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  The hairdresser said it would make her look younger and more "today." Ellen didn’t know. She wasn’t used to it yet. It was short at the back, longer on the sides, the ends swept toward her chin. Her neck felt oddly breezy, making her feel even taller than her five foot eight, like an ostrich with its feathers plucked.

  Spooning Maxwell House instant into her cup, she could feel Myra sitting at the kitchen table waiting for further explanation. She supposed, after springing it on her like that, she owed her one. Without turning around, she began haltingly, "I-uh, developed a bit of a problem after Ed died. Every morning I went to my job, part of which, as you know, is counseling the adult children of alcoholic parents. And every night I came home, and before I even took off my coat, fixed myself a hefty vodka and soda, light on the soda. By nine o’clock I’d be smashed and dead to the world in front of the television set."

  The water had begun to bubble, the only sound in the ensuing silence. Ellen poured it over the coffee grounds. The pleasant aroma wafted up to her. When still no response came from Myra, she glanced over her shoulder. "Don’t look so shocked," she said quietly.

  "I can’t help it," Myra said, her dark eyes big. "I am. I knew you didn’t drink, but I always figured it was because of your parents and what happened. I thought you hated—"

  "Don’t hate it at all. Got a real taste for the stuff, in fact. I have what is known in clinical terms as ‘a predisposition toward alcoholism’. In real terms, I’m a drunk waiting to happen."

  "My, God, Ellen, I feel awful. You’ve done so much for me. You always seem so strong. I never dreamed... why didn’t you say something?"

  "I couldn’t. I didn’t tell anyone." She came and sat down across from Myra and blew a little on the steaming coffee, sending heat up to warm her face.

  Looking out the kitchen window, she saw that the snow was coming down harder. It occurred to her that it might not let up and Gail’s flight would be canceled. She banished the thought.

  "I was ashamed," Ellen said after several moments. "I, of all people, should have known better. I can’t begin to tell you, Myra, how many women have told me they vowed as children never to touch alcohol, and yet at some point in their lives find themselves... well, where I found myself. Alcoholism doesn’t happen all at once. It’s a clever disease; it creeps up on you. But I caught it in time. I was lucky, many aren’t. So now you know. End of subject." She sipped her coffee.

  "But—how come you keep booze in the house?" Myra asked incredulously.

  "I like a challenge," Ellen said, and laughed, then grew serious again. "But enough of that. I want to hear more about those nightmares you’ve been having lately." It hadn’t been so bad, telling, but she was definitely more comfortable in the counselor role—the old "needing to be in control" thing.

  "There’s not much more to tell," Myra said, still clearly not quite recovered from Ellen’s confession. "I wake up out of a sound sleep and there’s this looming dark shadow at the foot on my bed... Damn, Ellen, I should have known. I’m your friend, for God’s sake. I should have been there for you. I should have—"

  "You couldn’t. I didn’t want you to," Ellen said flatly. She laid a firm hand over Myra’s. "And you were there for me after Ed died. I don’t know what I would have done without you. Now, enough already." She withdrew her hand. "So tell me—you wake up in a sweat. What else?"

  Myra sighed, shrugged lightly, stared into her sherry. "Just this awful feeling of terror. I can’t move or speak." Her voice had grown small and childlike. She was playing with her hair again. "It fades quickly—the shadow, but I still get a feeling of someone out there—in the room with me. Someone—evil. If it was part of a dream, I don’t remember the dream."

  "Do you think it has anything to do with your father and—"

  "No," she cut in, shaking her mane of chestnut hair as if for emphasis. "I knew you’d think that. I guess it’s natural you would. But it has nothing to do with my father. I’m certain of that."

  Ellen nodded. "Good. Does Carl know?"

  "No. I started to tell him a couple of times, but, I don’t know, something stopped me. Maybe I just didn’t want him to think it was all starting up again." She grinned dryly. "At least I didn’t wake up screaming."

  She had, in the old days. Myra had come to Ellen several years ago as a client, a victim of incest, her psyche in shreds, her self-esteem at zero point, dragged even lower by a series of self-destructive relationships.

  With help, and Myra’s own incredible strength and natural need to be happy, she’d managed to piece her life together. There was no talk, of course, of "getting over" her horrendous childhood. It was Ellen’s contention that no one ever got over anything that devastating. You just learned to come to terms with it, to stop beating up on yourself for something you had no control over. One step at a time. One forward, sometimes three backward.

  By the time Myra met Carl, she was a single mother of two, clerking in a fashionable dress shop, soon to work her way up to assistant manager. Carl had proved to be her "rock" instead of the usual quicksand type. A quiet man whose love and good humor seemed boundless. Carl treated the boys as if they were his own and they reciprocated by adoring him. Then along came Joey, a dark-eyed imp whose grin could melt the hardest heart.

  Still, three boys were a handful. Myra needed her sleep. Ellen could see now the dark circles under her eyes—bruised shadows that hadn’t been visible in the soft light of the living room. So why the nightmares? Why after all this time? Had something happened recently to trigger old memories? Could it all be starting up again?

  "Hey, we’re supposed to be celebrating here," Myra said suddenly, brightly, intuiting Ellen’s thoughts. "So stop looking at me like I’m a bug under a microscope."

  "Was I?"

  "C’mon, Ellen, I had a couple of nightmares, so big deal. I probably won’t have anymore. And why does there have to be a deep, dark reason, anyway? You told me yourself it’s our night dreams that keep us from going insane. By the way, did I tell you I love your hair that way? Makes you look younger, more sophisticated. Okay if I have some more cheer?" she said, already getting to her feet.

  Three

  New York’s Shelton Room was jam-packed and noisy with excited anticipation and pre-holiday spirit. A high-ceilinged room with oak paneled walls, brass accents and plenty of exotic plants, it was dimly lit by tiny globes hanging like a hundred pale suns from the ceiling. An expanse of burgundy carpeting covered both this floor and that of the Shelton’s adjoining dining room, leading just through the double oak doors at the side. Glass-encased red candles centered each and every table. Christmas decorations shimmered here and there like bright surprises. There was even an enormous tree decked out in red velvet bows to greet patrons upon entering the lobby. But the tall man with longish dark-blond hair, seated at the back of the room at one of the smaller tables, had no interest in Christmas or in the club’s décor; he’d barely noticed either. Nor did he join in the enthusiastic applause that erupted the instant Gail Morgan stepped her silver-sandaled foot on stage, though he did feel the hot quickening in his loins the way he always did when the hunt was successful. Though admittedly, he hadn’t had to look too hard for this one.

  He’d unbuttoned his dark overcoat for the benefit of the doorman, revealing the obligatory shirt and tie, though he’d been careful to avert his face, pretending to be looking for someone in the crowd. And then the doorman had gotten busy with someone else, and there was no further need for charades. He hadn’t bothered to check his coat; he wasn’t planning on staying long.

  Taking a slow sip of his Miller Lite, he watched without expression, though not without interest, as the spotlight followed the singer in the white, strapless dress, the skirt flowing about her legs like liquid, to center stage.

  In the same moment, a waitress clad in the required black slacks, white shirt and black bow tie, moving quickly through the maze of tables balancing a tray of beer and drinks in her upturned hand, hesitated at his ta
ble. Then, seeing his glass nearly full, she moved on. She’d blocked his view for only an instant, but it was enough to provoke a rush of anger in him.

  Gail was beaming a dazzling, if slightly shy smile, out at her audience, who, even now, as she adjusted the microphone to suit her diminutive height, continued to applaud and cheer. She was tinier then he’d expected from seeing her picture in the paper. Hardly bigger than a kid, though she looked nothing like the snapshot in the file. He couldn’t make out the color of her eyes from here, but he knew they were blue; he had her statistics. He had all their statistics. Her hair was blonder, and now instead of the short, parted-on-the-side cut, it fell softly to her bare shoulders. And she was painted up, of course. Painted up to look like a whore.

  Just like his mother had painted herself up. And Debby Fuller. He had been just a kid, then. She’d thought he was some kind of fool, coming on to him the way she had, and then when he’d tried to give her what she asked for, she went all crazy on him, screaming at him, slapping his face. He’d shown her then who the real fool was. He’d fixed that snotty bitch—fixed her good. Maybe he ought to pay Debby a little visit one of these days. Fix her permanently. He grinned, thinking about it. And then all thoughts of Debby Fuller faded into the background as a hush fell over the room, and Gail Morgan began to sing.

  She was prettier than either his mother or Debby; he had to admit that. Tiny and perfect as a doll. His gaze lingered on her bare shoulders, smooth and white as marble. He imagined how they would feel to his touch. His eyes went to her throat. He could almost feel it, warm and throbbing, and the thought started up a hot tingling in his hands.

  Without taking his eyes from her, he fished a cigarette from the crumpled pack of Pall-Malls on the table and put it between his thin lips. The paper had described her voice as "bluesy" and "bittersweet", an exciting cross between Billie Holiday’s and Peggy Lee’s. He didn’t know who Billy Holiday was, but his mother had liked Peggy Lee, he remembered. She had all her old records and played them on an old record player—all the "oldies but goodies" she’d say. When she got drunk, she’d play Is That All There Is? over and over again, dancing by herself around the kitchen floor with a sad, stupid smile on her face. "Come dance with me, baby," she’d say, holding out her pale, slender arms to him. "Come and dance with Mommy."

  He pushed all thoughts of his mother away and concentrated his attention to the girl on stage, to the rich, throaty voice that floated around him.

  He didn’t know or care much about music, but it made him feel kind of nice hearing Gail sing. Maybe she would sing just for him alone. He’d like that. He might even let her live if she did. Sing for your supper, Gail. Sing for your life. If not, then she’d soon be singing a different tune. He smiled at his own perceived wit, a smile that did not reach the pale, cold eyes behind the glasses.

  He watched as a few dreamy-eyed couples left their tables to wander onto the small, crescent-shaped dance floor near the stage. Gail was smiling down at a gray-haired woman who had deliberately maneuvered her partner so that they were directly in front of Gail, the woman beaming up at her, giving Gail the "thumbs up" sign.

  Pathetic old fool, he thought, as he removed the chimney from the lighted candle on the table and, leaning forward in his chair, touched his cigarette to the fire.

  Twin orange flames danced in the dark-tinted glasses.

  ~ * ~

  At intermission he slipped away, leaving a half-smoked cigarette floating in his beer, hissing softly to silence, a thread of smoke trailing upward.

  Outside it was snowing and blowing, swirling white around utility poles, pink in front of the neon lights, stinging his face, banging a sign nearby.

  Hunching inside his coat collar, he waited for a break in traffic, then dashed across the street where his brown van was parked in an out-of-business gas station. A "For Lease" sign hung crookedly in the plate-glass window. From here, he could look across the street and see her own car parked in the club’s parking lot—a red Mustang, an old model, but in good shape. A few people walked hurriedly along the sidewalk, heads lowered into the storm.

  He eyed two kids huddled in a doorway, faces intent, passing what he guessed to be a joint back and forth. No one looked in his direction.

  Turning back to the van, he began brushing the snow from the windows, then quickly slipped into the driver’s seat and switched on the ignition. The motor purred to life. The clock on the dash said 10:18 p.m. She got home shortly after midnight. He’d followed her three nights running, staying just far enough behind the Mustang to avoid being spotted. Her routine never changed.

  It would tonight.

  Tonight she wouldn’t be coming home to just her cat. Chuckling low in his throat, he flipped the signal light and began working his way out into the steady stream of New York traffic. A speeding taxi cut him off, horn blaring. Anger scalded through him. Easy, he thought. Plenty of time. Her building was only a twenty-minute drive from here. Not a good idea to draw attention to himself.

  As he drove, he began thinking about the way she’d looked on stage. She’d been looking at him, too, of course, trying to let on she wasn’t. Teasing him. But he knew she wanted him. Yeah, she was hot for him, all right. He kind of liked it that she wasn’t just some little nobody the way the others had been, hardly worth a mention in the paper. Hadn’t he read that she’d got some big recording contract and all that? Well, tomorrow they’d be reading about her again.

  But they’d be thinking about him.

  Four

  It was just after eleven when Ellen got back from driving Myra home. Though Myra lived only a mile from her, the road was treacherous, and Ellen, never a happy winter driver, was glad to be off it. Too, Cutter’s Road, named for the logging road it once had been, while pleasant enough to walk along during the day, was dark and desolate at night. Only a few old farmhouses left, most had fallen into neglect and disrepair, long-abandoned.

  She’d sat in the idling car until a slightly tipsy Myra was safely inside the house. Ellen felt guiltily responsible, but what harm if it would get her through at least one night without the nightmares.

  Christmas lights had winked seductively at her through the curtain of snow. In an upstairs window, she thought she glimpsed Joey’s face, and felt a twinge of envy. She would like to have had a child—something of Ed to help ease the loneliness. But that was another of those "nobody knows why" situations.

  "You’re wallowing again," she said aloud, unbuttoning her coat and hanging it in the closet.

  She went upstairs, showered and put on her terrycloth robe. Finding she was not in the least sleepy, she came back downstairs where she now sat with a steaming mug of cocoa, in front of the fire.

  The scrapbook, bulging with clippings of Gail’s each and every achievement, lay open on her lap. She’d started keeping a scrapbook eight years ago, when Gail, barely out of high school, had gone off to New York to seek her fame and fortune. Gone with only a couple of tattered suitcases, some free publicity photos taken by a budding photographer friend who Gail promised to make famous as soon as she "made it" and the two thousand dollars Ellen had managed to save toward her education. There’d been no talking her out of it. And perhaps, seeing how determined she was, Ellen hadn’t tried as hard as she might. Besides, she believed in Gail’s talent. Never mind that the thought of her little sister all alone in the big, bad city terrified her.

  "I know there are grants and scholarships available if I really wanted to go," Gail had said when Ellen tried to persuade her on the necessity of a college education. "And I could work part-time, but that’s not where I want to put my energies. All I ever wanted was to be a singer."

  They were living in the small flat on Albert Street, sitting at the kitchen table when Gail had told her, "Having something to fall back on suggests the possibility of failure, and that’s a possibility I don’t dare let myself even consider, else it might become a self-fulfilling prophecy. I used to lie in bed at night when I was little, Ellen, dreami
ng of how it would be—imagining myself on stage, hearing the applause that drowned out the sounds of Mom and Dad fighting—and other times, too."

  Her big blue eyes had beseeched Ellen for understanding, for support, but they’d been unflaggingly determined, too. "I want to be somebody, Ellen. I want my turn at the brass ring."

  Well, you’ve got a good grip on it, now sweetie, Ellen thought, smiling, picking up the latest article, which included a particularly glamorous picture of Gail. She’d cut it out of the paper a couple of weeks ago, but hadn’t gotten around to pasting it in the book yet. She read it for the hundredth time.

  LOCAL GIRL HITS BIG TIME

  Maine blues singer Gail Morgan, has landed a major recording contract with Genesis. The Genesis deal will see her recordings, including her recent independent record, "Do You Know Me?", available in the United States and Canada. She has also signed a contract with Beli International to distribute her recordings in Belgium, the Netherlands, Luxembourg, Austria and The United Kingdom.

  In addition, Morgan travels to Holland in February for a five show concert tour through the Netherlands. The Evansdale, ME, native is also in pre-production for an NBC special which will begin taping later this month.

  Not bad, kiddo, Ellen thought. Not bad at all. Turning the article over, she read idly about a sale at Regan’s Shoe Store over on Elm, and, not to be outdone, Welton’s Pharmacy was having a fifty percent markdown on Christmas wrapping. Next was a brief write-up on the now abandoned and boarded over Evansdale Home For Girls, which the city council had deemed fitting, since it was both "a blight on the land and a hazard to children." It was to be torched by the fire department, thus providing them with useful exercise in fire-fighting, and at the same time sparing the city the expense of having it demolished by other means.