Page 56 of The Midnight Hour
And yet.
Is this the start of something? Is this when I find my resolve, steel my spine, and stride forward into something better? It doesn’t feel that way as I close the Bible and slip it back under the pew. I just feel as weary as I ever have, but I hold on to that flicker of something stronger as I leave the empty chapel, closing the door quietly behind me.
It’s dark and already below freezing, even though it isn’t much past six at night. Curfew was moved to seven o’clock during what had once been daylight savings—could we really mark time that way anymore?—ostensibly to conserve electricity. No one protested much; those mutters really have died out now. We’re all too afraid, or maybe we’re just too tired.
This, I think, is how dictatorships start. With the promise of safety, of a little bit of comfort, and everyone’s weary indifference to anything else.
And yet, as I walk through the quiet darkness back to my little house, those words continue to reverberate through me.
And yet. And yet. And yet I will give thanks, I will try, I will persevere, I will prevail. Admittedly, that is something of a loose paraphrase of a sacred text, but still. I feel it. I want it. Not just for myself, or, really, not for myself at all, but for Daniel, who is already asleep. For Sam, who seems so unhappy and still won’t look at me. For Mattie, who is defiantly making a life for herself, one that I’m pretty sure includes Kyle, who I’m alsotrying for. For Ruby, who in her own quiet way is incredibly strong. For Phoebe, the silent ghost-child I never expected to love.
For all of them, I want to make something of our lives, something more than this, something thatisn’tthis.
The realization fires through me, gives me even more of a sense of purpose. My stride quickens, my heart rate too. I have no idea what I’m planning, but, for the first time in a long while, it feels like something.
When I get back to the house, I let myself in quietly, not wanting to disturb Daniel, even though it’s just before seven at night, hardly late. Mattie flies toward me.
“Mom.” She sounds accusing, afraid, and angry all at once. So typically my daughter.
“What is it?” I ask, keeping my voice light.
“Mom, it’s serious,” she exclaims, like a reprimand. “Something’s happened. Something bad.”
She laces her fingers together, knuckles white. From behind her, Kyle hovers, pale-faced and as looking as anxious as I’ve ever seen him. For a second, I’m reminded of the pathetic little man-child we encountered nearly a year ago, in Corville, and yet he’s become so much more than that.
“What’s happened?” I ask. Even now, I’m still expecting some variation on a teenaged drama, which, considering the world we live in, is both foolish and naive. Maybe the only way of getting through moments like these is to not always expect the worst.
“It’s Sam,” Mattie says, and my stomach hollows out.
After the fights and booze fests in the warehouse, I can hardly bear to think what might have happened. “What…”
“Come on.” She tugs my hand, and I frown.
“Mattie, it’s after curfew. And what about Phoebe?—”
“She’s asleep, and Dad and Ruby are both here. Come on, Mom. This isserious.”
With deepening apprehension, I let myself be tugged outside and along the road. I have no idea where we’re going, but it turns out it’s not that far—a narrower road, little more than an alley between two anonymous-looking buildings, heading toward the mess hall.
In the dark, it takes me a moment to adjust to what I’m seeing—two shapes, one crouched over another lying supine on the ground. The first is my son Sam, looking terrified. The second is William Stratton, looking dead.
TWENTY-TWO
“What…” My mouth is dry, and I force myself to swallow as I take a step closer to the terrible scene. “Whathappened?”
“It was an accident,” Sam half whispers, half whimpers. “I swear.”
“But…” I stand above William Stratton and gaze down at his gray face. He’s unconscious, and there’s blood trickling from his lip, but at least not his head. “What happened?” I ask again.
“He came at me,” Sam explains. “When I was walking back.’
“Why?”
“Because he thinks Sam is having an affair with Nicole,” Mattie states bluntly, and I flinch, because I’m Sam’s mother, and the thought of him having an affair with anyone, never mind a fortyish woman, is pretty hard to take.
“Sam—”
“I’m not,” Sam says quickly. “I mean, she’sold. Not that she’s…I was just talking to her about Ben, because he’s been kind of quiet lately…anyway. Stratton is crazy. He just came at me and I…well, we had words, and then I punched him.” Samcradles his fist, his voice filled with a wary sort of wonder. “I’ve never punched anyone before. It hurts.”
