Page 45 of The Midnight Hour
I fall silently, slightly chastened, and turn my gaze back to the sunset, wanting to enjoy its beauty, undiminished by our bland surroundings. Everyone else seems to have settled in here well. Daniel is back in an office, crunching numbers; he doesn’t tell me much about it, only that he is working out supply systems and amounts needed. Sam hauls boxes and seems to like the biceps he’s building as a result; he’s played some pickup games of basketball with the other single guys, including Ben, who he has taken under his wing; I was surprised once to see them joking around together. It was the first time I’d seen Ben look anything other than sullen.
Kyle has taken to farming; the NBSRC has several fieldsout by the old airport they’re cultivating, and Kyle has driven the backhoe, something he’s inordinately proud of. Mattie is helping with the kindergarten class, and Ruby enjoys science. Phoebe has come out of herself a little; the other day she brought home a tattered picture book from school and asked me to read it to her.
I’m the only one who’s determined to find a problem, it seems, and maybe there isn’t one.
“Why are you thinking about Michael Duart?” Daniel asks, nudging my foot with his. I’m glad he’s seemed happier here, even if he still has those moments of darkness. I’ve seen him chatting to Tom a few times, looking both intent and thankful, and I’m hopeful that maybe whatever memories he has been running away from torment him less here.
As for me…when I close my eyes, I still see the affable face of the man I shot dead. In my mind, he looks even kindlier and friendlier than I think he was in real life; soon, in my imagination, he’s going to resemble a smiling and benevolent Mr.Rogers. Is he a figment of my imagination, or was he really one of the good guys? Maybe I’ll never know.
I walked by the base’s chapel the other day—they hold services on a Sunday but so far we haven’t gone—and thought about going in and checking out Habakkuk 3:17–18 in a pew Bible, just so I’d know, but I didn’t. Didn’t want to make the man in my memory any more personable than he already was.
“He’s in charge here,” I tell Daniel, “so of course I wonder. And what about this committee. Do we even know who’s on it?”
“William Stratton,” Daniel replies, with a touch of humor. We’ve both seen him swaggering around here, seeming both pompous and grave, like he’s auditioning for president. Maybe he is.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” His tone has turned repressive, slightlyimpatient. “There always have to be people in charge, Alex, otherwise it’s anarchy.”
“I know.” I sigh as I tilt my head to the sky, wishing yet again I could just be in this moment. This place.
“What are you afraid of?” Daniel asks after a moment. “That he’ll imprison us here or something? You know some people have already left?”
“Yes, I know.” A couple in their forties, the kind of people who could live in the woods for three weeks with nothing more than a knife and a ball of twine, decided they could do better on their own. They walked out of the gates, got in their car, and drove away, as simple as that, just as Michael Duart had promised.
No, I realize, I’m not afraid of being imprisoned, at least not by the likes of Michael Duart. I am, I realize as I stare at the twilit sky now darkened to indigo, afraid of imprisoning myself. Of letting this be enough—work, sleep, hot water, safety. Life has to be more than that. Doesn’t it? Or maybe it doesn’t.
As if reading my thoughts—he can be so good at that—Daniel says teasingly, “There’s a movie night this week. That’s something to look forward to, right?”
Every Friday night since we arrived there has been some organized social activity—a board-game night with battered boxes of Monopoly or Clue; a karaoke and darts night, which didn’t go over so well, because the reality is maybe you need to be a little drunk to get up on a table and start singing along to Celine Dion, and of course there’s no booze here at the NBSRC.
The social activities have been a nice idea, but generally pretty subdued in atmosphere. People aren’t really in the mood to party, or even laugh, but maybe one day we will be. We found the humor back at the cottage; I recall Kerry and I laughing till tears streamed down our cheeks. If we couldthere, when life felt so fraught and precarious, why not here, when it doesn’t?
But maybe that is, in fact, the reason why.
“It’s just…” I tell Daniel. “What’s next?”
He raises his eyebrows. “I heard next week’s Friday night fun is going to be tacos and a piñata.”
I try to laugh, but I only manage a tired sigh. “You know what I mean.”
Daniel sighs right back at me and tilts his head to the sky, staring up at the oncoming darkness. “I’m not sure I even want there to be a next, Alex,” he says quietly, like a confession. The words seem to fall in the stillness of the evening, ripple out.
“You’re good with this? Life as it is?” I speak with curiosity rather than judgement. Truth be told, I’m not sure if I really know whetherI’mgood with life as it is. I know I’m kicking against the goads when it comes to this place, but that might be all it is. Futile resistance, no more than an exercise in vain autonomy because I don’t want to be seen as some kind of mindless sheep, and yet do I really want to stir myself to do something else? What else is there even to do?
“I’m good with this,” Daniel agrees, his tone final. “I like my work, I like having food to eat, I like talking to Tom. You should get to know his wife, Abby?—”
“Maybe I will,” I say, something of a dismissal. She seems very nice, maybe too nice, the way she smiles and hoists a baby on her hip, all peaceable earth mama. Next to her, I have a feeling I’ll be shown up as nervy and selfish and unsure, all of which I know I am.
“Most of all,” Daniel finishes, “I like having someone else worry about the world and how it’s going.” He pauses. “I don’t want anything more.”
For a second, I picture Daniel back at our house in Connecticut, a sprawling McMansion with tasteful details and four thousand square feet of space I’d made into a cozy andwelcoming home. I see him flipping burgers on our deck, opening a bottle of wine at the vast marble island in our kitchen, taking a work call in his study, ensconced in soft leather and dark mahogany, his forehead furrowed in enjoyable concentration.
“Really?” I ask, genuinely curious and a little sad. “Just this?”
He nods slowly, and for a second, no more, a bleak look comes into his eyes. “Just this.”
“What about the kids?” I ask quietly. “Don’t you want more for them? Eventually, I mean?”
