Together at Midnight

by Jennifer Castle

  He stares at me for a few more moments, and I’m not sure if I should have kept my mouth shut for once, but he throws his head back and laughs.

  “You’re priceless!” he says.

  “Just very, very curious. Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. And don’t stop being curious, even when it pisses people off.”

  “Okay.”

  “So tell me more about you. What’s your situation? You still have time left at school?”

  Time left, like a prison sentence. “Yes. Officially.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I have one last semester. I’m hoping to find a way to do it without actually going back.” Suddenly, it’s all spilling out. “I spent the last few months in a study abroad program and it was amazing and I kind of want to keep that up somehow and also live here in the city with my brother. Independent study and the GED, that kind of thing.”

  I gulp a breath. All that sharing was unexpected, but it’s happened before. I realize that I hadn’t yet spoken my plan aloud. Now it has depth and dimension. It’s not just a Thought Worm any longer.

  Big E gets a faraway expression on his face.

  “You march to your own drummer,” he says.

  “Sometimes down a dark alley, but yeah.”

  He laughs. “Still priceless! You remind me of myself when I was young and stupid.”

  My turn to laugh. “It’s not as much fun as it sounds.”

  “Maybe not now. But in retrospect, it will be.”

  I start to reply If you say so then remember the new Big E rules.

  “You’re probably full of it, but thanks.”

  Big E nods as if this was a completely acceptable response, then turns his head toward the blank TV. At that moment, it makes a robotic I’m awake! noise and the lights come back on. Now there’s a talking CNN anchor on the screen. She instantly sucks up Big E’s attention.

  I go to the kitchen, where Max is looking at me with big round eyes.

  “Did you hear our conversation?” I ask.

  He nods. “I’ve never been able to talk to him like that. About that kind of stuff.”

  “Well, maybe now you can.”

  “Maybe. But you . . .”

  Max pauses, and the expression on his face is a little bit wonder and a little bit gratitude. He looks straight into me. I’m not sure I like it (but I let him keep looking).

  Finally I say, “I should head back to Emerson’s.”

  Max pauses, and we listen to the refrigerator hum. I’m getting the feeling he doesn’t want me to go. I’m getting the feeling I don’t want me to go. And what will we tell Jamie about me sleeping over? This is all bad.

  Then Max says, “We have some snow stuff you can borrow. I’ll walk you back.”

  It’s not a question or even a suggestion. Which means I don’t have to think/overthink it, it’s just pure, unfiltered information I’m supposed to accept.

  Max delivers Big E’s breakfast to him, then comes back and motions for me to follow, leading us to a closed door at the very end of the long hall. His hand hovers over the doorknob for a moment, curled into the right shape but not touching it yet. Then he grabs and turns quickly. We step inside the room, where there’s a huge bed with a carved headboard, flowery sheets, and about seventeen pillows. It looks like the kind of bed you’d find in a fairy tale, untouched and waiting for a lost princess to return.

  “My grandparents’ room,” says Max. “Check this out.”

  He opens another door to the biggest closet I’ve ever seen. This closet I could sleep in, and maybe even host a party.

  The walls are lined with racks of shoes and purses. Sensible pumps and crocodile bags. Coordinated dress suits hang from the rods. Max scans one wall, then another, then finds what he’s looking for on a bottom shelf. He grabs and holds them out triumphantly toward me.

  Snow boots with a faux fur lining. At least, I hope it’s faux.

  “This was all your grandmother’s?” I ask, taking the boots.

  “She had it going on,” he says simply, his eyes traveling along the rods of hanging clothes. Finally, he reaches into one spot and pulls out a snowsuit. Like the kind a little kid would wear, but obviously bigger (although not by much). It’s hot pink with white stripes down the sleeves.

  “Um . . . ,” is what I say.

  “This should fit you,” says Max, pushing it toward me.

  “Um . . . ,” I repeat.

  “What’s the problem? Nanny wore this to ski. In Europe! It’s like, couture snow gear.”

  “I’d feel really weird wearing your late grandmother’s stuff.” Weird is only the tip of the iceberg.

  “Weird is better than freezing and wet. There’s two feet of snow out there. I’m going to find something, too.”

  I take the snowsuit in my other hand and follow Max back into the room. As he rummages in another, similarly cavernous closet on the opposite wall, I look around. Every flat surface is covered with framed family photos.

  “When was the last time your grandfather slept in here?” I ask.

  “Not sure,” says Max from the closet. “Way before my grandmother died. When his back and hips got bad, it hurt him to sleep lying down.”

  “Like the Elephant Man,” I say, then totally regret it, but I hear him chuckle.

  When Max emerges, he’s holding a navy blue snowsuit. With white stripes down the sleeves. It matches the one I have.

  “I’ve only seen these outfits in photos. They’re so much more awesome in person.”

  “Awesome is not the word I’d choose,” I say. Max just smiles.

  We leave the room and Max carefully closes the door, hermetically resealing the room into its timeless bubble. I go into Aunt Suze’s room to change. Half of me still can’t believe I’m putting this stuff on, but the other half likes the game of it. It feels like part of Erica’s dare.

  “Check the dresser for socks,” Max calls from somewhere.

  Sure enough, there are huge striped knee-high socks in the dresser. The snowsuit and boots are a little small, but nothing I can’t deal with.

  I step into the hallway and there’s Max. It’s really something.

  “You look like a cross between a superhero and the world’s tallest two-year-old boy,” I say.

  “And you look like Aspen Barbie.”

  “Then we’re set.”

  We go downstairs and outside. The first big snow of the season always reminds me of things I’ve forgotten: that when it dumps nearly two feet in twelve hours, cars are not cars anymore but big ivory shapes in the landscape that look like they’ve been there since Stonehenge. The trees are dipped in white cake icing. Max takes in the altered city around us and I wonder if he thinks what I think: that it doesn’t seem quite real, all quiet and monochromatic like this.

  Max steps over the mountain ridge of snow to the street. It’s been plowed, but there’s still enough snow on the pavement to make driving hazardous, and walking only slightly less so. But the sidewalk, or at least the area where I know the sidewalk should be, is completely impassable. Max offers his hand to help me over the ridge and I take it. As I go, I catch my foot. He steadies me. Then I’m on the other side and upright and really happy I’m wearing these boots and don’t even care if it is real fur.

  We walk one, two, then three and four steps holding hands. Who’s supposed to let go first?

  On the fifth step, Max lets go of my hand and we begin to trudge up Park. The MetLife Building glows in the distance behind us, lit up even though it’s not even eight in the morning. The Christmas trees lining the strip down the center of the avenue are dark, though. So are the traffic lights.

  “Power must be out in this whole area,” says Max.

  A single, brave (or stupid) cab makes its way slowly downtown. At the same time, a snowplow truck is lumbering toward Park from Eighty-Third Street. Max looks at one, then the other, then walks farther into the intersection.

  “Watch out!” I yell. />
  He steps hesitantly at first, then more confidently. When he gets to a spot in the middle of Park, he holds up both hands: one to the cab, one to the plow. Both vehicles slowly come to a halt. Max looks at me.

  “The plow first!” I shout. He nods, then motions for the plow to move forward, stepping out of the way to let it pass. The driver actually tips his hat to Max as he goes by. Now the cab continues on its way, but the driver doesn’t look at either of us.

  We’re so busy feeling proud of this traffic control that neither of us sees the other cab.

  Max

  I TURN TOWARD KENDALL. THE COLD HAS TURNED her cheeks nearly the color of the snowsuit. She looks awake. And beautiful.

  A loud HONK from behind me makes me jump. I spin toward the sound.

  The cab’s trying to brake but having trouble, fishtailing one way, then the other. I throw myself into the snowbank at the curb just as the cab comes to a stop a few feet away.

  I see the driver drop his head against the steering wheel, his back heaving. After a few moments, he raises his head, rolls down the window. Glares at me.

  “You all right, kid?” he barks.

  “Yes,” I say from my burrow.

  “What the hell were you doing in the street?”

  “Trying to direct traffic. I didn’t see you coming.”

  The driver shakes his head. “Don’t be an idiot.”

  I bite my lip and nod, surprised to find I’m fighting back tears. The driver mutters under his breath and rolls up the window, then continues on. That could have gone worse. He could have unleashed a string of classic taxi driver curses at me. Or, of course, I could have died.

  Kendall stands over me now, offering her hand to help me up.

  “Come on,” she says.

  “I don’t want to count all that,” I say. “Because that was stupid.”

  She looks like she wants to protest, but then searches my face. Does she see how I almost cried? Does she see I have no idea why I almost cried?

  Good stuff cancels out bad stuff, bad stuff cancels out good stuff. It’s never ending. What’s the point?

  But here’s Kendall, pulling me to standing. She lets go of my hand and brushes the snow off my back. She gets me ready to continue on.

  A few blocks farther up Park, there’s a man and a woman outside an apartment building, working hard to clear the sidewalk. He’s trying to push a snowblower while she shovels. Underneath the building’s front awning, there’s a stroller covered in plastic. Inside, a baby wrapped up like a burrito is screaming bloody murder.

  “Good morning,” I say.

  The woman stops and leans on her shovel, panting. “Yeah. Good morning.” She doesn’t look like she agrees.

  “Do you need help?” asks Kendall.

  “No, thanks,” says the woman, while at the same time the man asks, “What kind of help?”

  “Just . . . help,” I say. “With whatever.”

  The couple exchange a look. “Would we get in trouble?” he asks her.

  “So what if we did?” replies the woman. Then she turns to me. “It’s the snowblower. Hard to push when it’s this deep.”

  Kendall moves to the stroller and peeks in, then motions to the woman. Points to the baby, then to herself. The woman nods. Kendall lifts the plastic barrier and picks up the baby, who’s now reached the point where its cries don’t sound human anymore. Kendall looks a little scared, but she holds the baby close and starts bouncing it up and down. Making a loud Shhhhhhhh noise. The baby’s cries slow down and fade a little. It’s like turning the volume knob to the left.

  “She likes that,” says the woman to Kendall. “Thank you.”

  I step up to the snowblower and the man backs away, clearly glad to be putting some distance between himself and this machine. He puts one hand to his chest. Checks out my snowsuit, then glances at Kendall. I’m sure he has questions.

  I give the snowblower a push. It inches through the snow, but not easily. Clearly not meant for this kind of load. But this is where being tall comes in handy, because I can really get some leverage on it. I push again, an unplanned oof sound coming out of me, and gain some momentum. The snow spurting out of the blower is my own personal blizzard. Maybe this is what a god feels like, making weather.

  Over by the door, Kendall is showing the baby the arc of blasting snow. She points, whispers in its ear. It’s only whimpering now. The woman smiles at them and keeps shoveling.

  Ten minutes later, the walkway is clear. Or at least, clear enough. Kendall hands the baby to its mother. The man comes over to me and turns off the snowblower.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” he says.

  “It was no problem.”

  “You’re a good person,” he adds, then slips something into the pocket of my snowsuit.

  I shake my head, push my hand in the pocket to give him back whatever he just gave me.

  “Please,” he says, gripping my arm and holding it in place.

  There’s a pleading quality to his expression. It’s important to him. Finally, I nod.

  Kendall comes over. Her smile plus the rosy cheeks equals completely lovely.

  “Our work is done here,” she says, pretending to wipe her hands clean. “Tune in tomorrow, boys and girls, for another episode of the Ski Bunny Squad!”

  I laugh. We wave to the husband and wife as we make our way down the street. The baby looks unconvinced.

  “Can we count that as two?” asks Kendall.

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Fine. I’ll write it all down later. But for the record, that was a big one. You pushed a big heavy thing and exerted yourself, and I braved a banshee child.”

  I reach into the pocket of the jacket and pull out a ten-dollar bill. Hold it out to her.

  “What’s that?” she asks.

  “The guy. He gave it to me. Or I should say, he forced me to accept it.”

  She stares at the money. “I’m conflicted.”

  “Are you?”

  “On the one hand, that’s ten bucks! We could go get some overpriced hot chocolate as soon as a café opens up.”

  “And on the other hand?”

  “It changes the way I feel about what we did.”

  “I know,” I say, staring at the money. “We made that rule about money for a reason.”

  “But that’s not why we stopped,” she says. “That wasn’t our intention. I think we should focus on that.” We walk in silence for a few moments. When we reach the corner of the next block, Kendall stops and says, “I have an idea.” She holds out her hand. “Give me the money.”

  She smiles wickedly as I hand her the bill. For a second, I think she’s going to pocket it and run off down the street.

  Instead, she rolls it into a tight little tube, walks over to the nearest mound of snow. Shoves her arm in up to the shoulder. When she pulls it out, the money’s gone.

  “Someone will find it tomorrow after a little of the snow melts. It’ll make their day.”

  “You know we can’t count that as a kindness. We agreed.”

  “This one’s just for fun,” she says, her eyes dancing again.

  “And I thought you wanted to get hot chocolate.”

  “At my brother’s apartment, they have completely ridiculous hot chocolate for free.”

  She grins at me and I grin back, like we’ve claimed something together. This whole frosted city, or the block we’re standing on. Or maybe, simply, this moment. One moment, when there is nobody else on earth I’d rather be with.

  “Onward,” says Kendall. We continue walking.

  I look back to where she stuck the money and hope whoever finds it isn’t an asshole.

  Ulysses

  IT’LL BE PERFECT, TALLY PROMISED ME.

  Her uncle’s building on the Upper East Side needed a superintendent. The job came with a basement apartment and a grab bag of other perks.

  We needed a place to live that wasn’t my parents’ house in Queens.

  We n
eeded something different.

  We needed something.

  We needed.

  I’m really tired of needing.

  The baby’s sick. Not in a cancer way, where you can put up a page online for people to send you money because they feel bad for you. She’s just sick. Always sick. A cold, an ear infection, something called croup that, no joke, makes your kid sound like a barking seal. There’s nothing officially wrong with her. She has a shitty immune system, and nobody’s going to send you money through the internet for that.

  Tally’s so focused on the baby, she doesn’t need extra stress. So I don’t tell her about my chest pains. About how sometimes I can’t take a breath deep enough to fill me up.

  I used to be a firefighter. Breathing bad stuff that hangs out forever in your lungs is part of the job.

  There’s also something called stress. My friend Alex had that. He thought he was dying, and at the emergency room, they told him it was just a panic attack. He felt like a giant moron.

  I don’t want to feel like that. But every time I go to sleep, I’m not sure I’m going to wake up.

  These kids who stopped to help us. They’re so clueless. I would give anything to be that clueless again. That tall boy’s got nothing to worry about except a cute girl to hang with. He didn’t need my money, but I needed to give it to him. I needed to not need, and ten bucks seemed to be the price of that.

  When I was that kid’s age, I thought I would get everything I wanted. I thought that even if today wasn’t perfect, tomorrow would be. Because I deserved it. I deserved everything and when you deserve something, it just comes. God, I wish I could go back in time and kick myself in the ass.

  You have to take life by the hand, even though you never know where it’s going to drag you. You don’t always have control. But what’s the option? Letting go?

  It’s possible to have no regrets but also wish everything were different.

  Kendall

  WE REACH THE CORNER OF NINETY-SIXTH STREET and this is where we should turn right, toward Emerson’s.

  I’m not ready for this to end, so I look to the left and two long blocks down, I can see the park.