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Midnight Sonata(continued) By Michael Cain Stacey lent Hayden a nightgown. It was cotton, knee-length
and short-sleeved, a breezy light yellow color with the tiniest bit
of lace at the sleeves and neckline. Hayden was used to sleeping in
old hand-me-down T-shirts, so she felt giddy, like a pampered princes,
in this little number. The two girls brushed each other's hair. Stacey seemed
to love how long and thick Hayden's black hair was. It was just like
her mother's, and this entire exercise reminded Hayden all too much
of her. Not that Hayden missed Grace, not already. But as she started
brushing Stacey's shoulder length hair she noticed how damaged it was,
how coarse and stiff. Follically-fried blond, just like her mother's,
except it was a warmer, almost natural color. Hayden loved her friend's room, though. She had a canopy
bed with white lace trim and matching bedclothes. The bedclothes in
her family were like the spells, old and passed down through the generations.
They were all different colors and patterns, mismatched and frayed at
the ends. "Good-night, girls." Her smile was as wide and
welcoming as before, but it was starting to make Hayden nervous. "Good-night, Mrs. Rankin," she said. "Good-night, Mommy," said Stacey. Hayden wondered if Grace was asleep yet? Had she fed the
cats? Had she brought in the laundry she had hung out that morning?
Had she missed her daughter? Hayden shook this sentimentality out of her head. She
still wanted the Rankin's to adopt her! They weren't perfect, but they
were the closest thing to it in three counties. As Mrs. Rankin closed the door to Stacey's room, Stacey
got up, walked over to the door and locked it. Not with some eye-and-hook
latch, not with a sliding bolt, but with a dead bolt expertly installed
into the door. It made only the slightest, most competent of clicks.
"What's that for?" Hayden could feel her neck
tighten. Why was there a lock like that on Stacey's door? There wasn't
a lock like that on any door in Hayden's entire house. "I feel better with it ... it's like a night light."
Stacey stood there hypnotized by the bronze glint of the door lock.
Strange, Hayden thought. But who wasn't? She herself still
buried her dolls in the back yard by the Mimosa tree. Her mother called
it The Hayden Cemetery of the Inanimate. Stacey turned, smiled her mother's smile, then jumped
on the bed with her friend. They squealed with laughter, for a moment
intoxicated with the feeling of freedom Stacey's room afforded, laughing
so hard that they felt like throwing up. Suddenly Stacey stopped, looked
Hayden in the eye and said, "Wanna see something disgusting?" "Sure." Hayden said, sitting upright like an
Indian, her legs twisted up underneath her with youthful effortlessness. Stacey took off one of her socks then stretched her foot
out in front of Hayden's face. Hayden was about to say something smart,
something about how disgusting the foot smelled, but then she noticed
what Stacey had wanted her to see: a hole, a perfect circle an inch
around and maybe thumb deep, right in the sole of her foot. "What is that?" Hayden was instantly nauseous,
not quite believing what she was seeing. "It's just a hole, silly." Stacey pulled her
foot around with practiced flexibility, gazing dreamily at the hole
in her foot. "Though it has taken me almost a year of scraping." That's when Stacey pulls out an old cigar box and unveiled
her treasures. A collection of safety pins and a round mirror with plastic
swimming-pool like sides to it. There on the glass was another of Stacey's
collections, all the dead flesh she had scraped out of her foot. "Stacey ... I mean .... why the hell are you doing
this?" She looked at Hayden like she was the one that had just
lost all her marbles. Then she looked over at the door. "It blocks
things out ...." Hayden couldn't imagine what Stacey had to block out.
Hayden was going to have Stacey over during a full moon or maybe for
the winter solstice. Then she'd have thoughts and visions running around
in her head, good reasons to have locks on the doors and to "block
things out." Stacey's bed was huge, and Hayden drifted off to sleep
while trying to memorize everything that had happened that night. This
was what made her memory so sharp, so scary, so exhausting. Hayden always dreamed in Technicolor. Everything was supercharged
and they were never the same. Like the last time she dreamed, she was
floating at the bottom of a lake, through seaweed, vivid yellow fish
and some blue turtles. It was very peaceful. But this dream was on the street in front of her middle
school, Wellsville Junior High School. Hayden's shoes were crunching
through vibrant red, yellow and orange maple leaves. Usually, being
so near school would make her flesh crawl, but this day she was nothing
but joy and light, as peaceful and calm as a Tibetan monk — one
not on fire. And she was holding Mrs. Rankin's hand, Stacey was holding
her other hand, and they were walking to the school together, as a family.
The heavy, cream-painted metal doors swing open to let them in. It was
perfect.
Then the crack of broken glass. Hayden sprung up in bed,
moonlight bathing the room. She looked around; no shattered glass glittering
on the floor, both windows still look intact. The room was warm, and
Hayden got up and went to the door. Stacey's deadbolt clicked open easily,
and soon she was out in the hall. There was not a sound coming from
anywhere, and because of the wall to wall carpeting, even her feet were
silent. Serendipitously, the Rankin's house was blessed with many
windows. So, with the moonlight's help, she negotiated her way down
the stairs with ease. She didn't think to be afraid, not until she saw
the puddle of clothing in the hallway at the entrance to the kitchen.
Hayden looked into the kitchen, almost dream-like, but she could feel
her heart beating faster and harder in her chest. And as her eyes focused,
the pounding made its way to her ears. The refrigerator door opened, and its bright light spilled
out, illuminating the naked form of Mr. Rankin: his face, chest and
arms. Moonlight traced the backside of his body. As he stood there,
looking into the harsh light of the refrigerator, he looked so young. Hayden had never seen a man naked before. Sure, she'd
seen her mother nude, but to Hayden's sharp surprise, it was a much
different experience. She wanted to say something, but everything was
so still, and she felt numb, possibly paralyzed by fear. Then Mr. Rankin reached into the refrigerator and pulled
out the pitcher of milk from dinner. Hayden watched as he turned it
sideways and drank from it. He's just thirsty, Hayden thought. Some of the milk spilled down his chin and onto his chest.
When he'd had his fill he lowered the pitcher and sighed, closing his
eyes and licking his lips. Then, as if just giving up, he dropped the
pitcher of milk to the tile floor. The glass shattered, sounding just
like the crash that woke Hayden up. She jumped. Glittering fragments of glass skittered across
the floor. Hayden felt tears welling up in her eyes. She was truly
afraid, probably for the first time in her life.
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