Hunting Midnight (23 page)

Upon reading this, vague, cold thoughts filtered through my head like mist. I seemed miles and years away, and I did not understand who Midnight had intended these words for.

When I expressed my bewilderment, Father patted my leg and said, “They were for you, of course.”

XX

T
he first week after learning of Midnight’s death, I neither dressed nor left our house. Papa took breakfast with me in my room. We scarcely talked or even ate, but his presence was comforting. I was unaware of what my mother was doing at the time, for she remained behind her locked bedroom door most of the day. Very occasionally, in the late afternoon, I would come downstairs to find her embroidering. She refused to speak of Midnight.

Sitting with her, staring into her lost red eyes, I slowly came to understand that we now lived in a house of silence. Midnight was dead and I was alive – this seemed a great mystery to me.

By the time Papa returned home from his office in the early evening, Mama had already locked herself back in their
bedroom
. He and I would eat cheese and bread by the hearth, or sometimes in my room. My bed became a sea of crumbs. He sometimes made fennel soup as well – his one specialty.

Father got into the habit of leaving Mother’s supper outside their bedroom door, then returning downstairs, at which time we’d hear the door click open and the food being carried inside. Two or three times I placed some late-blooming yellow dahlias from Midnight’s garden onto her tray, hoping this would, in some way, console her, but she never mentioned them to me.

Father said many times, “We must have patience, lad. Your mother … she is not a woman to be rushed. She lives by her own rhythms.”

Papa kept telling me that time would heal my suffering, but I did not believe him. He quoted Robert Burns whenever his own
words failed him, and I remember these lines in particular, because they reminded me that I’d someday meet Midnight again on the Mount of Olives:

At times, he tried to inspire hope in me, telling me that I was such a likable lad that I would soon find more loyal companions. We both knew this was a lie, since it was obvious by now that I had not a whisker of aptitude for befriending boys my age, but we pretended we believed it.

After a time, I moved many of Midnight’s belongings into my room. I slept in one of his nightshirts because its weave had captured his smell – or at least, I imagined that it had. I even took his quiver, bow, and arrows with me into the woods one day, but I never managed to hit so much as a hare.

In truth, I did not want to harm anything but myself.

I never did ask my father how I might win Maria Angelica’s hand.

When I felt stronger, he and I took Fanny and Zebra on walks together outside the city. He told me of Dr. Jenner’s keen interest in my ornithological gifts and suggested that I might even consider a period of study with him. He proposed that in another year or two I stay for at least a few months in London, adding that such an experience would surely help me decide what I wished to do with my life.

He also promised that we would travel together that summer to Amsterdam, a city I had often longed to visit because of its thriving Portuguese—Jewish community. I remember bursting
into tears for no reason when he told me. I often cried now with no good cause. Or for reasons that were hidden deep inside Midnight’s grave.

Locked out of their bedroom by Mother, Father was forced to sleep on the sofa in our sitting room. We stopped inviting guests over and even intimated to Benjamin that it would be better if he stopped joining us for our Friday night meal for the time being.

Mama would often watch me from her window as I romped with the dogs in the garden. If I waved or called up to her, however, she would draw her curtains.

Then, one Tuesday morning in the middle of January, she walked into the kitchen dressed in the elegant blue silk dress she normally wore to dinner parties. Gripping her pearl necklace, she announced she was off to market. I expected Father to be as curious as I was as to this change in her disposition, not to mention her odd choice of attire, but he was too relieved to ask any questions. Jumping up, he rushed to her and pressed his lips to her cheek as though welcoming her home from a dangerous journey.

That night she admitted my father back into their bedroom.

I hoped that she had recovered from her initial shock and grief, but over the next week or so she seemed like a frail creature preparing for a long winter. She scurried about the house from task to task as though a pause to rest might prove her undoing. Once, she mistakenly prepared tea with oregano and another time left jagged pieces of shell in our supper of eggs, codfish, and potatoes. This indicated to me that her mind was on a great voyage elsewhere. Perhaps she was off to England to lay roses from our garden on Midnight’s grave. I know that I often daydreamed of doing precisely that, and I cannot believe that our thoughts were so different. We were always alike in so many ways.

One afternoon in late January, I returned from fetching our ironed linens from Senhora Beatriz to find Mother sobbing at her pianoforte. She clung to its top as though in peril of falling into so deep an inner darkness that she might never return.

I pried her fingers from the piano and held her to me. She leaned into my chest and wailed, shaking violently. She was so small and delicate; it was as though I had become her parent.

Kissing the top of her head and breathing in the warm scent of her hair made me cry. It was a terrible moment, yet strangely comforting as an expression of our solidarity.

“I must apologize for so many things,” she told me afterward, wiping her eyes. “Can you forgive me?”

“Forgive you for what, Mama?”

I expected her to say,
for
neglecting
you
these
past
weeks,
since she had not offered me any comfort at all.

Instead, she replied, “For Midnight’s death.”

“But you had nothing to do with it.”

“No, no, sadly, that is not true. I ought never to have allowed your father and Midnight to receive that cowpox vaccine. I ought to have made that expressly clear before their departure.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you see? They must have been feverish. It must have done something to them, after all. Why else would Midnight have run off during the storm? And how else could your father have failed to protect him? No, John, they must have both not been in their right mind.”

This seemed perfectly ridiculous to me, as Father had never mentioned delirium or even mild discomfort. And Mama knew as well that Midnight often followed storms. Alarmed by her logic, I suggested that she rest.

Later, I was standing at our back doorway, watching Fanny and Zebra gnawing on the same branch, when Mama shrieked. She had poured nearly a quart of boiling water down the front of her dress. Steam was rising from her bosom. When I yanked the kettle from her hand, I discovered it was nearly empty, which could not have been accidental.

Mother looked at me in terror, realizing now that she had scalded herself badly. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted. With a lunge, I managed to prevent her from crashing onto the floor.

I laid her on the sofa in our sitting room, placed a cushion under her head, then ran to fetch the Olive Tree Sisters, who
roused Mother with a vial of salts. As I listened to them whispering to her, I understood that her rage had revealed itself in the only ways it could – first in small mad acts of hostility toward my father and me, such as cracking eggshells into our supper, and now by abusing herself.

When Mama was awake, she suggested that I leave the room. It was at that precise moment that I began to believe she had stopped loving me.

Over the next week, she locked herself once again in her bedroom, forbidding my father and me from entering.

Mother did stop loving me for several years, I think, though that is a damning thing to even suggest. Perhaps I should rather say that her fondness for me was placed in a box containing both her marriage and Midnight’s body and that the lid was firmly shut.

I suppose it is possible that she was too fond of me and knew that I was the only one capable of penetrating her armor. If she let herself show her love for me, if she sought and welcomed my affection, she would have shrieked for days on end at the loss of all she had once held dear – her marriage, most of all. Anyone gazing at her pale gaunt face knew that suicide was a true possibility for her.

It is ironic to think, of course, that she still could have loved me had she been willing to risk losing her sanity. Perhaps that is not something one can ask of another person.

Having heard my mother voice previously unspoken doubts about my father, I soon dared to accuse him of failing in his duty to protect Midnight. He begged my forgiveness, but I continued to rail at him even as he sought to reason with me. Finally, shamed by his tears, I allowed him to explain that he would never forgive himself for having let Midnight out of his sight.

Father’s admission of regret did little to quell my emotions, unfortunately, and I was rude to him on a number of occasions, once even telling him that I wished never again for him to
accompany me on my walks with Fanny and Zebra. I knew I was behaving abominably but simply could not control myself. The hurt etched on his face seemed a worthy counterpart to my own frustration and grief. But he never punished me or gave me anything more than a mild reprimand, telling me that time would heal all. “Aye, even your fury at me, lad.”

I began to hide in my room during the worst of my depression, emerging only when he had left the house. I spent my days in solitude, reading and sketching. I never went to see the Olive Tree Sisters, Senhor Benjamin, or anyone else.

One afternoon in mid-February, Papa tiptoed into my room while I lay nearly napping and sat at the foot of my bed. I didn’t open my eyes; even though I could hear him crying softly, I still refused to forgive him.

Eventually he shuffled away.

The terrible thing is that Father never came to me for help again. I missed my chance that day. And the regret I feel for withholding my love for him crowns me even today as a miser and a fool.

Seven years later, before I was married, I told my bride, Maria Francisca, everything about this time in order to warn her that she was taking damaged goods for a husband. To my great surprise, she surmised that I had denied my father solace at that key moment, not so much to punish him, but out of a fear of losing him to death.

I thought then that she was simply trying to ease my guilt, but I can see now that she was right; I did secretly fear that death was taking everything from me. I may have even reasoned that Daniel and Midnight had died because of my great affection for them, which meant that I – in some way – had caused their doom. Death avenged itself on me through them. For what, I could not be sure. Perhaps simply for my having been happy – but more likely for my wounding Daniel when he most needed my help.

In late February, Mother took sick with terrible stomach pains and went to stay with Grandmother Rosa for four days. During her absence, Father finally refused to tolerate my attitude any longer.

“This has gone quite far enough,” he told me one morning, throwing open my door and striding into my room, his eyes flashing. “I had expected sadness and even rage, but not this stubborn refusal to return to the world.”

Holding his nose, he said, “My God, John, it stinks like a hound’s rump in here! Can’t you smell it?”

He threw open my shutters and mosquito screens. “This is shocking!” he shouted, lifting my brimming chamber pot from beside my bed. Carrying it carefully to my window, he hurled away its foul contents while crying
sujidade
–
filth – in his Scottish accent. “John, I am wholly disgusted with you.”

“Close the door on your way out,” I sneered, pulling the covers over my head.

This infuriated him so viciously that he came to me, threw off my blankets, and grabbed me by my shirt with his fists, as though to pummel me. I desperately wanted him to do just that, so that I could hit him back. And yet I knew the only act that would have truly satisfied my rage would have been for him to descend like Orpheus into the underworld and bring Midnight home.

“I hate you!” I shouted.

He loosened his hold on me in defeat. “I’m sorry. I know this is hard for you. You are still so young. You will recover one day, just as you did after Daniel’s death.”

“I do not wish to recover,” I replied, for at the time I imagined that surrendering my grief would mean giving up my last intimate hold on Midnight; my tears were all that bound us across the barrier between life and death. “As for Daniel, I have never forgotten him. And I never shall.”

“No, and you will never forget Midnight. That is not what I am trying to – Oh, John. Do you think Midnight would have wished for you to lie here day after day as though there were no sun in the sky? He should have liked you to dance – to dance his death if you must, but to get up and get on your way just the same.”