Yesternight

by Cat Winters

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Now, that’s odd . . . Just yesterday a telegram arrived for someone with . . . I believe it was addressed to someone with your last name.”

  “Really?” My heart gave a queer jump that made my fingertips tingle. “No one’s expecting me to arrive there. Are you sure it was ‘Lind’? It’s easy to mistake the name for another one.”

  “I could be wrong. I’ll have to ask my wife where she put it. How many are in your party, Miss Lind?”

  I hesitated, glancing out the window once again. “One . . . perhaps two. My husband isn’t sure if he’ll manage to take time off work.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  I cringed at my own lie—at my hubris for assuming that Michael might abandon his troubles and tag along with me. “Thank you,” I said. “How would I best reach the hotel when I arrive at the depot?”

  “A train arrives at a quarter past three. Try to get yourself on that one. I’ll drive into Du Bois and pick you up.”

  “That’s awfully kind of you. Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?”

  “Blizzard conditions are expected tomorrow night. I recommend you don’t arrive any later than that particular train.”

  “I’ll be there at a quarter past three. Thank you so much for your help.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting you and your husband, Mrs.—or did you—did you say ‘Miss’?”

  “It’s Mrs. Lind. Thank you. I’m looking forward to meeting you, too. Good-bye.”

  I hung up and attempted to walk to supper on legs that wobbled and bowed.

  AFTER DINING, I inquired again at the front desk about the arrival of my “brother” but received a headshake and an apology from the clerk. Just to be certain Michael hadn’t shown up without anyone noticing, I opened the door to his hotel room. Only his tan leather suitcase resided within those snug quarters.

  “May I sit down here in the lobby and read while I wait for the gentleman?” I asked the clerk, a Willa Cather novel that I’d purchased on the coast tucked under my left arm. “I wouldn’t be taking the chairs from any other guests, would I?”

  Only two chairs occupied the lobby, scarlet ones, planted next to a small table bearing a three-foot-tall Christmas tree.

  “Certainly you may read down here,” said the clerk with a little brush of his fingers through that thin patch on top. “Most of our guests are out visiting family right now. They’ll return once they tire of the relatives whose houses they didn’t want to sleep in in the first place.”

  I chuckled and thanked him and noted that a clock mounted on the wall behind his desk showed the time as half past seven. I promised myself that if Michael didn’t arrive by eight thirty, I would seek out the local police station.

  Did he perhaps hop aboard the next train? I wondered. Would he have dared risking the ire of that bulldog of a conductor a second time around?

  I seated myself in the rightmost chair of the two and leaned forward to better speak to the clerk from around the Christmas tree. “Are there any speakeasies in Brighton?”

  The fellow cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t know that information, miss.”

  “All right. Fair enough.” I sank back in the chair and read.

  Eight o’clock arrived.

  Eight fifteen.

  Eight twenty.

  The worst possible scenarios flooded my mind: Michael throwing himself off of a bridge. Michael strangling a woman who resembled Rebecca. Thieves strangling Michael. Bloodshed. Arrests. Sanity trials.

  At eight thirty, I shifted about and peeked out the window. The lobby sweltered from the oppressive heat of a fireplace that blazed as though fighting to warm a castle. I fanned myself with my book and struggled to breathe air that seared my lungs.

  “Are you all right, miss?” asked the clerk.

  “Yes, I’m just worried about . . . my brother. It’s getting awfully late.”

  At that, the door opened.

  Michael stumbled across the threshold with such a clumsy to-do that his cap slid off his head and plopped onto the floorboards. He laughed at the sight of the little mound of tweed splattered in front of his feet.

  “Michael!” I rose from my chair. “I was just telling this man how worried I’ve been about you.”

  Michael flashed a grin and sauntered my way, reeking of liquor. His eyes had become two faint-blue life preservers, drowning in a bloodshot sea.

  “Do you remember, Alice”—he pointed straight at me—“you asked me what Vlad the Impaler would be like if he returned for a second life?” He stopped in front of me and tottered. “Well, I figured it out. Good old Vlad came back from the dead as Rebecca Simpkin O’Daire, queen of the fucking whores.”

  “Hey!” called the clerk from down the way. “Mind your language, sir.”

  “Yes, please stop cussing.” I brushed snow off of Michael’s right shoulder. “I understand why you needed to drink so much—really, I do. But don’t get yourself arrested. That won’t solve a thing.”

  “You care about me so deeply, Alice. Don’t you?” He placed his hands on both of my cheeks and leaned in so close, his breath stung my nostrils. “You really and truly care about me. And you care about my Janie.”

  “Yes, I do.” I grabbed hold of his wrists. “So please don’t say or do anything else that would spoil my compassion.”

  “You’re an angel sent from heaven.”

  “No, not quite.” I leaned my face away from his booze-soaked lips, which lingered rather close to my own mouth. “Do go to bed, Michael, and sleep off today. If you behave nicely, I’ll be here to help you in the morning.”

  “I went to the depot . . . to buy a ticket back home.” His eyes pooled with tears. “But that son of a bitch . . .” He glanced over his shoulder at the hotel clerk before lowering his voice. “That conductor was prowling around out there again. I don’t understand why Bec took her away from me.”

  “I know . . .”

  “I don’t understand. I helped solve the mystery of Violet Sunday. I gave Janie everything—everything—she’s ever needed, and I helped prove it, damn it. We proved she’s not crazy.”

  Still holding his wrists, I lured his hands away from my face. “Mrs. O’Daire is no doubt in a state of shock after everything she experienced at the Rooks’ house today. She needs time to sort out what she’s feeling right now. And so do you.”

  “You wouldn’t do that to a fellow, would you?” he asked. “Take away his child?”

  “I’m in no position to answer that question.”

  “Do you know how badly I want to kiss you right now?” He cupped a hand around my neck, but I managed to duck my head and grab hold of one of his forearms before he could bring his mouth any closer.

  “Is everything all right, miss?” asked the clerk.

  “Yes.” I gripped Michael by his biceps and wheeled him around. “I just need to steer my brother up to his room so he can sleep the day off.”

  “Alice . . .”

  “Quiet!” I snapped at Michael, and I strapped his left arm over my shoulders. With some prodding and teeth-gritting and swearing on my part, I guided him up an endless staircase upholstered in fabric as green and slick as moss.

  “Where are we going?” he asked in the landing, and directly thereafter he attempted to straighten a portrait of a bowl of fruit that didn’t need straightening to begin with.

  I shoved the key into the lock of the first room at the top of the stairs. “Here”—I swung open the door—“this is for you. Go inside. Collapse onto the bed. Sleep until you feel better. When you’re conscious and sober again, I’d like to speak to you about my plans for tomorrow.”

  “Plans?”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

  “Oh, Alice . . . lovely Alice . . .” He stroked his fingertips through the ends of my short hair. “Come in here with me. Stay the night. I want you. You must know I want you.”

  “Go inside. Get some sleep.”

  “Where are y
ou sleeping?”

  “Never you mind.” I nudged him into the room and shut the door before he could even think of slurring his way through any more professions of love.

  CHAPTER 27

  In the morning, I kneeled down on the floor outside of Michael’s room and slid a note beneath his door:

  I intend to breakfast in the adjoining restaurant before boarding a late-morning train. Please join me. I am certain you could use a cup of coffee to boost you over the painful hump of that inevitable hangover, and I would like to speak to you about the next phase of my investigation. I am not yet ready to abandon the line of research that brought me here.

  Sincerely yours,

  Alice Lind

  Downstairs, a waiter wished me a happy Christmas Eve and brought me a breakfast of grapefruit, French toast, and bacon. I nursed a bitter cup of coffee while gazing out the window at a nickel-colored sky that promised snow. No other customer dined in any of the wicker chairs surrounding me, but the solitude brought me solace. The soft clinks of pans the cook washed in the nearby kitchen reminded me of home, of Mother baking sweet mincemeat pies for the Christmas Day feast, and of Margery and Bea wrapping presents for Margie’s children. The savory scent of the bacon somewhat mimicked the mulled spices the others would be enjoying in warm drinks after dinner. I craved roasted chestnuts and gingerbread—and the Christmas port my father somehow acquired every December.

  “Do you mind if I join you?” asked a voice I almost didn’t recognize.

  I lifted my head to find Michael bracing his left hand against the curved back of the chair across from me. He squinted from the lamplight shining down on the table, and discomfort creased his forehead. A chalky paleness robbed his lips and cheeks of their usual color.

  “Please”—I nodded toward the chair—“have a seat. I’ll call over the waiter so we can order you some coffee.”

  “Thank you.” He sank into the chair with the slowest of movements, as though lowering arthritic bones into a warm bath.

  I ordered his coffee, as well as slices of hot, unbuttered toast to soothe his stomach. The waiter bustled away with his chin held high, clearly pleased to have someone to fuss over in that otherwise empty restaurant.

  I cut through a slice of French toast and observed the manner in which my breakfast companion leaned his elbows against the table and cradled his head in his hands. I didn’t dare point out that my mother always chided us for elbows placed on tables.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  He closed his eyes and groaned. “I’m not sure how to answer that question.”

  No more than two minutes later, the coffee and toast arrived, which perked Michael up a tad. He drew hesitant sips, his fingers wrapped around the white mug, and the wincing grew less frequent as the skin between his brows ceased puckering.

  I allowed him to relish the silence for a while before asking, “Did you see in my note that I’m proceeding with my research today?”

  “I did.”

  “I mentioned the subject last night, but I doubt you remember . . .”

  “I remember some of the things you said . . . and what I said.” His gaze flitted my way long enough to tell me what he remembered.

  My neck warmed. I took a bite of French toast.

  He cleared his throat. “Have you decided after all to write a paper about Janie?”

  “No, I couldn’t do that. I intend instead to explore another potential case of a child who may have experienced a past life.” Another bite; another gulp. “I’ve booked a room at the Hotel Yesternight in Nebraska.”

  He raised his eyes. “Why on earth are you going there?”

  “Do you remember how I said that Janie circled the word Yesternight when I gave her a list of Kansas names?”

  “Yes . . .”

  I fussed with my napkin on my lap. “I didn’t tell you before, but I pulled that particular name from my own imagination, to see if Janie would choose random words with the same frequency as she would select real Kansas place names. Her identification of Yesternight intrigued me back when I tested her, but my interest flourished when I learned from my sister Bea that I spoke of a place called Yesternight when I was quite young.”

  “Aha!”

  “‘Aha,’ what?”

  Michael lowered his mug to the table, and his eyes brightened with the first glimmer of a smile since he and Rebecca had quarreled. “I was right after all.”

  “Right about what?”

  “About you.” He replanted his elbows against the table. “You’re the child you spoke of the day before we boarded the train—the other girl haunted by a past life.”

  I dabbed the napkin against my lips. “Before meeting you and Janie, not once would I have believed that a past life lay behind all of my troubles—the nightmares, the strange behaviors . . .” I crossed my legs and debated which of my oddities to share with him.

  Michael picked at the brittle crust of his toast and waited for me to continue, as though he had now assumed the role of school psychologist, and I the concerned parent.

  “I would tell people I was born in the Great Plains,” I decided to say, not daring to mention the beatings, of course. “And I insisted that my name was Nell, which for a short while caused me to worry that I might somehow be Nel from the Other House.”

  “You thought . . .” His brow furrowed. He leaned forward with a crackle of the wicker of his chair. “You believed you were Violet’s husband?”

  “Oh, that sounds so odd.” I covered my eyes with a hand. “But, yes, for a brief moment, I did. This all occurred when Janie showed an interest in Yesternight.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  “I told Bea, and her reactions made me feel like a paranoid idiot. I most certainly didn’t want you viewing me that way.” I took a sip of my drink and took solace in the coffee’s warmth bathing my insides. “In any case”—I cleared my throat—“now that I know more about Nelson Jessen, that theory is long gone. The fact that Mr. Rook described the Hotel Yesternight as an infamous murder house, however, has me all the more worried about my possible connection to it.”

  Michael chewed on his bread and studied me with a contemplative focus to his eyes—the same “should I believe this person?” sort of look that I used to direct toward him.

  “Tell me the truth,” I said, now bracing my own elbows on the table, “do you think my newfound preoccupation with my own potential past life is simply a desire to find the same peace of mind that Janie found? A trace of envy, perhaps?” I swallowed. “Or do my early childhood experiences sound at all similar to what you observed in her?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not a psychologist. I don’t think I can adequately answer those questions.”

  “I suppose I would like to find what Janie found in Friendly. That satisfaction she experienced when she climbed back into the car yesterday; those words she said—‘I’m ready.’ That’s what I long to discover for myself . . . if, in fact, I’m somehow linked to Yesternight.”

  Using my fork, I stirred a piece of French toast through a pool of syrup and watched Michael sip his coffee. Our eyes met. My heartrate tripled over a question I found myself on the verge of asking.

  I took a deep breath and simply asked it: “Would you care to accompany me to Nebraska?”

  Color returned to his face. He lowered his mug to the table and breathed as though attempting to recover from a trace of shock. “Is that what you want?”

  “I would prefer to have you there with me . . . as the person who first led me down this road. As the person who changed my entire system of belief.”

  “That was Janie’s doing, not mine.”

  “You played a principal role in my transformation.”

  He nodded and gave a small smile. “I suppose I did.”

  I averted my gaze to the piece of toast that I continued to drown in syrup with my fork. “Furthermore,” I said, “I don’t believe that sending you back home on your own on Christmas Eve would be wise.
I would like to ensure you’re safe and well cared for.”

  “Aren’t they expecting you to arrive alone?”

  “I told them my ‘husband’ might be joining me if he can take time off of work.”

  He held his mug just below his chin, and I stirred and stirred and stirred.

  “Where would I sleep?” he asked, but directly thereafter the waiter sidled over to our table and inquired how we were doing.

  “We’re fine,” I told him, my face burning.

  “Thank you,” said Michael.

  “Splendid. I’ll bring the coffeepot around in a few minutes.”

  “Lovely.”

  The fellow strode away across the black and white tiles.

  I gripped the handle of my fork. “You may stay with me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Again, I lowered my eyes. “I’d have some stipulations about the time we spend together.”

  “Oh? And what are they?”

  “I can’t discuss them here, Michael. Just know that I refuse to . . .” I checked to make sure the waiter remained in the back kitchen. “I absolutely cannot have a child. I have nothing in the way of precautions, so unless you do—”

  “There are other things we can do,” he said, and he brought his mug to his lips and took another drink, his eyes upon me.

  I laid the damp fork on the side of my plate, where the prongs wept golden-brown droplets. A smile tugged at the right corner of my mouth.

  The same smile inched across his face.

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

  MICHAEL AND I huddled together beneath the yellow overhang of Brighton Depot, on the far right edge of a sparse collection of passengers who discussed the nip in the air and a storm stalking the rolling hills in the distance. Michael had hauled my hundred-pound suitcases for me and joked that I’d lugged my entire wardrobe with me, which, in fact, I had, due to my vagabond lifestyle. I’d toted his bag, which weighed nothing at all, as though he’d packed merely feathers.

  Down at the far end of the platform, the conductor who had threatened to cart Michael off to the cops pulled a pocket watch out of his coat and checked the time. Michael turned us away from the man with his arm around me.