Into the Long Dark Night

by Michael Phillips

  I retrieved my bags and asked the man behind the window about boardinghouses nearby. He told me of one just down the street and around the corner.

  “You want me to get you a cab, ma’am?” he asked.

  “Yes . . . yes, I suppose so. Thank you,” I replied.

  He signaled to one of the boys around the place, and when a twelve- or thirteen-year-old boy ran up to take me to where a horse-drawn cab was waiting, I couldn’t help thinking of the first time I saw Robin O’Flaridy in the lobby of the Oriental Hotel. This little fellow had exactly Robin’s flair and manner. He led me to the cab with all the confidence of a street-wise grown man, and when I gave him a quarter as I climbed into the carriage, he flashed me a bright smile, kissed the coin, and ran back inside the station.

  Ten minutes later I was inside the boardinghouse making arrangements for the night.

  The lady whose house it was wasn’t as friendly as either Miss Baxter or Miss Bean, and the house wasn’t as clean or as nice either. She looked me over a minute, as if wondering why I would want a room. Finally she agreed to let me stay the night, acting as if she were doing me a favor. She took me to the room and told me that dinner, if I wanted it, was served promptly at six o’clock.

  “Don’t be late,” she added. “I don’t have time to be keeping things warm or serving any longer than I have to.”

  And with those words she shut the door behind me and I found myself alone. I set my bags down on the floor and glanced around. The room was small and plain, and from the looks of it I judged that mostly men stayed here. It wasn’t very clean, and not at all homey. The blanket on the bed was a plain, drab olive green, and the curtains on the windows were so faded and threadbare they looked as if they’d been up for fifteen years.

  I walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. Dust fell from it and settled to the sill. Outside, the only view was the back of the station, train tracks, and parked train cars. I hadn’t needed the cab. I could have walked from the station.

  I turned again back to the room. As I took everything in, the room was even smaller and uglier than I had first realized. I sighed, thinking to myself that I ought to try to make the best of a bad situation.

  But my heart wasn’t really in it, and before I knew it I had flopped across the bed and was crying from sheer loneliness.

  Chapter 25

  A Lonely Day

  I didn’t have the energy or desire to make use of the rest of the day to see anything in the city. All I could think of was getting out and away from there!

  I cried for a while, then fell asleep. When I woke up my stark surroundings seemed even more dingy than they had earlier. I got up off the bed and washed my face, put on some fresh clothes, and went out for a walk, hoping that would raise my spirits.

  But it didn’t.

  I just walked around for a while in the vicinity of the train station. It was not a pretty part of the city. I should have taken a cab to see some of the buildings and monuments, but I just didn’t have the heart to go back toward the Capitol or White House. Anything, though, would have been better than the smelly slaughterhouses and sooty brick buildings where I found myself. There were even what looked to have been slave-auctioning platforms, now in disuse. I was too depressed in my own thoughts to be afraid, although perhaps I should have been. The people I passed looked none too friendly.

  I forced myself to look into people’s faces. Once you saw someone’s eyes, really saw into them, and knew they had seen you as well, people usually stopped seeming so fearsome. I began to see in the faces of people I didn’t know a look that I can only describe as vulnerable. I could see that they were lonely, sometimes sad, but in deeper ways than they wanted others to detect. When I caught their eyes, some smiled, but others sort of stared right through me, and I saw the aloneness. They could cover and shield and guard their inner selves in the way they walked or dressed or spoke or conducted themselves. But not in their eyes. Once I made contact there, even if only for a second, it was like a window opened into a deeper part of their being.

  At times my heart went out to such people, and I found myself wanting to touch them with more than just a look, just a passing glance, or just a brief smile. Yet I didn’t know what to do. How do you touch another person, someone you don’t even know, when all you’re doing is passing by for a second or two? I found myself wondering how it was when Jesus caught people’s eyes? What did he do, what did he say to them?

  And then in the midst of my thoughts, a stab of renewed pain went through my heart. I was lonely, too. I was vulnerable and exposed and isolated, just like everyone else.

  The sad melancholy I had felt before deepened all the more. I was almost glad for the rain that started pouring down. It fit the dreary loneliness of my mood perfectly, and the drops falling down over my face helped to hide the fresh tears spilling from my eyes.

  By the time I reached the boardinghouse again, I was soaked nearly to the skin. I just had time to change into dry clothes before making my appearance in the dining room a minute or two after six.

  “I told you six, prompt, young lady,” said the landlady abruptly.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m afraid I got caught in the rain.”

  “Makes no never mind to me what happened. Just don’t be late again.”

  “I won’t be here tomorrow,” I said. “I’m leaving town on tomorrow’s train.”

  “Just as well,” said the woman grumpily, serving a plate with potatoes and a slice of meat and handing it to me. She certainly didn’t seem very appreciative of having my room occupied! All the other guests were men. No one said a word throughout the whole meal except one of them, who seemed as if he just might have a bit of friendliness to him.

  “Don’t be too hard on her, Marge,” he said, giving me a smile. “Can’t you see she’s new in town?”

  “I got my rules, Mac,” she replied to him, no more friendly in spite of the fact that they obviously knew each other. “They’ve got to apply to young ladies traveling through where maybe they oughtn’t to be, just as well as to you working men. Besides, how I treat my guests is my own affair, so keep your nose out of it.”

  “I’m your guest too, Marge,” he said, grinning at one of the other men.

  “If you don’t like the service, Mac,” she grumbled, “then find yourself another place!”

  Mac apparently thought better of any further exchange with the surly landlady, and his momentary speaking out on my behalf didn’t lead to any more friendliness on his part. He and the other men continued to fill themselves with enormous quantities of Marge’s bland dinner. She served them all seconds, and scarcely another word around the table was said. She took no more notice of me and offered me nothing further, although I had trouble enough finishing even the meager first portion. Finally I excused myself and went back to my room.

  It was too early to go to bed, but I was too depressed to do much of anything else. I lay down on the bed and cried some more. All I could think of were the people I loved so dearly and missed so painfully.

  Under normal circumstances, the people around the edges of our lives come and go, and we hardly notice. Then suddenly when we’re lonely, they all come back into our memories, making us aware of the huge tapestry of relationships into which our lives have been woven.

  Of all people, I found myself thinking of Mr. Ashton at the Mine and Freight office, missing his smile and kind, “Good morning, Corrie,” he always greeted me with. Even more surprising, I thought of Mr. Royce. It would be wonderful even to see him right now! I’d probably give him a huge hug and scare him half out of his wits! Robin O’Flaridy . . . Mr. Kemble . . . Patrick Shaw . . . the Wards . . . oh, and dear Marcus Weber! I would have traded everything I owned right then for just a glimpse of any one of them! I felt so alone, so far away!

  I thought of the sisters at the convent. I wondered how Sister Janette was doing, and if she was up and around again, if her shoulder hurt. I would see them all again . . . and soon! Th
ey weren’t so far away, and it didn’t hurt quite so deeply to imagine all the faces at the convent. I would get back on the train tomorrow, and before another two days were gone, I would be with them again. This time I would stay as long as I pleased! I would relish being with them, sharing life with them, and working alongside them. Maybe there would be another barn raising! I could help with their garden and the animals and other work around the convent. And such talks we would have!

  There was so much I wanted to ask them about their life, to find out if it was the kind of life I wanted to live. Oh, I did want to be not just God’s daughter but his woman! Completely his . . . married to him . . . devoted to him . . . serving him with all my life and everything I did!

  Perhaps the convent was the place for me to begin. Perhaps I would stay . . . for a time. If I didn’t become a nun exactly, well . . . maybe I could be like a nun! Were there such things as Protestant nuns? I didn’t know, but I could find out! They probably weren’t called nuns. But whatever they were called, that’s what I would become—a woman devoted in service to God in every way, with time to pray and to read and study and contemplate everything about my Father in heaven.

  And then I would write . . . yes, I would keep writing, and would write not just newspaper articles and stories but about my life of devotion to God.

  I closed my eyes, and images started to crowd into my mind. My thoughts were racing now—with the faces of everyone I knew. I could even hear their voices, but couldn’t exactly tell what they were saying. Everybody seemed to be saying something different, calling to me, urging me to do something . . . but I couldn’t tell quite what.

  Corrie . . . Corrie . . . I thought I heard them calling, but then as soon as my name faded from their lips, the words all became jumbled and confused, as if they were speaking in a foreign language. But it wasn’t a foreign language! They were speaking English, and I knew the words, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying.

  Of course . . . that was the problem! They were all speaking at once, and so all the multitude of words tumbled over each other, confusing and garbling everything. There were too many voices, too many people calling my name, trying to say things to me.

  Why wouldn’t they all just speak one at a time? Why didn’t they stop shouting and interrupting each other so I could make out their words? If only they would just slow down a little! I could see their lips moving . . . I could hear the words . . . they just didn’t quite make sense. The meaning was so close . . . I could almost—if I could just listen a little more intently. . . .

  “Corrie . . . Corrie . . .” The voice was distant, almost in a wail, as if calling me to come back from someplace far away.

  Suddenly Mr. Ashton’s face loomed huge right in front of me. He had been calling to me. “Corrie . . . Corrie,” I heard him say again, “Corrie . . . you’re late for work . . . there’s an order that has to be written up for Chase and Baxter in Colfax.”

  “I . . . I’ll . . .” I struggled to find the words to tell him I was on my way to the office, but the words wouldn’t come.

  Even as I was trying to answer him, all of a sudden there was Mr. Kemble. His voice was even more insistent. “Corrie . . . you’ve got to get in here to talk to me about . . .”

  But his voice faded away, and I couldn’t hear him finish. I opened my mouth to try to say something, but then it was Sister Janette’s voice speaking softly to me.

  “Corrie . . . Corrie,” she said, “you have to stay here with us.”

  Over and over came the words: “Stay here with us . . . stay here with us . . . come, Corrie, stay here with us . . . don’t leave . . . don’t go away . . . come back, stay here with us . . . come back, Corrie . . . come back . . . come back. . . .”

  The words began to fade. I tried desperately to cling to the sound of Sister Janette’s voice. As it drifted into the distance, a terrible pang of loss stabbed through my heart. Suddenly Jennie Wade’s pretty young face appeared! She opened her mouth to speak, but no words were there. A look of pain instantly came into her eyes, but then they slowly closed. She was dying!

  “Jennie . . . Jennie!” I tried to cry out, but my mouth opened with the same silent impotence as hers. I could feel my lips moving, but they were mute and soundless. Jennie . . . no . . . Jennie, don’t die. . . ! But they were only thoughts, not words. I could not make her hear me! Oh, dear God . . . horror of horrors! All of a sudden, a tiny red splotch appeared on Jennie’ s forehead, just above her left eye! It grew in size, and began to drip down over her eyebrow into her eye. God . . . oh, God . . . no!

  I tried to look away, but could not move my head! Then Jennie’s face faded away, along with Sister Janette’s . . . and in another second both were gone.

  The faces from the battlefield began to haunt me—young Alan Smith in dark blue and Lt. Tomlinson in his red-stained gray . . . all the faces in the church, and the men I’d seen lying on the ground . . . passing through my memory in a second or two. I seemed to relive every moment of the awfulness of Gettysburg. Then before me was the grotesque face of the dead soldier I’d stumbled over the day after the battle, his eyes wide open, staring into my heart, though I knew he was dead and could see nothing!

  God, take away the memory of that face! I tried to cry out, I tried to pray, I tried to run, but I couldn’t move. I could feel the dead soldier’s body against my feet. I tried to step over him . . . I tried to turn around, to get away . . . but it was useless! Suddenly I felt myself stumbling and starting to fall . . . I fell and fell . . . tumbling down and down . . . falling right on top of the hideous corpse!

  But as I fell, all of a sudden there I was in my bed back at the house in Miracle Springs, and the next thing I heard were the playful musical voices of my brothers and sisters. They were young again! There they all were—Zack, Emily, Becky, and Tad—calling to me, trying to get me out of bed, urging me to get up and play with them.

  “Corrie . . . Corrie . . . get up!” they all cried in unison. “The sun’s been in the sky for hours. Come play with us, Corrie . . . please, get up . . . come . . . what’s the matter, Corrie? . . . why won’t you come with us? . . . come back, Corrie. . . .”

  Tad was so young, and Zack was still a boy with a high-pitched voice, and Becky was giggling in her happiest way, and Emily was still young and innocent. All four were imploring me to join them, tugging at my arms and legs. But I couldn’t get out of bed. And try as I might, I couldn’t answer them, though my heart was filled with such longings of love that I couldn’t stand it.

  Then another voice intruded over the din, and from behind them I heard Pa approaching.

  “Come on now, Corrie Belle,” he said. “You’ve been away from us too long . . . I know you got lots of notions and ideas in that writer’s mind of yours, but it’s high time you came back to the real world where your family—”

  Oh, Pa . . . Pa . . . I want to come back! I tried to say.

  His tender face was looking over me now, full in my mind’s eye. Oh, how dearly I loved him! What a good man! How thankful I was that God had given him back to me!

  “Come, Corrie . . . I tell you, it’s time you was back where you belong—”

  His voice was interrupted by a sound from the room.

  “Hee . . . hee . . . hee . . . tell her we ain’t gonna put up with her gallivanting much longer . . . tell her that from Alkali, Drum, hee, hee, hee!”

  Still Pa’s face loomed before me. He had tears in his eyes . . . and I knew they were there because he loved me.

  Pa . . . Pa . . . I love . . . I love—

  But I couldn’t get the words out. I loved him, but I couldn’t make him hear . . . I couldn’t make him understand!

  His face began to grow pale and distant.

  Pa, please . . . don’t go away, Pa . . . don’t leave me again. Pa, I want to come back . . . help me, I don’t know which way to go . . . Pa. . . .

  The next voice I heard was soothing and comforting.

  “The Lord is with you,
Corrie.” It was a man’s voice . . . it was Avery Rutledge!

  Oh, Rev. Rutledge. I’ve . . . I’ve been away, and I don’t know what the Lord wants me—

  “Yes, Corrie, I know all about it. He has heard your prayers, and you need have no worries.”

  But . . . but I don’t know what he wants me to do . . . there’s so much I don’t understand, and—

  “He will make sure you know when the time comes.”

  But . . . but I—

  Suddenly Almeda was at my bedside, sitting beside me, stroking my forehead. I could still hear the children clamoring outside for me to join them, but a great sigh of relief washed through my whole being at Almeda’s soft voice.

  “There, there, Corrie,” she said tenderly, “I am here now. You’ve been ill . . . your mind has been wandering. . . .”

  Oh, Almeda . . . it was so dreadful . . . there were boys younger than Zack . . . they were dying all around me!

  “It’s all right now, Corrie. Dr. Shoemaker says the fever has passed, and that you will be yourself again in twenty-four hours.”

  It was so awful . . . I didn’t know if I’d . . . oh, Almeda, I was so afraid . . . so lonely . . . I missed you so much. . . .

  “Yes, dear. You were talking in your sleep about the train and the nuns and a battle you were in, and about someone named Jennie—”

  Oh, Almeda . . . it was so awful . . . there was so much blood and death!

  “Just relax, Corrie . . . everything will be all right now. It was all a dreadful dream . . . from the fever. You are with us again now . . . you are with us . . . you don’t ever need to leave us again.”

  I started to cry. Thank you . . . thank you! You can’t imagine how alone I felt! I wanted to be with you so much!

  “But you are not alone now. I am here with you, dear Corrie.”

  She stretched out her arms to embrace me. Her touch felt so warm and good. I was still crying, for sheer joy, to feel Almeda’s arms around me.

  I struggled to lift my own arms from the bed. I had tried so desperately to speak to everyone else who had come into my mind. But I hadn’t been able to open my mouth . . . I hadn’t been able to move . . . I had been powerless and silent.