The Back Door of Midnight Read Free

dropped down in a chair, her sandaled feet spread wide apart and loose dress gaping between her knees. “I’m exhausted. Stupid deputy. It’s indecent to keep a man half skin and half ashes.”
    I sat down with her at the kitchen table.
    “Fix yourself something to drink,” she said. “I don’t have Mr. Pepper.”
    “You mean Dr Pepper?”
    “For the love of God!” she exploded. “People expect everything from a psychic! ‘Doctor,’ ‘mister,’ I was close enough. I didn’t call it ‘Mrs. Salt,’ did I?”
    “No. No, you didn’t. Water is perfect,” I said, though in fact I had been longing for a Dr Pepper and found it creepy that she knew.
    I rose and filled a glass from the tap, then walked over to the freezer for ice cubes. Opening the door, I jumped back. A large, speckled fish—scales, fins, head, and tail—tumbled out, landing at my feet. I stared down at it, then up at the compartment, which was filled with fish.
    “Put it back, put it back!” Aunt Iris cried.
    I quickly stuffed the fish in with the others and decided I could do without the ice cubes.
    “So Uncle Will is—was—still fishing a lot,” I observed.
    “I can’t stand the way they look at you. So accusingly!”
    “The fish, you mean, their glassy eyes?”
    “The fire was Wednesday night.”
    The sudden disclosure caught me by surprise.
The same night as my dream,
I thought, my sweaty skin feeling cold. I sat down at the table again.
    “Where did it happen?”
    “Near Tilby’s Dream—the old farm. The car’s been rusting there for years,” she added. “Sheriff said it took some work to pry open the trunk.”
    “Uncle Will was inside the trunk?”
    She nodded. “Poor William, he hated Buicks. He always insisted on Chevrolets.”
    “Did someone . . . put him there—did someone kill Uncle Will?” I asked.
    “I
said
he hated Buicks. You don’t think he climbed in willingly, do you?”
    “No,” I said slowly, “not even if he liked the car.”
    Obviously, Aunt Iris was not the most reliable source of information. I had to talk to the police—the sheriff, she had said. Then what? If my great-aunt was losing it mentally, what was I supposed to do? Mom would know; but she would come rushing home from a vacation she needed badly. I could handle this—at least for a little while, I could.
    “How long are you going to stay?” Aunt Iris asked.
    “I’m not sure. I have college orientation—”
    “Your clothes are in Papa’s room, in the mahogany bureau.”
    “Oh!” I visualized myself in a kindergartner’s clothes. “I don’t think I’ll fit them anymore.”
    “Well, don’t expect me to buy you any. We’re going to need every penny for the child.”
    “What child?”
    “She’ll be here soon enough.”
    I gazed at my great-aunt, mystified. Then I realized I must have slipped back into being Joanna. My mother was attending college when I was born. The child who was coming was probably myself, and she had been speaking of my mother’s clothes in the mahogany bureau.
    When Uncle Will had written that Aunt Iris was doing poorly, he wasn’t kidding. Was she senile or just plain crazy?
    Her eyes met mine. “You would be crazy too, if you saw and heard the things I do.”
    I took a long sip of water. Had she just read my thoughts? No. She had heard herself talking and, knowing that she didn’t make sense, had offered an explanation.
    When I glanced up, her eyes were darting around the room, as if insects were popping out of the kitchen walls and she was trying to count them. Her eyes finally lit on me.
    “I’m Anna,” I said, just in case.
    “Then I suppose you’ve brought luggage.”
    “It’s in my car at the top of the driveway,” I replied, although, at the moment, I was thinking about finding a motel.
    She stood up. “You may as well fetch it and start unpacking. William knows you’re here.”
    Perhaps he can knock twice to say hello,
I thought. Aunt Iris was one person I wouldn’t want to