Read Online In the Middle of the Night by Robert Cormier - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Cormier
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no
sécurité
now. Even with his father sleeping away the morning—he still worked nights at the restaurant—and his mother busy with housework, he did not feel at ease. His headaches had stopped, his cuts and bruises healed. But he wondered whether something had happened to his mind that could not be cured. Something more than his mind, however. Something else entirely. Which he did not want to think about.
He told his mother: “I am going for a walk.”
She put down the big spoon with which she was stirring something in a pan on the stove. “Should you do that?”
“I will be going to school next week. Why not a walk this week? You told me I am pale. Maybe fresh air will help.” He did not use contractions with his mother.
She nodded, eyes sad. Since the tragedy, she wore sadness like a coat she could not take off.
The coldness of November greeted him as he stepped out of the house, and he raised the collar of his jacket. The sky, dark and low, pressed down upon him. Tree branches, stark and leafless, were like spiderwebs climbing against the grayness of the sky. Chilled and depressed, watching pieces of debris kicked across the sidewalk by a brisk wind, he almost went back into the house.
He headed for the Wickburg Memorial Library. Did not know he had left the house for this purpose until this moment, yet had known all along that he
had
to go, had to find out what had happened outside the hospital while he was a patient there.
Luckily, he did not have to spend time learning how to use the microfilm equipment. A cheerful librarian told him that the most recent newspapers had not yet been filmed, and she brought him all the newspapers for the past two weeks, placing them on a table in the reading room. She did not question why he was not in school.
An hour later, he stumbled out of the library. The headlines and stories raced through his mind as he made his way on wobbly legs up Main Street. He paused at a mailbox, leaning against it, his breath coming rapidly, dangerously, as if he had been running at a furious pace.
Lifting his face to the wind, he was grateful for having been in the hospital immediately after the tragedy, for having been spared the agony of those terrible days of rage and pain. Black headlines and story after story told of children trapped, children hurt, children dead. Pictures had been supplied by grieving families: first communions, school photos, family gatherings. Eager faces, shining eyes. A boy on Santa’s lap. A girl blowing out candles on a birthday cake. And there were pictures of funerals, too, of crowds outside churches, faces twisted with grief, eyes drowning with tears.
Then a shocking picture of himself, surrounded by happy children, all beaming at the camera, taken, apparently, in the lobby of the theater. He did not remember posing for the picture. He read the sentence under the photo: “Usher John Paul Colbert shown with children shortly before tragedy struck at the Globe Theater. Colberthas been cleared of responsibility for the collapse of the balcony.”
As he made his way home, that was his one shred of comfort.
Cleared of responsibility.
But a very small and slender shred.
All those children had died.
And he had been a part of it.
A letter awaited him at home. His mother looked at him expectantly as she handed it over: he had never received a letter before. On his birthday, his mother and father always sent him a card in the mail, timing it to arrive on the correct date. But this was a
letter
, a long white envelope, delicate handwriting spelling out his name and address.
He weighed it in the palm of his hand, reluctant to open it.
He couldn’t imagine who could be writing to him.
He looked for the return address—none.
As he tore the envelope open carefully at one end, his father emerged from the bedroom, yawning, running his hand through sleep-rumpled hair.
“A letter for John Paul,” his mother announced to him, apprehension in her voice.
His
sécurité
now. Even with his father sleeping away the morning—he still worked nights at the restaurant—and his mother busy with housework, he did not feel at ease. His headaches had stopped, his cuts and bruises healed. But he wondered whether something had happened to his mind that could not be cured. Something more than his mind, however. Something else entirely. Which he did not want to think about.
He told his mother: “I am going for a walk.”
She put down the big spoon with which she was stirring something in a pan on the stove. “Should you do that?”
“I will be going to school next week. Why not a walk this week? You told me I am pale. Maybe fresh air will help.” He did not use contractions with his mother.
She nodded, eyes sad. Since the tragedy, she wore sadness like a coat she could not take off.
The coldness of November greeted him as he stepped out of the house, and he raised the collar of his jacket. The sky, dark and low, pressed down upon him. Tree branches, stark and leafless, were like spiderwebs climbing against the grayness of the sky. Chilled and depressed, watching pieces of debris kicked across the sidewalk by a brisk wind, he almost went back into the house.
He headed for the Wickburg Memorial Library. Did not know he had left the house for this purpose until this moment, yet had known all along that he
had
to go, had to find out what had happened outside the hospital while he was a patient there.
Luckily, he did not have to spend time learning how to use the microfilm equipment. A cheerful librarian told him that the most recent newspapers had not yet been filmed, and she brought him all the newspapers for the past two weeks, placing them on a table in the reading room. She did not question why he was not in school.
An hour later, he stumbled out of the library. The headlines and stories raced through his mind as he made his way on wobbly legs up Main Street. He paused at a mailbox, leaning against it, his breath coming rapidly, dangerously, as if he had been running at a furious pace.
Lifting his face to the wind, he was grateful for having been in the hospital immediately after the tragedy, for having been spared the agony of those terrible days of rage and pain. Black headlines and story after story told of children trapped, children hurt, children dead. Pictures had been supplied by grieving families: first communions, school photos, family gatherings. Eager faces, shining eyes. A boy on Santa’s lap. A girl blowing out candles on a birthday cake. And there were pictures of funerals, too, of crowds outside churches, faces twisted with grief, eyes drowning with tears.
Then a shocking picture of himself, surrounded by happy children, all beaming at the camera, taken, apparently, in the lobby of the theater. He did not remember posing for the picture. He read the sentence under the photo: “Usher John Paul Colbert shown with children shortly before tragedy struck at the Globe Theater. Colberthas been cleared of responsibility for the collapse of the balcony.”
As he made his way home, that was his one shred of comfort.
Cleared of responsibility.
But a very small and slender shred.
All those children had died.
And he had been a part of it.
A letter awaited him at home. His mother looked at him expectantly as she handed it over: he had never received a letter before. On his birthday, his mother and father always sent him a card in the mail, timing it to arrive on the correct date. But this was a
letter
, a long white envelope, delicate handwriting spelling out his name and address.
He weighed it in the palm of his hand, reluctant to open it.
He couldn’t imagine who could be writing to him.
He looked for the return address—none.
As he tore the envelope open carefully at one end, his father emerged from the bedroom, yawning, running his hand through sleep-rumpled hair.
“A letter for John Paul,” his mother announced to him, apprehension in her voice.
His
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