All the Little Lights

by Jamie McGuire

  Kay sat quietly for a moment and then stood.

  “Mom, I’m sorry,” Elliott said, watching her walk into the next room. A door down the hall slammed.

  Elliott closed his eyes. “Damn it,” he hissed. “I’m sorry,” he said, briefly turning his head in my direction.

  I felt caught between sympathy for Elliott and relief that other families had problems, too, but it didn’t matter how I felt. Not when Elliott looked so miserable. “Please don’t be sorry.”

  Leigh tapped the table in front of his plate. Elliott opened his eyes, and she turned her hand, palm up. Elliott took it, and she squeezed.

  “It’s okay,” Leigh said.

  Elliott’s jaw twitched. “She’s hurting. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Who’s the adult in this situation?” Leigh said.

  Elliott sighed and then nodded. “I should get Catherine home.”

  Elliott and I helped Leigh and John clear the table. John rinsed the dirty dishes while Leigh and I loaded the dishwasher. Elliott wiped down the table and swept the kitchen and dining room floors. It was finished in less than ten minutes, and I smiled as John and Leigh hugged and kissed each other.

  “I’ve got to answer some emails, honey; then I’ll be up for bed and we can watch that movie you’ve been wanting to get on demand.”

  “Really?” Leigh said, excited.

  John nodded and kissed her one last time before nodding to me. “Nice to meet you, Catherine. Hope we see you around more often.”

  “You will,” Elliott said.

  John and Leigh were exactly what marriage should look like. Helping each other, affection, and understanding. They were on the same side, like Elliott and me. I smiled at him as he helped me put on my jacket and again when he held the front door open for me. I stopped on the porch, waiting for him to slide on his letterman jacket before taking my hand.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  We walked together in the dark toward the Juniper. Dead leaves somersaulted down the street, their brittle edges hissing against the asphalt as they moved together in herds with the chilly wind.

  “So? What did you think?” he asked, his tone laced with hesitation.

  “Tonight was fun.”

  “Which part?”

  “Um,” I began, “watching you play. Sitting with Leigh and Kay. Eating dinner with your family. Watching you inhale your mom’s and Leigh’s cooking. Now this.”

  He held up our clasped hands. “This is my favorite, and winning, and making that touchdown, and when you held up your hand.”

  “You mean this?” I said, making the I love you sign with my fingers.

  “Yeah. My mom use to do it before my Pee Wee games. Then Aunt Leigh did. I don’t know, though. With you, it’s different.” He paused, thinking about his next words. “Did you mean it?”

  “Are you asking if I love you?” I asked.

  He shrugged, looking vulnerable.

  We stopped at my gate, and Elliott opened it, closing it again after I stepped through. I rested my arms on top of the iron, smiling. He leaned over to peck my lips.

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  He thought about my question only for a few moments. “Catherine, every time I’m close to you, I’m aware of every breath you take. When we’re not, everything reminds me of you. I know because nothing else matters.”

  I thought about his words, then turned to look at the Juniper. I had responsibilities, but were they more important than Elliott? Could I walk away from them if he needed me to? Mama needed me. I didn’t think I could.

  Elliott saw the worry in my eyes. “You don’t have to say it. You don’t have to say anything.”

  I slowly held up my hand, extending my index and pinky fingers and thumb. Elliott smiled, did the same, and then cupped my cheeks, kissing my cheek. His lips were soft, but they blazed against my cold skin.

  “Good night,” he whispered. He watched me step over the uneven pieces of sidewalk and then climb the steps to my porch. Just as I put my hand on the knob, the door flew open.

  A woman stood in the dark doorway, clothed all in black.

  “Willow?” I said.

  “Where have you been? Your mama’s been waiting for you for hours.”

  I turned to look at Elliott. He was frowning in confusion but then waved.

  I waved back, pushing my way through the door and then pulling Willow inside so I could close it.

  She yanked her arm away. “What are you doing?”

  “He can’t see you,” I hissed.

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Elliott!”

  “Oh.” She crossed her arms. “Is he your boyfriend?”

  I frowned at her as I pulled off my jacket, hanging it on a hook by the door. Almost everyone else’s coats were on it, too: Mama’s chocolate-brown fuzzy coat, Althea’s maroon wrap coat, Duke’s trench coat, Poppy’s pink duffel coat, Willow’s black leather jacket, and Tess’s dirty white quilted parka with a matted fur-lined hood.

  “Is your room satisfactory?” I asked.

  “I guess.” She sniffed. “Is that your boyfriend?” Willow was shifting her weight from one leg to the other. She could never sit still, was always a ball of nervous energy. She didn’t stay at the Juniper very often, just spending the night on her way somewhere . . . anywhere. Mama called her a vagrant. Experiencing firsthand Willow’s mood swings from bouncy to debilitating depression, I called her other things.

  When I didn’t answer, Willow’s eyes widened. “Wow, okay. I guess I’ll go back to my room.”

  “Good night,” I said, heading toward the kitchen. I used a rag to wipe down the leftover crumbs, grease, and pasta sauce drippings from dinner. A low hum and swishing sounds came from the dishwashers, and I was thankful that Mama had at least done that. I had a worksheet to complete, a paper to write, and an early Saturday morning running the kitchen. The rest of the day would hopefully be spent with Elliott.

  “Hey,” a small voice said from across the kitchen island.

  I glanced up for a moment before concentrating on a stubborn drop of sauce. “Hey.”

  “Are you mad at me? I know it’s been a while since I’ve been over, but my parents are acting crazy again, and you’ve been . . . busy.”

  “No, Tess. Of course not. You’re right. I’ve been busy, but I should make time for friends. I’m sorry.” I opened the cabinet under the sink and searched for the kitchen spray. I spritzed the counter, wiping with the cloth in my hand.

  A loud bump sounded on the ceiling, and Tess and I both looked up slowly.

  “What was that?” Tess asked, still staring at the ceiling.

  The house was silent again, but we waited for a few more moments. “I don’t know. Lots of coats by the door. We’re full.”

  “I saw Poppy when I got here. She’s probably running around up there.”

  I put away the kitchen spray. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

  “What do you mean?” Tess asked. When I passed her, she scrambled to follow. “That’s a bad idea. You don’t know who’s up there.”

  I jingled the keys as I walked up the stairs. “But I can find out.”

  Only one door was closed in the upstairs hallway. I chose the corresponding key and turned it in the doorknob, pushing it open. A man was standing in a button-down shirt, boxers, tall socks, and nothing else.

  “Holy shit!” he yelled, covering himself.

  “Oh my God! Oh! I’m so sorry!”

  “Who are you?” he cried.

  “I’m . . . I’m Mavis’s daughter. I heard a loud noise. I didn’t realize you’d checked in. I’m so sorry, sir. Very sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “Close the door! What kind of place is this?”

  I slammed the door and closed my eyes as I heard the man rush over to turn the lock.

  Tess wasn’t happy. “I told you,” she said, peeking from the top of the stairs.

  I covered my eyes, trying to gather my thoughts, and then shook
my head, rushing for the stairs. “I can’t believe I did that.” I looked through the log, seeing William Heitmeyer written down in Mama’s handwriting. I looked up, wondering if I should offer him a full refund and suggest the Super 8.

  “It was an honest mistake,” Tess assured me.

  “I didn’t even check the book. I just assumed the noise upstairs was something weird, because weird is the norm around here.”

  “Don’t say that. He’ll come back.”

  “They never come back.” I peeked back at her. “Don’t go up there. Stay away from his room.”

  She held up her hands. “What? Have I ever done anything to make you think I would? Why would you even say that to me?”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “Just don’t.”

  “Maybe this house is getting inside of your head, not that there’s enough room in there. Seems like someone is monopolizing your thoughts.”

  I tried not to smile. “You mean Elliott?”

  “I mean Elliott,” Tess said, sitting on a barstool next to the island. She rested her chin in her hands. “What’s he like? I’ve seen him around. He’s sort of cute.”

  “Sort of?”

  “He’s a giant.”

  “He’s not a giant. He’s just . . . tall and covered in muscles, and he makes me feel safe.”

  “Safe,” Tess repeated.

  “Tonight at the football game, he ran the ball for the winning touchdown. It was like a movie, Tess. His team rushed the field—the whole crowd did—and they lifted him in their arms. When they finally put him down, he looked for me in the crowd.”

  I placed a rack of clean silverware and a stack of flat cloth napkins on the counter and began to roll them for the following morning.

  Looking sleepy and content, Tess watched me work, waiting for me to tell the rest of the story.

  “And he”—I covered my mouth, trying to hide the ridiculous grin on my face—“pointed at me and held up his hand like this,” I said, making the I love you sign.

  “So he loves you?” Tess said, her eyes wide.

  I shrugged. “He says he does.”

  “And how do you feel?”

  “I think . . . I love him, too. I wouldn’t know, though.”

  “He graduates in May, Catherine.”

  “So do I,” I said, smiling while rolling the last napkin.

  “What are you saying? That you’re leaving? You can’t leave. You promised you’d stay.”

  “I . . .” haven’t thought that far ahead. “No one said anything about leaving.”

  “Does he want to stay?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t asked. Don’t start worrying about something you have no control over.”

  She stood, tears threatening to fall. “You’re my only friend. If he loves you and you love him, too, you’re gonna leave. You’re gonna leave us. What are we supposed to do?”

  “I’m not going anywhere. Calm down,” I said, worrying the commotion would wake Duke.

  “Do you want to leave?” Tess asked.

  I looked up at her, meeting her tearful gaze. In the few seconds before I spoke, I thought about lying, but Dad had always told me to be honest, even if it was hard—even if it hurt.

  “I’ve always wanted to leave. Since I was little. Oak Creek isn’t home.”

  Tess pressed her trembling lips together and then stormed out, slamming the front door behind her. I closed my eyes, waiting for the guest upstairs to pitch a fit about the intrusion and now the noise.

  The kitchen was clean, so I made my way upstairs, closing my bedroom door behind me. I breathed on my hands and rubbed them together, deciding to retrieve the thick blanket from the closet. The once-white quilted down comforter was folded on a shelf above my clothes. I jumped to reach it, pulling it down and spreading it over my full-size bed.

  The small white tiles on my bathroom floor felt like ice on my bare feet, and the water from the shower was freezing when I first turned the knob. Another icy Oklahoma winter was ahead, and I grumbled, remembering that just a few weeks ago, the sun would broil anyone not cowering in the shade.

  The hot water took several minutes to reach the pipes in my upstairs bathroom, the old metal shaking and whining as the water changed temperature. I often wondered if the noise would wake anyone, but it never did.

  Tess’s anger lingered in my mind, but I refused to feel guilty. I stepped under the warm water, fantasizing of summer air tangling my hair as Elliott and I drove in a convertible down to the gulf or maybe even the West Coast. Wherever we were, all I could see was highway and palm trees. He reached for my hand, sliding his fingers between mine. We were driving toward a place where summer never died, and when it became too hot, the ocean would provide a reprieve.

  My fingers massaged shampoo into my hair as I envisioned our road trip, but the longer we drove, the darker the sky became, and the colder the wind. Elliott drove us down the California freeway, but he wasn’t smiling. We both shivered, realizing we were suddenly the last vehicle on the road. I turned to see that the houses on each side of us were all the same—the Juniper. We passed it again and again, and no matter how hard Elliott pressed on the gas, there it was. Night surrounded us, and the streetlamps extinguished one by one. Elliott seemed confused as the car sputtered and finally came to a rest in the middle of a barren two-lane overpass that seemed to loom over Los Angeles.

  All the front doors of all the Junipers opened, and there stood Mama, something black smeared all over her face.

  I sat up in bed, my eyes wide as they adjusted to the darkness. Wrapped in my robe, I tried to remember finishing my shower and lying down, but couldn’t. It was unsettling, losing time.

  I slipped on my house shoes and padded across my room to the door, peering out into the hallway. The Juniper was quiet except for the occasional creaking of the walls from the settling foundation.

  The wood floor felt freezing under my feet, so I checked the thermostat. Fifty degrees! Oh no. No, no, no. Please don’t be broken.

  I turned the dial and waited, sighing when the heat kicked on, and the air began to blow through the vents. “Thank God,” I said.

  The downstairs landline began to ring, and I rushed down the steps to the desk in the foyer. “Front desk.”

  “Hi, this is Bill in room six. I have no hot water. It’s freezing. I leave to get on the road in an hour. What the hell kind of place are you running? I knew I should have stayed at the Super 8.”

  “I’m so sorry about the heat. It was turned down somehow, but it’s on now. It will be comfortable soon.”

  “What about the hot water?”

  “I’m . . . I’m not sure. I’ll look into it. I’m so sorry. Breakfast will be ready by the time you’re downstairs.”

  “I won’t have time for breakfast!” he yelled, slamming down the phone.

  I set the receiver in the base, deflated.

  “Was that Mr. Heitmeyer?” Willow asked, leaning against the doorframe.

  “Uh . . . yes.”

  “Did he just scream at you?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “No, he’s just a loud talker.”

  She nodded once and then headed to the staircase. I ran after her.

  “Willow? Checkout time is in an hour. Mama said you were checking out today?”

  “She did?”

  “She did.”

  She nodded and, instead of going up the stairs, walked back toward the drawing room. I waited until she was out of sight and then walked down the hall to the basement door. The tart smell of mildew slipped around the inch-thick cracks of the door. I turned to the table in the hall and took a flashlight from a drawer. The metal of the hinges scraped when I pulled the door open, quietly telling me to turn around and walk away.

  Cobwebs swayed from the ceiling, the concrete walls were cracked and water stained, the stairs rickety and rotting. I put half my weight on the first step and waited. The last time I ventured into the basement, someone locked me inside for three hours, and it gave me wa
king nightmares for a month. As I descended each wobbly plank, the room grew colder, and I pulled my robe tighter around me. The hot water tanks were standing together on platforms against the far wall, just past a row of thirty or so suitcases of various shapes and sizes that were parked along the adjacent wall.

  The already dim glow from the overhead lights didn’t quite make it to where the tanks stood, so I pressed the button on the flashlight with my thumb, pointing it into the corner and then gliding it along the wall.

  I leaned down, shining my light at the base of the first tank. The pilot lights were on. The thermostats were turned all the way down. “What the . . . ?”

  Something creaked behind me, and I froze, waiting for another noise. Nothing. I turned the dial on the first tank and then the next.

  Gravel softly scratched the concrete floor.

  “Who’s there?” I asked, shining my flashlight.

  I jumped and yelped, covering my mouth. Mama slowly turned to face me, standing on her bare feet, looking pale and angry. Her fingers pinched and twisted the same section of her thin cotton nightgown over and over.

  “What are you doing down here?” I asked.

  The anger on her face melted away, and she peered around the basement, seeming confused. “I was looking for something.”

  “Were you trying to fix the tanks?” I asked. I bent down, shining the flashlight on the controls, rotating the rest of the dials. “Mama,” I said, peering up at her, “did you do this?”

  She just stared at me, looking lost.

  “Did you do that to the thermostat upstairs, too? We have a guest. Why would you . . .”

  She touched her chest. “Me? I didn’t do this. Someone is trying to sabotage us. Someone wants the Juniper to close down.”

  The pilot lights were brighter, one after another igniting the flames beneath, causing a low humming to come from the tanks. I stood, exasperated. “Who, Mama? Who would care enough about our failing bed and breakfast to sabotage it?”

  “It’s not about the bed and breakfast. Don’t you see? It’s what we’re trying to do here! We’re being watched, Catherine. I think . . . I think it’s . . .”

  “Who?”