In the Middle of the Night Read Online Free PDF Page A

other that well, do we?” Amused now, as if she had said something very amusing. Then: “Yet.”
    That
yet
hung on the air, like an omen, a black crow on the telephone wires.
    “What do you mean, yet?” he asked, pouncing on the word. Then realized that he shouldn’t be holding this conversation and that he really didn’t want to know what she meant.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. Puzzled about why he should be apologizing. “I have to hang up.”
    He took the receiver away from his ear, his hand moving in slow motion as in a dream.
    “Wait a minute … I—” Her voice was amputated as he put down the receiver.
    Palms moist, heart thudding, he let himself go limp, as if he had just escaped some terrible fate, like being sucked off a cliff.
    He picked up the glass of juice, simply because he had to make some kind of movement. But he didn’t drink it, just stood like a statue in the park.
    He could hardly believe that he had broken his father’s rule.
    Denny remembered the day his father had made the rule, a long time ago, so long ago that it was only a dim memory, but one that seized him now with a new immediacy: his father stalking the kitchen, anger like small bolts of lightning in his eyes, then finally standing in front of him like a giant, his legs like stumps of trees.
    “Do not ever … 
ever
 … answer the telephone again. Understand?”
    His father’s anger had made tears spring to Denny’seyes, blinding him. As huge sobs racked Denny’s body, his father had enfolded him in his arms, holding him close, all anger gone, all softness and gentleness, murmuring words that soothed him like soft music. Then his mother had joined them, and as the three of them held each other, rocking back and forth, Denny had felt suddenly well loved and protected, despite the phone call and those terrible words …
    Seven years old. Third grade. Home from school. The house quiet, a stillness that disturbed him, as if someone had turned off the volume of a giant television set. His footsteps echoed on the linoleum as he searched the rooms, calling for his mother. He eventually found her in the bathroom, kneeling on the floor in front of the toilet bowl, limp and moist, her hair damp against her forehead, the smell of vomit in the air.
    “Oh, Denny, I’m so sick,” she gasped. Then, seeing his anguish at her sickness, “It’s just a twenty-four-hour thing. I’ll be all right in a while …” After which she turned, retching, toward the bowl.
    He shut the door softly, at a loss, the thought of his usual after-school lunch of a peanut-butter sandwich repugnant. As he sat in the living room, restless, resisting turning on the television set or even opening a book, not wanting to enjoy himself while his mother was sick in the bathroom, the telephone rang. He hesitated to pick it up. His mother and father always answered the phone. “Let one of us do it,” his father always said.
    The ringing of the phone emphasized the loneliness ofthe house. He realized that he was seldom, if ever, alone at home. His parents were always there. Never had a babysitter, even as a child. He counted the rings. One … two … three … Squirmed in the chair, the phone at his elbow. Suppose it was something important. Suppose his father was calling. He strained his ears. Was that a siren he heard in the distance?
    The phone continued to ring.
    He picked it up.
    “Hello,” he said, his voice hollow in the room. He had never talked on the phone.
    “Who’s this?” a voice demanded, a harsh voice, angry. “This isn’t the murderer. Who is this? Who’s speaking?”
    “Me,” he answered. Did the voice say
murderer
?
    “Who’s you?” Impatient, still angry.
    “Me, Denny.” Then adding his last name: “Colbert.”
    Pause, then. He looked around, guilty about answering the phone, wishing his mother would come in to take over the call.
    “Oh, the murderer’s son!”
    “You have the wrong number,” he said. He had heard