Passing Through Midnight (2 page)

Why she went directly to the front door to retrieve the
little boy's rolled-up piece of paper, she wasn't sure. It wasn't as if
she was curious about it. Maybe it was knowing that it was there, out
of place and needing to be disposed of that caused her to bring it in
and toss it on the dining room table on her way to the kitchen. She'd
throw it away later, if she could find the energy.

She made coffee and sat in a straight-backed chair at the
kitchen table waiting for it to brew. She didn't look out the big
window across from her because she didn't care if there was any weather
at all, and she wasn't much interested in the miles and miles of dull,
flat Kansas landscape.

It was her goal of late to keep her mind free of thought
and emotion, to stare blankly at the clasped hands in her lap or a
vacant spot on a wall. The less she worked her brain, the less she
felt, the better off she was —though she frequently nodded
off to sleep, exhausted from the effort.

The phone rang just as she finished her coffee. She set
the cup in the sink with the others she'd used that week, along with
several dirty dishes and the pot she cooked her soup in twice a day.

"Hello, Mother," she said without hesitation or enthusiasm.

"Hello, darling, how are you feeling today?"

"Better." She always said "better". If she didn't, she'd
have someone else at her front door with a lot more than a rolled-up
piece of paper in their hands.

"How are your eyes, dear? Has the swelling gone down?"

"Yes. They're fine."

"Still black-and-blue?"

"A little."

"It's such a shame your nose didn't set right the first
time. Having to break it again to fix whatever it was they couldn't fix
the first time was such a bother. But I really think you were smart to
get it all fixed at once, while you were still in the hospital with
your leg. Going back to the hospital after spending so many months
there getting well would have been very difficult for you."

"I know." She stepped over to the sink and picking
carefully, removed her coffee cup and filled it again. She could tell
her mother was feeling chatty that morning.

"It's all behind you now. From here on it's simply a
matter of exercising your leg, getting your strength back and coming
home. How long is your leave of absence?"

"It's indefinite."

"Well, you should get back as soon as you can, you know,
so they don't give your job to someone else. You've worked far too hard
for your position. All those years of medical school, your
internship…
three
years of residency.
You've given up so much for your career, it would be unspeakable to
lose it all now because of some fluke accident. A tragedy, really, but
certainly nothing you can't overcome. God doesn't give us more than we
can bear, you know."

"So I've heard." Frankly, she suspected that He had
overestimated her endurance this time.

"So, you're out walking every day, yes?" It was easier to
let her make assumptions. "I'm sure all that country air can't be
anything but good for you, darling. Though I must say that when I
suggested you get away for a while, I never dreamed you'd end up in
Nowhere, Kansas."

"I'm not exactly in shape for Club Med, Mother."

"No, I suppose not, but I was thinking of something along
the lines of a health club or a body spa." Dorie knew what she had been
thinking. She
always
knew what her mother was
thinking. Her mother was entirely predictable, which was one of the
many things she loved about her.

"Well, I suppose it doesn't matter, as long as you're
resting and getting strong again. Have you met any of the locals?
Country people are so friendly. Not like city people. And you don't
have to be afraid to go out your front door the way you do here. I
understand that some of those farmers make a very good
living…"

Something else she loved about her mother—she
dropped subtle hints the size of atomic bombs.

"I'm not exactly in shape to get remarried either, Mother,
so let's drop the subject," she said, thinking of Gil Howlett, not
knowing why.

"All right," she said, recognizing the tone of her
daughter's voice. "Did you get the package I sent? Carmella was so
sweet. I told her about the problem with your hair, and she says the
best thing to do is cut it all short, then grow it out again. She found
a book full of short hairstyles for you to look at. So many people here
love you. Everyone asks about you. I don't know why you felt you needed
to go so far away to recuperate when there are so many people right
here who would be happy to help you."

"I don't need any help, Mother. I just need time. Alone."

"Yes, I know, dear. And I'm trying to understand. But it
seems to me that when something this devastating happens, most people
would want to have their family and friends nearby."

"I'm only an hour away by plane, and I can reach out and
touch you by phone whenever I want." Lord, how many times were they
going to have to have this conversation? She sighed, and her gaze
wandered into the dining room to the little boy's rolled-up paper on
the table.

"Well, I wish you would call once in a while," her mother
said, sounding slightly irritated. "If I didn't make a point of calling
you at least once a day, I'd never hear from you. I worry about you,
dear, especially now…"

Dorie set the receiver on the counter ever so softly and
walked back to the dining room. Slipping the rubber band from around
the tube, she spread it out flat on the dark maple tabletop.

Bold and bright, as only a map drawn in crayon could be,
the little boy had put stick cows in the big field behind the house;
he'd planted trees and still, green wheat fields exactly where they
should be; the graveled drives and the road between their houses were
outlined in black. The houses themselves were large X's to mark the
spots with a curving dotted line between them to show the way. She
forgave him the blond curly hair on the stick woman beside one of the
X's… he'd never really seen her after all. Most appealing,
however, was the huge smile on the face of the stick boy he'd drawn in
his own front yard.

For the first time in months a smile came to her lips,
easy and spontaneous. He must have spent hours on such a masterpiece,
she thought, sighing as a warm sensation spread through her chest.

Still holding the map, studying the finer details, she
returned to the kitchen.

"… Midge's daughter, Eve? You remember? The one
with that dreadful overbite? She had a mastectomy last year, and she's
still married… eighteen years, I think Midge said. So, you
see—"

"Mother," she broke in quietly. "Happily ever after isn't
in my story. Marriage and children just aren't written in it. If I've
learned anything from this, it's that what is, is. You can't make
things happen. You can't stop them from happening. They simply
happen…" At the worst of times and when you least expect it,
she added to herself, touching the smiling stick boy on the map.
"… or they don't happen."

"That sounds so fatalistic. Honey, I—"

"Mother? Mom?" she broke in again. "Could I call you back?
I was going into town today, and if I don't leave pretty soon, I'll be
too tired."

"Of course, darling. But I know you'll forget to call, so
I'll call you later."

"Good. Thanks for calling. I love you."

"I love you, too, dear, and I'm so pleased that you're
getting out. If you do happen to run into a wealthy farmer, you be sure
to…"

The geographic center of the continental United States is
located two miles northwest of Lebanon, Kansas. Two steps in any
direction from that point places you smack-dab in the middle of
nowhere—exactly the sort of place Dorie had been looking for.
A nowhere place where no one knew her, and she didn't have to be anyone.

One hundred and forty miles southwest, as the crow flies,
was the sleepy little farming community of Colby —at least
that's how most people would have classified it. The first time she
drove up Range Street, Dorie called it a haven, a sanctuary, a safe
place to hide.

Denver had been her original destination, assuming a big
fish needed a big pond to conceal it. But when she'd pulled off I -70
to gas up and stretch her bad leg, something about Colby had appealed
to her.

It was early March, and no place looked its best that time
of year. So maybe it was the first few inhabitants that she encountered
that made her want to stay. The gas station attendant had been friendly
and efficient, noting her Illinois plates, asking her destination,
cautioning her to drive safely. She'd parked on the wide cobbled street
downtown in front of the drugstore and limped her way along the
sidewalk to a cafe. A middle-aged woman smiled and said hello. Dorie
stopped to see if she'd turn back and stare—she didn't.

Her entrance at the cafe didn't go unnoticed, but it was
amazingly short-lived considering that she was dressed in a trench
coat, scarf, and dark glasses, as if she were traveling incognito in a
forties film. She heard no whispering, caught no furtive glances in her
direction. One man nodded a greeting as she hobbled over to an empty
booth, and that was it. It was as if the people of Colby were
inherently open and friendly but well mannered enough to mind their own
business. She liked that.

She liked the way they looked too. Clean, healthy, and
solid. No designer suits, no gang colors, no spiked heels…
or hair. Salt-of-the-earth types who didn't feel the need to carry guns
in their pockets; who weren't looking for potential victims to fleece.
They were hardworking types who looked comfortable and satisfied with
their lives.

That afternoon she'd sat in a room full of strangers, and
her hands didn't shake. For the first time in weeks she'd felt safe and
relaxed. She was a big fish getting smaller all the time, hidden away
in a little pond.

Now, she shivered in the wind and pulled her coat tight
about her as she recalled that first wintery afternoon. Her emergency
run into Warren's IGA for cookie mix that morning had been a quick
in-and-out affair that no one seemed to notice—she was
practically invisible already. She was still nodding approval of her
decision to stay in Colby when she became alert to the sound of a
vehicle on the county road in front of the house.

The big black and silver truck turned into the gravel
drive, and her heart began to race. She pushed the dark glasses tight
against her face and pulled the scarf close to her cheeks as she stood
to greet the Howletts.

When out-of-doors she usually took the precaution of using
a cane to help her walk, but this was sort of a special occasion and
she'd opted to go without it—hoping one less oddity in her
appearance would be less frightening to the little boy. However, as she
stepped to the end of the porch, she discovered that limping and
balancing a plate of cookies in one hand could be a little tricky.

Instead of turning to park between the house and the barn,
the truck came directly toward her and stopped short a few feet from
the bottom step.

"Dorothy Devries?" The man cut the engine and was out of
the truck before she could adjust to how much taller he was on ground
level than from a second-story window. It startled her.

"Yes. Mr. Howlett, right?"

"I'm Gil," he said, coming up the steps with a disarming
smile.

"I'm Dorie." She swallowed the panicky feeling she'd
recently acquired in the presence of strangers, and tried to smile
back. Her lips felt stiff and awkward.

"I'm mighty glad you decided to come out of the house on
your own. We were getting worried about you."

"Well, I…" She'd been hoping to play the old
my-behavior-isn't-too-strange-if-no-one-comments-on-it game, but
obviously he didn't know the rules. "I've been ill."

"You should have hollered out the window. We might have
been able to help."

"No," she said quickly, realizing that the nervousness
inside and the tingling in her fingers weren't all panic. He was a
stranger to her, yes, but he was also a very attractive and appealing
stranger. "I wasn't that kind of ill. I'm recuperating from an
accident. I'm fine. I… it's just hard to get around
sometimes, and I don't look…"

He nodded, lowering his eyes for a moment, then he smiled
at her with understanding.

"You don't have to explain anything. We wanted you to know
that we're around if you need anything, is all." He shrugged at the
simplicity of it. He was watching her closely, as if trying to figure
out what she might look like without the dark glasses and scarf.

"Thank you," she said, feeling relieved and uncomfortable
at once. "I appreciate your neighborliness, in fact"—she
looked back at the truck and for the first time realized he was
alone—"I… I made these for your little boy, for
the map, the invitation. I… well, here."

He took the plate of cookies when she thrust it at him and
smiled. "Baxter loves chocolate chip. These are a big mistake," he
said, shaking his head.

"Why?" It was no surprise to her that any attempt to reach
out to another human being, even a child, would turn out badly. It was
becoming the story of her life.

"We Howletts are like dogs. Feed us, and you can't get rid
of us." His gaze, twinkling with humor, tried to meet hers behind the
dark glasses. "We're a house full of men over there. Me, the boys, and
my uncle Matthew. We never get stuff like this, except at Christmas,
and only if Matthew's in the mood."

"Oh," she said, feeling a little better. Clearly he was
trying to be friendly and charming, and were she any other woman in the
world, she might have been tempted to flirt with him a little. If she
were any other woman in the world, she would have found his astute and
sparkling eyes alluring, his smile beguiling, his confident stance and
carriage irresistible… but she wasn't any other woman, and
she wasn't in a mood to be charmed. "Well then, I hope you all enjoy
them," she said, preparing to go back inside, away from his disturbing
gaze.