A Midnight Sun Page 6

  “I told you. You have to see them to understand.” Syth and Amistad come to a lone Jaguar in the first row of the lot. It beeps when Syth presses the control in his hand. “Something is different about these particular notes.”

  “Syth, I’m really not getting you.”

  “Just get in the car, Amistad. I’ll show you the paper and you’ll see.”

  Amistad looked in the lighted mirror overhead and reapplied her lipstick as Syth drives off.

  Several blocks away, on Portsmouth Boulevard, a modern glass and steel building with indoor terraces near a fireplace, was filling quickly. The word on a late-night happy hour had spread to the nearby offices.

  A tall and smartly dressed executive was already seated. His winning smile, charming his date, a secretary from the office across his. He was already coming up with a way to end the date, who’d turned out to be dull and much like the rest of them. Blessedly, his phone rang just in time and he used the opportunity.

  “Syth! My man, yes, yes. I understand. No, I’m busy now, I couldn’t possibly…well if it’s that important.” Braff Wilkins hung up with the caller and turned to the lovely secretary he’d mistaken for an interesting date.

  After a few excuses about a last-minute work meeting, feigning an absolute necessity for the last-minute issue to wrestle and smooth, he excused himself and escorted his lovely date to the gate outside of the Savvy Palate. Braff waits just inside the reception area for Syth and Amistad to join him. Syth said something about Mirim on the Phone, after chastising him for using the opportunity to bail on his date. When they were seated at his table, he orders a round of drinks and shares his appetizer until the food they’ve ordered arrives.

  “So, you say the notes are odd for Mirim?” Braff says.

  “Yes, I believe so. Thought you might want to take a closer look.”

  Syth rummages through his papers and brings out a single page of double-spaced paper. “Anyone in publishing might understand these as proofreading marks. But, upon closer inspection,” Syth told them, “They didn’t make sense. Starting with the fact that there is no text to proofread,” Syth pushes the document closer to the center where both Amistad and Braff can read it.

  The colleagues share a visual chase. It sends them off together into various stages of palpable amusement, winding bewilderment, which finally takes a turn to beleaguered concerned, ending with stunned satisfaction.

  Syth nods satisfied. “I feel like smoking right now.”

  Chapter 11

  Marquee

  Parties End Better When Followed by A Bike Ride

  Oahu, December 22nd, 1989

  Halfway through the party I still feel woozy. Whether from drinking or the encounter with Agnes, I’ve yet to decide. But I find myself sprawled on the couch, wondering if my eyes have glazed over with the many mixed cocktails I’ve consumed.

  An unnerving sense of having said or done something stupid suddenly surfaces. I scan the room for Truman but can’t find him. People were already leaving by the time I find Scotty again, to make sure he’s sober enough to drive before we say goodbye on the porch.

  “Come in…come on, come on, Scotty.” I slur. “Show me the best pantomime of a table, and I’ll let you drive off happily in your car.”

  “A table?” His face contorts, but I know no matter how silly my question he’ll reply. “Uh, let me see…okay, I got it! I commandeer, soft cheeks,” he proclaims and raises a finger to the sky, “I have a spot reserved just for you.” He says seriously but I smile anyway because he is also slurring. “Wanna see?”

  I scoff. “You’re drunk.” I then jab him on the shoulder but he comes close and wraps his arms around my waist. Hugging me tightly, he whispers in my ear, “Do you want to see, Chipmunk?”

  “Affirmative, captain. Procedure is a go.” I mumble back, more on his neck than his ear, giving it my best effort to sound sober but failing miserably. Scott steps back enough to see me.

  “Right here.” He taps his left shoulder and realizes his finger is too high over his heart. “Well, here.” We laugh before hugging again. “Don’t worry Chipmunk. I…am, uh, riding shotgun…with Wilbur. Hey, Will!”

  “Good. Good.” I turn to walk back into the house. But, turn to him again, “Let’s get together Scotty…before we leave?”

  “Ab-so-lud-lee!” He shirks away grinning and shouts for Wilbur to wait up. Just behind Scotty, I spot my parents saying goodbye to our neighbors. When I turn around, I spot Truman on the stairs. He has managed to somehow doze off on the bottom steps, with his head resting in his arms.

  “Strong burpees,” I say and close the door behind me, thinking that I should probably just bring a pillow and blanket for Truman instead of trying to take him to his room.

  Stumbling into the kitchen, I make a mental note to ask my mother about Agnes. I never again spotted her throughout the party. There were dozens of old ladies who could’ve been my mother’s friends, but not one even remotely looked like Agnes.

  I open the cabinet beneath the sink and pull a trash bag. Moving slowly through the room, collecting discarded cups and beer cans, I try not to linger too much in any place, because I only have a few minutes of sobriety left in me before I am overwhelmed by the feeling of crashing in bed until the next day. So, I hurry to clean up as much as possible.

  Icabod grazes my leg and purrs. “Happy they’ve all left, aren’t you? Spoiled cat.” I pet him quickly and get back to my clean-up.

  On the buffet table, I spot a pile of balled-up napkins and cautiously nudge them with a plastic fork into the bag I’m holding. I had seen one of the Howard boys stuff napkins into his nose, so I didn’t want to touch them and risk getting snot on my hands. When I throw in the last one, a bowl of what looks like tiny bluish pine cones appears under it. I get closer and pick one up to inspect it.

  “What are these?” I wonder, sniffing it. It smells sweet and fruity.

  Then, like a bolt of lightning going up and down my spine, it occurs to me these are not pine cones at all. These are fruit, berries to be exact. “Juniper berries.”

  I don’t know how I know this but I’m absolutely positive that is what they are called.

  The trash bag slides from my hand and I stumble backward until I regain some footing. I feel shocked into instant sobriety. My mouth gets dry and I turn to find somebody. But the spinning room is empty. I’m alone, and Truman is passed out on the stairs.

  Juniper, I think again.

  My heart starts racing in my chest. I have a vision of the hill. Juniper, the girl, racing down the slope against the guy I knew as Fitch. Suddenly, tears fill my eyes.

  I walk outside and sit next to Truman, not knowing exactly why, but I sob until the tears are gone.

  Chapter 12

  Marquee

  Flowery Knoll of Goodbyes

  Oahu, April 4th, 1936

  In the middle of a field, somewhere in the middle of what looks like an island, surrounded by a vast expanse of ocean that goes for miles and miles, in a planet called earth, a woman sits among flowers.

  From high above, she looks like a dot. The field is so tiny it could fit inside the palm of one hand.

  The flat area she sits in is nestled at the top of a knoll in a high mountain. The hills around it look like sharp waves of earth have been shaped by god’s hands. Plies and plies of soil pushed upward until they finally erupt into a series of peaks connecting to one another.

  We float down toward the woman and can almost smell the sweetness in the air. It’s warm and earthy. Through the mystic air, a force pulls us closer to her and we can finally see. The waves of her golden-brown hair. She sits silently on a stone and is holding her legs close to her chest. Her meringue yellow shoes, which match some of the flowers on her dress, sit neatly arranged by her side.

  Hovering just above her, we stop midair and can hear her. She’s weeping softly and looking into the horizon. When she lowers her head into the hollow of her knees, it looks like a long time has passed. />
  We can feel the warmth of the sun directly in front of us. It shines brightly in the cloudless sky.

  The woman lifts her face to feel its warmth with her eyes closed. She throws her head back and inhales deeply, till her head is almost completely looking up.

  In the distance, we hear a low sound, like from behind a thick pane of glass. The wind picks up and brings with it the sound, just loud enough to hear. A rustling of shrubbery and leaves introduces us to a new subject inside this entrancing frame.

  A man walking uphill, shuffling his bare feet although he’s picking up his knees, enough to bring him upward further onto the hill. His brown slacks are rolled mid-chin, where one of his hands is now placed, as he takes his last steps which lead him to the woman. He slides off his suspenders, and leans back all the way, until he’s fully resting on the flowery flatbed. His shoes, which he’d been carrying on the same shoulder where he had draped a jacket, go flying behind him and land with a thud at the edge of the stone she’s sitting on.

  His hair in the grass looks like wheat bending in the wind. She looks at him as he closes his eyes and lifts a hand to beckon her closer. She lowers her feet onto the grass next to him and stands above him, her shadow casting a shade over his face. Sensing her presence, he lifts the cap covering his face, and his eyes come open to look at her. But he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t say a word. Both his arms come up instead, like a child beckoning his mother. She obliges and lies next to him. Her hand comes to his chest and he covers it with his.

  “Tomorrow,” he says.

  “I know, but knowing doesn’t make it any easier,” she says and pushes her face into his chest.

  “Will you write me?” he whispers.

  She nods and fights off tears by rubbing her face on his arm.

  “I’ll love you for all eternity, do you know that?”

  “No.” Her voice is muffled with his shirt.

  “Well, I will. I promise you, darling.”

  “Oh, Fitch!” She sits and weeps into her hands. “Why must we part? Can’t we be together longer, and be like babes playing in these grassy hills that became our home?”

  “Because it must be so, I guess. Life is such that we grow away sometimes and we must take leave of others.”

  “But is that what you want, to be apart from me, dear Fitch?”

  “No, it isn’t.” He sits beside her. “You know how much I care about you.”

  “But why Anaheim? Why would you go to the other side of the country?”

  “Parker…”

  “Why not Sacramento or…or San Francisco. I heard they have a great Naval Academy in Washington– “

  “It’s not like that. I had settled for West Point long before you and I met. The Point is where my father went, and his father, and his father before him, where my brothers went or will go, and my own sons will be trained and educated someday.”

  Parker stands and walks away, her arms are folded tightly over her chest and her cheeks are smeared with tears.

  “Why don’t you try to find to find school or work in New York?” He says, coming behind her, “We’ll be closer then.”

  “I can’t, Fitch.”

  “Whyever not?” He turns her brusquely to face him, “Why not, Parker?” He doesn’t exactly yell, but his chest rises and he straightens looking taller.

  “I’ve been offered a contract, as a chorus girl. A major picture studio, too. The pay is good and I can finally afford dancing lessons, singing classes…why Fitch, who knows? Someday I’ll be in a real moving picture.”

  Fitch stares at her but softens and she puts her hands on his shoulders. “Why can’t I chase my dreams, too?” She starts crying again. He brings her closer with his arms wrapping over hers. His head rests now on hers, which is deeply buried in his chest. He kisses her and sways softly to the rhythm of the wind around them. Parker turns away and tries to walk from his grasp but he wraps his arms around her and kisses her cheeks.

  “You can darling Parker. Of course, you can. Now, hush.”

  Fischer keeps rocking her gently until her crying subsides.

  “Maybe,” he says, speaking softly into her hair, “Maybe we’ll get together after my training. Maybe you’ll get your big picture deal and I’ll see you on the silver screen like a huge star. Maybe there won’t be wars to fight or I’ll choose to change my training to a different academy, closer to you…”

  Parker whirls to face Fitch again and throws her arms around him. “Do you really mean that, Fitch?” Do you mean that, dear?”

  “Of course, I do, Parker sweetheart. None of us know the future to say what will happen for certain, but I know we can do this together. We can take our part in this journey and find out what’s in store for us along the way.”

  “The man slides a high school ring from his finger and threads the end of her necklace through it. She turns so he can latch it on and he kisses her neck gently, just beside her ear. The woman turns again and looks up at the man. She sweeps his hair back and he holds her by the waist while they kiss. Softly at first barely gracing lips until he tightens his grip on her and their mouths become a mystery in enrapture.

  As we float away, they recede into the foreground of flowers. The sun is now various shades of yellows and oranges in the horizon.

  And we depart quietly, leaving the couple to bask in the love they are promising to each other –a man and a woman on separate destinies, united by a promise and a deep, passionate kiss.

  Chapter 13

  Marquee

  To Christmas Mornings & Happy Hangovers

  Oahu, December 25th, 1989

  A sheaf of papers cascades over me as I sprawl on the kitchen floor in the kitchen. I’ve just finished writing the intense scene from my dream, a scene that left me feeling both intrigued and perplexed. Why was I seeing this?

  It feels like it doesn’t matter, and yet, it matters more than I have begun to understand. I woke with a start very early this morning, with the first light of day and ran to the kitchen. Where my mother keeps a pad for the odd random note. I tear the first few sheets, which have grocery lists and housework for my father, and scribble as fast as my hands will allow.

  I beat myself up over not bringing my word processor and make another mental note –rather than writing it down- to gift my parents with a new home computer. I obviate the fact momma may not be able to figure her way around an IBM but smile internally from her trying to work her way into the word processor to write the shopping lists instead of handwriting them.

  “GIFT!” is what I yell as I go down sliding across the linoleum, when I remember it’s Christmas day, and I haven’t bought any.

  Still in my pajamas and slightly bumped and dented everywhere the floor hit my now tender skin, I go on the task of reorganizing the papers on the counter until they are in the correct sequence.

  My brother enters the kitchen yawning and asks if the coffee is ready, which I’ve had two cups of already. He pours himself a fresh cup and sits across the table.

  “I have no gifts,” I announce defeated.

  “That’s okay, sis.” He yawns again and runs his fingers through his messy hair. “I got you something. It’s not much. It’s cheap really.”

  “A scarf? Gloves? A concert T-shirt?” I ask, mentioning his usual choices for last-minute purchases.

  “Nope. You’ll see.”

  While we wait for our parents, who are unusually late for breakfast, I tell him about the dream and what I wrote.

  “That sounds…uh, nice, sis.”

  I was shocked at his derisiveness. “Truman! It’s the same woman, Parker, and the guy in the boxcars!”

  “Sure.” He moans yawning again and gets Icabod, who has been meowing by his legs. He takes the can of food from the fridge and props a forkful in his bowl. “I’m starting to believe, sis, this is some sort of side effect from the heatstroke.”

  My hand balls up into a hot fist. “Truman, I’m going to go upstairs and get dressed,” I say scorned. “Wh
en I get back, you better have a better attitude toward me or I swear, I’ll fucking see to it that your Christmas food disappears into Icabod’s bowl before you can so much as get a whiff of it. You got that?”

  Adhering to his true nature, Truman shrugs and sips more coffee.

  I mount the stairs with some difficulty, rubbing the spots where I’m beginning to feel sore from hitting the floor.

  _______________

  After our Christmas dinner, I grab my old bike and ride over to Scotty’s house, a little too hungover to dare to get behind the wheel of a car. Besides, Scotty lives a few blocks away and the ride might be just what I needed. Inside a duffle bag, I stuff everything I’ve written about Parker and my experiences after the party, up to the point after waking up this morning and writing the dream. I slide it over my shoulder and head to his house.

  His mother opens the door when I knock, wearing a flashy Christmas t-shirt with a thin cardigan over it and a cute holiday apron on her waist. Her hair, pulled over her head in a messy bun, reveals a set of the daintiest white pearls. I love her quirkiness for outfit pairings. The combinations never make sense but are always fun and appropriate for her.

  “Hi, Mrs. Michaels. I haven’t seen you in so long. Merry Christmas.”

  “Why Mirim! Merry Christmas honey. It’s so wonderful to see you. Come in, please.” She ushers me into the small parlor where Scott and I had so many years before, to taste our first beers or smoke his father’s clove cigarettes, coughing wildly and throwing up into the umbrella stand his mother kept by the door.

  The house smells great, like cinnamon and ginger. “You’re as beautiful as I remember you, Mrs. Michael’s.”

  “So are you, my dear. And, smart looking as ever. Perhaps it’s time you start calling me Helen?” She grabs my hands and steps away to glance at my clothes. She’s wearing rubber gloves and I have to suppress a giggle. I wonder what part of the old t-shirt or rolled-up jeans I’m wearing look smart to her. My oxfords made riding the bike difficult because they kept slipping on the pedals. A thin scarf wraps my neck, for no other reason than style because it really isn’t so cold, but I remember thinking it might get chilly by the time I leave Scott’s house. I feel –by now- a Seattle fashionista.