Read Online 600 Hours of Edward by Craig Lancaster - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Craig Lancaster
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right to yell at her, to hit her, to choke her.
I can only hope that the full weight of the law puts you somewhere you can’t hurt her again.
Edward Stanton
I put the letter in a new green office folder, labeled “Mike,” and file it away. I want to throw up.
– • –
As appointed, I go to bed at midnight. I can’t fall asleep, and I think I have to prepare myself for an unusual waking time in the morning, if I go to sleep at all. My data will be complete, but it will be erratic.
At 1:47 a.m.—I know because I am not asleep and I check the clock—I hear a rap on the front door. I crawl out of bed and go to the door, where I look through the peephole.
It’s Donna Middleton through the fish-eye lens. She has a purplish welt under her right eye. Her face is streaked and stained with makeup. She has been crying.
I open the door.
“Hello, Mr. Stanton.”
“Hello, Ms. Middleton. Are you OK?”
“Physically, I’ll be fine in a few days, they say. But I’m not OK.”
“I understand.”
She looks down. “I want to thank you for calling the cops.”
“Yes.”
“And I want to apologize to you for my reaction this morning—God, this morning. It seems like a long time ago.” She is weeping.
“Yes.”
“I’m having a hard time figuring you out, Mr. Stanton.”
“Edward.”
“Edward,” she repeats.
“I know.” I am not sure what to say to her.
“Are you a friend to us, Edward?”
“Yes.”
“OK, then. Thank you again. I was…” She is crying again. “I was sure I was going to die.”
“That was not going to happen.”
She tries to smile but just cries some more. She rubs her face and sniffles. “OK, then. It’s late. I probably woke you up. Good night, Edward.”
“Good night.”
I watch as she turns around and cuts diagonally across the street, from my front yard to hers. She walks up the steps of her porch, opens the front door, and disappears inside.
It’s 2:00 a.m. I always go to sleep at midnight sharp, but today has been extraordinary, and here I am, awake. I’ve never seen my neighborhood at this time. It’s quiet and beautiful. I can’t hear anything except the beating of my heart.
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 19
I am not surprised to see the man in front of me. It is Mike. Though he is at least seven inches shorter than me, no more than five foot nine, he weighs at least as much as I do, and unlike me, Mike is all muscle. His angular face seethes. He is holding a baseball bat, and he waggles it menacingly. That bat, I am sure, is intended for me.
I am surprised that Mike is not in jail. The cops in this town are terrible.
I am not surprised that he is advancing on me.
I am surprised that I am not running—indeed, that I am standing still.
I am not surprised that Mike has pulled the bat back for a mighty swing and that it is aimed directly at my head…
– • –
I am surprised that I’m awake. I am even more surprised that it’s 4:12 a.m.
It seems that there is little I can rely on anymore.
I try closing my eyes, now that I know I am safe.
But it is useless. I grab my pen and notebook and scribble down the time, and my data is complete.
– • –
As I pad through the living room toward the earliest bowl of corn flakes of my life, I stop at the front window and pull back the curtain. Life outside on Clark Avenue looks much as it did just a few hours ago. Only the streetlights pierce the dark. No one appears to be out and about, not at this hour. I tilt my head to the right and find Donna Middleton’s house. I wonder if she’s having trouble sleeping. I wonder if she is scared. I wouldn’t say she was scared when I talked to her earlier—shaken, yes, but there was firmness in her voice and what I would call resolve in her eyes. There is no empirical way to prove these things, of course, but that was the sense I got. I prefer facts, but sometimes sense is all you have to go on.
I’ve occasionally heard people say something like “I know his heart,”
I can only hope that the full weight of the law puts you somewhere you can’t hurt her again.
Edward Stanton
I put the letter in a new green office folder, labeled “Mike,” and file it away. I want to throw up.
– • –
As appointed, I go to bed at midnight. I can’t fall asleep, and I think I have to prepare myself for an unusual waking time in the morning, if I go to sleep at all. My data will be complete, but it will be erratic.
At 1:47 a.m.—I know because I am not asleep and I check the clock—I hear a rap on the front door. I crawl out of bed and go to the door, where I look through the peephole.
It’s Donna Middleton through the fish-eye lens. She has a purplish welt under her right eye. Her face is streaked and stained with makeup. She has been crying.
I open the door.
“Hello, Mr. Stanton.”
“Hello, Ms. Middleton. Are you OK?”
“Physically, I’ll be fine in a few days, they say. But I’m not OK.”
“I understand.”
She looks down. “I want to thank you for calling the cops.”
“Yes.”
“And I want to apologize to you for my reaction this morning—God, this morning. It seems like a long time ago.” She is weeping.
“Yes.”
“I’m having a hard time figuring you out, Mr. Stanton.”
“Edward.”
“Edward,” she repeats.
“I know.” I am not sure what to say to her.
“Are you a friend to us, Edward?”
“Yes.”
“OK, then. Thank you again. I was…” She is crying again. “I was sure I was going to die.”
“That was not going to happen.”
She tries to smile but just cries some more. She rubs her face and sniffles. “OK, then. It’s late. I probably woke you up. Good night, Edward.”
“Good night.”
I watch as she turns around and cuts diagonally across the street, from my front yard to hers. She walks up the steps of her porch, opens the front door, and disappears inside.
It’s 2:00 a.m. I always go to sleep at midnight sharp, but today has been extraordinary, and here I am, awake. I’ve never seen my neighborhood at this time. It’s quiet and beautiful. I can’t hear anything except the beating of my heart.
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 19
I am not surprised to see the man in front of me. It is Mike. Though he is at least seven inches shorter than me, no more than five foot nine, he weighs at least as much as I do, and unlike me, Mike is all muscle. His angular face seethes. He is holding a baseball bat, and he waggles it menacingly. That bat, I am sure, is intended for me.
I am surprised that Mike is not in jail. The cops in this town are terrible.
I am not surprised that he is advancing on me.
I am surprised that I am not running—indeed, that I am standing still.
I am not surprised that Mike has pulled the bat back for a mighty swing and that it is aimed directly at my head…
– • –
I am surprised that I’m awake. I am even more surprised that it’s 4:12 a.m.
It seems that there is little I can rely on anymore.
I try closing my eyes, now that I know I am safe.
But it is useless. I grab my pen and notebook and scribble down the time, and my data is complete.
– • –
As I pad through the living room toward the earliest bowl of corn flakes of my life, I stop at the front window and pull back the curtain. Life outside on Clark Avenue looks much as it did just a few hours ago. Only the streetlights pierce the dark. No one appears to be out and about, not at this hour. I tilt my head to the right and find Donna Middleton’s house. I wonder if she’s having trouble sleeping. I wonder if she is scared. I wouldn’t say she was scared when I talked to her earlier—shaken, yes, but there was firmness in her voice and what I would call resolve in her eyes. There is no empirical way to prove these things, of course, but that was the sense I got. I prefer facts, but sometimes sense is all you have to go on.
I’ve occasionally heard people say something like “I know his heart,”
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