A Midnight Sun Read online

  “Like the fact you could sell most of that stuff and make a nice profit?”

  “I told you, Truman, I can’t sell any of it. Mom doesn’t know I have it, so I have to send it back when I’m done with…whatever it is I’m doing with this.”

  “Fine, then, so let’s see them.”

  I hesitate but grab the photo frame to start. “This, as I already told you, was like the dream when the couple was saying goodbye.” I pack it away, carefully wrapping it in the cloth again and sliding it into the corner of the box. “The toy tractor, I don’t know any more than its counterpart is now inside a box in your luggage.”

  “It’s a great buy. I had to bargain for it.” He shot me a proud, lofty smile.

  “Good. Maybe you can ask momma for the other tractor later. Now, this coin is Irish. The other is Russian.”

  “Let me see again. The dates were 1908 and….1927?”

  “I think so.” I hand them to Truman. “Doesn’t the fact that they are inside a plastic covering suggest they might be collectibles? Anyway, the figurine is Saint Patrick’s, the Irish patron Saint and the camera is nothing out of the norm, but it is a beautiful antique.”

  “A 1907 Kodak, one of the pioneering automatic cameras.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I know so.”

  “Right, the postcards I’ll have translated in Seattle. I can make out a few words, but not enough to find any meaning. The stamps are also used but carefully placed in this weird plastic thing.”

  “It’s a sheath, to protect them from aging and to maintain their value, although they wouldn’t be as valuable in the market because they’ve been used.”

  I put each item into the box, carefully placing them some distance apart so they remain safe. “And lately, the locket” I lift it to pry it open and look at the aged photo, which has now become so familiar.

  I sit silently and fold all the papers and put them inside the box. Before I close it, I hear the boarding announcement for my flight.

  “I guess that’s me,” I say.

  Just as I’m closing the box, I see an image with red and orange lines. I blink and gasp. My heart somersaults and I laugh at my own stupidity. I pick up the postcard to examine it closely.

  “Truman, do you know where Scotty lives?”

  “Yeah, San Fran. Why?”

  I shove the postcard in his face. “Okay, it’s a postcard of San Francisco!”

  “So? I don’t see the importance.”

  My mind whirls, searching frantically for answers. “Truman, that’s why when I said to Scott I’d never been to San Francisco, my mind sort of put a placement sticker of the thought. The postcard is…do you know any Spanish?”

  “Only a little. It’s a must in Vegas.”

  “Can you try to read it?”

  He takes it and scans the writing. I hear a second call and ask him to hurry while I gather my things.

  “I think it says something about a…”

  Before he has a chance to finish what he is saying, I snatch it and stuff it back with the rest of my things.

  “Brah, I could’ve read it.”

  “I know Truman, but they’re calling the flight. I’ll send you an email from Seattle.”

  “I don’t use that shit. Technology will prevent us from having any real interaction.”

  I make it to the gate, the last in line, and he follows me until they won’t allow him any further. I hug him briskly before I walk further on the line. “Get with it, Truman,” I tell him finally. “It is 1996 and times are fast, so are communications.”

  “Whatever you say sprout, but I don’t see myself using that worldwide net too much.”

  “Web, Truman. WEB!” I yell at him from inside the gate and wave.

  No sooner have they announced departure than I am falling asleep and thinking about the idea of San Francisco and its relation to the postcard.

  Chapter 20

  Marquee

  Baking Is a Culinary Delight Anybody Can Enjoy - It’s Only Just a Pan Away, You Know, That Feeling.

  Oahu, October 12th, 1952

  An aroma, sweet and mouthwatering fills my nostrils. It’s something baking. There’s a woman standing by the counter. She’s long and lean but curvy. I can only see her back. She’s wearing a smart house shirt with a cardigan over smart slacks that accentuates her figure. The pearls resting on her collar bone glint in the luminescence of the room. A kitchen.

  I’m surprised because, despite her elegant wardrobe, she’s barefoot. The contrast is striking. She brings back a wave of memories of my mother, how she baked. I bake now, too, but my kitchen is not as large or well-decorated as this kitchen. It’s bright and well-organized, with expensive-looking tiles on the backsplash, smooth and spotless like the rest of the walls. It’s so clean it almost glimmers.

  The lady doesn’t turn at my presence. She’s still facing away from me and is kneading, I think maybe dough for a pie. Flour puffs over her shoulder and sprinkles like snow on her cardigan. When she flicks a stray strand of hair with her pinky, she begins humming to a melody that seems vaguely familiar, but I’m not entirely sure. She turns suddenly and for a moment, it’s almost like she is looking at me, but then, she bends touching her knees and I hear the pitter-patter of footsteps approaching.

  I float away and out of their path, and a boy of about two runs past, he leaps into the woman and wraps his arms around her laughing wildly. I feel warm, seduced by this love, a pure and simple scene that is interrupted by a woman in uniform.

  “Missus, I’m sorry. He just insists that you tuck him in.”

  “It’s okay, Gertie. Aw, sweet love, mommy’s cooking. Go with Gertie to bed. You’re wearing your favorite footie pajamas and have just and a nice hot bath. Aren’t you sleepy?”

  His hair bounces in flickering dark blonde tendrils that are still damp. She smiles back at the grinning boy and kisses his lips, staining them slightly a dark berry shade. The boy grins and throws himself at Gertie. They both giggle.

  “Gertrude, please see to it that he is ready early. I want to take him to tomorrow’s shoot. It’ll be fun for him to see all the people and animals on set. We’re shooting the part of the movie where we’re in Africa.

  “Yes, missus.” Gertie holds the boy tight to her chest.

  “And, pack him a sweater. I don’t want him to catch cold. And for you too, Gertie. You’re also coming to set. Wouldn’t you know, tomorrow I’m in the scene with Bob.”

  Gertrude’s face freezes and I can’t tell if she’s breathing until she lets out a small throaty giggle. The woman smiles and squeezes Gertrude’s shoulder. When she and the boy leave toward the hallway, the hand that waves them goodbye retrieves and shakes badly. She catches it with the other hand and holds it until she feels it smooths a little. I follow her out of the kitchen to the living room where she finds her purse on top of a modern divan. She flips the lid and finds a container, takes two small pills, and puts them in her mouth. She then walks to a bar cart where she finds a water pitcher. It shakes in her hands when she brings it up to pour into a glass and it spills, so she starts crying, a little at first and growing into full sobs.

  Shaking overpowers her entire body and her legs give under her weight. She slides onto a parquet floor that is as spotless as the rest of her Art-deco home.

  I’ve seen these homes in Seattle –bungalows build in the forties and fifties, beautiful if they are well cared for, furnished with stylish low seats and shiny mirrored tables. But this isn’t Seattle.

  When she looks up, I see her eyes and notice her smeared makeup. She takes a tissue from the cart and wipes her face clean.

  The front door opens and she whirls around. Quickly, she coils her hair into place and wipes flour from her clothes, undoes the knot from her apron with a flick of her wrist and balls it up, tossing it aside. She pours scotch from the bar cart and clicks two short glasses together before she takes a tiny sip from each.

  “Parker. You’re home early today. I�
��ve missed you all day.” A man says.

  “Neat, just how you like it.” She replies.

  He takes the glasses and puts them on the cart before hugging her. His suit is perfectly tailored and there isn’t a hair out of place. It glistens with some kind of pomade.

  A sudden feeling of invasiveness floods me. I float away until I reach the door, but I stop the psychedelic air-born trip when I notice the glass case with collectibles to my left. In a neat row that looks like a pillow, and standing on a cushion, flooded in light like on a pedestal, two coins shine.

  I now want to stay but feel a tug. I’m yanked painfully and a blaze of lights appear above me, making me feel like one of the coins in the case.

  Then, a hand grabs my arm and I scream. When my eyes open fully, I see a group of people staring at me and a young woman in a tight skirt in front of me. Her bright lips are moving and I hear her from a distance. “Mam, we’re in Portland. Can I assist you with your bags?”

  I wipe my lower lip of drool before I move to get my bags from the overhead compartment. The flight attendant moves away when I don’t respond to her offer for assistance. After leaving the plane, I run in a daze to find the next plane that will take me to Seattle, feeling dazed by the dream I just had and wondering if I’ll have time to look at the coins before boarding.

  Chapter 21

  Marquee

  A Place Like Your Apartment Is Like Home, and Sometimes, A Home to Shattered Saints, too

  Oahu, December 3rd, 1989

  The first thing I do when I get home is open the box and pull out the coins, although I am exhausted beyond anything sleep can help me recover. After seeing the same thing for hours while inspecting them, I get up to try to call my brother, but get his machine very time.

  Maybe he hasn’t arrived yet, I conclude.

  I look at the kitchen table looking at the coins again. The picture on the locket, which is sitting on the table as well, and the tractor. I stare at them and wrap my fingers on the edge of the table to think, but I can’t make any sense of any of it.

  On a yellow notepad, I make a timeline of events, from the fainting episode in the sunflower field to the dream on the plane. I draw a line to the left of it and list the items in the box. Using different colors, I connect each item to the events. The only thing I see clearly so far is the woman, Parker. I have a distant memory of going to the movies with my mother and seeing a bright sign above the vending booth. I couldn’t read at the time so my mother read it to me. It was the name of the movie they were showing and the actors that starred in it. Parker, it occurred to me was an actress of this time -the golden era of Hollywood when stars had their names put into marquees at the top of theaters. I write Parker’s name in bold letters at the top of the page and encase it in a rectangle.

  I try to see past this and search for something that looks like a date on my notes. I also tell myself to keep special attention to this in my visions and dream visitations into Parker’s life. It might help, I believe, to keep track of what is happening, because I realize it is out of sequence.

  Frustrated, I finally give up and throw everything –somewhat carelessly- back into the box, which had been resting on the edge of the table. It flips sideways and crashes on the chair. I panic, thinking of the photo frame and the camera. Thankfully, the entire content is piled up on the chair, only upside down instead. The camera was on top in this position so nothing happened to it. Beneath it were the rest of the items. Including the photo frame that I’d miraculously wrapped and placed inside the box with the glass facing down and into the postcards, so they’d taken the brunt of the fall. I pick up the last item and notice one of the figurines is smashed to pieces.

  I cover my mouth and feel like Saint Patrick will come down and strike me dead for being so careless.

  I collect every piece I can find of the shattered puzzle and put everything on the floor near the chair where the box is, before running to my study in search of glue. I find Elmer’s glue, cold silicone, a glue I use for collages, and bring it all with me, even the cement glue with the sticks that you have to activate by mixing it in a small glass plate.

  Figuring one of these will do the trick –and yelping nervously- I return to the floor and stop cold when I look at the backside of the box above me on the chair. An item I have somehow missed had made its way into a notch at the back where the lid is partly attached to the box and covered with the paper.

  It’s the letters. I’d completely forgotten about the letter.

  Kneeling beside them, I feel inadequate at this juncture. The content may reveal more than I want to know and I realize with a sense of respect that whatever is written in those letters is information. I’ve been privileged to for whatever divine reason, which makes me feel honored and scared somehow.

  A chill runs down my spine when I realize that my visions and dreams belong to actual people, people that may still be alive somewhere. Can it be?

  But I can’t open them. I place them on the table and admire them from afar. The few letters are bundled with twine that is thin and faded. I picture the writing on the letters must be, too, and I panic inside thinking I might not be able to read them. “But I really want to read them!” I hear myself protesting like a child.

  Something protests back in my mind. What if they are your mother’s? The something says, but I know in my heart they aren’t. They are Parker’s and Fitch’s letters.

  Astonished I wonder with curiosity if I am prying into something or accidentally being privy to something I was supposed to receive somehow. It makes total sense! I have all the privilege to see these, don’t I? I grin and reach for the letters, feeling now I have an obligation to read them.

  But the phone rings.

  I jump so furiously at the sound, I almost knock off the chair where the box is resting. I pick up the receiver on the second ring.

  “So, you’re back. Finally! Are we on for drinks?”

  “Amistad! Yeah, I just got back.”

  “Great! You sound tired, girl. So, are we on or what?”

  “You know what, Missy?” I look at the box on the chair and the letters, “I think I’m going to stay home today. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all. But, don’t you dare get mad at me when I meet my future husband at this bar. Reservations are difficult to get.”

  “The bar you told me where most of your now married friends got hooked?”

  “Precisely. It’s a great dating service and they do these gatherings rarely in this part of the city.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten about the dating service thing…you do remember I’m kinda seeing somebody, don’t you?”

  “The guy with the funny laugh and a racist sense of humor? Pish-posh. He barely gets in touch. You’re barely a booty call with meal benefits.”

  I was both incensed and amused. “Amistad, you say such things. Do you ever listen to yourself speak?”

  “Not usually. I mostly just say what comes to mind and watch what happens.”

  “You don’t say! And what’s more, Amistad, maybe he is my booty call. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “I think that if you’re trying to fool me about blotchy-what’s-his-face, you’ve got another thing coming. When did you see him last?”

  “Since…before I went home, I think. And. His name is Smitty, thank you.” I answer immediately angry. She always has a way of making me feel like a scolded child. “Well, I think he went on holidays to Fid-gee anyways.” I pronounce Fiji like he does, with a thick midwestern accent, intending to deflect from her barrage into more questioning about my questionable relationship with Smitty. It works, sort of.

  “If you say so, but what kind of name is Smitty anyways? It sounds like the end of a sentence. In any case, I’m coming tomorrow then, since you have averted my plan to make you come with me to the bar today and get plastered or hitched,” she says resigned, “and I’m bringing Syth with me.”

  “Deal. Ooh, and Taddy?”

  “Yeah?
”

  “Come early. There’s something I need to show you.”

  “Ew, girl.”

  “Don’t be silly, Amistad. I’m absolutely serious. I can hear you laughing!” Her mischievous snickering continues and she whizzes out of air. “You’re simple machiavellic, Amistad. I just love you.”

  “Thanks. Syth will be so happy to see you. He’s been such a nuisance these days, and doesn’t know what to do without you.” There was a short pause before she shouted. “Mirim! There’s something we have to tell you too. I almost forgot!”

  I heard such excitement in her voice I instantly became intensely curious. She never exaggerated intrigue, unless it was about a guy, and this didn’t sound like a man was involved. “Spill.” I pleaded.

  “No, Mir. Tomorrow. I’ll bring Braff, too.”

  “Braff? I thought he’d gone on vacation to Vancouver.”

  “Yeah, no, he stayed in Seattle. Wait…” I hear the rustling of papers and wonder what she’s looking for. “He is the one who discovered it.”

  “Discovered it? What in the world are you talking about?”

  “You’ll see. There it is! I couldn’t find the perfume in my purse. Sorry, walking to my car. I’m late for the date already! Anyhow, see you tomorrow?”

  “Absolutely. Let’s make it dinner instead. I’ll cook. You bring dessert and that delicious fruity wine I like.”

  “Oki-doke. But sleep and rest well. You’re scary when you’re tired and grumpy from lack of sleep.”

  “Will do. Toodles.”

  “Yeah. Kisses and such.”

  As soon as I click the phone off, I feel the heaviness of exertion wash over me. “I need a bath and pronto!”

  I take the letters and place them carefully over the items in the box, and postpone reading them as well as gluing the figurine. “Sorry, Saint Paddy!” I shout from my room before closing the door and undressing.