At the Twilight's Last Gleaming (12 page)

We made our way down the dim corridor, Harold still in the lead.

It had seemed a simple enough mission at first. Go, knock on the school doors, say hey to Mr. Hendricks, get some candles and flashlights. Kind of the equivalent of going next door to borrow a cup of sugar. Now though it didn’t seem so simple. No, not at all.

The school seemed cavernous, echoing with some kind of void. I could almost hear water dripping from stalagmites. The absence of the bustle and chatter of students and teachers made Crossland seem enormous and strange. It just didn’t seem real. I felt extremely uncomfortable. The whole business with Emory had an odd after-feel as well. I was jarred and jangled.

I just wanted to go home, tuck myself into bed and
not
read a gothic novel.

The custodian’s room door was ajar. It was dim and the light was flickering, but we were able to see that, past the work bench and the furnaces were banks and banks of supplies.

“Mr. Hendricks!” called Harold. “Mr. Hendricks?”

The furnaces murmured and coughed.

“Look,” said Cheryl. “Over on the workbench. A couple of flashlights! Big ones!”

Without hesitating, Harold strode over and scooped up a flashlight. He clicked on a beam. He stepped gingerly over boxes of toilet paper and paper toils to the long line of wooden racks, playing the beam of light amongst the wealth of this and that.

“Geez, there’s just about everything here. This is like a hardware and janitorial store! Gotta be some candles here somewhere, I should think.”

Suddenly, from beyond the door, there was a noise. It echoed down the hallway in a blur of elements, making it hard at first to decipher. It seemed a strange collection of bumpings, clatterings, jouncings — and maybe even, I thought with a shiver running down my spine, a clicking of claws.

Then, splitting through the din, was a mournful, assertive howling.

I caught my breath.

“What the heck is that?” I gasped.

“Sounded like a dog,” said Harold, looking equally alarmed. “I didn’t think they kept guard dogs at Crossland!”

The effect of that noise and that howl on Emory and Cheryl was immediate. Cheryl backed up, and sat down on a tank of floor wax, steadying herself on its metal side, hunching over. Her eyes flashed a strange shade of dark. Emory stood straight up. His eyes opened wide. His nostrils flared.

The two exchanged glances. There seemed to be some kind of unspoken communication between them. Emory rolled his head around on his neck as though loosening some secret muscles.

“You will please pardon me,” said Emory. “It is perhaps best that I go and check on the nature of those sounds, for the benefit of us all.”

Without further explanation, he strode from the room.

“Shouldn’t we go with him?” said Harold.

“No,” said Cheryl soberly. “We must stay here.”

“Well, okay. I’ll just keep on looking for those candles.”

“What were those noises?” I finally managed after getting hold of my voice.

“When Emory finds out,” said Cheryl. “He will tell us.”

“Look, you guys,” said Harold. “You can just stand there with chattering teeth or you can come over here and help me look for candles.”

That seemed like a very good idea. I stepped over and looked through some more boxes. Cheryl joined us.

“Hope we don’t get caught,” I suddenly said. “Looting or something….”

“We’ve got a good explanation,” said Cheryl. “And besides, if there is any trouble I’m sure that Mr. Hendricks can vouch for us.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t have even come into the school,” I offered.

“Oh, really, there are worse things to worry about,” said Cheryl. “Anyway, Emory’s dad could probably smooth things over. We’re just here for some light, correct.”

“That’s true enough,” I said.

“Look guys!” said Harold.

“Candles?” I said.

“Better! A couple of lanterns!”

Harold picked up and displayed two Coleman lamps. I could hear fuel slosh inside.

“Where there!” said Cheryl. “You see? We’ll just borrow one of those!”

“And matches. Packs of Swan wooden matches!” said Harold. “They won’t miss one of these!”

While we waited for Emory to return, Harold struck a match. He raised the lamp shield, twisted the wick up and then lit it.

A wonderful glowing flame wavered up from the wick, a brilliant blue at its base. I felt like Man discovering Fire.

“Now that’s what my Dad oughtta have,” said Harold. “Heck, if we were campers, we would have one of those.” He regarded it a while, then turned the wheel, turning it off. “No sense in wasting oil — or paraffin — or whatever is. Not if we’re going to sit here and wait for Emory.”

“Maybe we’d better go looking for him,” I said, feeling antsy.

“No!” said Cheryl emphatically. “I mean — Emory will be back soon.”

“He might need help,” I said.

“He shouldn’t have to traipse around school when we’ve got what we came for,” I insisted. “We can call him, tell him we’ve got a lamp, and get out of here.”

“No!” insisted Cheryl. “We stay right here.”

We waited for what seemed like ages. I sat down on a large canister of floor wax, and put my head in my hands. Outside the custodian room was silence for a while — and then the silence erupted into what sounded for all the world to me like snarls and growls — and then a scuffle.

“What the heck was that?” said Harold.

“Nothing,” said Cheryl. “I didn’t hear anything.”

“Well, I did,” I said. “And I didn’t like it.” There was a plumber’s wrench near me. I grabbed it up with both hands and headed for the door. “Emory might need help.”

“No!” said Cheryl.

“You can stay here and lock the door if you want. Cheryl is right. We need to help Emory.”

He grabbed a hammer.

Together we ventured out into the hall.

There was a scrabbling that seemed to be coming nearer. But then it stopped, and all was silence again.

“Got a peg on it,” said Harold. “This way.”

We hurried a bit.

“Wait,” said Cheryl. I turned around and saw her coming up alongside of us.

“You’re not afraid?”

“Fear is prudent at times,” she stated flatly. “But perhaps you are right. We should find Emory.”

Carefully we turned a corner into a darker portion of the school. The sounds had died out totally and an all pervasive silence hung over everything like a moiling cloud. Display cases, lockers, doors, went on and on and on, then jigged and jagged at odd angles. I felt as though I was like Theseus in his labyrinth. I didn’t feel terrifically keen about finding a minotaur.

“Emory?” called Cheryl. “Emory — we found a lamp!”

We turned a corner.

And there he was.

Emory was walking toward us with a weary look on his face that brightened when he saw us.

“I did ask you to stay where you were,” he said.

“We found a Coleman lantern,” said Harold. “I’m sure it won’t do any harm to borrow it, especially considering the circumstances.”

“Absolutely. Yes, you must borrow it,” said Emory.

“What happened? What was that sound?” I asked. “Guard dogs?”

“No. Nothing at all. There was a window open and wind and snow were coming in. Knocked down some stuff and made quite a noise,” he said.

“Emory! What happened to your jacket?” I asked.

Emory’s left jacket sleeve was in tatters and rags. And so, I noticed, was the shirt below it. There was no sign of blood, however.

“Oh, fell down some stairs and caught it on something. Ripped it all up, didn’t I? My mother will have a fit.”

“Well, as long as you’re all right,” I said. “As long as everyone’s all right…”

But I noticed, as we walked back to the door, that Emory and Cheryl had exchanged an odd glance. Cheryl nodded, turned away and bit her lip.

And so we went, the successful explorers, our task complete. Like Prometheus we were bringing fire back to parent-kind.

The wind howled at us the whole way back.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

T
HAT NIGHT OF the Lights Out, as we called it, seemed to bond us as a social group. Emory, Cheryl, Harold and I made a date to watch
Star Trek
and listen to music again the following week, and we sat together a couple of minutes before the first bell the next day.

The snow had died down a bit as soon as we’d gotten back, and the phone still worked, so Emory summoned his driver. He and Cheryl were whisked away, and I got to sleep in the spare room. I’d done it enough before that I had fresh clothing there, so all was well.

Next morning the electricity was back on. Harold’s dad walked in with us to return the lantern, in case there was any problem. An open door at night didn’t sound exactly likely, but when a parent was along for the explanation, that helped. Mr. Hendricks was there in the morning again, as it happened, and he accepted the lantern with thanks. We didn’t ask where he’d been, just apologized — which smoothed things over a good deal.

But, I looked back at him as we were walking away, and he did give us a very odd look.

And I noticed, this time, what a lot of hair Mr. Hendricks had, all over his body. Tufts of it straggled up above his collar and the always present T-shirt below his flannel shirt.

I was able to shrug all the associated feelings of that night and the following morning easily enough, though, with the demands of school work and the increasing work we were doing on the play.

Nevertheless, I found that despite this, my fascination with Emory Clarke grew.

I have always fancied myself a cerebral sort. I thought a lot, I talked things over a lot with parents and friends, and of course, I read a lot. It had always seemed to me that reason was my best friend. Of course I well knew I had feelings. Oh plenty of those! And adolescent hormones? Of course! It just happened! Nothing wrong with it.

I well, I told myself, that my obsession with Gothic novels was a way that my neo-cortex — that is, the thinking part of my brain — was working out the issues about the way I felt about guys in the context of my emergence as an individual in society. Gothic heroes tended to be unpredictable, dangerous and deeply attractive; but there seemed no way a gothic heroine could escape having to come to grips with her own destiny regarding them.

Or, anyway, that’s what I would write in a theme paper for English class.

The trouble was, I was finding, that it’s one thing to think about things in the ivory towers of your head, and quite another to experience them. Analysis was vital, but it’s very hard indeed to analyze while in the throes of passion.

And that’s the word I realized was the right one.

Passion.

I was a passionate person.

I’d been passionate about Peter, which had gotten me into my role of Lucy in a high school stage version of Bram Stoker’s
Dracula
. Now I had another passion. A passion that felt stronger than I had for Peter Harrigan.

It was a passion about Emory Clarke.

This passion was not a transfer. Nor, I knew in my heart of hearts, was it a fickle thing, for I still was fascinated with Peter.

I had a high school girl’s crush on Peter.

With Emory Clarke, it was much deeper. And far more disturbing.

I just didn’t want to be around Emory. I didn’t want to just hold his hands and look at him. The idea of Emory close to my neck wasn’t at all like the idea of Peter close to my neck, cape draping us into the folds of struggling, violent night. It was fact, and each time it happened during rehearsals, the feelings were more intense.

Emory was a mystery.

Emory was an enigma.

He wasn’t just handsome in a charismatic way. He was handsome in a subtle, assertive way. He was handsome in a Clark Gable as Rhett Butler kind of way. And more and more, I began to realize the depth of his family and their power.

I was passionate in a way that had seduced the reason and prudence of better souls than mine.

I was curious.

And that curiosity achieved far, far more than it sought.

“D
ID YOU HEAR the news?” said Gail Shawshank excitedly as she sat down next to us at our usual spot in the auditorium, awaiting the morning bell’s klang to be loosed into the halls of the new day.