In the Middle of the Night

  The telephone rang, cutting through the moaning. Aunt Mary reached for it, her other arm still embracing Mrs. Denehan and Mrs. Denehan’s face like a bruise, all pain.

  Aunt Mary listened, her face altering, joy suddenly leaping in her eyes, her mouth open in astonishment. Placing the phone against her thin chest, she announced: She’s alive. Our Lulu’s alive … at the hospital … she’s not dead …

  In the hospital room, everything white, walls and ceiling as well as the white cast that enclosed Lulu’s body like a suit of armor and the bandage around her head like a helmet. Her eyes, dark islands in all that whiteness, looked at us as if from some far distance.

  Aunt Mary rushed to her side and I lingered near the doorway. Lulu lay stiff on the bed and did not, maybe could not, lift her arms to receive Aunt Mary.

  You’re alive, Aunt Mary crooned, an answer to our prayers, a miracle.

  It wasn’t a miracle, Lulu said.

  Back from the dead, Aunt Mary said, shaking her head in wonder.

  I was not dead, Lulu said, voice sharp and bitter.

  Well, whatever, you’re with us now, back with us, Aunt Mary said.

  I’m not back with you, Lulu said, eyes snapping with anger. I didn’t go anywhere. I’m here. I was always here.

  I finally went to the bed and looked down at her. She closed her eyes and her face closed up, too, shutting us out.

  Later, the doctor spoke to us in a small office at the end of the corridor. An old doctor, eyes bloodshot, hair askew, white jacket soiled, reeking of fire and smoke.

  Poor you, Aunt Mary murmured. On the go, all this terrible day.

  I had seen him moving among the injured outside the theater, stethoscope dangling, gnarled hands touching, soothing, passing across bruised flesh.

  He sighed, weary, body sagging in the chair. Then: Let me tell you about Lulu. A remarkable recovery.

  A miracle, Aunt Mary said. An answer to our prayers.

  Some things are hard to explain, he said, stroking his gaunt face with those old hands. I’m so tired, so tired. Anyway, we thought we had lost her but she rallied.

  Did her heart stop? I asked, hearing my voice as if someone else had spoken.

  It’s been a long day, he said, sighing again. Then, briskly: Let me tell you about her injuries and the prognosis.

  He spoke of the fractures and the concussion and the months of therapy and rehabilitation ahead.

  He did not say that her heart had stopped.

  But did not deny it, either.

  Later, I said to Lulu: Tell me what happened.

  Nothing happened, she said.

  When the balcony came down, I told her, I ducked my head, then found myself on the floor, a seat on top of me. Then I began sneezing, stupid sneezes. What do you remember?

  Nothing, she said.

  But her eyes said otherwise. Those snapping black eyes of hers looked away, and Lulu was never one to look away. Especially from me.

  Didn’t you feel anything, Lulu?

  No.

  Don’t you remember anything?

  You’re repeating yourself, she said. Then: I … don’t … remember … anything. Spacing the words. What more can I say?

  Why are you so mad?

  She did not answer, but her anger was like heat coming from a stove.

  I knew what I wanted her to say. I wanted her to tell me what happened when her heart stopped beating, when her blood stopped flowing, when the pulse in her temple became perfectly still.

  What she saw, what she felt, what it was like to die.

  She finally looked me straight in the eye.

  I’m not Lazarus, she said.

  A long time later, I visited the rehabilitation unit and found her sitting in a chair, bandages removed from her head, wearing a flowered dress Aunt Mary had bought her, the white hospital gown in the closet, at last.

  She was studying a folded newspaper in her lap when I came in. She looked up, her face revealing an expression I had never seen there before. My mind scurried to identify it. Anger still there, but more than that. Something calm and cold in her face and eyes, but also deadly.

  He went free, she said.

  Who?

  The boy who started the fire. Who started it all.

  She brandished the newspaper, and I saw the picture of the boy, the headline:

  USHER CLEARED IN TRAGIC CASE

  The boy, she said, who …

  She looked away from me, stared out the window, as if searching the outdoors for something no one else could see. I saw her lips move as she finished the sentence, her voice so low that I couldn’t hear the words. Then she turned back to me, a terrible look in her eyes. The boy who killed me, she said.

  Admitting, at last, that she was Lazarus, after all.

  Part Two

  This is what Denny’s father, John Paul Colbert, thought about in the middle of the night: how his life changed forever at the age of sixteen when he became assistant manager/head usher at the Globe Theater in downtown Wickburg, Massachusetts.

  His job was not as glamorous as it sounded. The Globe was a faded relic of Hollywood’s golden years, when ornate theaters featured velvet curtains and crystal chandeliers, and snappy ushers in military uniforms guided people to their seats. Those were the days of double features (two movies for the price of one), twelve-chapter cowboy serials at Saturday matinees and Milk Duds for five cents a box. What a time that was!

  At least, that’s the way Mr. Zarbor described those earlier times. Mr. Zarbor owned the Globe and he liked to tell John Paul about the olden days before television came along and provided free movies at home.

  Worst of all, he said, were the shopping centers which later on brought the “cinemas,” a word Mr. Zarbor detested. “Cinema One and Two,” he lamented. “Made of cinder blocks. No velvet curtain—no curtains at all.”

  The Globe featured foreign movies that never made it to the shopping centers, and provided a place in downtown Wickburg for special programs like the annual Christmas show, when the Nutcracker Suite was presented for young and old alike, and appearances by old-time big bands. Mr. Zarbor loved variety acts—magicians, tap dancers, jugglers and acrobats. He was most proud of his annual “Monster Magic Show” each Halloween, a program for the city’s children, especially orphans and those in foster homes. Although the Wickburg Rotary Club was the official sponsor, John Paul’s father told him that Mr. Zarbor paid most of the acts out of his own pocket.

  John Paul worked at the theater weekends and two or three nights a week, depending on business. He sold tickets at the box office, swept the floors, ran errands. Mr. Zarbor was a good boss. He sympathized with John Paul and his family. They had arrived from Canada a few years before to start a new life in the United States. Mr. Zarbor had been an immigrant whose family had fled Hungary a generation earlier, when he was sixteen years old, exactly John Paul’s age. “You remind me of myself,” Mr. Zarbor said.

  In the United States, John Paul woke up every day with great expectations. His parents had been eager to leave the small parish north of Montreal in the Province of Quebec. His father, a quick-talking impatient man, claimed that the French-speaking people of Quebec were treated as second-class citizens by the Canadian government. He and John Paul’s mother spent their savings on their son’s education, sending him to a private school in Montreal where classes focused on the English language and U.S. culture and history. When he and his parents moved south, John Paul was ready, although he had certain doubts. Language, for one thing. He spoke without a heavy accent but his English was stilted and formal, learned from books and not from conversation. At Wickburg Regional High School, he was glad to lose himself among hundreds of other students while he adjusted to his new life.

  John Paul’s parents adjusted quickly to life in Wickburg. His father found a job immediately as a chef in a French restaurant downtown, and dreamed of the day when he would open his own place. His mother kept busy with the activities of St. Therese’s Church. She
sold cards at the Friday night beano parties and visited the sick and the shut-ins.

  The restaurant where John Paul’s father worked was next to the Globe Theater. He struck up an acquaintance with Mr. Zarbor—they both loved foreign movies, especially French and Italian films—and this led to John Paul’s employment at the theater.

  Life, John Paul reflected, was good. As far as language was concerned, he would have to learn contractions. That was his biggest difficulty. Mr. Burns, his English teacher, said: “Your vocabulary is excellent but you have to learn to say don’t or aren’t or doesn’t. Instead of do not, are not or does not.”

  “I will try,” John Paul said. In his mind he used contractions, but when he spoke, they disappeared.

  “No—I’ll try,” the teacher said, kind but firm. “That’s the only way you’ll sound like a real U.S. teenager.”

  “Okay,” John Paul said. Okay—a safe American word that always came in handy.

  Preparations for the magic show began early that year, featuring “Martini the Magnificent,” a magician who often appeared on children’s television programs. His performance included sawing a woman not only in half, but in five separate pieces, sudden disappearances and strange rituals featuring ghosts and goblins. His act also called for special constructions backstage, where John Paul learned to his disappointment that there was no magic at all in Martini’s act. All of it was mechanical, not mystical. It was like learning that there was no Santa Claus—a wonderful moment of discovery followed by the bleak lonesome truth. Martini himself, when he showed up, turned out to be a fussy, demanding man whose real name was unromantic and ordinary: Oscar Jones.

  Preparing for the big day, John Paul vacuumed the faded carpet in the aisles, tried to scrape away the remains of chewing gum from the cement floor under the seats, did his best to repair seats that did not fold down properly. Mr. Zarbor paid him time and a half for overtime and treated him to sundaes and ice cream sodas after the work was done for the day.

  “What about the balcony?” John Paul asked. He had heard that the balcony, closed for many years, might be reopened for Martini because a bigger audience than usual was expected.

  They both looked up at the cluttered, forbidding balcony, long used as a place for storage.

  Mr. Zarbor sighed hugely. “Forget it, the balcony,” he said. “It would take an army to move all that stuff. We’ll arrange for an extra performance if it becomes necessary …”

  “Okay,” John Paul replied cheerfully. He avoided the balcony if possible. When he was sent there, he often heard rats scurrying among the debris and strange crackling sounds. He always looked around nervously, expecting … he did not know what he expected. We should clean the balcony up, he thought. But he never said anything to Mr. Zarbor. Too big a job, removing all that junk.

  John Paul awakened early the day of the magic show, glad that Halloween this year fell on a Saturday because that added to the drama of the event. He looked forward to seeing the show through the innocent eyes of the children, hoping this would bring back some of the magic that had disappeared when he’d seen the backstage facts.

  On the way to the Globe early that afternoon, he was hurried along by brisk howling winds that shook leaves from their branches, creating a snowfall of many colors. Low clouds were heavy with rain that maybe would come later. Perfect weather for Halloween and a mysterious magic show.

  When he arrived at the theater, Mr. Zarbor was talking to the six high-school kids he had hired to help out that afternoon. Although they were students at Wickburg Regional, John Paul did not recognize any of them. Four boys and two girls. His eyes were immediately drawn to a slender, blond girl whose hair flowed to her shoulders. Her eyes were a deep dark brown, in sharp contrast to her hair. A pang pierced his heart. He was always drawn to impossible loves, those always out of reach: movie stars, cheerleaders at football games, lovely girls walking down the street.

  “Ah, you’re here,” Mr. Zarbor said, spotting John Paul. Then to the high schoolers, “This is your boss. He will be in charge for the afternoon. John Paul Colbert.”

  Blushing furiously, John Paul faced his small audience. He tried to avoid looking at the beautiful blonde, afraid he would not be able to speak at all. The four boys were tall and gangly, probably basketball players. The other girl was small and dark-haired and seemed nervous, clearing her throat, tiny hands touching her cheeks, her nose, her hair.

  Mr. Zarbor had rehearsed the instructions with him. They were simple assignments, thank goodness.

  Taking a deep breath, he told the four boys that they were assigned to general duties: watching the children, helping them find seats (some were only five or six years old), keeping an eye out for older troublemakers. He realized he was making a speech. He told himself to watch his contractions.

  “Don’t scold the young children,” he said, conscious that he had avoided do not. “They will be excited but will settle down after a while.” He had missed they’ll, had used they will.

  Turning to the girls, he was crushed to find the beautiful one stifling a yawn. The other girl stared at him intently, frowning. He concentrated on her. The girls would be in charge of the candy counter before the show started. Candy and popcorn were free but the children needed coupons to obtain them. Later, the girls would patrol the aisles with the boys, making sure the children were safe, looking for children who might have become sick. Who knows?

  The boys asked a few simple questions. He answered them without wasting words, watching his contractions.

  Ten minutes later, and forty-five minutes before curtain time, the children arrived in six big orange buses. They marched into the theater in orderly fashion, as if taking part in a parade. Boys with ties, hair neatly combed. Girls in dresses. Mostly young children, the oldest eleven or twelve. All of them trying to suppress their excitement but suddenly breaking ranks, whooping and yelling with sheer delight. “They go crazy at first but they settle down after a while,” Mr. Zarbor had told him.

  The hired boys did their best to guide the children to their seats and to maintain some kind of order. But order was not the order of the day. The children ran all over the place, rushing for the front rows, climbing over seats, saving places for friends, pushing and shoving, all in great good spirits. In the lobby, the two high-school girls worked frantically as the children stormed the candy counter as if it were a fort to be taken.

  John Paul was here, there and everywhere. Answering questions, giving directions to the rest rooms. Called to the candy counter to settle an argument: Some children had not been issued coupons or had forgotten to bring them. Others had five or six. The rule had been two coupons per child, don’t spend them both at once. The girls looked at him desperately. “Only fifteen minutes to go,” he consoled them. The lights blinked, once, twice, three times. He was wrong. “Ten minutes to go,” he told the girls. Mr. Zarbor had allowed ten minutes for the children to settle down. Which they did quickly, finding their seats, speaking in whispers, although a few could not resist throwing popcorn around.

  “Always a mistake, the popcorn,” Mr. Zarbor told John Paul as they stood down front near the stage. “A big cleanup job. But what’s a show without popcorn?”

  Glancing at his watch, Mr. Zarbor said: “Five minutes more. Then the big bang …”

  John Paul knew what Mr. Zarbor meant. Martini the Magnificent was especially proud of his dramatic opening. First a big boom, like an explosion, which never failed, he said, to bring on a stunning silence. Then total darkness. So dark the audience would not see the curtain silently part and open. Then a small dim light onstage, followed by another. Then another. Pinpoints of light like tiny stars winking in a darkened sky. Finally, Martini would appear as if suspended in the darkness. And the show would commence.

  A mysterious and magic moment occurs a few minutes before a stage show begins, as if a silent signal has been sent. John Paul had seen this happen a number of times. It was happening now. The theater became quiet, a spooky kind
of quiet. There was no clock in the theater and most of the children did not have watches, but they sensed that the show was about to start. They were instantly subdued, as if every child in the place had taken a deep breath and was holding it.

  Awed by the stillness, John Paul was startled when Mr. Zarbor touched his arm. “What was that?” Mr. Zarbor asked. His voice a whisper in the quietness.

  John Paul frowned. Did he mean the sudden absence of sound? No, something else. “Listen.” Now John Paul heard something. But what? A slow creaking sound. He thought, for some reason, of a ship tearing loose from its mooring, its deck creaking eerily, although he had never heard such a sound before—unless he’d heard it in a movie.

  The sound again. Louder.

  He and Mr. Zarbor exchanged puzzled looks.

  The noise: this time like a huge nail being pulled from a board by a hammer. Crazy, but that is what it sounded like to him. A creaking, yanking noise. From the balcony.

  John Paul looked, and so did Mr. Zarbor. John Paul thought some kids might have crept up there and were fooling around in the junk and debris.

  “Better go see,” Mr. Zarbor said.

  Dark up there, as usual. “I do not have my flashlight,” John Paul said.

  “Here.” Mr. Zarbor handed him a book of matches.

  Reluctantly, John Paul made his way up the center aisle and through the lobby, then ascended the soiled carpeted steps to the balcony. The giant chandelier hanging from the ceiling gave no light: the bulbs had long ago burned out. He squinted into the semidarkness at the accumulation of junk. Old newspapers, cartons, piles of rags, old rolled-up posters. Saw no one. Was startled by that strange creaking sound almost beneath his feet. Much louder than before.

  Then: the explosion from the stage as the show began, the sound booming through the air, banging against the walls, echoing from the high ceiling. The delighted cries and gasps of the children. Then darkness. And silence.

  John Paul blinked: like being struck blind, this utter darkness.