Up All Night

by Peter Abrahams

  Up All Night

  A Short Story Collection

  Peter Abrahams

  Libba Bray

  David Levithan

  Patricia McCormick

  Sarah Weeks

  Gene Luen Yang

  With an Introduction by

  Laura Geringer

  Contents

  Introduction

  Phase 2

  by Peter Abrahams

  About Peter Abrahams

  Not Just for Breakfast Anymore

  by Libba Bray

  About Libba Bray

  The Vulnerable Hours

  by David Levithan

  About David Levithan

  Orange Alert

  by Patricia McCormick

  About Patricia McCormick

  Superman is Dead

  by Sarah Weeks

  About Sarah Weeks

  The Motherless One

  by Gene Luen Yang

  About Gene Luen Yang

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Introduction

  Dear Reader,

  When I was a teen, my favorite short stories often had to do with moments of wonder and amazement, when a single revelation transformed a character literally overnight. The tales were as varied as their tellers, but the theme that drew me was the same: Something kept the hero or heroine up all night; and at the end of the vigil that individual (for better or for worse) was never the same again.

  In some cases a soul had been lost, in others found. Or innocence had been lost or perhaps regained. Or the power of speech had been sacrificed. Or a shift of perception had offered salvation when it was least expected. Always, something had irrevocably changed, between sunset and sunrise during the quiet hours when most mortals were fast asleep.

  Those stories I loved—by Oscar Wilde, Edgar Allan Poe, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Hans Christian Andersen, Lafcadio Hearn, E.T.A. Hoffman, and Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm—linger still in my mind and heart. If you too tend to be nocturnal by nature, or even if you don’t, I recommend them to you.

  I also recommend to you one of the greatest of all insomniac writers, Loren Eiseley, whose essay “The Judgement of the Birds” tells of his experience one night on the twentieth floor of a midtown hotel in New York City when, alone in the dark, he grew restless and on an impulse, opened the curtains: “I…peered out. It was the hour just before dawn, the hour when men sigh in their sleep, or, if awake, strive to focus their wavering eyesight upon a world emerging from the shadows…. The light was being reflected from the wings of pigeons who, in utter silence, were beginning to float outward upon the city. In and out…passed the white-winged birds on their mysterious errands. At this hour the city was theirs, and quietly, without the brush of a single wing tip against stone in that high, eerie place, they were taking over the spires of Manhattan…. As I crouched half asleep across the sill, I had a moment’s illusion that the world had changed in the night, as in some immense snowfall…. To and fro went the white wings, to and fro. There were no sounds from any of them. They knew man was asleep and this light for a little while was theirs. Or perhaps I had only dreamed about man in this city of wings…. Perhaps I, myself, was one of these birds, dreaming….”

  Each of the stories in this collection presents in its own way what Loren Eiseley described so beautifully in that passage from The Immense Journey—a moment of vision from an inverted angle, a time when, by chance or intention, a human stood sleepless upon the border of two worlds at an hour when others were unconscious, and miraculously caught a brief transformative glimpse into the depths.

  In Peter Abrahams’s “Phase 2,” a brush with the supernatural works in mysterious ways as an agent of change in the lives of two children who have lost their father. In Libba Bray’s “Not Just for Breakfast Anymore,” a rock concert evening of breathless misadventure and an underwater revelation bring unexpected rewards. In David Levithan’s “The Vulnerable Hours,” the simple question “What’s up?” paves a winding road to a reciprocal moment between two lonely seekers of truth. In “Orange Alert,” by Patricia McCormick, going too far cuts both ways in a sudden and highly satisfying reversal of power. In Sarah Weeks’s “Superman Is Dead,” the impact of the death of a pet, a divorce, the birth of a stepbrother, and an imagined murder come together in a loss of innocence that is all too poignantly real. In Gene Luen Yang’s “The Motherless One,” the age-old question “Why was I born?” becomes Monkey’s quest and obsession, ironically causing the legendary character to ignore the signposts nature offers all around him and come dangerously close to losing the very life he is seeking to understand.

  It gives me the greatest pleasure to have the masterful storytellers represented here gathered in one volume. Inspired by their narratives of a single night that matters, I invite you to write your own short story.

  I hope you enjoy these unusual tales, as I have, and that whatever you select to take from them stays with you for many days and nights to come, waking and dreaming.

  Laura Geringer

  Publisher, Laura Geringer Books

  STORIES THAT MAY KEEP YOU UP ALL NIGHT:

  Isaac Asimov’s “Nightfall”

  Richard Connell’s “The Most Dangerous Game”

  Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “Young Goodman Brown”

  Ernest Hemingway’s “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place”

  James Joyce’s “The Dead”

  Guy de Maupassant’s “Night: A Nightmare”

  Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart”

  PHASE 2

  Peter Abrahams

  Counting the hours,” my dad wrote in his last email. “Exactly forty-six more and I’m out of this godforsaken place. Phase Two begins! Love you all.” All meaning Mom, my eleven-year-old brother, Neddy, and me, Lara.

  “Hey Mom,” I said. “An email from Dad.”

  “Is everything all right?” Mom said, hurrying over from whatever she was doing, the laundry maybe—laundry, I remembered at that moment, that I’d promised to take care of before school. For some reason, Mom just couldn’t get used to these emails coming in real time from a war zone, got alarmed whenever one turned up in the in-box. She leaned over my shoulder for a closer look at the screen, a bottle of spot remover in her hand. I was aware of her eyes tracking the words, could feel her concentration, so intense.

  “What’s the time difference again?” Mom said.

  “Thirteen hours?” I said. “Or maybe with turning back the clocks it’s—”

  “Why can’t you guys get this?” said Neddy, doing his homework at the kitchen table. He glanced at his watch. “It’s eight thirty-five A.M. over there, A.M. tomorrow.”

  “That’s good,” said Mom.

  “What is?” I said.

  “That it’s already tomorrow,” Mom said.

  “For God’s sake,” said Neddy. “Forty-six hours is forty-six hours.” Probably the very words Dad would have said, but they wouldn’t have sounded so annoying coming from him. Dad had a real gentle voice, deep but soft. Neddy’s voice had a grating undertone even when he was in a good mood. But he and Dad both had that precise way about them, a precision you could see in Dad’s email, how the grammar was always right and all the letters that should have been capitalized were. That precision was what made him such a great pilot. Nobody had told me that—I just knew. Once, when I was really little and we still lived on the base, Dad took me up in an old World War Two P-39, let me sit on his lap while he flew. Somehow his hands on the controls looked intelligent, as though each contained a tiny brain, thinking about every movement. I felt so safe, like the sky was my natural element. He even did a few barrel rolls, just to hear me laugh. Dad liked my laugh, for some reason. “Where’d Lara get a laugh like
that?” he’d say.

  Mom went to the calendar on the fridge door. “So forty-six hours from now means Thursday at six thirty-five P.M.?”

  “Duh,” said Neddy.

  Mom took a red marker and made a big! in Thursday’s square. That didn’t mean Dad was coming home on Thursday; they always flew to the Ramstein base in Germany first. But he’d be back by Sunday or Monday and then there’d be big changes, what Dad called Phase Two of our lives. Phase Two started with Dad resigning from the service and taking a piloting job with Executive Air, a charter company. Mom and Dad were real happy about it. He’d be home three or four nights a week and most weekends, and the pay was good. They’d already put down a deposit on a house in almost the nicest part of town. A house with a pool! Plus Neddy and I were going to have our own bedrooms for the first time, instead of sharing. Even the address sounded great: 88 Hickory Lane. I’d already written it on all my schoolbooks, scratching out “3712 Baseline Road, Apt. 19.”

  Mom went to the beauty parlor and had highlights put in her hair. Once or twice I heard her singing to herself. Mom had a beautiful singing voice, had even made a demo for some record producer when she was a teenager. She cleaned the apartment from top to bottom and rearranged the furniture. Thursday night she made a special dinner—pork roast with orange sauce and pecan pie for dessert. Mom kept glancing at the clock. At six thirty-five she went to the fridge and took out a bottle of wine. Mom didn’t drink wine, didn’t drink at all. “Who wants a little sip?” she said.

  “Bring it on,” said Neddy.

  Mom gave him a look. “Just this once, buster,” she said.

  I took three glasses from the cupboard and set them on the table. Mom was unscrewing the cap off the wine when the buzzer went. She pressed the intercom button and said, “Yes?”

  Then came some static, followed by a man’s voice. “Mrs. Byron?”

  “Yes?”

  “First Lieutenant Kevin Skype and Chaplain Ferrarra to see you, ma’am. May we come up?”

  Mom went white, the color of a corpse in the movies. The bottle of wine slipped from her hand and smashed on the floor, but while it was still in midair I noticed a soaring eagle on the label, rising in a pure blue sky, the image so clear. I remembered that eagle way better than anything that happened in the next few days.

  There’s a crazy thing I’ve thought about a lot of times and still don’t understand. After someone dies—someone close to you, I mean, like a father—why should it be so important to get the body back and bury it? They’re dead, right? That’s the big thing. So what difference should it make? All I can tell you is that it does. It makes a big difference. I know, because we never got to bury my dad. Chaplain Ferrarra said there was nothing to recover after the crash, nothing human to bury. We had the funeral—packed church, trumpeter playing Taps, buddies of Dad’s who called him a hero. They were all so gentle, big guys kind of trying to make themselves smaller, if you know what I mean, so they wouldn’t be towering over the three of us. Something strange happened to me in the church: I suddenly felt so alive, more alive than I’d ever been, just glowing with it, hyperconscious of my beating heart, the blood flowing through my veins, the oxygen filling my lungs. That shamed me, but there was nothing I could do about it. Anyway, the full-of-life feeling didn’t last long. Soon the three of us were back in Apartment 19 at 3712 Baseline Road and I was all hollowed out. Going through the motions: an everyday saying that I now understood through and through.

  We got the $6,000 death gratuity from the Army in three days, and the next week Mom returned to work. We were going to be all right for money, she said.

  “I’m sorry about 88 Hickory Lane,” she said.

  “Oh, Mom,” I told her. “Don’t even think about it.” Neddy and I went back to school. At first everyone made a big effort to be nice to us. Then they slipped back to normal. Normal was better. From time to time, just for a moment or two, shooting hoops in P.E., say, I felt normal too. Not normal like before, back in Phase One, but a new kind of normal. Neddy, too—after a couple weeks, I even heard him laughing on the phone.

  But Mom cried at night. She tried to muffle the sound, but the wall between the bedrooms was thin. And she wasn’t eating. Her clothes started hanging loosely on her body, and when I hugged her good-bye in the mornings, I could feel all the ribs in her back. Then she got the idea that maybe Dad had survived the crash, was a prisoner somewhere in the desert, or injured and holed up in a cave. Neddy’s face got all hopeful the first time she offered up this new theory.

  “Mom?” I said. “You really think so?”

  Her voice sharpened. “Why not? There’s no body. And who’s more resourceful than Dad?”

  “Nobody, Mom, it’s just…”

  She wrote a letter to the Army, asking them to send out search parties. When no answer came after three or four days, she started calling. Chaplain Ferrarra came to the apartment again, this time with a major. The major had pictures of the crash site.

  “Sure you want to see these, ma’am?” he said.

  “Absolutely,” said Mom. “Kids—go to your room.”

  Neddy and I shook our heads. Not that we wanted to see, exactly, more like we had to. Mom glared at us for a moment or two; then her look softened a little.

  “All right,” she said.

  The major spread color photos on the kitchen table. We looked at blackened metal scraps twisted and scattered across a desert floor, not the beautiful kind of desert I’d come to know a little the two years we were posted to the base in Tucson, but just a stark and empty ugly nothing. Those scraps, so small and deformed, didn’t add up to a plane or anything else.

  The major’s eyes were on Mom, just waiting patiently.

  Mom met his gaze. “He could have bailed out,” she said. “Maybe into those hills in the background.”

  “Problem is, ma’am,” said the major, “there wasn’t time. Surface-to-air missile—eyewitnesses saw the hit. Direct on the nose. The aircraft broke up in midair.”

  Mom’s brow furrowed. I could see how hard she was thinking. “What if he saw it coming and hit the ejection button at the last second?” she said.

  The major gazed at her and said nothing.

  Mom pressed on. “He had great vision,” she said. “Twenty-ten in his right eye.”

  The major shifted one of those horrible pictures around in case Mom wasn’t seeing it properly.

  “Ma’am,” said the chaplain, very quiet. I noticed a tiny shaving cut under his chin, still seeping a drop or two of red.

  Mom stopped calling the Army, wrote no more letters. But she still wasn’t eating, and now, instead of crying in the night, she was up till all hours on the computer. Mom had never shown any interest in online things before.

  “Mom?” I asked one morning. “What are you doing on the computer?”

  “Research,” she said, deep dark depressions under her eyes.

  “Into what?”

  “Just research.”

  That night she didn’t come home till real late. I was awake. In this new normality I didn’t sleep quite as well as in the old one. She went into the bathroom, her footsteps quicker than they’d been for a while, like she wasn’t dragging herself around. Water ran. Then I heard the squeak of her bedsprings. After that, silence. No crying.

  “Lara?” said Neddy, very softly.

  “Yeah?”

  “You awake?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think I know where she’s been.”

  “Where?”

  “To a seense.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s what she’s been checking out online. I followed her tracks.”

  Not nice, but that didn’t seem important right now. “What’s a seense?” I said.

  “You know,” said Neddy. “Where you sit around the table in the dark and try to talk to spirits.”

  “Oh,” I said. “A séance.”

  “That’s how you pronounce it?”

  “SAY-ahnse.”<
br />
  “Séance,” Neddy said.

  We lay in the darkness, not speaking. I closed my eyes but couldn’t sleep. A siren sounded far away.

  After a while Neddy spoke, even quieter than before. “Spirits means spirits of the dead, right?”

  “Right.”

  Mom came back late the next night. And the next and the next and the next. Her footsteps slowed down. The muffled crying started up again. She missed a couple days’ work—a Thursday and Friday—maybe not even calling in the second time, because her boss phoned and I heard Mom saying how sorry she was and that it would never happen again. That wasn’t quite enough for her boss, because after listening for a few moments, she said, “Please give me one more chance.” And then: “Thank you.”

  Mom stayed home that night. Saturday morning she was up early, already making waffles when Neddy and I went into the kitchen. She sat down at the table with us, rubbing her hands in an enthusiastic way; but all that darkness around her eyes was even worse than before.

  “How are the waffles?” she said.

  “Good, Mom,” I said. “Thanks.”

  Neddy mumbled something, totally incomprehensible with his mouth full.

  “Aren’t you having any?” I said.

  “I’m not hungry,” Mom said. “I had a big dinner.” Which wasn’t true; she’d hardly touched her food last night. She spooned a little sugar into her coffee, took a sip. “I’ve met this interesting woman,” she said.

  “Yeah?” I said.

  Neddy poured more syrup on his waffles, globs of it. Dad would have said, “Son?” And Neddy would have stopped. Mom didn’t seem to notice.

  “Her name’s Mrs. Foxe,” Mom said. “With an e. She’s lived all over the world.”