Yesternight

by Cat Winters

  The child leapt out of the car and ran back up the driveway at a speed that caused her to skid twice on the snow. Mrs. Rook remained on the front porch, her posture erect, arms hanging by her sides, but in a matter of seconds, the child threw herself around the woman, and the two of them embraced with the fierceness of loved ones bidding each other good-bye. I turned away and gritted my teeth to refrain from crying. We all did. No one said a word.

  A few minutes later, footsteps galloped our way, and Janie, out of breath, blew back inside the car with a gust of cold air.

  “All right.” She plopped back down in her seat between her mother and aunt. “I’m ready.”

  BACK AT THE Brighton Depot, Michael and Mr. Rook unloaded our suitcases from the car’s roof.

  “In case any of you are staying around here tonight,” said Mr. Rook, “the hotel’s right there across the street.”

  I took my bags from Michael and said nothing of the hotel. Originally, I had assumed that all five of us would be lodging in the establishment and returning to the Rooks’ farm the following morning, or at least exploring the rest of Friendly. We hadn’t even gotten a chance to view the main town.

  Rebecca picked up her suitcase and Janie’s. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Rook. We appreciate all that you’ve done.”

  “Is there anything else I can do for you folks?” he asked.

  We shook our heads and told him we couldn’t think of anything.

  “Good-bye, little lady.” He offered his hand to Janie. “It was quite an experience meeting you.”

  “Good-bye,” she said, giving him a shake. “Thank you for the food.”

  He chuckled, his eyes crinkling. “You’re welcome.”

  The rest of us thanked him and shook his hand, too.

  A westbound train rolled into the station with plumes of white steam converting into languid gusts of frozen air above the smokestack. As its iron wheels glided to a stop along the rails, Mr. Vernon Rook—the schoolteacher’s son, husband to Eleanor Sunday, witness to the death of Violet Sunday—stepped back into his car and chugged back home to Friendly.

  I half-believed he’d been a figment of our imaginations.

  Rebecca, Tillie, and Janie gathered up their suitcases and joined the other passengers who were lining up to board. They stood ten or so feet away from Michael and me, their backs toward us, not a single good-bye spoken.

  “Isn’t Daddy coming with us?” asked Janie with a glimpse over her shoulder.

  “Watch my bags for me,” said Michael to me, and he walked over to his family with his hands balled by his sides.

  My heart flinched. I clutched my briefcase to my chest.

  “Rebecca!” he called. “Why aren’t you letting Janie say good-bye to me? Why are you lining up like I’m not even here?”

  She turned toward him. “Please don’t make a scene, Michael.”

  “Why would I make a scene?”

  In response, she swept Janie behind her back with her right arm.

  Michael’s shoulders tightened. “Why are you hiding her from me?”

  “I have something to tell you.”

  Tillie cast me a look of consternation. I inched toward them, my breathing shallow.

  Michael shifted his weight between his legs. “What’s going on?”

  “As soon as we’re back in Oregon”—Rebecca gripped Janie’s right shoulder behind her—“I’m putting the house up for sale.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re moving to Salem, to be closer to Mother and to put Janie into a city school that will meet her needs as an advanced student.”

  Michael rubbed the back of his neck and rocked from side to side.

  “I’ve come to realize how much potential she has.” Rebecca’s gaze flitted toward me for the breadth of a second. “I think the Violet Sunday stories might leave us one day. As I’ve told you, and as we all witnessed here, they’re not showing up as frequently as they used to. But Janie’s intelligence will remain.”

  “But—”

  “It’s not fair to keep her inside that little schoolhouse. I know that now, and I’m sure you know that, too. Tillie will join us at the end of the school year to find a nearby teaching job.”

  “Well . . .” Michael swayed for a moment, as though he might collapse, but he righted himself and grabbed his right ear as if it ached. “I’ll . . . I’ll come visit on Mondays and Tuesdays, then, when the hotel’s not so busy.”

  “No,” said Rebecca. “You won’t.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I know you, Michael. You’re going to keep hounding Janie about the Violet stories, even if she wants to let all of this go. You never give things up easily.”

  “That’s not true, Rebecca. Jesus”—he reached for Janie—“stop hiding her from me.”

  Rebecca pushed the child farther away. “You make me nervous.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I know you’re going to continue associating with Miss Lind. I’m willing to bet money that as soon as we climb aboard this train, you’re going to check into a hotel room across the street with her.”

  I stepped forward. “No, that’s not true, Mrs. O’Daire . . .”

  “Who cares if I do?” snapped Michael. “We’re not married anymore, Bec. Miss Lind has sworn she’s not publishing any papers about Janie, even though she’s pouring all of her goddamn savings into this trip and giving up Christmas with her own family. Did you ever stop to think about that? Have you seen how much time and money this woman has invested into our child, while all you do is berate her and accuse her of having sex with me?”

  The people ahead of Rebecca in line spun Michael’s way with ugly glowers. A young mother clamped her hands over her little boy’s ears.

  “Step away from the line, Michael,” said Rebecca through her teeth. “You’re making a scene.”

  “Let me at least hug Janie good-bye.”

  “No!” She backed away with the girl. “I don’t want you grabbing her.”

  “Let me hug my daughter good-bye!” Michael pushed Rebecca aside, which drew shrieks and gasps from the crowd.

  “Could we get a police officer over here?” called a man toward the front of the line. “There’s a man disturbing the peace. He’s hurting a woman and her child.”

  “No! Christ, no!” Michael pulled away from his daughter. “Don’t do this to me, Rebecca. Don’t turn me into a criminal right here in front of Janie.”

  “You are a criminal, Michael. You run a speakeasy, for heaven’s sake. You’re lucky I’ve let you see Janie as much as I have. You’re lucky I haven’t contacted the Feds about you.”

  Tillie jumped out of line and squeezed my hand. “What should I do? Oh, God, how can I make this stop?”

  A conductor with thick jowls tromped our way in a no-nonsense march, his fists swinging by his sides. “What’s going on down here?”

  “I just want to hug my little girl good-bye,” said Michael, now in tears. “My ex-wife’s taking her away from me, and she’s telling me I can’t even hug her before they leave.”

  “I’m scared he’s going to grab her and run,” said Rebecca, also in tears. “Please make him leave.”

  “I want to hug Daddy,” said Janie, her eyes bloodshot, lips shaking. “I don’t like that he’s crying. I don’t want you yelling at each other.”

  Michael shifted toward the conductor. “I’ll hug her in her front of you, sir. You can all hang onto her shoulders—I really don’t care. I just want to tell her good-bye.” He reached for Janie again. “Please, Rebecca. Don’t rip her away from me like this. I want the best for her, too. I only want the best for her.”

  Janie took hold of his outstretched hand and sidled around her mother. The conductor muscled his way around Michael and positioned himself next to the child with a meaty paw clamped around her right shoulder. Rebecca clutched Janie’s other arm, and the girl resembled a wishbone, about to be broken into two. Tillie and I clung to each other’s hands, ho
lding our breath. I feared I’d instigated every appalling second of this family’s present battle.

  Michael managed to slip an arm around Janie and hug her. She leaned her red hair against his tweed cap amid the tangle of other arms, and Michael’s shoulders quaked. I heard him crying without a shred of shame. The other passengers boarded the train with glances over their shoulders.

  “All right,” said Rebecca, tugging Janie back. “That’s enough. We need to board.”

  Michael staggered to his feet. “You’re a selfish human being for banning me from seeing her again, Rebecca. I hope you know that. A selfish bitch who’s crazier than your fucking mother.”

  The conductor yanked him away by both his arms. “All right, sir. You’re coming with me to the police station.”

  “No! Leave me alone.” Michael shook the man off him.

  “Tillie, what are you doing over there?” cried Rebecca, dragging Janie up the train’s steps. “Hurry! We need to board.”

  “Go.” I set Tillie’s hand free. “Keep Janie safe. I’ll stay and watch over Michael.”

  She nodded and ran after her sister and niece, while the conductor pulled Michael away from the train with his arms hooked beneath Michael’s armpits.

  “Let me go!” shouted Michael when Janie’s head of red hair disappeared into the train and a porter closed the door behind her. “Let me go! I’m not going to kidnap anybody. I just wanted to tell her good-bye. Oh, God. Janie! I’m so sorry, Janie! I didn’t mean to talk to your mother that way.”

  Michael broke away from the conductor and stumbled toward the train. The conductor latched onto his arm before he could reach the closed door.

  “Come along, sir. Time to pay a visit to our friendly neighborhood police station.”

  The train chugged to a start.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Michael, “I’m not going to disturb the peace anymore. Look—she’s gone. You let her take my little girl away.” He squirmed and struggled to free himself again. “Just leave me alone. It’s almost Christmas Eve, and I’ve just lost my daughter. Leave me alone.”

  The conductor loosened his grip, and Michael tripped sideways, holding out his arms to catch his balance.

  “Watch my bags,” he called to me. “Take them to the hotel for me. I need to think. Oh, Christ.”

  He turned and lumbered across the street. A car skidded to a stop to avoid plowing him down, but Michael kept going, disappearing into the night.

  CHAPTER 26

  I obtained two rooms at the Brighton Hotel but remembered nothing at all of the face of the man who’d jangled the keys my way, nor of the décor of the lobby, which may have included a Christmas tree. I paid the clerk to deliver Michael’s bag to his room and whisked myself behind the closed door of another room, one story higher, where I dropped down on the edge of a bed that smelled of the colognes of strangers. My head throbbed from the echoes of Rebecca and Michael’s war over Janie—the pushing and pulling, the tears, the pleas, the panic, the rage. I feared Michael had wandered off to die. I worried Janie now sobbed in that westbound train, traumatized even more than during her dreams of Violet’s drowning.

  I covered my face with my hands.

  Oh, God, I thought. What am I doing here? What have I done?

  All of the successes of the day spent with the Rooks shattered to pieces.

  I debated calling Bea for advice, but thought better. She would only chastise me for giving up time with our own family. She would remind me of my status as an interloper.

  Interloper.

  That’s what I’d become.

  School psychologists did not climb aboard trains with students’ families during the Christmas holiday. They did not bother strangers in other states to explore bizarre phenomena that would make ministers and regular psychologists quiver with discomfort. They did not cause women to shout lewd accusations about their sex lives in front of a crowd of people in railway stations. They did not consider throwing away their entire careers to jump headfirst into the world of psychical research.

  And yet . . . part of me didn’t care if that’s what my life was to become—if that’s how people viewed me.

  Crazy reincarnationist.

  Bossy go-getter.

  Slut.

  I had tried to be a good girl. Oh, my Lord, after hopping into boys’ beds, how I worked until my brain ached; how diligently I had played by the rules. I had stopped seeing men altogether, dressed in skirts that fell well past my knees, and wed myself to a “female-appropriate” stratum of a male career.

  And where had such sweetness landed me?

  Tell me, I asked myself as I held my head between my hands in that stagnant hotel room that lashed me with its silence, why should I care about my reputation, when my reputation is stifling me? Killing me? When everyone assumes the worst anyway?

  THE ONE FEATURE I remembered from the narrow hotel lobby was a wooden telephone with an attached coin box. Once I composed myself and powdered my nose, I ventured downstairs with my coin purse in hand, my chin raised, my footsteps steady. The scents of broiled steaks and seasoned soups drifted through an open doorway that led to an adjoining restaurant, just a few yards beyond the telephone, which hung on a dark wooden wall that separated the lobby from the staircase.

  “Is there something I can help you with, miss?” asked the clerk from behind the front desk.

  “I would like to use the telephone.”

  He nodded toward the phone. “Help yourself.”

  “Thank you.” I walked over to the contraption and lifted the earpiece from the latch.

  “Number, please?” asked a female voice at the other end of the line.

  I moved my lips closer to the mouthpiece. “I need to place a station-to-station call.”

  “Please tell me the long-distance number you would like to reach, as well as your name and number.”

  “I’m trying to reach the Hotel Yesternight outside of Du Bois, Nebraska. My name is Miss Alice Lind, and I’m calling from”—I squinted at the numbers written on the phone’s information card—“Sycamore 4322.”

  A short pause ensued, during which the operator must have been jotting down my information. “Thank you, Miss Lind,” she then said. “Please hang up while I put the connection through. I’ll call you back at Sycamore 4322. The charge will be twenty-five cents for the first three minutes of conversation.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your help.” I hung up.

  Down the hall, the clerk lifted his head of thinning brown hair. The youthful fullness of his face and smoothness of his skin indicated that he wasn’t much older than I—perhaps thirty at most—but his hair, swept over a bare patch on top, fought to age him. That balding business was one of the only cruel jokes men’s bodies played upon them, or so it seemed to me. I wondered if it was a fair trade for pregnancies and monthly bleeding, for drooping breasts and ballooning bottoms and the distinct notion that one was being punished with illegitimate children, while the chap involved simply got cozy with a brand-new girl . . .

  I strolled over to the clerk on the thick heels of my oxfords. “Do you happen to have anything I could read for fun while I wait for the operator to call me back? I’m afraid I’ve already read all of the books I brought with me on the train.”

  “Um, well . . .” He pivoted around and bobbed about, as if he wasn’t sure whether he should bend down and scrounge around for reading material on some lower shelf, or if he should just admit that he didn’t have anything. “I have a railway timetable.” He stood up straight and slid a folded piece of paper across the counter.

  “That would be quite helpful, actually. Thank you.” I picked up the schedule and gave it a cursory glance. “After I receive my call, I’m planning to eat in the adjoining café. If the man whose room I reserved—my brother—if he enters the hotel, will you please direct him to the restaurant? He’s blond, in his late twenties, and stands close to six feet tall.”

  “Certainly, miss.”

  “You haven’
t seen him yet, have you?” I rose to my toes and looked out the window beside me. “I’m a little worried about him.”

  “It’s not that large of a town. I’m sure he won’t get lost.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. Thank you.” I meandered back down toward the telephone and opened the timetable to study my options for traveling to Nebraska. The telephone hovered in the corner of my right eye, but its little gold bells stayed silent.

  With a sudden squeal of arctic air, a man opened the front door. I jerked my chin upward, but, instead of Michael, I found a young brunet couple, huddled together. The gentleman of the pair wrapped half of his coat around the young woman, like a bird nestling its young under a wing. I stepped over to one of the lobby windows and scanned the darkening streets.

  Seven minutes later, the telephone rang. I lunged for the machine and grabbed the earpiece, and the operator instructed me to deposit my coins, which I did with sweating fingers.

  After the money clattered into place, a male voice traveled down the line: “Hello, this is Mr. Al Harkey of the Hotel Yesternight.”

  I tottered; my knees buckled. Precious seconds of my three minutes flitted away.

  “Hello?” asked the man again.

  “Hello,” I said, breathing into the mouthpiece. “I would like to inquire about the availability of rooms at your hotel.”

  “When would you like to stay?” he asked.

  “As soon as possible. Are you closed for Christmas?”

  “No, we only close for a week during March when my wife and I celebrate our wedding anniversary. We’re open through Christmas, specifically for those of you Spiritualists who only have time to visit during the holidays.”

  “Oh, I’m not a—” I shut my mouth, not wanting to waste more time by explaining that I wasn’t a Spiritualist exactly. “I plan to travel by train from Brighton, Kansas, to Du Bois, Nebraska, tomorrow. Would you happen to have a room available for me tomorrow night?”

  “Yes, there’s plenty of room. We had two other guests scheduled, but they canceled due to the weather. May I get your name?”

  “Miss Alice Lind.”

  There was a pause at the other end. “Did you say ‘Lind’? L-I-N-D?”