scent – the agreeable faint smell of cologne and the soft aroma of something like clean laundry after a rainy day, a deliberately splashed perfumed water that envelops him in a cloud of goodness and charm.

  “So, how are the tectonic plates nowadays.” I smile and wink holding my chest.

  “As boring and faulty as ever.” He says while smiling back, “And your writing?”

  “As unprofitable and interesting as always. I am up for a promotion, hopefully when I get back, to junior editor.”

  “So, is this mild inebriation or regretful future hangover?” He looks at my watered-down drink and scoffs, then lifts two bottles from the line in front of us. Scotch and brandy.

  “I suspect it won’t make a difference until tomorrow.” I look on as he mixes both with some seltzer and pours the mixture over crushed ice. He adds a leaf of what I think is mint and hands me a glass.

  “Cheers and whatnots.” He says and clicks my glass before we sip simultaneously. “Awful!”

  After another sip, I spit it back into the glass and agree with a grunt. He ‘refines’ the drink with some juice mixture and a lemon twist. Tries it and hands me the other. “Much better!”

  “The goal is inebriation anyhow.” I say and lie about the drink. It’s still awful.

  “So, my lovely, where should we start.”

  “Where we left off.”

  “Good place. Or so they say.” He drinks silently. “Although…there’s lots to tell, isn’t there?”<
br />
  “Yes, there is,” I reply with trepidation. Something surfaces on his face, like a clout of hurt envelops him, and I feel it too. “It is really. Really good to see you, Scotty.”

  “Oh, Chipmunk. It’s not just good, it’s absolutely, perfectly, and completely great to see you.” His smile resurfaces but only slightly. “Last time I saw you was just after college, I think. You were in San Francisco, looking for a job.”

  “I was. I went up and down the west coast, but nobody was hiring an English Lit grad anywhere. I had to settle for barkeep in Seattle for a while.”

  “Surely all that studying served its purpose.”

  “Oh, yes. I recited Chaucer at every chance. Some of my drunken customers begged for it. They especially enjoyed my expertise in 18th century prose between liquor shots. And looking at my tits.”

  “If I had known that, I would have let you mix the drinks.”

  “Long forgotten trade, I’m afraid. My hand likes ink and computer keys way better.” I smile and open my eyes when I take another sip of his horrendous drink. “I now sit proudly at my own confining cubicle in the stifling offices of an equally horrendous building. Fortunately, I’m an editor’s assistant with health benefits. Unfortunately, with minimum wage salary and not enough free time for my own writing.”

  “Dear, poor, Mirim. You need another drink!”

  “And how!” I look at the glass and grunt again. “But you know Scotty, it’s not entirely bad. I’ve had my few runs with great manuscripts and a chance or two to sniff at a little luck.”

  I touch the top of my head and feel the bump there. Then, my hand goes to the locket under the sweater. “It’s a strange turn of events. This holiday visit home.”

  “What happened? Is this about you being in the hospital?”

  “My, word does travel fast in this town. Yes, a few days.”

  My brother jumps from behind the table, unable to hide his excitement in seeing Scott. They share an effusive hug and take to the nearby couch. Truman has unknowingly saved me from having to retell the story, at least for the time being. “I see you have now kidnapped my Scotty. Tell you what. I’ll let you two catch up while I mix better drinks. How about some frozen slurpees?”

  “Drunken burpees? Those drinks you used to make?” My brother searches for Scotty’s recognition.

  “Yes! I remember those. The drinks you used to make at the end of parties. You’d use anything left over and make these awesome frozen drinks, right?”

  Both of them take on a youngish appearance and I am reminded of our crazy days of juvenile parties and too many hangovers, too much drinking, and way too many hours without sleep.

  I realize how great it is indeed to see Scott as I walk toward the kitchen and grab a few bottles on the way. As I walk away, I turn to see Truman Blabbering and bouncing on the couch, sporadically placing a hand on Scotty’s shoulder. Scott looks dazed and tired, possibly from the long trip he has just arrived from. In my excitement, I forgot about asking him. He smiles at me and leans over the couch. I lift the bottles over my head and enter the kitchen, backing into it so I can face Scotty.

  The second I turn, I am surprised by a woman leaning on the counter with a drink in her hand. She’s eating from a platter that has just been unwrapped of its plastic cover.

  “Hey, there.” She says, still chewing, “Happy to see you again, kid.” The monogrammed sweater and creamy red lipstick look familiar, but I can’t place her. Her stiff, coiffed hairdo and poufy poodle skirt are reminiscent of a 1950s T.V. show, but it is her flowery perfume, which makes me think she is one of my mother’s friends, too attached to this style to have modernized her wardrobe. “Hi…uh, you.”

  “Has drinking vanished your manners, young lady?”

  “Do I know you?”

  “Kid, do you know me! Are you kidding me?”

  “Excuse me?” Sobriety hits me like a smack of bad Scotch ad Brandi mix over the head.

  “Chucks, I can’t believe you’ve forgotten me!”

  The gangly woman reveals a toothy grin, with an overlapping tooth. It makes me think of an infant trying to escape its crib. She chortles and turns to the platter. “It hasn’t been that long, has it?” The woman piles cold cuts and veggies onto an unfolded napkin. I’m facing her back and see her slouching –a likely side effect of being too tall for a girl- over the platter. How many can she pile on there? “I’m sort of confused here, lady. I really don’t mean to be impolite, but you caught me by surprise. Are you friends with my mother?”

  “HA!” She caws. Hardly. “Name’s Agnes, kid, case you need rememberin’.”

  “Agnes? No…I can’t say I remember. I’m sorry, it just doesn’t–”

  “RING-A-BELL! HA!” She caws again.

  The back of my neck feels like it’s trying to run away from my body and I bring down the bottles onto the counter, unable to move but fearing the idea of fleeing at the same time.

  She folds the napkin with more precision than I expect from her long-fingered hands, and then, she pockets the pouch deep into her skirt. “Soon enough, then. It will come to you. Gotta split, kid.”

  Agnes walks around to where I’m standing and as she passes me, she taps the locket under the sweater twice and caws again. “HA!”

  For a long moment, I stand there with the bottles of liquor in either hand, not knowing what to do. Too stunned by the odd encounter.

  “Wait!” I shout finally, but by then, she has already left the kitchen.

  Chapter 10

  Marquee

  An Empty Office Always Has Smoke

  Seattle, December 22nd, 1989

  On the thirty-third floor of the Meadow Press Tower, two lonely stragglers are finishing a late work shift to complete the last-minute review on a manuscript. The woman is standing by an open window with a cigarette in her hand, puffing smoke and fanning it out with the most elegant futility. Most of the office reeks of tobacco.

  The hand fanning the smoke sports an elegant manicure that matches the ivory color of the pearls on her neck – a striking contrast against her dark mocha skin.

  When she takes the last drag, she closes the window and sprays a wild berry air freshener behind her.

  “I don’t know why you insist on doing that, Amistad. The freshener won’t cover the smell.” A man says from behind the screen of his laptop. “I’m almost finished by the way. Only a few more queries to reply to.”

  “Syth, you can do those Monday. Why did you start with those anyhow? We were only supposed to finish the manuscripts Manuel left us.”

  “Since I had to wait for you, Miss Johnson, to finish the damn cigarette, I thought, what the heck!”

  “Syth Valley, if I have to hear another complaint about me smoking, I swear, I will drown you in the fountain in front of the building.”

  Syth ignores Amistad’s comment and pulls a pen from behind his ear to scribble a note of the yellow pad next to him on the desk. “You are a loudmouth, you know? You’d never dare.” He closes the laptop and picks up his coat and scarf after grabbing his briefcase. “Besides, the fountain has been empty for maintenance for months. So, tough luck.”

  “Well, there’s always a window.” She grabs her purse and coat before walking after Syth. “I know they’re bad, alright? I’m just tired of you telling me so. Like I don’t know.”

  “You’d hate it if I smoked weed in here.”

  “That’s not the same.”

  “Surely, you can’t say that. But never mind, if we start this argument, we’ll never finish.”

  Amistad hooked her arm over Syth’s as they walk to the bank of elevators. “Where are we going today? I’m famished?”

  “Ooh, let’s hit the Savvy Palate. I heard they have happy hour till late tonight and a live band.”

  “And the cutest guys in Portsmouth Boulevard.”

  Syth stands facing Amistad and places his briefcase on the floor. While waiting for the elevators, he shuffles a stack of papers before kneeling to stuff them
into the briefcase.

  “What are you looking for?” She says.

  “A paper I wanted to show you on the way. It caught my attention, so I grabbed it from Mirim’s desk. Read it.”

  “From Mirim’s desk? Why’d you go and do that? You’re such a nosey person. That is none of your business.”

  “It’s not like that. She left me a few things to do before leaving for the holidays.” Syth stood with a groan. “Ugh, gotta cut down on the laziness and hit the gym, hard.”

  Amistad scoffs.

  The elevator doors open and they step inside the empty space. Syth presses the button marked P2 for their parking floor before continuing. “Anyhow, she almost took work with her and I refused to let her. So, I nabbed the manuscripts she was holding under the pile were a few of her notes, she said to me, Use them, for the manuscripts.”

  “You mean, you are talking about the notes.”

  “Yes, but thing is, the notes are not just run-of-the-mill standard proofreading notes and annotations. There was something strange about them.”

  “How so?”

  “You’ll see when we get to the restaurant.”

  “Fine, but this better be good. I’m intrigued!”

  “Don’t know that it will be. I just think you should see it. We’ve been close friends with Mirim a few years and have worked together– “

  The elevator opens cutting Syth off and Amistad walks out into the parking lot. She waits for Syth as he fumbles for the car keys. “You should have a paddle for a key chain, like a gas station bathroom key.”

  Syth laughs. “So, I was saying we’ve worked together with Mirim a long time and not only know her well, but the four of us have developed a proofreading style that is unique.”

  “Yes, you’re right. But how is that important?”

  “Her notes…they’re not…exactly notes, you know?”

  “They aren’t? What are they, then?” Amistad can’t hide a feeling of condescension.