Beyond Midnight

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  SHE'S ANOTHER.

  The foot-high words, all in capitals, were scrawled on the old red bricks in Day-Glo pink next to the main door. You couldn't miss them, although the color was far more shocking than the sentiment.

  Helen's first thought was, another what?

  Her second was, Paint thinner won't work this time.

  Furious at the vandalism, she swung the door open and strode inside, determined to call the police—and aware that they might find it ironic.

  What goes around comes around. Thank God the vandal had run off before he finished the job; it might've been a lot worse. Or maybe he'd been caught? She found herself praying that he had. Either way, the deed was done and tongues were wagging all over again. Hell.

  Janet was on the phone in Helen's office, calling hardware stores for advice on how to get the paint off. Kristy Maylen, who taught the older three's, was there, too. And so was a police officer.

  He'd just finished taking a statement—such as it was—from Janet. She'd come in, found the scribbling, and called the police. End of story. Almost.

  Helen said, half in relief, "I guess the kid got spooked by something before he had a chance to finish."

  But the officer, a middle-aged man with a sympathetic manner, shook his head. "You're not reading it right. The message reads SHE'S AN OTHER. Three words, not two. The 'Others' were a Satanist gang we shut down about ten years ago."

  It was another two-by-four, right across the face. Helen had to struggle for breath as she said faintly, "I don't remember anything about it."

  "It was in the paper; but we don't go out of our way to publicize that kind of thing. It's bad for tourism, and we don't need copycats. Someone's just pulling your chain, I expect," he said, seeing Helen's distress.

  "Can you find out who did it?" she said, reeling.

  He lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. "It's hard. Graffiti is very frustrating to stop. It's all the rage now—as anyone who walks around a city can see. My guess is it'll get worse before it gets better. Once in a while an irate owner will offer a reward for information. You could try that."

  Just what she wanted to do: advertise. "Thanks," she said, dismissing the idea out of hand. "But I was hoping for a more discreet solution."

  The officer looked at her curiously but said nothing. Helen thanked him for his time and walked with him to his patrol car, which was parked smack-dab in front of the school—more advertising.

  She was about to retrace her steps down the flagstone path to the parking area, with every intention of shepherding the parents inside like some border collie, when she saw her first parent approach: Nathaniel Byrne, holding Katie by the hand.

  Helen greeted them with more enthusiasm than she felt. It was too late to drape a black cloth over the offensive scrawl. She had to stand and watch while he stopped and stared.

  He fell into the same trap she did. "Another? Another what?"

  "An Other," she corrected, saying the words separately.

  "Who's another? Another what?"

  "Becky, I suppose. Another Other."

  Scowling at the Abbot and Costello routine, he said, "Let me try it one more time: What's an 'other'?"

  She took a kind of morose pleasure in giving it one last twist. "What's another nail in the coffin of my career? This is," she said, running a finger over the disgustingly dry pink paint.

  Lowering her voice and turning away from Katie, Helen explained what she'd learned. "The Others were apparently a local Satanist 'cult' a decade ago. They turned out to be a gang of midteen kids with a penchant for cutting up rats and woodchucks. I didn't ask what they did with the parts," she added wearily, "and the officer didn't tell me."

  Both of them glanced over at the parents still hanging back in the parking area. "Maybe they were all just waiting for the police to leave," Helen said hopefully.

  Even as she said it, two or three mothers broke away from the rest and began walking hurriedly down the flagstone path with their little ones. Maybe they had faith in Helen; maybe they just wanted to get on with their day.

  Nat turned to his daughter, who was deep in conversation with her teddy bear, and said with hearty enthusiasm, "C'mon, Katie-kins, time to go to school, just like the big kids!"

  He gave Helen a last, burning look. "Call a meeting of the parents, damn it. Get it all out. Clear the air once and for all."

  "No, Nat!" she said. "I haven't done anything, and neither has Becky. I refuse to—well, hello there, Merielle," she said as the child, running ahead of her mother, drew near.

  Exasperated, Nat took his daughter inside, leaving Helen to face little Merielle's mother, who took one look at the graffiti and said, "That's what all the fuss is about? I've had worse on my storefront, believe me. Try selling lingerie sometime." She glanced at the scrawl again and said, "The worst thing about it is that the colors clash," then gave Helen a wry smile of sympathy and went into the little brick bank.

  How could I have bumped her to the waiting list? Helen thought. She's the bravest woman here.

  Helen stayed right where she was, in front of the spray-painted wall, forcing the incoming parents to look at her instead of it as they straggled in. Some were friendly, some were reserved.

  And some drove off with their children.

  Helen tried not to let it upset her. Nat was right. She was bound to lose some parents if she chose not to confront the rumors. She waved forlornly to him on his way out as he passed behind some of her stauncher supporters, who were busy telling her how wonderful she was. No one actually used the word Satanism, but it was clear from their flattering remarks that they were trying to tell Helen they were on her side. Helen drank in their compliments like a thirsty camel, knowing the ride ahead might be long, hot, and dry.

  Eventually the last parent left. "Hold down the fort," Helen told Janet without waiting a second longer than necessary.

  She drove off to the nearest hardware store, had them mix a quart of brick-red paint, bought a throwaway paintbrush, drove back to her preschool, and got to work. In twenty minutes the pink letters were covered by a red rectangle of paint—not the most sophisticated camouflage job in the world, but good enough for now.

  After that, she sat back and waited for the next shoe to fall.

  Chapter 23

  On a street of grand Victorians, one house was grander than all the rest. It had a columned veranda that curved from front to side, an octagonal turret, and multiple gables fitted into its steeply sloped roofs. Meticulously restored, the house was painted a dark but pleasing brown, with accent shades of copper and sienna highlighting its intricate, extravagant trim.

  The wide, inviting porch was festooned with massive pots of pale ivy geranium and highlighted by an old-fashioned, wood-slatted swing suspended from chains. On the swing sat Rebecca Evett, dressed in black bib-top overalls over a white shirt. Next to her sat a four or five-year-old girl with cherry-blond hair, wearing a blue gingham sundress.

  On the little girl's lap was a young white cat.

  The child was having trouble getting the frisky cat to stay. Rebecca took the animal from her and showed her how to pet the cat in a soothing way. She began to stroke the animal under its chin. The cat stretched its neck, begging for more. Rebecca put the cat back on the little girl's lap. The girl rubbed the cat's throat and giggled at the ease of her success.

  The child's mother, dressed in dinner clothes, came out of the house, spoke briefly with Rebecca, hugged her daughter, and walked down the steps to the Lexus that was parked on the street. Her husband took off with a squeal of tires; they must have been late.

  It was getting dark. Rebecca swatted a mosquito on her arm, then stood up. She looked down at her black overalls and let out a cry of surprise. Wiping away what was obviously a layer of white fur, she led the little girl, carrying the cat awkwardly, inside the house.

  Peaches waited until the door was closed, then turned the key in the ignition of her car and shifted into drive.

  ****
>
  Almost two weeks had passed without any more shoes falling, and Helen was beginning to allow herself to think about possibly breathing easy again sometime soon.

  "I still cringe as I approach The Open Door every morning, but I think whoever had a grudge against me must be satisfied," she told Nat.

  They were slouched together on the blue denim sofa in the family room, eating popcorn and watching a rented video. Nat had wanted something mindless; Helen, something happy. They settled for a French film which had turned out to be both cerebral and sad—and badly dubbed besides—so they'd simply shut off the sound and admired the scenes of Provence while they talked and waited for Becky to come back from baby-sitting.

  "You're thinking that this person just wanted you to take some kind of hit financially?" Nat asked, sounding unconvinced.

  Helen wrinkled her nose. "Not exactly. You're gonna laugh, but ... what if someone on the waiting list really, really wanted to get her child into The Open Door? Wouldn't the Satanist scare be a quick and easy way to do it?"

  Nat did laugh. "Come on. I know preschool is serious stuff with today's yuppies, but—come on."

  Helen tossed a kernel of popcorn at him. "Hey. If a Texas mom can hire a hit man to take out her daughter's competition in cheerleading ...."

  Throwing his hands up, Nat said, "You win. I forgot. This is America. Who was on your list of suspects?"

  "Well—Merielle's mother, for one. As we feared, Merielle herself is a real terror; I wonder if any school would've taken her. The point is, her mother wasn't the least bit put off by the graffiti. She runs a lingerie shop, incidentally."

  "Hmm. Lingerie. I see your point. A woman who understands lingerie is a woman who knows how to get what she wants."

  His ironic tone was just suggestive enough to make Helen's cheeks flush. She was painfully aware that they hadn't made love since that one wild night, which she was convinced had all been a dream, anyway. But they had managed to steal some torrid moments in her office, in his car, and—if Becky only knew!—on one of the kitchen chairs. It couldn't go on this way.

  Echoing her thoughts, Nat said wryly, "Will I ever see you in lingerie, do you think?"

  "If both my children are sent to prison, maybe," Helen quipped. "But in the meantime ...." She pointed to the ceiling, which was vibrating in tune with a Pearl Jam recording.

  "At least Russ is sticking close to home," she added, turning sideways and pulling her legs up on the sofa. "And he did let you make popcorn for Scotty and him." She slid her bare toes under Nat's thigh and wriggled them tauntingly. "I call it progress."

  Nat snorted and said, "Progress? He scarcely comes near me. It's like taming an ocelot."

  "You've tamed one?"

  "I had a friend. Anyway, now that Scotty's piped up and said he'd like to take a whirl in the Porsche sometime, I'm hoping your son will condescend to go along for the ride."

  "I thought the way to a man's heart is through his stomach."

  "The way to a man's heart is actually through lingerie," Nat said, wrapping his hand around her ankle. "The way to a boy's heart is, of course, through a hot rod."

  "I see. Now that I've got that straight, I guess I can stop baking chocolate chip cookies for all of you."

  "Hey, hey, hey! Let's not be rash," he said, giving her an impromptu foot rub.

  Helen laughed seductively and said, "I'll show you what's rash," and redirected her other foot to where it was bound to get Nat's interest.

  Which is exactly when Becky decided to arrive through the front door, letting it slam behind her.

  Up went the leg, down went the feet on the floor. When Becky walked into the family room, what she found was her mother and her mother's friend Mr. Byrne sitting demurely in front of a muted television watching a hilly village in some other country.

  "How'd it go?" Helen asked in a ridiculously casual voice.

  Becky had the kindness to pretend her mother really cared. "Oh, fine. Kayla's such an easy sit. She has a new—"

  Suddenly she let loose with half a dozen violent sneezes, then finished the sentence. "—cat. And I think I'm aller—"

  Four more big ones. "—gic to it. He sheds like crazy. Look at my clothes!"

  "You could always wear white," her mother said, hoping against hope.

  "But that wouldn't stop me from snee—"

  Off she went on another round of explosions. She left the room in misery, clearly in search of tissues.

  Nat said, "Poor kid. But you guys have a cat."

  "White cats shed much more than black ones."

  "Mmm; that explains the jillion black cats in Salem. And here I thought they were just tourist props."

  "You mean—"

  "One for every witch," he said, taking her hand and kissing the knuckles.

  The smile on Helen's face softened into a thoughtful pursing of her lips. "We're so schizophrenic about that, aren't we. We have this very real—and justified—fear that crackpot Satanists are going to be drawn here because of the city's history. But then we turn around and slap those witch silhouettes on everything we own. And meanwhile, Wicca is a serious, ancient religion that doesn't get the respect it's due. Even here."

  Nat leaned back into the sofa with his hands behind his head and gave her a long, appraising look. "Helen of Salem—you care too much about this town. Salem is a brand name now, and brand names sell; just ask the Chamber of Commerce. There's nothing you can do to change its image. It's set in granite."

  "I don't want to change it. I just want to understand it," Helen said, troubled by the speculative look in his eyes.

  "Do you know what I mean?" she asked him. "You must have felt it when you walked around some of the 1692 sites: the burial ground on Charter Street, the victims' houses in Danvers and Peabody, the Corwin house here in Salem. There is such sadness everywhere; such a terrible sense of fear and dread."

  She shivered and rubbed her arms. "Innocent men and women hanged by a mob of well-meaning hysterics. I've practically heard the moans ... felt the shivers of terror. Haven't you?"

  "A little, I suppose," he admitted. "It's been many years since I've done the tour. Even then, it wasn't as intense as what you're describing. How do you remember it all so vividly?"

  Helen was reluctant to say that she'd been going out of her way to drive past the sites when she was out on errands. And she had no intention of telling him that she felt prodded to do so by the spirit of his dead wife.

  "I've been researching," she settled for saying.

  "Helen, you're taking this too much to heart," Nat said softly. "We both know why."

  He took her hand in his. She closed her eyes and let the warmth of it pass through hers, like a reassuring current. There was no question about it: He was keeping her battery charged. If it weren't for him ....

  She shivered again and said, "Anyway, I guess the shakeout you predicted is over. No one's withdrawn in almost a week."

  She opened her eyes and looked at him with such warmth, such gratitude, that she was afraid he'd see how desperately she loved him and flee. "I'm glad you've been with me through this, Nat," she whispered. It was all she dared confess.

  His response was a look as burning as her own. He said her name in a low, husky voice and drew her close. "Ah, Lena, Lena," he said. "These last two weeks ... they've been a kind of wonderful agony."

  He slid his hand up the inside of her thigh and under the fabric of her shorts and kissed her hard, his mouth covering hers, his breathing itself hard with frustration.

  She wilted under the heat of his kiss, under the hot wet caress of his tongue, as she felt his hand working the fabric away from her body, well on the way to tormenting her still more. Alarm bells began ringing loudly inside her head; she didn't care.

  Fingers touched flesh, sending a jolt through her. She sucked in her breath in a rage of desire for some release, for an end to the tension. Almost two weeks since the sanctuary ... two long, frustrating weeks ... a wonderful agony. She felt the first
ripples of an orgasm, unexpected, out of the blue.

  And incomplete. The muted sound big feet thumping down the carpeted stairs was like the sound of cold ocean surf breaking over her head. She pulled away from Nat's kiss and clapped her hand over his wrist.

  "Stop," she whispered, jumping up from the sofa. She began fiddling with the tape in the VCR as she listened, heart still pounding, to her son say good-bye to Scotty and then close the front door.

  She felt like a fool, but she couldn't help herself; the charade went on as she called out in suspicious motherly tones, "Russell? I didn't hear his father's car out front."

  Russ said in a loud, bored voice, "His dad was beepin' his horn for five minutes. We heard it."

  "Well, why did you take so long to go down, then?" she shot back, trying to save face. She rolled her eyes at Nat and got a comical cringe from him in return. There they were, with three-quarters of a century between them, scared to death of a fourteen-year-old snot.

  Russell tore back up the stairs without bothering to answer her silly question, which was fine with Helen. The last thing she needed was a face-to-face confrontation with him.

  She stood up, and Nat stood up, and they held hands, leaning their foreheads into one another.

  "Close call," she said, blowing out air.

  "This is nuts, Helen. I understand that you want to be home for your kids, but ... can't we go to a nice dinner at a nice hotel?" he asked. "I'm not asking for the night," he added wryly. "Naturally I know better than that."

  She took a wincing, hissing breath of air. "Oh, Nat ... I don't know ... a hotel? What if someone saw us?"

  "Who would know? Who would care?" he said, nuzzling the curve of her neck.

  Off and running went her heartbeat. "No— wait, wait," she objected, trying weakly to evade his caress. "It's just that right now all I want to do is hide."

  He drew back and looked into her eyes. She expected to see frustration there, maybe even annoyance. But his gaze was completely sympathetic, his smile forbearing. "Hide. Right. Okay. I'll see what I can do."