Read Online In the Middle of the Night by Robert Cormier - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Cormier
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lives. “You were not to blame,” Adam Polansky said. “But …”
But.
That dangerous, sly word, slinking into the conversation like a tiny snake of accusation.
“But somebody was to blame for the collapse,” Detective Cutter interrupted. “And this is where you come in. Where you must tell the truth.”
For some reason, John Paul thought of Mr. Zarbor. Poor Mr. Zarbor. Was he still in that state of shock the newspapers mentioned?
“Mr. Zarbor …,” he said.
“Exactly,” the detective said. “You must not protectanyone. Mr. Zarbor or anyone else. You must tell the truth, not hide anything.”
But he wasn’t hiding anything.
Detective Cutter spoke again: “Did Mr. Zarbor ever mention the condition of the balcony to you?”
“No. I put things up there. Boxes, stuff from backstage. I did not go up there when I didn’t have to. I did not like the balcony.”
“Why not?”
“It was spooky, dark. Sometimes I heard noises—like rats running around …”
“Are you sure it was rats?”
“I thought it was.” His headache was returning with a bang, like a nail being driven into his head.
“Could the sound have been something else?” “Like what?”
“Like the sound you heard just before the balcony collapsed. There’s reason to believe that the balcony had begun a slow collapse before the day of the show. Did Mr. Zarbor ever mention the condition of the balcony before that day?”
Hadn’t he asked that question a minute ago?
“No.” A hammer was pounding the nail home, high at the back of his skull.
At that moment, his father intervened.
“I think my son’s in pain,” he said. “Enough.”
The detective stepped back toward the doorway and the commissioner came to John Paul’s bedside. “Try to get some rest,” he said, kindly, gently.
“But think about those questions,” Detective Cuttercalled over his shoulder as he left the room. His voice was not kind or gentle.
The next morning, a small man, so short he was barely visible over the wagon he pushed, paused at the doorway and asked John Paul if he wanted to buy any candy or gum, magazines or newspapers.
“If you’ve got no money pay me later,” he called cheerfully.
“Can I buy a newspaper?” John Paul asked, immediately regretting it. He did not really want to read more newspaper stories about the Globe. “My father left money in the drawer.” Nodding toward the bureau next to the bed.
“My name’s Mac,” the man said. “I’m three feet nine and used to be in the circus. What a juggler! I used to perform at the Globe. Before your time. How old do you think I am?”
All of this while he brought over the newspaper, took the money from the drawer, deposited change in the drawer and handed the newspaper to John Paul.
“I don’t know,” John Paul said, glad for his company, for someone in his room who was not a doctor or nurse or investigator.
“Fifty-one. Everybody says I don’t look a day over thirty.” Shaking his head: “Too bad about Mr. Zarbor. He was a nice man. Had a soft spot for jugglers …”
Too bad? Was a nice man?
Danger in those words.
John Paul snatched the newspaper from Mac’s hands, moaned as he saw the headline:
THEATER OWNER COMMITS SUICIDE ;
DESPONDENT OVER PENDING CHARGES
That night, he prayed for the soul of Mr. Zarbor and for all the children who died in the theater. He said a rosary, counting off the prayers on his fingers. Then another rosary and another, hundreds of
Notre Pères
and
Ave Marias
—he always said his prayers in French—until he slipped, finally, into sleep. Sleep which had somehow become a sweet and cherished friend.
Three days later, he was discharged from the hospital. His mother and father came to take him home. They fussed over him. His mother helped him dress, although he felt capable of dressing himself. She knelt to lace his shoes, which embarrassed him. His father kept touching him—his shoulder, his hair—as if to verify John Paul’s
But.
That dangerous, sly word, slinking into the conversation like a tiny snake of accusation.
“But somebody was to blame for the collapse,” Detective Cutter interrupted. “And this is where you come in. Where you must tell the truth.”
For some reason, John Paul thought of Mr. Zarbor. Poor Mr. Zarbor. Was he still in that state of shock the newspapers mentioned?
“Mr. Zarbor …,” he said.
“Exactly,” the detective said. “You must not protectanyone. Mr. Zarbor or anyone else. You must tell the truth, not hide anything.”
But he wasn’t hiding anything.
Detective Cutter spoke again: “Did Mr. Zarbor ever mention the condition of the balcony to you?”
“No. I put things up there. Boxes, stuff from backstage. I did not go up there when I didn’t have to. I did not like the balcony.”
“Why not?”
“It was spooky, dark. Sometimes I heard noises—like rats running around …”
“Are you sure it was rats?”
“I thought it was.” His headache was returning with a bang, like a nail being driven into his head.
“Could the sound have been something else?” “Like what?”
“Like the sound you heard just before the balcony collapsed. There’s reason to believe that the balcony had begun a slow collapse before the day of the show. Did Mr. Zarbor ever mention the condition of the balcony before that day?”
Hadn’t he asked that question a minute ago?
“No.” A hammer was pounding the nail home, high at the back of his skull.
At that moment, his father intervened.
“I think my son’s in pain,” he said. “Enough.”
The detective stepped back toward the doorway and the commissioner came to John Paul’s bedside. “Try to get some rest,” he said, kindly, gently.
“But think about those questions,” Detective Cuttercalled over his shoulder as he left the room. His voice was not kind or gentle.
The next morning, a small man, so short he was barely visible over the wagon he pushed, paused at the doorway and asked John Paul if he wanted to buy any candy or gum, magazines or newspapers.
“If you’ve got no money pay me later,” he called cheerfully.
“Can I buy a newspaper?” John Paul asked, immediately regretting it. He did not really want to read more newspaper stories about the Globe. “My father left money in the drawer.” Nodding toward the bureau next to the bed.
“My name’s Mac,” the man said. “I’m three feet nine and used to be in the circus. What a juggler! I used to perform at the Globe. Before your time. How old do you think I am?”
All of this while he brought over the newspaper, took the money from the drawer, deposited change in the drawer and handed the newspaper to John Paul.
“I don’t know,” John Paul said, glad for his company, for someone in his room who was not a doctor or nurse or investigator.
“Fifty-one. Everybody says I don’t look a day over thirty.” Shaking his head: “Too bad about Mr. Zarbor. He was a nice man. Had a soft spot for jugglers …”
Too bad? Was a nice man?
Danger in those words.
John Paul snatched the newspaper from Mac’s hands, moaned as he saw the headline:
THEATER OWNER COMMITS SUICIDE ;
DESPONDENT OVER PENDING CHARGES
That night, he prayed for the soul of Mr. Zarbor and for all the children who died in the theater. He said a rosary, counting off the prayers on his fingers. Then another rosary and another, hundreds of
Notre Pères
and
Ave Marias
—he always said his prayers in French—until he slipped, finally, into sleep. Sleep which had somehow become a sweet and cherished friend.
Three days later, he was discharged from the hospital. His mother and father came to take him home. They fussed over him. His mother helped him dress, although he felt capable of dressing himself. She knelt to lace his shoes, which embarrassed him. His father kept touching him—his shoulder, his hair—as if to verify John Paul’s
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