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Midnight Sonata(continued) By Michael Cain She didn't notice that Mrs. Rankin had appeared beside
her. Mrs. Rankin turned on the light, flooding the shadowy room with
two hundred watts of luminescence. "Hal?" Mrs. Rankin whispered. She moved towards
him and reached out to touch his shoulder. He swung around wildly, smacking
her hard in the face. He looked like he was about to punch her, maybe
even kill her, but then his eyes softened in recognition. Mrs. Rankin whispered softly to her husband as she took
her robe off and wrapped it around her husband's waist. Her arms looked
so skinny and frail. "It's all right; it's okay," she comforted her
husband. She went to a cupboard and took out a pill bottle. She shook
out two very small white pills and then retrieved a bottle of cola from
the fridge. Hayden watched as Mrs. Rankin coaxed her husband to take
the pills. That's when she seemed to notice Hayden for the first
time. She walked over and put her hand on Hayden's shoulder. "Are you okay, honey?" The bright smile was
there, but there was a red mark running across her cheek and along her
eye. Hayden nodded that she was all right, though she didn't
believe it. Mrs. Rankin took Hayden's hand and led her to a nearby
chair at the kitchen table. "You stay here till I get back. There's glass on
the floor, so I'm going to get your shoes. Okay?" Mrs. Rankin smiled and turned back to her husband. She
led him around the glass and into the hall. Hayden sat there, looking
at the still open fridge and at the spilt milk on the floor, how it
glistened and reminded her, for some reason, of brake fluid. Maybe her
eyes were playing tricks on her. She couldn't see the pieces of glass
any more, not in this harsh light, but she knew they were there. Hayden lost track of time, and suddenly Mrs. Rankin was
at the door of the kitchen again. She had Hayden's shoes. She knelt
down and slipped them on Hayden's feet and tied the laces. Then, as
if nothing had happened, she set to work on cleaning up the glass. First
sweeping it up into a dust pan. Then, with paper towels, she sopped
up the milk, carefully putting the paper towels in a trash bag and tying
the top up. Then she went out to her pantry, retrieved a mop bucket
and a sponge flip-mop. She filled the bucket, added some Lysol and then
made quick work of whatever sticky goo might be left on the floor. In less than five minutes she had erased all evidence
that anything ever happened. Amazingly organized, Mrs. Rankin stood there for a moment,
scrutinizing her work. Then, she broke, her hand shooting up to cover
her mouth as she cried out, a sorrowful desperate sound, wet and chilling.
Hayden was frozen in her seat, filled with fear again.
Her eyes switched from Mrs. Rankin to the door of the kitchen, ever
watchful for Mr. Rankin. Mrs. Rankin got hold of herself a moment later, wiping
at her eyes and rifling through a drawer to pull out a pack of cigarettes.
Her hands were shaking so badly that she had trouble getting one out
of the pack. They were the same brand that Hayden's mother smoked. She
tried in vain to light it. Her hands were shaking; hands sure enough
to have made such quick work of spilt milk and broken glass, now couldn't
make the slightest of sparks. "Fuck!" Mrs. Rankin hissed, dropping her head
in defeat. Hayden stood and walked over to Mrs. Rankin. She gently
took the lighter from her, pressed in the child safety button, lighting
it on the first try. Holding it up for Mrs. Rankin, she lit her cigarette
for her. Mrs. Rankin inhaled, held the redolent smoke in her lungs,
then exhaled. She seemed to calm down immediately. "What's wrong with Mr. Rankin?" Hayden asked. Mrs. Rankin smiled, wiped at her eyes again, then took
another drag from her cigarette. "His mind is sick. He forgets things and gets ....
confused." She shook her head and touched the counter around the
sink. She looked so tired and pale. "He's good, all day, but the later it gets, the less
he's ... the less he's there. I don't even ..." She turned and
smiled, seeming to be having an internal conversation with herself.
Maybe censoring herself. "He'll get better. Nothing to worry about." Hayden watched the smoke coming from Mrs. Rankin's cigarette.
It was not rising into the air. It was clinging to her flesh, twisting
vine-like around her wrist. In that moment Hayden saw that Mr. Rankin
would not get better, and Mrs. Rankin knew it. "I'd like to go home now," Hayden said, trying
not sound too blunt. She doesn't want to hurt Mrs. Rankin's feelings. "Of course." She looked lost in thought again.
"Let me get my coat. I'll drive you." "That's okay. It's not far; I can walk." And
without another word, Hayden walked out the back door, not bothering
to get her things or even retrieve her jacket.
The air was cool and felt good against Hayden's bare arms, like thin
sheets of silk cascading against her flesh. But it didn't slow her pace
any. She wanted to get home and through her own front door as soon as
possible. She wasn't a bit concerned with werewolves, vampires or serial
killers. She had seen her fill of horrors that night. She looked up into the night sky — ring around the moon —
it figured! Finally, on Ocher Street, she heard the wind chimes. This comforted
her. It meant home was but a block away, the block she'd lived on her
entire life. A queer thing hit her as she rounded her own fence line;
the chimes were calling to her. As if they were singing her name, they
played a delicate tune, a sonata to guide her home. The front door was unlocked, as usual. She'd have to talk to her mother
in the morning about using the locks. Once in the door, Hayden turned
the rusty iron key and heard the stiff mechanism of the lock. Replace
this, she told herself. The house was dark, but she knew it more than well enough to make it
to the back door in record time, sliding the old-fashioned bolt over
with a resounding clank. She thought, at first, that they should replace
this, too. But she heaved her tiny frame against the door. Good wood,
and an old but good metal in the bolt lock. Satisfied, she finally made her way upstairs, skirting the kitchen,
accelerating through the foyer, and then up the long mahogany staircase,
sidestepping a black cat or two. At the top of the stairs she stopped, stuck, as if in a giant wad of
chewing gum. The choice? Her bed or her mother's? It took less than a second for her to decide. Hayden found Grace's
door open, as usual, and her windows, too. The cool air that saw her
home now caused goose flesh to cover her arms. Grace liked a cold room,
for she delighted in sleeping under quilts her mother, Jessica, had
made in her own youth. She said that new quilts and blankets just weren't
heavy enough to keep her weighted down in sleep. Without the quilts
she dreamed of falling up out of bed, as if falling into the sky. Quick
and wicked dreams. Hayden moved to the other side of the bed, lifted up the covers and
crawled in. The sheets were cool and made her shiver all the more. No
sooner did she rest her head on the pillow than she felt her mother's
hand stroke her hair. "I thought you were staying at Stacey's?" Her voice was heavy
with sleep as she twirled a lock of Hayden's hair around her finger. Hayden tried to think up a good reason to have come home, one that
wouldn't send Grace on a tangent — even contemplated telling her
the truth. But what would be the sense in that? "I couldn't sleep in that strange house ... so I walked home." 
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