A Midnight Sun Page 7

  My mouth waters at the idea of having some eggnog, which I absolutely love, so when she offers a glass, I retreat to my youth and become giddy with excitement. Just as I thank her and she’s walking back into the kitchen, Scotty walks in with a book in his hands. He is wearing reading glasses and I am shocked. “Why are you wearing glasses?” I blurt and feel foolish as soon as I say it.

  “Reading.” He grins and pushes them up on his nose before snorting. It eases me.

  “So, I see you have finally reached old age.”

  “Not quite. I have, uh, a year or two before I am actually senile, give or take anyway. The gray hair just recently started coming in.”

  “Scotty, don’t be cheeky!” His mother says handing me a glass of eggnog.

  “That’s her actually.” He points to me. His mother frowns and walks back into the kitchen with her hands on her waist. She ignores the fact he is referring to my ‘other’ cheeks, the cheeks I sit on and not the ones on my face.

  Years before, we were at a game in our old high school. I’d been sitting in the stands with a couple of girls from the varsity squad. Truman and his best friend at the time went below the bleachers and found us. As a prank, they slapped our rear ends before running off laughing. I was mortified later to learn through a slip of Truman’s big mouth it had been Scotty. Feigning anger –which was actually more embarrassment- I left his house after a tantrum, yelling at him for being a conniving little fiend.

  From then on, as well as Chipmunk, I am Cheeky McFurious. Only he and I know this. Whenever he calls me cheeky, I punch his arm or sneer. He’d laugh and bring candy or bubble gum when we were younger to apologize, and I’d always forgive him. I think about what he might do now as a form of apology and squeal with delight.

  Scotty is still laughing when he pecks my cheek –the cheek on my face- as his mother walks back from the depths of the house, carrying another glass of eggnog which she gives to Scotty before walking away drinking her own.

  “Scotty,” I say when as he sits on the table, “before I tell you again what I came to tell you, I’m going to remind you that I plan on smacking you for that little joke.” I try to be serious but a smile trembles on the edge of my lips and I know he sees it.

  “Sure you will, cheeks. Come to the table. I gotta show you something.”

  “But Scott, I came to…” I show him the duffel bag and pout, but he pulls me in and kisses the side of my forehead. “I know. We’ll get to it.”

  Chapter 14

  Marquee

  Restaurants See More Meetings Than Paper Stacks

  Seattle, December 25th, 1989

  The valet line is long, so Braff and Syth wait for their cars after finishing dinner while Amistad returns from the bathroom.

  Braff Wilkins is midway through his cigarette. He bristles when a woman standing behind him complains about his cigarette smoke, Braff turns and with a smug smile, dismisses her without a word. Syth admires this in Braff, his built-in ability to deal with potentially difficult situations with such ease.

  “So, you say Mirim doesn’t normally proofread with these symbols?” Braff says and exhales upward and away from other patrons.

  “No, I told you a million times now. We have a standard system. The notes I grabbed by accident make absolutely no sense to us.”

  “Amistad concurs then.”

  “Yes, you heard her.”

  Braff stubs out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe and tosses the butt into a trash can. “Can I see it again?”

  The paper is now riddled with traces of fold lines from the times Syth has taken it from his pocket and refolded it. Braff scans it again.

  Although he hasn’t proofread a manuscript in years, Braff knows the unintelligible lines for correcting and editing like he knows the engine of his car, a machine only he cares for and has never been touched by a mechanic. This sole hobby makes his otherwise clean-shaven presence and interest that is far from his daily life as an Executive Junior Editor in Meadow Press. Whenever he wants to reconnect with his modest upbringing in Florida, where he never lacked bread and butter but rarely had anything that was not a hand-me-down or on discount from a sales rack, he disappears into his garage for hours. People have a difficult time understanding this meager task has any room in his life, how relaxing it can be. They don’t understand why, despite having the means to pay for such things, he does it himself. He plays loud rock music and drinks cold wine for a wine glass that he gets filthy with grease and wipes after he’s finished. He does this almost every weekend while he tunes up his ‘roaring lady’ as he lovingly calls his Ruby Red 1973 Ford Mustang.

  His tools are always clean and always in the right spot inside the drawers he keeps in his three-car garage, a luxury not many Seattlers can afford but he takes pride in –his garage is spotless and well kept.

  Braff has worked hard and long, so anything he gives himself, he feels he deserves. Meadow Press was also as much his as it was anybody else’s who owned stock. He took special pride in it and his work was more than proof of the effort he put into it.

  Because of his station in the publishing agency, he had at his disposition a team of new recruits and interns every year. The program he had originated had led to the best hiring process in the company, succeeding in finding the best new writers in the west coast. He attributed this to his rigorous methods and hard work, but mostly, to his personal investment in people.

  Mirim had been with him in the beginning but was now part of the fast program of training to become a junior editor herself. Braff knew Mirim’s work was impeccable. She was also a brilliant and promising writer who made ends meet from a tiny one-bedroom apartment, taking classes by mail to advance her studies, she had achieved a secure status in the company. Although she wasn’t his direct responsibility, she had become a friend he cared for dearly as well as admired, With Syth and Amistad, they had become a force to reckon with in the last couple of years.

  Braff would help them in any way he could.

  He looked over the wrinkled paper again and again, but nothing stood out. “Could you make a Xerox of this and swing it by my office Monday morning?”

  “Of course, Braff.” Syth shuffles forward as the line moves. “Do you think Mirim is somehow sick?”

  “What? No, no.” Syth shrugs. “It’s just…she works herself into near exhaustion sometimes. Maybe that’s what this is –a late-night job she was simply too tired to do. Just scribbles with no meaning.”

  “Possibly…look, the line’s moving again…but, let’s consider every possibility before we jump to conclusions. Have you spoken to her?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “I have,” Amistad says as she returns. “But only briefly. She’s still with her family in Hawaii and wasn’t feeling too well.”

  Both Braff and Syth look at her stunned.

  “And you forgot to mention this important detail because…” Braff says in disbelief.

  “Well, it’s not that I forgot. I just wanted to see where all of this led before telling you. You know me, how I have to have all the facts first.”

  “And, well.” Syth’s eyes are like saucers, “What are the facts?”

  “She had been in the hospital a few days. Heatstroke, I think she said. But she mentioned something that actually makes more sense now than it did then.” Just at this point, Syth’s car pulls up. He takes the driver’s side and Amistad opens the door to her side. She turns to Braff. “The name of someone she told me about. Some strange vision…or a hallucination of some sort, I think she said. The name was something like…Perry or…Patrick…wait, no…Parker! That’s it!”

  Braff runs to her side, “Parker. A name. No last name?”

  Amistad nods. He stands next to her, thinking a moment. He looks like a newfound notion has popped into his mind. “Syth, let me see the paper again.”

  Cars were beginning to line up behind Syth’s. Braff’s car purred smoothly behind the rest. A few customers in line started making a fuzz,
especially the lady who had complained about his smoking.

  Braff searches on the page and finds what he is looking for. “Forget the office on Monday. Go to my apartment now. I want a copy of it and you need to tell me more about your conversation with Mirim, Amistad.”

  “Braff, are you sure about this?”

  Cars honks blared from the line.

  “No. But Amistad is right. Let’s try to come up with facts, or at least a new idea on what we are looking at. I think it may lead to some interesting developments.”

  “And if it doesn’t. If it is, as I suspect, only a trick of a tired person’s mind?” Syth says and sits in his car.

  “Then, Mirim will have a silly story to tell her kids someday –and a paper to go along with it. Hell, I’ll frame it for her and hang it in her new Junior’s Editor office.”

  “Our shared office!” Amistad corrects and gets in the car.

  Braff smiles his million-dollar smile at Amistad, reminding himself to flirt a little more with her before going into his car.

  Chapter 15

  Marquee

  Childhood Memories & Friends Who Never Grow Up Are the Truth

  Oahu, December 25th, 1989

  “What the hell is this?”

  “Chipmunk! Don’t you remember?”

  I am staring at a table filled with pieces Scott has obviously dismantled. He has them laid out, as if in categories –small pieces to the side, a series of what looks like wire and steel sticks are on the edge, going in ascension by length, many square pegs, knots and bolts, by God, a miniature flag and… “Are those wheels?”

  “Isn’t it great, cheeks? I took a trip into mom’s attic this morning and found these beauties! Didn’t want to build anything until you came over. I was about to call you, about getting together tomorrow– “

  “Scott, what am I looking at?”

  He tsked and nodded as if reprimanding me. “Seriously Mirim. You don’t remember?”

  “Quite honestly, I don’t.”

  “We used to spend hours putting things together. I remember how angry your mother was that day we lost track of time and you had to call them to pick you up. Cheeks, it’s my set!” He waits for a response, but I can’t come up with an answer. “The set?” He emphasizes, like it will make a difference.

  “Is that supposed to jog my memory? I don’t know what it is Scotty. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s my fort builder! Those there are the tanks, and I can’t believe this, there were still new pieces in a box, in the wrappers!”

  “SCOTT!”

  “What? I thought this would be fun.”

  “Scott, if I hadn’t just been through a cozy, week-long hospital stay, and inside dreams and visions of flashing bombs and scattered people I’ve never seen in my life running every which way, certainly playing Dungeons and Dragons with you would be lovely.”

  “That’s another game. You hated that game.”

  “Right now, I hate this game, too. Scotty, I swear…”

  “Okay, fine, fine. We’ll revisit this at some other time.”

  Scott walks to the living room and sets his books and glasses down. A large lamp he sits by comes on, flooding the space with watery yellow light. I sit next to him on a soft couch that looks worn but smells like it’s new.

  Before I unfold my entire story to him, it occurs to me that my last dream had something in it I have perhaps missed.

  “So…Mirim?”

  “Sorry, Scott. I had a thought.”

  I make a note on the pad I am now always carrying, unaware that Scotty is already reading some of the papers. I give him time to finish.

  When he’s done, I tell him about the other things I haven’t written down. The encounter with Agnes that then seemed vaguely relevant, the strange message from the man who called himself Andretti, about telling the kid and something about the glasses. I reserve the Juniper berry bowl for last.

  “Those don’t even grow here. Very rare berry, too.”

  “What do you think Scotty?”

  “I think it’s …unbelievable. Truly outstanding…do you believe it’s possible they are a product of your heatstroke, or that you’re creating this from those first images?”

  “It’s possible I supposed. But it’s interconnected to a degree that it is impossible to be so.”

  “Well, have you thought about seeing someone who actually knows about this, which can give you an idea, a glimpse into it all?”

  “Like who? An expert in what exactly?

  “I don’t know Chipmunk, but in this life, there are remarkable things that are often unexplainable, don’t you think?”

  I know he’s right but have to be silent to think a moment. “There’s something else Scott. Something really fascinating…”

  “Within this?”

  “Yes. There’s a box I found. And, it has nothing to do with this, as far as I can tell, but… well, it might…at least now I think so.”

  “Why? Whose is it?”

  “My mother’s, I think. At least, it was in her closet.”

  “Her closet.”

  “Yeah, her linen closet.”

  He leans forward. “This is getting interesting.”

  Sensing we have begun a conspiracy that requires me to lower my voice, I lean forward as well and begin to whisper, “I found the box, which I completely forgot to bring. In it were these trinkets. Look at this…” I show him the locket and wait for him to inspect it. I can smell the sweetness in his breath because he is so close to me. Something jumps inside my heart and I take a step back. “And, among the other stuff, was a peculiar image. A framed picture of a field. The flowers all around it are beautiful and it’s sunny– “

  “What you wrote, the couple saying goodbye?”

  “Yes, that picture.” I hear a faint noise from the hallway and perk up. It was suddenly 1979 again for me and Scotty. We shot out of our seats to the other end of the couch. His mother came into the living room followed by my brother, Truman.

  After a sumptuous meal, served with all the Christmas trimmings, Truman and I leave the Michaels’ house holding a plate with more food and a smaller plate with dessert for my parents. I feel like I’ve never been so full in my entire life.

  We walk toward the house in utter silence. I am not sure if it is from being stuffed or because Truman is rethinking everything that Scotty and I went over…while building a fort…tanks and all. Scotty even places the flag on his piece-de-resistance, a tower at the corner.

  “Do you believe,” he says as we approach the house, “That this is a…from the heatstroke? I mean, I don’t know what I mean brah.”

  “A side effect, do you mean? Like something more severe is lurking behind the curtains?” I point to my head.

  Truman nods.

  “That’s what Scotty says.” Dismissing his insinuation that I might be crazy, I place my old bike by the porch steps. “I’d hate to say it’s likely, but I truly don’t think so.”

  “Couldn’t hurt to get some help.”

  Before realizing it, I knew I needed time and my friends at Meadow Press. “I think in Seattle, I’ll find more answers.”

  That night in bed, instead of hoping for restful peace, I prayed for more dreams that would clear my questions.

  Chapter 16

  Marquee

  Life On Skates & Other Resounding Metaphors

  Oahu, June 18th, 1938

  A metallic clink, sonorous yet sharp, came ringing through the air when Parker placed the wheels of her skates on the ground.

  “What rather strange and dangerous diversion this is.” Parker said, “I like it!”

  Fitch’s strong hands held her from under her armpits to keep her steady as she tried to stand. She slipped on her first try and he graced her breast just slightly, sending a cool flow of blood that tingled all the way to his brain. She in turn flinched, as if an electric web of light had rushed through her body from only his touch, making her fall on her rear end. She stood again and both laug
hed wildly. Parker was facing him and she slipped again, but this time, he held tightly enough for her to simply sink into his arms and laugh with her head thrown back, her eyes shut and her cheeks flushed. Fitch took the chance. He felt it was now or never. She seemed so happy, even though her eyes were closed and she was struggling to stand. But he sure felt happy, especially because she was in his arms.

  In a second, all the moments of missed chances flashed before his eyes. He saw her standing by the portico of his house, her arms cradling a lamppost, swinging slightly to the rhythm of a song coming from the radio. They’d been alone after a party where somebody had spiked the punch. But he’d chickened out. He also saw her on a spring break outing. They’d all piled into the back of the pickup and gone to the ‘puddle’ what they called the nearby brook that had a small pond which formed where a deep hole broke the water in two. She had been sitting on the edge, splashing water by kicking her feet, her bathing suit bright against her skin, as pink as the berry shade of her lips. It was polka dot, knotted between her breasts. He wanted to touch them and had sat next to her but waited too long. Another time, she was sitting on a short wall that fenced the town hall. The Park behind it had been bustling with people enjoying a stroll or eating popcorn and cotton candy. Parker bobbed her head to a song while a band played an upbeat tune. She was chewing gum and blowing large bubbles, which popped, sometimes sticking to her lips and she pried the gum off before chewing it again. He stood close to her with a hand on either side of her legs on the wall. He could smell the flowers in the scent she wore. She looked at him and smiled a pretty, coy smile, beguiling even, but he just couldn’t.