19

Lillian woke and glanced at the clock radio. Six-fifteen. Almost time to get up. Her droopy eyes closed until the radio flipped onto the Christian music channel. She rolled to her side, her body still heavy with sleep. Dangling her legs over the edge of the bed, she looked around for her slippers.

Beside the far wall sat her walking shoes, covered with dirt and grass. She tried to focus her thoughts. There shouldn’t be mud on her shoes. When had she worn them last? As she bent to pick one up, the room began to spin. Gripping her knees with her hands, she waited for the dizziness to subside before turning her attention back to the shoes. The mud felt damp and the grass fresh.

The floor waved and rolled. She tried to gauge where to place each foot. Was she getting sick? She couldn’t remember ever being light-headed. Her muscles ached as if they had already done a day’s work and deserved time off for good behavior. Feeling slightly nauseous, she headed to the bathroom.

A shower helped clear her head, but the fatigue remained. She dressed for work, her hands clumsy as she tried to fasten buttons. Maybe a cup of coffee would help. She went to the kitchen, each footstep an adventure.

“Hey Lillian!” Jimmy sat at the old oak table, a bowl of frosted cereal in front of him. His brown hair had already been slicked down for the day, a futile activity since the wispy section on top would be standing up again before he made it into the school building.

“Good morning, sunshine.” Lillian replied, surprised at feeling thick tongued. She poured a cup of coffee, gripping the cup tightly, and carefully sat in a chair at the table.

The sound of clinking china came from the dining room. Trina would be setting the table for their new guest who, usually, was a late sleeper. Apparently her supper meetings started earlier today.

“I only have ten more days until school is out for Christmas break.” Jimmy spooned another bite to his mouth. “Then I get two weeks off.”

“I thought you liked school,” Lillian said, the caffeine already loosening her tongue.

“I do, but I like Christmas better.”

She chuckled. “Well, I have you beat. I only have two more days until I’m off for Christmas, and I get three weeks off.”

The two of them had made a game of being able to beat each other at anything that came along: who finished eating first, who got the car door open first, who colored the best picture.

“Wow, three weeks. I wish I went to your school.”

“You will someday, or one like it.” She sipped her black coffee, trying to focus on the boy across from her. “So what’s happening in school today?”

“Art. I love art.” He looked around mischievously. “Don’t tell Gram, but I’m making her a present.”

Lillian pretended to zip her lips closed.

Trina wobbled into the kitchen. “Hey, I thought I heard your voice. What can I get you for breakfast?”

“You know I get my own breakfast.” She turned back to the boy across from her. “So, Jimmy, do you recommend that cereal?”

He pointed both thumbs into the air.

“That good, huh? I guess I’ll have what he’s having.”

“I hate it that you don’t let me help you,” Trina said. “You’re living in a bed and breakfast.”

“And I slept in a bed and now I’m having breakfast. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t want to.” She poured cereal into her bowl and added milk.

“Ha, you spilled yours!” Jimmy said when some of cereal fell over the top of the bowl. “I didn’t spill mine.”

Lillian yawned. “Well, that’s one for you. That makes us even so far today.”

Trina sat down beside Jimmy. “I might as well rest while I can. Mrs. Blackwell shouldn’t need anything else.”

“You mean Nadine,” Lillian said with a chuckle.

“I can’t bring myself to call her by her first name.”

“Me neither. She looks like a Mrs. Blackwell to me.”

“May I be excused?” Jimmy asked, his spoon clattering to the table.

“Yes, you may,” Trina replied. “Go brush your teeth. But remember to walk.”

The boy ran out of the room and stomped up the stairs.

Trina grimaced. “So much for walking.”

“You’ll be a great mother, Trina.”

“Hmm. I hope so.” She grabbed a banana off the tray and pulled back the peel. “You look tired. Did you have trouble sleeping?”

Bill’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. “Hey, you should have the news on,” he said. “Another house burned down last night.”

Suddenly she was awake, tracing a line of thought to a horrible conclusion. First, there had been the gas cans in her car. Now dirty shoes in her room. And fires that began after her arrival in Darlington. It was impossible, and yet, how did her shoes end up with fresh mud and grass on them? No one had access to the house, or to her room, except the family. She trusted them with her life. Her spoon fell to the table as she stared ahead, unseeing.

Dr. Widder had warned her about the potential of unexpected behavior, and she had exhibited some, but that had been months ago. Many months.

She was better now. Better than she had ever been in her life. Why would she suddenly start sleep-walking? Shaking, she took her half-empty cereal bowl to the sink and crawled up to her room. She had to clean her shoes, and destroy any potential evidence.

Should she seek mental help? Call her old psychiatrist, Dr. Widder? Tie her feet to the bed at night? Her hands trembled as she watched mud swirl down the drain of the sink and disappear, much like her disappearing life. Now she couldn’t even trust herself.

~*~

Christmas had never held much interest for Roger except during the few years of his marriage. But he had to admit, when Ted and Trina trimmed for Christmas, they did it big. The old house stood transformed, like one of those old-time Christmas cards where the room was draped with ribbons and garland. All that remained was the tree, a hovering seven-foot pine that occupied the place of honor by the front window of the family parlor.

Trina had designated the foyer for snacks for the evening, and had covered the table with a red skirt. The antique crystal punchbowl graced the center. The punch, made from green powdered drink mix, lemon-lime soda pop and lime sherbet, looked festive against the red cloth.

Sandra had provided a tray of home-baked cookies and had included oatmeal raisin just for Trina. But it was the spiced cider that made the entire downstairs smell like cinnamon and cloves.

Too bad Paul had been called to work before he could enjoy the food.

Roger glanced toward Lillian as she placed a ball on the tree. The woman confused him. He could swear she suffered from multiple personalities. After her trip home at Thanksgiving, she had returned a different person—cheerful, more confident. And now, all of a sudden, the jumpy, nervous Lillian had resurfaced.

He walked toward her and placed a hand on her shoulder.

She jumped as though his touch were lightning, and walked away without explanation, stopping beside Trina at the punch bowl.

Shrugging, he turned back to the task at hand. Might as well finish and be done with this silly tree trimming nonsense.

He took one of the remaining ornaments out of the box and stared at the ball with its stripes of pink and white running up and down the frosted glass. “Where did you get all these things? Good thing you have them, though. There must be a tree in every room of the house.”

“Nope,” Bill said, plopping down onto the couch that had been moved to the opposite wall from the tree. “There’s none in my room.”

Sandra laughed and looked at Trina. “We tried, didn’t we?”

“And I said if you put a tree in my room I would shove it out the window.”

Sandra leaned over and gave him a hug. “You might act like a big bully, but we know better.”

“There’s one in my room and I love it.” Lillian said.

Roger glanced at her. That was the most she had said all evening.

“I’m glad you like the tree in your room, Lillian,” Bill said, “but my room will remain my domain.”

“One point for you, Uncle Bill,” Jimmy said, making a slash mark in the air with his finger.

“Give me five, buddy.” Bill clapped palms with the young boy. “We can’t let these women think they control us.”

“Right.” Jimmy puffed out his skinny chest.

“Come on, Dad, don’t teach Jimmy bad things.” Trina put a hand on each of Jimmy’s shoulders and bent her head toward him. “Women don’t control the men, and men don’t control women. We work together, just as God intended.”

Lillian didn’t seem to notice the interaction, or the good-natured jesting that followed. She stood, staring at the tree, and then her gaze shifted to the wall, and then at nothing.

Roger’s gut clenched. What was going on with her? They had established trust, at least he thought so. What had happened that she wasn’t telling him?

“Back to your question about the decorations, Roger,” Ted said, “we found trunks full of them in the attic. Either each generation bought new ones, or this house has been decorated Trina-style sometime in the past.”

“I guess it helps to own the house your ancestors have lived in since before the Civil War.” Sandra fingered a glass bell. “We should get some of these ornaments appraised.”

Trina gave a huff. “You would never sell them.”

“You never know.”

“Where’s Nadine?” Lillian asked Trina.

“I invited her to help us, but she had a meeting to go to. She said she’d try to get here before we finished.”

“She’d better hurry,” Roger replied.

What was with Trina inviting house guests to family events lately?

“How about this one?” Jimmy took a delicate-looking glass Santa from the box.

Sandra lifted the decoration from his hand. “Honey, let Grandma give you the pieces you can put on the tree. Some of the ornaments are fragile and you don’t want to break them.”

“I won’t break them, Gram.”

“You won’t mean to, but accidents happen.” She pulled a wooden reindeer with a piece of holly held in its mouth from the box.

“We could go to the store and buy some more if these got all broken,” Jimmy said as he attached the wooden ornament to a lower branch.

Trina grinned. “You would never be able to buy these at the store, honey.” She gave the boy a hug and pulled him to the couch with her. “Do you know some of these decorations are over a hundred years old?”

Jimmy stared at the tree, his eyes wide. “That’s older than Uncle Bill.”

“All right, hotshot,” Bill said. “Since I am so old, how about getting me a couple of cookies off that table over there—not the raisin ones, either.”

“Can I have some too?”

Bill glanced at Sandra. “Grandma said yes.”

“But only one,” Sandra called as she bent to remove Jimmy’s reindeer from the branch that already drooped from the weight of too many decorations. “You’ve already had more than enough.”

“That’s the last one. All the decorations are on,” Ted said. “And now, stand back and wait for the great tree lighting! If you will assist me, Miss Sandra.” As Ted reached for the end of the electric cord, Sandra switched off the lights in the entry and the living room.

They stood in darkness until a rainbow of color brightened the room. Awed silence filled the space.

“That’s the most beautiful tree I have ever seen.” Sandra clutched her hands to her chest.

Lillian stood in the back of the room, staring at the tree. But rather than showing pleasure, deep lines pulled at her face.

Roger slipped beside her. “Hey,” he whispered, “you don’t seem yourself.” She flinched when he touched her arm. “Has something else happened since…” he glanced around but no one seemed to be paying them any attention, “since, you know…the gas can incident?”

She turned toward him. “It’s worse than ever,” she murmured, her eyes pools of pain. “I may know who’s setting your fires.”

He grabbed her arm. “How do you know?” What had happened in the past few days that she had not told him? He thought they were beyond secrets, that she shared everything with him. Isn’t that what women did—talk? Every muscle in his body trembled as he tried to keep from shaking her.

She pulled away. “I’m not ready to talk about it. I need to pray about it first.” She joined Trina at the snack table.

He stared after her in frustration. What good would prayer do? As he snatched his jacket off the corner of the chair and barged toward the door, the hair on the back of his neck stiffened. He rubbed his skin, trying to ease the sensation.

Bill continued to stare at him as he walked out the door.

~*~

Decorating over, Bill drove Sandra and Jimmy home. He enjoyed the times alone with Sandra, but there weren’t many of them. Between Jimmy and Trina, the instances when it was just Sandra and him amounted to late-night visits, usually after working at the shelter. Jimmy would soon be going to bed, so tonight was a bonus.

He told himself his attraction to Sandra wasn’t romantic, but more a need to share with someone his own age. Even at the high school, he was one of the older teachers. But selfishness nagged at him. Sooner or later, he had to be honest with her, but he hesitated to share his true feelings. She would surely reject his friendship once she knew he had nothing more to offer.

“Why don’t you make coffee while I put Jimmy to bed,” Sandra called over her shoulder as she shepherded the reluctant boy through the kitchen.

He reached into the cupboard for the coffee and filters.

Jimmy’s arguments over bedtime drifted from across the house.

Bill smiled, remembering similar nights when Trina was Jimmy’s age.

Sandra might be gone awhile.

With the coffee on, he sat at the table to wait. All evening he had expected the thrust of fear to grip him, the sensation of danger that accompanied Lillian to disturb the special night. But the feeling never came. Shifting in the hard chair, he mulled over the change. The sense of danger came less often, and sensation hit less intently as time went on.

Had he misinterpreted God’s message again? There was no way he could have conjured up the pain and fear on his own. God had sent them, sure enough. So what did this change mean? Had Lillian grown to love his family, and given up her angry intent, whatever it had been?

He shook his head in frustration. A mark on the silverware drawer caught his attention. Needing something to distract him from his thoughts, he grabbed the dishcloth off the edge of the sink. Sandra liked a clean kitchen. As he hovered over the spot, he found the paint by the handle of the drawer had worn off. Strange he had never noticed that before. Looking around, all of the cupboards showed use. He chuckled, thinking most likely Sandra had scrubbed off the finish from her constant cleaning.

With the coffee only half done, he went back to the table. What about the rest of the house? Sandra kept the two-bedroom 1,200 square feet spotless, but, as far as he could tell, nothing had been replaced since the house had been built around 1970. The bathroom fixtures were old. The tile dated. Did she even know about things like furnace maintenance?

Jimmy’s irate voice reached him, followed a stern reprimand from Sandra. Too many cookies—partially his fault. The corner of a magazine jutting out from under a pile of mail caught his attention. Hoping for a distraction, he pulled to remove it and the envelopes lying on top scattered across the floor.

“What an oaf,” he muttered to himself as bent to gather the papers off the floor. The contents had been removed from the envelopes, exposing overdue bills. Lots of them. The electric bill, the water bill, insurance. Surprise mingled with a tightening in his gut. Sandra wouldn’t forget to pay her bills. His frown deepened as he piled the papers back onto the counter as near to how he found them as he could. When Sandra finally appeared in the kitchen, he was sitting at the table flipping through the magazine.

“He put up quite a fight tonight.” She chuckled as she reached for the mugs off the shelf. “Most likely too many cookies.” The cups were soon filled with coffee, and he watched as she added the measured amount of sugar and milk to hers before carrying them to the table.

He took a sip, hesitating to ask, but knowing he must. “Sandra, I know it’s none of my business.” Her innocent gaze made his throat tighten.

“But…?”

“I noticed the overdue bills on the cupboard.”

Her eyes widened. “You went through my mail?” She placed her cup on the table.

“I pulled out this magazine,” he waved the offending copy of a home interior magazine, “and the mail fell on the floor. Honest, I wasn’t snooping.”

Sandra stared at the wall. Her silence lasted so long he wondered if he should leave. Finally she spoke. “I know. I need to get the bills caught up. I promise, tomorrow morning I will sit down and get them done.” She sighed and stared at the wall again. “I’ve been really busy lately, with Christmas right around the corner.” When she turned to him, her smile did not reach her eyes.

He remembered Roger’s words about her financial situation. “If you need money…”

“Bill Iver, it will be a cold day before I accept money to keep a roof over my head.” The ice of her voice was challenged by the fear in her eyes. She needed money.

How could he have not noticed before? She seldom went shopping, and when she did, it was for Jimmy. The house, although solid, needed repairs. He rubbed his chin, wondering how to approach her without being offensive. “Look, we’re family. Let me help if you need it. There’s no shame in that. Heaven knows, you’ve been kind enough to Trina and Ted.”

Sandra’s dark expression shouted that he had crossed one of those invisible lines that women seem to draw.

He held up his hands, “Sorry. I won’t mention it again. Just promise me that if you ever need help, you’ll let me know.”

Even as she promised, he still wondered about the stack of unpaid bills. It wasn’t like her to put things off. He tried to shrug off his concern; why did he care, anyway? He had enough problems of his own.

Sleep came slowly that night.

~*~

As soon as Lillian could slip away from the family festivities, she went to her room. Falling on the bed, she prayed. God, I’m so confused and frightened. You sent me to Darlington. Why create a new life for me, and fill it with pain? Haven’t I proved I love You? God, please tell me I did not start these fires. Tears flowed. She pounded her pillow with tight fists, venting the frustration and anger she no longer could hold in. Emotionally drained, she waited for divine answers to float down in the darkness, like manna from heaven. Silence pervaded, and she remained as starved for answers as she had before.

The house settled into quietness; the night providing its blanket of sleep.

But no rest came her way. In fact, the more she waited alone in her room for the voice of God, the more claustrophobic she felt. Sighing, she pulled herself off the bed, tied the laces of the now-clean walking shoes and slipped on a navy jacket. It was almost midnight.

The downstairs lay in darkness, but the path from the stairs to the kitchen door was familiar. Outside, she inhaled deeply of the night air. A floral scent filled her, but she couldn’t identify it. Sandra would know. All tender petals had long ago frozen in Cleveland. She set a power-walking pace, hoping both to burn some of the calories from the cookies she had eaten, and melt off some of the stress that had built up over the past few days.

There were few streetlights on Cashua Street, and the moon lay hidden behind a storm front that had been heading east for the past week. Silhouettes, darker than the night sky, darted overhead—bats out for their night feeding.

Once her muscles warmed, she thought about jogging, but feared she would end flat on the sidewalk from tripping over a crack in the cement. Many of the houses were adorned with Christmas lights, and the glow relaxed her. As she walked, Roger’s face surfaced. He was kind. She had known that from the first day they had met. But sometimes, when he stared at her, his eyes took on a strange look, almost guarded and wary.

A low branch, reflecting the red and blue of the holiday lights, hung over the sidewalk. She pushed it to the side as she jogged past, and heard the swish as it returned to its rightful place.

She smiled, thinking of the times Roger had accompanied her to church. During prayer, she had looked behind shielded eyes and had been warmed by the devotion in his face. Lately he had started asking questions about her faith, and she shared as honestly as she could.

God had been good to her, and she wanted Roger to understand His divine love. There were secrets in his past; she could tell by the way he answered some of her questions. And the pained expressions he tried to hide. But he was a good man, so why was she hesitant to return his affection?

He was not Craig. Roger was a good man, but there would never be another Craig. If she ever married again, she would never experience the deep love that had been hers the first time.

Her expression turned wistful as she remembered Paul and her first reaction when he stopped her for speeding. She felt so safe around him, but there was no man less safe than Paul Studler. If only he weren’t a policeman…

Educated to rely only on the truth, she knew that wishes were nothing more than puffs of air built without foundations. Her pace increased, feet thumping on the sidewalk, each step one length closer to pushing Paul Studler from her mind.

As her mind roamed to the fires, her breathing tightened. She stopped to rest, surprised to find herself already at the square. The center of town wasn’t really square, but more a rectangle. The courthouse sat in the middle, with a huge decorated pine standing beside a fountain that, even in December, spurted water into a round splashing pool. Most of the businesses surrounding the outer edge of the square closed at five. She stood alone in the dark.

A silent figure rounded the corner of the courthouse.

She sucked in her breath as her heart raced. Standing in the open alone made her an easy target. She strained to see through the darkness, desperate for a place to hide, or a weapon. Just because Darlington was a small little town didn’t mean she should turn stupid.

Sprinting away from the square, trying to stay against the brick building, she hoped her dark jacket would help conceal her. She chanced another glance over her shoulder and stopped. The stranger’s shuffle seemed familiar. Her heart lurched upon recognition. He should not be in the square anymore than she at this hour of the night. Oblivious of the dark, she darted across the empty street and around the courthouse, trying to reach the man before he disappeared.

“Joe!” Her voice bounced off sleeping buildings. Panting, she reached the startled man. “Joe, what are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be at the shelter?” The short speech stole her remaining breath and she bent over, hands on her knees. “Can we sit down?”

“What are you doing out here?” She repeated once they had settled on the concrete bench. The coldness penetrated through her clothing and she pulled her jacket tighter.

Joe stared at her, his dark eyes blank. Finally he spoke. “Why are you not home?”

She smiled. Strange how her choice of friends had changed. “I needed to go for a walk to clear my head so I can sleep. But why aren’t you at the shelter?”

“Sometimes I have a better place.”

“A better place? Here in Darlington?” A laugh bubbled at the back of her throat. There wasn’t another shelter in the city.

“Too noisy.”

The noise she could understand. “I needed some time alone myself.”

“I saw that man again.”

Startled, she scanned the area for another late-night walker. As much as she cared about Joe, he would be no help in a fight.

A light breeze shifted the strings of lights on the tall pine across from them, sending splashes of color onto the black shadows. None of the shadows moved.

She looked longer, harder, daring the darkness to shift, to breathe, to reveal its hidden stalker.

The night remained still.

“Not here.”

Confused, she turned toward him. Then she remembered. “Oh, you mean Roger.” She signed in relief. “Why don’t you like him?”

A car sped around the square, its headlights settling on them long enough to expose Joe’s deep scowl. She had known him long enough to recognize his expressions. He was worried.

“Joe, did you try to rent a house from Roger?” He rarely sought her eyes, so when he locked his gaze on her, the intensity of his concern shook her.

“He is an angry man.”

“Do you mean that night at the shelter?”

He removed his gaze from her. “Not just then.”

A light breeze shifted the strands of lights on the tree, the shimmer reflecting off Joe’s hand. She stared at it, intrigued. Strange she had never noticed it before. “Your ring, Joe. It has unusual marks on it.”

“My wedding band.”

The fact that Joe might have been married had never crossed her mind. In fact, she had never thought of him as having a life at all. Of course, he had not always lived on the streets.

“You’re married?”

“Helen. She died.” He shuffled his feet. “I moved the ring. It doesn’t fit anymore.”

“Joe, I’m sorry. I was married once too.” She wanted to touch him, to share physical comfort by hugging his shoulders, but she knew he feared touch, as did many of the homeless men. Instead, she focused on the dark nothingness in front of her. “My husband’s name was Craig. We had a little girl, Susan.” She felt his eyes burn into the side of her face. “They died in a house fire.”

“No, not your house. His house.”

“Not here, Joe,” she murmured quietly. “I lived in Cleveland then. That was two years ago.”

“He burned his house.”

His words pulled her from her memories. She turned toward him, the darkness and cold forgotten. “Roger burned down his own house? How do you know that?” Joe had to be delusional.

“I saw him. Then he ran away.”

As an attorney, she had heard hundreds of sworn testimonies where actions had been misinterpreted. Like a dozen witnesses who give twelve different versions of what they watched happened. Roger couldn’t have set his house on fire. He wouldn’t.

Her mouth went dry as the weight of Joe’s words settled over her. He had to be wrong, but even so, the fact that Joe suspected Roger of malice added to the divisiveness in her life. Suddenly she ached to be home in her bed. Her arms were shaking, and she wrapped them around her body. The openness that she had hungrily sought an hour ago now felt big and dark, hovering, with monsters hiding behind each shadow. She jumped from the bench. “Joe, will you be all right? I can go home and bring back my car…”

“I am fine.”

As she turned to go, he grabbed her hand. He had never touched her before; she caught herself before she jerked away. His stare again held steady on her face. “He is not good.”

Forgetting the heaved-up cracks in the cement, she ran home.

Joe’s face stayed in front of her and his voice kept repeating his warning. “He is not good…he is not good.”