Voices of Midnight

  Contents

  Dedication

  Babette

  Considerate Things

  Fat Saturday

  About the Author

  Midnight in Line and Form

  For my friends in the RRWG who aren’t afraid to pull the punches or the praises.

  Edited by: Lori Diederich - https://www.loridiederich.com

  Cover image by: Natalie Narbonne - https://www.originalbookcoverdesigns.com/

  Copyright © 2019 L.K. Latham

  All rights reserved.

  ***

  Voices of Midnight

  L.K. Latham

  Babette

  IN THE FACE of adversity you may choose to weep,

  Or perhaps you’ll choose to dance.

  Babette tickles our fears with graceful fingers.

  Even now, before the sun is gone,

  She darkens our day to night.

  Who will dance?

  Who will weep?

  Who will die?

  You’re listening to KMND, Galveston.

  I’m Mary Midnight.

  Darkness beats to her own rhythm.

  She’s getting closer.

  Do you hear her knocking?

  Tap, tap, tap.

  The tapping at the window woke her up. It had no rhythm—like someone knocking on a window—but they were three stories up. Jasmine jerked around to face the window. Hail. She looked down at the old woman in the bed. The machines confirmed what her eyes beheld. The old woman’s finally dead. She sighed to herself and began the familiar ritual. Her thin fingers brushed the old woman’s eyelids, drawing them closed. She reached for the drip tube but stopped remembering who lay in the bed. Without another thought, she pressed the call button. The duty nurse opened the door.

  The nurse smiled sympathetically, in that rushed sort of way. “I’ll get the doctor.” Before closing the door, she added, “I hope the radio’s not too loud for you.”

  Jasmine smiled. “Not too loud, thanks.” She thought of the folly of getting the doctor. They both knew the old woman was dead.

  Staring out the window, Jasmine wondered at her lack of grief for her father’s widow. Opal had been a good woman. She had even been a good stepmother to Jasmine, encouraged her to earn her nursing degree. Still, she felt nothing. Maybe it was because Jasmine’s own mother had abandoned her at the age of twelve, or maybe it was because her father married Opal only six months later, or maybe it was Opal’s own five children that got in the way of any real affections. Whatever the reason, her father’s widow deserved compassion and respect. None of Opal’s own children had come when the doctors called. Everyone had good excuses: families, jobs, Hurricane Babette threatening the island. Babette had lingered in the Gulf waters, stirring up tales and tides until, finally, she had decided to come to Galveston to revisit that sandbar of homes and docks to re-balance, once again, the shoreline.

  “What am I doing here?” Jasmine said to herself. Not yet five-thirty, and the sky had blackened to night. Winds tore through billboards and windows, raining debris onto the flooded streets. Rain splattered against the window one moment then flew away the next. Jasmine hugged herself to calm a shiver running up her spine. Two days ago, Babette was just an insignificant hurricane on her way to Mexico. No one seriously expected her to do much damage anywhere. Then, she stopped moving. She sat in the Gulf of Mexico, turning and turning, growing larger and larger, spinning faster and faster until all the coastline on the Great Gulf trembled with clouds and altered tides. Last night, Babette, strengthened by warm water and gathering winds, began moving faster than the weather service or old-timers expected. The now class five hurricane moved with full force toward the Texas coastline. The pounding wind and surf were only the precursors to a storm the likes of which Galvestonians had no memory.

  The doctor, face long and sighing from weariness, proclaimed Opal dead. He talked more, but Jasmine didn’t listen as she made her way to the front doors of the hospital. “Stay,” he said reaching for her arm. “It’s not safe out on the streets. You can’t leave the island, anyway. They closed the causeway half an hour ago. I’m told you’re a nurse. We could use another pair of hands until Babette leaves.”

  In the lobby, the television showed Babette as her clear, distinctive eye crept its way toward Galveston, hidden on the map beneath the black shrouded fingers of her reach.

  “No,” was all Jasmine would say.

  “I understand.” He left her alone.

  I doubt it.

  The street outside the hospital resembled a small river, but the water only reached her ankles, so she crossed. It would be safer to walk than drive the car back to the house. My house, now. Her father had left it to her in his will, with the stipulation that Opal be allowed to live in it as long as she wanted. Jasmine believed twenty years of faithful marriage deserved at least that much. But now the house was hers. The house had withstood storms since 1905. It was her house now, and that’s where she would go.

  All she had to do was make her way up Sixth Street a few blocks and turn right before the Seawall. Wind pushed her down more than once. Rising water in the streets forced her to walk on the lawns and porches of shuttered homes. The water rose faster and faster. She reached the corner a block away from the Seawall. The streetlights flashed once then went out, blackening the view around her. It couldn’t have been later than six-thirty, but Babette had long ago blocked the evening sun. Jasmine knew where she was only by the memories of the repeated walks home she had made while in nursing school. She grabbed a sign pole to steady herself. Lightning flashed and cracked around her. In these flashes she saw Babette raging in the waters of the Gulf. Waves thrashed and pounded on the Seawall, sending splash after splash over the road. She tasted the salt and the sea on her face. She thought she saw a shrimp boat rolling in the waves. Even as a little girl, she never saw the waters churning so violently. She thought of the pictures of the 1900 storm.

  She turned to face the way she had come. The blackness obscured the lights of the hospital, though it was a mere four blocks behind her. The lightning revealed that the water was rising higher on the road she had just come down. There’s no going back, only forward. She turned to face Babette. A roll of thunder clapped in her ears, buzzing in her head. She moved on when she heard music in the wind. Then she saw a sliver of yellow light. It beckoned to her from across the river that was a road. With no way of knowing how deep the water was in the middle of the road, she crossed. She knew she wouldn’t make it to her own house.

  The water pulled at her knees, weakening her pace, but she stood strong. Lightning flashed. It struck close. Her body tingled with excitement. The water pushed against her thighs. The wind howled in her ears like rolling freight trains. It pushed her to the left. The water pulled her to the right. Darkness enveloped her. But the light shone like a lone star in the blackened city sky.

  The wind whirls, the water spills,

  Babette calls out,

  the time draws near.

  She reaches out across the miles

  in search of those who lose their way.

  She calls out, “Dead men take your post.”

  She’s calling now.

  You’re listening to Mary Midnight at KMND, Galveston.

  You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

  The building loomed in shadow as lightning danced around her. Many of the houses in this area were converted businesses, mostly doctor’s offices. The sliver of light didn’t grow in brightness; it become more defined. The light came through the spaces of the boards covering up windows on either side of a door on the porch. In the lightning flashes she saw the house. Like most of the houses on the street, it was built on stilts with the bottom half closed up for storage. She felt herself s
lipping as she drew closer to the house. She reached out and grabbed an old hitching post planted just below the stairs leading up to the porch. It’s large, rusty ring once used to tie up horses cut into her palm, tearing her flesh, but she held tight to it. The ragged roughness assured her of her grip, as though she were cheating Babette of a token sacrifice.

  Salt water rushed into her mouth as she slipped and lost her grip on the rusty ring. Jasmine pulled herself back to the post and planted her feet on the ground. She stood, coughing up the water she had swallowed. The railing leading up the steps to the porch bent in the wind and jabbed her ribs, but she held on to it as she felt her way up each step, the wind continually pushing her down. She reached the porch. Music played just loud enough to drown out the sound of a generator. Well, if I can’t make it home, at least I’m stranded someplace with electricity.

  By the light of the windows, she could make out a sign by the door. “It is a felony to carry a weapon on this premises...”

  “A bar.” She sighed. It was too dark above the door to read the nameplate. She grabbed the doorknob, expecting it to be bolted against the wind, but it turned easily. It wouldn’t push open. “Please,” she said. Then she pulled. At that moment, the wind switched direction. Its might pulled her down onto the porch floor. She held tight to the door knob. The door flew open as she fell. Yellow light steamed out, blinding her and illuminating her with its brightness. She struggled to her feet and pulled the door shut as she walked in.

  She stood for a moment examining her new surroundings. The bar reminded her of the old bars her father used to take her to, except for the many candles and lanterns burning around the room ready for when the generator went out. In the middle was a bar of polished oak and brass. Over it hung neon beer lights, pulsing and spitting beer names. To the left was a pool table surrounded by seven bikers. They don’t belong in an old local like this, but neither do I. The bikers should have been loud, explosive, and discontent. Instead they wore contentment with their jeans, leather, and tattoos. A bleached blond with too much eyeliner held a cue in one hand and a Longneck Beer in her other. She stopped talking to a large man with a green mohawk to stare at Jasmine. The others followed her gaze. The room roared with silence despite the radio sitting on the bar blaring out tunes.

  To the right of the bar were five small, round, black tables and chairs with cracked vinyl-of a garish orange-red color. A neatly dressed man with combed black hair sat in the far corner, his eyes focused on a steaming cup of coffee. If he knew Jasmine was standing at the door, he made no sign of acknowledgement. Perhaps he belonged there, but she didn’t believe it.

  A fat bartender polished glasses. He wore a wrinkled, long-sleeved shirt under a gold brocade vest with a watch fob hanging from the pocket. The gold matched a shiny gold tooth reflecting the light in his open-mouthed grin. Had the vest been his size (about 3 sizes larger) it would have given him a distinguished air. But his belly bulged, straining the green glass buttons. The bottom two buttons came nowhere close to each other. He tried to hide the fact by tying a dishtowel around his waist, but it only exaggerated his bulge.

  “Lordy, Mama, look what the wind blown in!” said the bartender. The pool players turned their attention back to their game. The man in the corner didn’t move. A woman came in from the door behind the bar. Her black eyes, strong but tired, fired at Jasmine from under black hair speckled with grey. She wore a bright yellow calico dress that reminded Jasmine of her grandmother.

  “Oh, chil’ you get on back here with me before you drip through the floor. You poor dear, out on a night like this. Now you just let Mama take care of you.”

  Jasmine hardly realized how wet she was until she noticed a puddle of water seeping off the entry mat toward the green-black carpet. “I’m sorry,” she started.

  “None of that now. You jus’ lucky you found this place. I don’t know what the young folks always thinken’ they can go about in times like these. But you see it’s nice and dry here.” Mama grabbed a flashlight from behind the bar and took Jasmine by the arm and led her through the door behind the bar. This part of the house was dark.

  “I thought, with the generator…” Jasmine said, pointing to the darkened hall light.

  “Generator?! Yes, well, we only have ‘lectricity in the front for now.”

  “I see.”

  “Don’t need no ‘lectricity back here no how. Now see.” Mama opened a door and they were in a tiny bathroom. “You get those wet things off.” Mama started to walk away, “You’re not afraid of the dark now are you?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “I’ll go find you something to wear.” Mama disappeared around a corner.

  “Thank you,” Jasmine called after Mama.

  There are few pleasures in life greater than the joy of removing wet jeans. Jasmine cherished it. She stood in the tub so she wouldn’t get the floor any wetter. Her shoes sloshed out a massive amount of water. Jasmine half expected a fish to jump out of her shoes and swim down the drain. The towel hanging on the rack reminded her of when she was little and her mother would hang the cloths out to dry. She breathed in the freshness of Seabreeze. The wind and rain thrashed outside the walls of the house. Something banged on the roof once, twice, before being carried away by the wind.

  Mama came back with a pink floral sundress and a lit candle. “It belonged to my daughter, but she won’t mind you usin’ it.”

  “Thank you.” Jasmine knew at once that the daughter was dead. How many times had she heard similar words at the hospice?

  “Look over there in that cabinet. You’ll find something to comb your hair with then you come on out to the bar when you get dressed. No hurry now. It’s not like anyone’s going anywhere for a while.” Mama laughed one of those big wholesome sort of laughs that only mothers can laugh.

  The dress fit her perfectly, and like Mama, was old and out of fashion. Mama must be older than she looks. The dress didn’t have that dead smell Jasmine associated with the clothes that the families of her former patients brought to the hospice to be distributed to those who needed them.

  She towel-dried her short hair as much as the towel allowed then combed it back with her fingers. In the mirror, tired eyes looked back at her. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her fingers instinctively went to her temples and massaged away her cares. She opened her eyes. Tomorrow she would be thirty-eight.

  The walls rumbled with another clap of thunder and wind. The stillness of the air in the bathroom became stifling. She had forgotten how hot it got in a closed house in the middle of a storm. Babette’s eye drew closer to the island. She picked up the candle and made her way back to the bar.

  ******

  No one acknowledged her as she closed the door to the living quarters and set the candle on the ledge by the door, making sure it was secure from the edge but not too close to the wall. While the ceiling fans kept the air moving, they didn’t extinguish the heat. Only the carpet felt cool. Each loop of the nylon wrapped itself around her bare toes. It was rough and smooth at the same time. She wondered how long it had been since it had been cleaned.

  “Well, here’s what the wind blew in,” said the bartender. “What’ll it be? I don’t think we need to card tonight.” He winked at her and grinned his golden grin as he said what was meant to be a compliment she knew so well since the first signs of age appeared on her face.

  “Just some coffee, please,” she smiled.

  “Help yourself, honey. Klaus’s got the pot on the table with him.” He pointed to the lone man sitting at a table near the bar. Jasmine studied Klaus for a moment, wondering when she started thinking gray hair on men was sexy.

  Mama handed her a cup and saucer. “Here you go, hon. Don’t you let him scare you none. He don’t bite. Fact is, he don’t do too much of anything. Do you, Klaus?”

  Klaus didn’t acknowledge Mama. Jasmine walked over to the table. The coffee pot was one of those large percolators that needed two hands to pour. Its power cord exten
ded the length from the table to somewhere behind the bar. Jasmine set her cup down and picked up the pot. The glowing red light of the percolator showered over Klaus, but still he didn’t move. For a moment, his face radiated in the glow, and Jasmine watched his never-ending gaze into the small cup.

  He held the cup in his hand and swirled the last sip around one way then around the other. The black coffee darkened the white of the inside of the cup. It drained away and the whiteness came back into view, always a little more stained than before. The red light gave the coffee a reddish tint. Jasmine imagined the bone china cup full of blood.

  “Would you like more?” she said. He stopped swirling his cup to look at her.

  “Thank you.” He spoke with an odd accent. Set amidst a pale face and dark hair with as much grey as brown, his eyes pierced her outer shell, but she didn’t shy away from his gaze. She imagined those gray eyes as they must have been when young, but age and pain now clouded them. He had a stout frame and was probably tall. While his features said he was not old, his eyes screamed of years lost.

  Jasmine set the pot down and reached for her own cup. “This will make the storm pass more quickly.” Klaus pulled out a bottle of whiskey from behind the vase of plastic flowers and poured a little into his cup. He offered it to her. “Would you like?”

  “Yes.” She put her cup in front of him.

  “You would not be unwelcome as company.” He motioned her to sit at the table with him. She obliged. She didn’t want to play pool, and the bartender and his wife seemed to be deep in conversation behind the bar. She recognized the distant gaze in Klaus’s eye and recognized it. It was the same expression her patients at the hospice had, the ones with no family or friends. They always sought something, and when no one else was there, they relied on Jasmine for relief. From what, Jasmine didn’t know. Opal had the same look in her eyes last night when she asked Jasmine where her children were.