Night of the Purple Moon (4 page)

They sat in silence for a moment.

“I’m so afraid,” Emily said.

Jordan lowered his eyes. It surprised him to see that her hand was in his. “We’ll stick together,” he said and gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

From the Couture’s front porch, Abby skirted her eyes across the dark shape next to the truck and up to Jordan’s bedroom. He wasn’t in the window, but the shade was up. Her brother had the situation under control. She wished they could say the same. Abby nodded to Kevin, as if to say, ‘we have to do this’, and then rang the doorbell.

When nobody answered, she stood on a deck chair and peered through the door’s glass panes. The flashlight revealed that the furnishings were as she remembered them. A reclining chair in front of the television, chairs and couch covered in red fabric, a grandfather clock, oriental carpets, magazines neatly stack on a table. It seemed wrong to enter.

“Nobody locks their doors on Castine Island,” Abby said and turned the knob.

“We do,” Kevin said.

The odor of disinfectant brought back the memory of Mrs. Couture declaring, “Germs live on our clothing,” before blasting her with Lysol.

“Hello,” Abby called out. “Mr. Couture? Mrs. Couture? Hello? Is anybody home?”

They stepped inside and the door creaked closed behind them.

Abby had been this afraid one other time in her life. She was five years old. Grandpa had taken her to the harbor playground when thick island fog rolled in and they became separated. Unable to see, Abby wandered away from the playground and onto the dock where she curled into a tight ball on the damp wooden planks. She heard people calling her name in the white-as-milk fog; their voices seemed to come from all directions. The fog muffled her cries like a blanket. A man with strong calloused hands wearing a yellow raincoat finally found her. That evening, Abby overheard her grandparents talking to each other. She heard Grandma crying in relief. They had said that she was lucky she had not fallen into the frigid water because she would have gone into hypothermic shock and drowned.

Abby removed her mask and tiptoed through the dining room. “Hello, my name is Abby. Abby Leigh.” Her voice quivered. “I live across the street. I’m here with Kevin Patel. He’s my neighbor.”

Her heart boomed as she climbed the stairway to the second floor. Kevin clutched her arm so tightly that it hurt. She didn’t mind. She peered down the hallway and saw light shining beneath the last door on the right. Together they inched toward it.

Kevin suddenly grunted and slammed into the wall, knocking over a vase on a table. The vase shattered on the floor.

“Something touched my leg!” he said, whimpering.

Abby shone the light all around. A pair of yellow eyes lit up. The gray cat raced by them and down the stairs.

It felt like her body had received an electric jolt. Her heart wouldn’t slow down and she took quick, shallow breaths. “Kevin,” she stammered in a whisper, “please, stay calm.”

“Will they be angry?” Kevin seemed more fearful of getting in trouble for breaking the vase than what they were about to find in the bedroom.

The vase was in many pieces, too many to glue it back together. “It was an accident,” Abby said. “They’ll understand.” She had no idea how the Coutures would react, it didn’t matter now.

A loud moan came from the lighted bedroom, causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stiffen like quills.

Glued to each other’s sides, they crept down the hallway. Abby tapped on the door. “Hello?” She turned the knob with a sweaty palm and stuck her head inside.

Mr. Couture lay in bed with the covers up to his chin. His white hair and ivory skin blended into the pillowcase. Eyes closed, he groaned and twisted his head back and forth before his cheek came to rest on the pillow. “My legs hurt so damn much,” he moaned, unaware of the visitors.

“Mr. Couture. It’s Abby Leigh.” Her voice trembled.

He squinted. “Abigail Leigh?”

She shuffled closer. “Yes, I’m here with my neighbor, Kevin. Kevin Patel.”

Mr. Couture looked up through watery slits. “There’s a damn truck in the front yard.”

“We know. It was an accident. The driver…” Abby couldn’t finish.

“Nobody answers their damn phone,” the old man said in a voice that grew raspier by the word. “Where are the damn police? We pay their salaries.”

She and Kevin traded worried glances.

“Where’s Mrs. Couture?” Abby asked.

The old man sighed. “She’s watching the damn comet.” Abby swallowed hard, thinking his wife was dead in the backyard. Then his head lolled to the side. “I’m so thirsty.”

Kevin straightened. “I’ll get water.” In a flash he was gone. Abby wished he hadn’t left her alone with Mr. Couture. He was very sick. They needed to get him to a doctor, but how?

She was eyeing the map of delicate blue veins on the top of his hand when out of nowhere the gray cat jumped onto the bed. She lurched back and drew in a sharp breath. The cat curled up by his feet.

When Kevin returned with a glass of water, he whispered in her ear. “His wife is dead.”

Abby couldn’t bring herself to deliver the news to Mr. Couture. To help him take a drink, she placed her hand behind his neck and guided him forward. He was burning up with a fever.

“Thank you, Susan,” he said after wetting his lips.

“That’s Abby Leigh,” Kevin said. “Abigail Leigh.”

“Who are you?” he barked at Kevin.

“Kevin Patel. I live next door to Abby.”

“That’s my Susan, damn it.”

Kevin shook his head. “No. Mr. Couture, that’s—”

Abby made a motion for Kevin to be quiet.

The old man murmured something and settled his head back on the pillow.

Abby wondered if this was how her father had died, feverish, in pain, hallucinating. Had he called out strange names in the night, afraid and alone? She pinched herself. If her tears started now, they might never stop.

The grandfather clock broke the stillness, ticking.

Kevin looked out the front. “Hey, I see Emily. She’s standing next to Jordan. They’re looking out the window.” Kevin waved the flashlight back and forth.

Abby thought that one good piece of news sometimes leads to another. She felt a tiny bit of hope that this nightmare would soon end. And when it was over, she and Jordan and Touk would live with Mom in Cambridge and never again return to Castine Island.

Suddenly Mr. Couture shot up in bed as if a bolt of lightning had fired through his body. Chills rippled down Abby’s back, all the way through her legs to her feet. His face glowed, and his eyes were clear. Strangely, he seemed cured. He pointed a shaky finger at her and cleared his throat, opening his mouth to speak, but before he uttered a single word, he collapsed backward.

The cat let out a mournful wail. Mr. Couture was dead.

Abby dragged herself out of her sleeping bag in Toucan’s room. Was it possible that she had just experienced the longest nightmare of her life? She went to the window. The fan of bright violet light unfolding on the eastern horizon and the silhouette of the lobster truck across the street told her that was not the case.

She had slept fitfully, worried sick about Mom, thinking about Dad, reliving Mr. Couture’s strange, sudden death, and wondering what they should do.

She tiptoed around Emily and Toucan in the cot, both sleeping soundly, snuggled close to each other, and stepped into the hallway. No sounds came from Jordan’s room where the two boys camped.

Downstairs Abby turned on the radio. More white noise. No bars on her cell phone. She checked the TV and computer. Neither one worked. They had no connections to the outside world…
if there was a world left out there.

Abby avoided the front window, not wishing to see Mr. Marsh, and she steered clear of the breezeway to avoid seeing her father. She peered out the kitchen window. A few purple, puffy clouds were floating overhead and the dawn sky was a darker shade of purple than the day before. No gulls, no traffic. No signs of life anywhere.

The only survivors, as much as she knew for certain, were in this house, and one had sped by in a green car.

The grey cat rubbed against her leg. When she and Kevin had left the Couture’s house, the cat squirted through the open door and followed them home, as if it knew that both of its owners were dead.

She fed the cat some tuna fish.

She waited in the kitchen until seven o’clock, but there was no ferry horn. She tried her best to remain upbeat. The ferry still might come later this morning, or sometime today, or even tomorrow.

Abby returned upstairs and lifted Toucan. She had reached one conclusion during the night when she had been staring at the ceiling. She should establish a routine for her sister, especially eating, napping, and bath times. Abby thought a routine would not only help Toucan cope with all the craziness, but it would give the rest of them something to do. You had less time to feel sad when you had to care for an energetic toddler.

Toucan chattered away in her highchair. “Cat. Toucan. Cat.” She dropped bits of food. The cat sniffed each Cheerio and banana slice that rained down, but didn’t eat them.

Toucan pushed out her lower lip. “Miss Daddy.”

Pressure built behind Abby’s eyes. “Me too, Touk.”

Her sister’s face brightened and she flung her arms wide. “Toucan down. Love cat.”

Abby lowered her sister from the high chair. “Be gentle,” she reminded her for the tenth time.

Toucan squealed, “Hug cat,” and the chase began.

The stairs creaked and Emily appeared, the clothes she’d borrowed from Abby swallowing her small frame. But the red sneakers fit perfectly.

“Good morning,” Abby said out of habit. “Are you hungry?”

Emily replied that she was, and Abby showed her what they had to eat. Emily fixed toast with peanut butter.

“At least the toaster works,” Abby said. “I don’t think we can count on the electricity working much longer.”

She immediately regretted saying that. She worried that Emily, even though she appeared stronger than yesterday, might go into shock again. “You sound really good playing the violin,” Abby added to steer the conversation to a topic far removed from the comet and space dust, from death, from problems that they would inevitably have to face; a safe and neutral topic that had nothing to do with the brutal reality surrounding them.

Emily’s eyes widened. “You can hear me all the way over here?”

Abby nodded. “If your windows are open.”

Emily sniffled, and soon tears were trickling down her cheeks.

“What’s the matter?” Abby took her hand. “Honestly, you’re good. I can’t play an instrument.”

Emily swallowed hard. “Mother insisted I practice for two hours every day. I miss my parents.”

Abby realized that every topic traced back to sadness.

The cat let out a sudden cry, and their attention shifted. Toucan had it cornered.

“Toucan, be gentle,” Abby said. “The cat is not a toy.”

Emily wiped her eyes. “Toucan is an unusual name.”

“I’m afraid I’m to blame,” Abby said. “Her real name is Lisette. When my sister was born, she had a really big nose. I said she looked like a toucan. My mom loved the nickname, and that was that.”

“But her nose isn’t big,” Emily said.

“Yeah, the rest of her face grew faster. Right, Touk?”

“Toucan, what’s the name of your cat?” Emily asked quietly.

“Cat,” she squealed.

“I like that name,” Emily said.

“It’s not ours,” Abby said. “It followed me and your brother home. I guess it’s ours now. We should give it a name.”

“Toucan already did,” Emily said.

Abby smiled. “Cat? Should we ask the boys? We could take a vote.”

Emily gave an impish grin. “Who cares what they think.”

Something happened then, something Abby didn’t think possible: she and Emily giggled.

Jordan awoke to the sound of voices downstairs. He thought he’d heard laughter, too, but he must have been dreaming. He’d had many dreams throughout the night. In one of the scariest, he and Abby had been on the ferry, the only passengers, the captain and crew not on board for some reason. When thick fog rolled in, he and his sister argued and argued what to do.

Jordan sat up in bed. It surprised him to see Kevin fast asleep on the floor, laundry serving as his mattress.

Jordan tiptoed into the hall and gravitated to his parents’ bedroom where he quietly dwelled on the memories preserved in family photos on his mother’s bureau. In his favorite picture, Mom and Dad were smiling and holding Touk. Hiccupping, he plodded to the window for fresh air. He remembered there was no fresh air. Purple poison was everywhere.

He looked out the window and kept his eyes lifted on purpose, not ready to see his father’s body. Crazier than any dream, the sun was radiating like an eggplant and a bank of purple clouds was forming to the south.

He slowly lowered his eyes. He had to try. “No!” he screamed. Two dogs were dragging his father across the backyard. One had clamped onto Dad’s shirt, the other one had him by his pants’ leg.

Jordan charged out of the room and raced through the hall and flew down the stairs three at a time. He landed awkwardly at the bottom and twisted his right ankle. He ignored the sharp pain that shot up his leg and grabbed a fireplace poker. He ran past Abby, Emily, and Toucan who were all in the kitchen and then into the breezeway.

He flung open the back door, but stopped abruptly on the porch, confused what he should do next. Those weren’t dogs. They were coyotes, a pack of six. The two dragging his father paused as they sized him up. Four other coyotes stood further back in a semi-circle. They had long spindly legs, lean, narrow bodies, mangy fur, and menacing yellow eyes.

Coyotes avoid people, he told himself. He’d once seen a pack from a distance, in a field on the east side of the island. They’d scurried into the woods when they had seen him.

“Get out!” he shouted, waving the fire poker wildly.

The coyotes flinched, but held their ground. Was the space dust making them fearless, or crazy, as if they were rabid?