Five Stories for the Dark Months Read online

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  Sans Merci

  June 2012

  Table of Contents

  Paul had found the café a year before, when he and Wendy had first moved into the new apartment. Well, “found” was probably an overstatement: the place was a little out of the way, but it was hardly hidden. It was tucked into the back streets behind their apartment complex, cool and quiet, and for some reason it was never crowded though the menu and décor were the latest in coffee-shop chic. Paul liked to duck in from time to time, on the rare occasions when he wasn’t busy, and drink his coffee at a table beside the window, watching pedestrians pass outside and pretending he was ten years younger.

  As the door chimes jingled behind him, Paul’s pocket hummed. He grabbed reflexively for the phone, but then forced his hand back to his side: the text could wait a few more minutes. Wendy had probably just remembered something else they were out of—Cheerios, maybe.

  As the line moved up, he surveyed the blackboards above the bar. The menus and their hand-drawn illustrations changed monthly, and most of the specials were things Paul had never heard of: the Pumpkin Bread Smoothie, the Snowberry Latte, the Honey Mocha Spritz. He almost decided to spring for a Golden Cappuccino, just so he could finally see what made it different, but as always the six-dollar price tag put him off. By buying coffee at all, he was stealing from shallow coffers—he should at least try to mitigate the damage. “I’ll have a small latte,” he said when he reached the register. “Please.”

  The barista was one Paul had seen many times before: a grim-faced kid with a shaved head, a chinstrap, and a barbell through his eyebrow. Though he had to have recognized Paul, he gave no sign of it, and simply said, “Skim or whole?”

  “Skim.” Paul had caught Wendy looking at his waistline the other day—she wasn’t the only one who’d put on weight when they’d had the baby. Though she hadn’t said anything, the look had stung for hours afterward.

  The barista scribbled something on a cup. “Three dollars,” he said, looking bored with the transaction already.

  As Paul waited for his drink, his phone buzzed again. He took it out with a sigh. As he’d expected, the text was from Wendy.

  Can you bring back diapers?

  Yeah, sure. Anything else?

  Another pink-bubbled message buzzed into place. I don’t think so. PS Mom called. Dinner at 7.

  OK. Paul’s heart sank at the thought of another stifling meal in Mrs. Kraft’s airless dining room. At least the food was usually good. I’ll be back pretty soon.

  The café was unusually busy this evening. Hip, wealthy-looking patrons sat in clusters around the low round tables, deep in private conversations. Most of them looked up with forbidding smiles when Paul glanced at them. When his drink was finally done, he grabbed it and hurried self-consciously to his usual seat by the window.

  The table was occupied.

  For a second Paul could only stare in shock at the dark-haired woman who sat reading by the light of his favorite lamp. It was too unfair—he got away so rarely! He only wanted ten minutes by the window, so he could sit and forget about his job, his family, his growing load of responsibilities. Was that so much to ask?

  It was getting late, anyway. Maybe he should just take his cup and go—

  The woman looked up, and Paul forgot to breathe.

  Her beauty was of the strange, multifaceted kind that couldn’t quite be pinned down. Objectively, her face was odd: wide-spaced black eyes with spiky black lashes, an upturned nose, a wide mouth, sharp jawbones curving to a pointed chin. Her dark, wavy hair, parted in the center, was otherwise so tousled it looked almost unkempt, and her face had a strange grayish cast beneath golden overtones. She should have been ugly, Paul thought dimly, but instead she was the most fascinating person he’d ever seen.

  As he tried to think of some way to keep her looking at him—so he could keep looking at her—the woman spoke. “I’m sorry. Am I in your seat?” Her voice was low and gentle, with a hint of dulcet laughter.

  “Um, no!” Paul felt as if he’d just stared into the sun. He blinked his eyes, trying unsuccessfully to un-dazzle them. “Uh, no… um, not really. I… just, I usually…”

  “Say no more.” The stranger’s mouth twisted wryly, and she reached for her cup. It was one of the ceramic ones, blue-and-white floral with a silicone lid. Wendy had one like it in her office. “I was just going.“

  “No, no, please stay!” Paul said quickly. “I’ll sit someplace else…”

  “Well, here.” The stranger reached across the table, took a quilted cloth bag from the second seat, and hung it from the back of her own. Like her clothes, it looked discreetly expensive. “Won’t you join me?”

  “Uh—I—” Paul stammered. He felt like he’d suddenly regressed to adolescence. “Um, I wouldn’t want to interrupt…”

  “That’s all right. I always enjoy company.” The woman put down her book—a thin, worn paperback with a geometric cover. What Paul could see of the title looked like French.

  He sat down without another thought. “What are you reading?”

  “The collected works of Alain Chartier.” She leaned closer. “Have you read him?”

  “Um… no, I—” have never heard of him. “I don’t get to do a lot of reading these days.” He set down his untasted coffee.

  “No?” The woman blinked, startling Paul with the flicker of her lashes. “That’s very sad. Why not?”

  She had a slight accent—French, probably, given the book, but it didn’t sound like French. Her looks were no help, either—she could have been from anywhere, or nowhere.

  After a second, Paul realized that he hadn’t answered her question. “Um, my wife and I just had a baby. Um, I mean she had the baby, but… uh…”

  The woman laughed. “A new father? I’m surprised you have time to stop for coffee.”

  Paul flinched guiltily. “Um, I don’t.”

  “Aha—so you’re here incognito?” The woman leaned closer with a conspiratorial smile. “Don’t worry: I’ll tell no one.”

  “Ha. Thanks.” He sipped his cooling drink.

  “What are you drinking?”

  “It’s just a latte,” said Paul, feeling inexplicably embarrassed.

  His companion nodded, as if he’d said something profound. “How is it? I’ve never had one.”

  “Really?” He offered his cup. “You want to try some?”

  The woman’s laugh was like a flight of butterflies. It left a delightful chill in Paul’s stomach. “Oh, I couldn’t.”

  “You should! Here, it’s good.” He pried up the lid of his cup and handed it to her, feeling oddly eager to please.

  Smiling, she accepted the drink and took a sip. Watching eagerly for her reaction, Paul was disappointed to see her face fall. “Well, it’s… nice,” she said.

  Rarely had he felt like such a failure. “You don’t like it.”

  “Well, it’s… a little bland, isn’t it?” The woman handed back his drink. “Kind of… thin.”

  He should never have gone for skim milk. Trying not to feel defensive, he said, “What are you drinking?”

  She picked up her cup as if she’d forgotten about it. “Oh, this? It’s not on the menu. It’s a sort of… specialty drink—a custom order.”

  “What—you mean, like, half soy, half skim, triple-pump vanilla, hold the whipped cream, sprinkle pixie dust on top? That sort of thing?”

  She smiled again, and Paul’s heart started a two-step. “Maybe something like that.”

  “Well…” He cleared his throat. “Can I try it?”

  He was embarrassed almost immediately. What had made him say that? “It’s all right,” he said quickly, “never mind. I—”

  “Here.” She held out the pretty cup, and Paul took it reflexively. The hot ceramic stung his palms as he sniffed the drink through the hole in the lid. It smelled wonderful: like milk, honey, almonds, cinnamon—and was that cardamom? “Wow,” he said, and took a reverent sip.

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nbsp; The world tilted, and for a long moment Paul forgot where he was and what he was doing. Finally he blinked, and found himself looking at the world through a veil of golden fog. “Wow,” he said hoarsely. His voice sounded tinny and distant. “What was that?”

  The stranger stood, her long skirt crinkling. She smoothed her sweater and straightened her antique shawl. “I have to go,” she said, shouldering her bag. “You may keep the drink, if you like.”

  “Wait!” He stood, almost knocking down his chair. “Where are you going?” The thought of her leaving was suddenly intolerable, though a minute ago he had wished for nothing else.

  “Home! It’s getting late, and I hate to walk the streets alone when it’s dark outside.” She smiled distantly at Paul. “It was nice to meet you, Mr…ah…”

  “I’m Paul. Paul Rogers.” He held out his hand. “I—”

  His phone buzzed. He ignored it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name, miss…”

  She smiled. “I never gave it.”

  The phone buzzed again. Paul thought about turning it off.

  “You may call me Helen,” she said graciously.

  “Helen.” The name rang in his mind like a bell. “Um, where do you live, Helen?”

  “Why?” She gave him a sidelong glance. “You wish to visit?”

  Paul covered the phone with his hand, wishing it would stop. “I can walk you home—I mean, if you want.” The words startled him, but he couldn’t take them back and not seem rude.

  Helen laughed. “So you don’t think I can take care of myself?”

  Before Paul could answer, his phone began to play the “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy”—Wendy’s ringtone. The sound was so unexpected that it robbed him of his wits. It had played through twice before he realized he should answer it.

  “Excuse me,” he murmured. Avoiding Helen’s eyes, he retrieved the phone and took the call. “Hey, babe. What’s up?”

  “Paul?” Wendy’s voice was worried. “Where are you?”

  “Uh…” He looked around. “Um, I’m…”

  “It’s been more than an hour!”

  He choked. “What? I—” Catching sight of the kitty-cat clock on the wall behind the bar, he saw that she was right. “Wow. I’m sorry, I had no idea!”

  “Are you almost done? We need to get going soon if we’re going to make it to Mom’s on time.”

  Prickles of conscience dragged his mind slowly back to life. “Right. Sorry. I’m almost done—I’ll be home pretty soon.”

  “What happened?” she said. “I didn’t think it would take you more than fifteen minutes or so to get to the store and back.”

  “Yeah, well—” Helen had started toward the door. Something long and sinuous rose out of his heart and tried to follow her. “I, um, dropped my wallet,” he said quickly. “Didn’t even notice it was missing till I got to the store.”

  “Oh, my God! Oh, Paul…”

  “It’s okay!” he said, spinning the lie as he went. “Um, some lady found it and gave it back—she looked at my ID and came to find me. Everything’s just fine.”

  “Thank God.” Wendy sighed heavily. “I was about to have a heart attack! So you’re coming home now?”

  “No, uh… I, uh, haven’t been to the store yet. I just got the wallet back this second. I’m going now, though!”

  He heard Wendy sigh again. “Okay, babe. Glad you got it back, anyway. Just hurry, please! We’re already late.”

  “I will.”

  “Bring Cheerios!”

  When he’d hung up, Paul ran outside in a crash of tinkling bells. Helen was standing under the café awning, looking up into the sky. The sun was gone, and the skyline stood black against the purple remnants of the sunset. The glow of the streetlights reflected off the eternal banks of haze, veiling the street in amber gloom.

  Though it had been rush hour when Paul had gone into the café, now the street echoed like an empty ballroom. The few pedestrians hurried past with hunched shoulders, ducking their heads as if against impending rain. When Paul let the door swing shut, the jingle of its chimes was louder than a telephone.

  Helen turned. “Was that your wife?”

  “Uh, Yeah. I’m… I’m actually a bit late, so…”

  “Then you’ll be going home, I suppose.”

  He fidgeted. “Probably better. Um…“

  She turned away, sniffing. “I had best be going, too. Look how dark the sky is! And I have no escort home.”

  Paul squirmed, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. Are you going to be okay?” His mind filled with an image of dark streets, and of Helen slim and vulnerable beneath the streetlights. Now that they were both standing, he could see for the first time how small she was. She really shouldn’t be walking out alone after dark…

  “I’m sure I shall be fine,” said Helen dryly. “Perhaps some other gallant will escort me home.”

  The barb stung. “How far do you live?”

  “Not far. Perhaps ten minutes?”

  Ten minutes. Twenty, there and back. He was already late—if Wendy was going to kill him, anyway, then he might as well do his good deed for the day. “Okay,” he said, deciding all at once. “I’ll walk you.”

  Helen laughed. “All right, then, knight-at-arms. I thank you. Shall we go?”

  She led him a long and silent way, through streets and alleys Paul had never seen before. She walked without speaking, and her long hair veiled her face. She seemed to have forgotten he was there. From time to time he tried to make conversation, but everything he thought of to say fell to pieces on his tongue before he could say it. It had to have been more than ten minutes already, he thought soon, but there was no way of saying that that wouldn’t have sounded petty. In the end, he walked as quietly as she did.

  At last Helen stopped on a quiet street lined with brownstone buildings. Most of these were dark, but the one she’d stopped by had a number of lit windows. By their light Paul could see that the building was covered with small embellishments: blooming flower boxes, small flags, old lace curtains. Soft jazz music floated from an upstairs window.

  “Here we are,” said Helen, taking off her bag. “Wait a second—I’ll find my keys.”

  Now that they were here, Paul felt extraneous, as if he’d walked onto the set of a play he wasn’t acting in. He looked up at the house. It had to date back at least to the early 20th century, he thought. A plaque near the door suggested it was a historical site, though it was too dark for Paul to read why

  “You look lost,” Helen said, stepping toward him with her keys in her hand. “Is something wrong?”

  “I… no.” His phone buzzed. “I…”

  “Perhaps you should check your messages.” Her voice, which before had been so gentle, was low and throaty now—hoarse, teasing. Paul found himself getting hard.

  “Uh… uh… yeah, sorry.” He fumbled the phone from the pocket of his tightening jeans. “Just a second…”

  He could practically read Wendy’s anger from her text. Where are u?!!! Scrolling up, he saw that it was only the latest in a long string of similar messages, though he’d never heard the alerts from any of them. We can’t go to Mom’s now! She’s going to bed. What the fuck, Paul???

  I forgot the milk, he typed quickly. Back soon.

  NO FUCKING WAY!!!! PAUL, IT HAS BEEN 2 HOURS!!!!!

  He didn’t know what to do. After a second, he put the phone back in his pocket. “I’m sorry,” he said again, though he didn’t know why he was apologizing to Helen of all people.

  She moved closer. “No apology is necessary. Would you like to come upstairs? Have some coffee, perhaps?” She laid her hand on his arm.

  A chill shot through his body. Paul groaned. “Ah, no. No, I—” He was hot, confused—his heart was racing. His jeans were unbearably tight. “I’m sorry, I—” He gasped, and tried to pull away, but failed. “I really shouldn’t. I need to get home.”

  His phone began to ring again. As the Sugar Plum Fairy tripped her erratic way up and down
the scale, Paul stared into Helen’s cold dark eyes and wondered why he was here. At last, without really thinking about it, he pulled the phone out again and turned it off. “I have to go,” he said again.

  “Of course.” Helen stepped backward, swaying like a cobra. “It was so very lovely to meet you, Paul. I think perhaps we will not meet again. But you should go home—go and see your wife. See your son.”

  Something terrible was happening, he thought. A glorious opportunity was slipping by, and for the life of him he couldn’t tell why he wasn’t taking it. “I…”

  “But are you sure you won’t come upstairs, only for a little while?” Her eyes glinted yellow in the glow of the porch lights. There was something mesmerizing about her voice—it hissed and throbbed, burrowing deep into his head. “I think you’ll feel much better.”

  Paul swallowed around a throat gone suddenly dry. “I really shouldn’t.” His voice was hoarse.

  “You could take a taxi home.” Reaching out again, she laid her hand against his chest. He drew a sharp, painful breath. “You’d be there in no time, that way. What’s ten minutes, more or less, if you’re already so late?”

  “My wife is going to kill me.” Despite his words, his hand rose up and closed around Helen’s small, cold one. “She’s going to skin me alive.”

  “Then why are you in such a hurry to see her?”

  Her logic was impeccable.

  “Ten minutes,” Helen whispered, holding his gaze.

  Paul shivered. He opened his mouth to refuse, and nodded. “All right,” he said. “Ten minutes.”

  He woke to silence. Thin grey light flowed through an open window, along with a chilly breeze that shivered the white gauze curtains.

  Paul stirred, frowning. Had Wendy changed the curtains? But she loved the blue ones, and she was always talking about saving money…

  The bed was different, too, he realized slowly: a circular mattress on the floor by the window, covered by a white duvet—down, he thought, scented with herbs. He was naked beneath it—they must have made love last night. Dimly, he began to remember…

  …the taste of her salty skin between his teeth, her hands against his throat as he moved into her—the sharp, dry scent of her body, and the shape of her small, dark nipples—the brush of her tangled hair against his—

  Gasping, Paul turned over and reached for Wendy. “Mmm… hey, babe, I—”

  His hand, beneath the covers, fell on a taut, curved waist—much smaller than Wendy’s had ever been, even before the baby. Its owner sighed softly, nuzzling closer.

  A tremor of fear ran through Paul’s bones. “Wendy?” he whispered. He reached for the edge of the duvet—then stopped, afraid to see what lay beneath.

  “Mmm… who is Wendy?” The voice was low and hoarse with sleep—and nothing like his wife’s.

  He watched, mute and frozen, as the covers fell and Helen sat up. Nude, she was exquisite. Her bones were delicate, her breasts high, her skin flawless. Her back was to the window, and the dim gray light of morning set her face in shadow, making black pools of her eyes. Her dark hair fell to her waist, cloaking her shoulders and covering her nipples, obscenely demure.

  She looked younger now, thought Paul, in the small part of his head that wasn’t paralyzed with horror. She could have been eighteen, where before she’d looked almost thirty. Her waist and hips were narrow, her breasts small and pointed, her belly flat. Her skin was as smooth as glass. She looked like an angel, or perhaps a fairy.

  She watched him stare for a moment, then smiled. “Good morning, Paul,” she said.

  He couldn’t think of a word to say.

  “Did you sleep well?” Helen cocked her head, birdlike. “We’ve had a long night together.” With a sly half-smile, she ran her fingertips down Paul’s chest. “But perhaps you are ready for a second round?”

  “No.” He shook his head, finally realizing what had happened. “No, no, no. This can’t be right.” He staggered from the bed, and saw his phone abandoned in the center of the hardwood floor. He picked it up, but its screen was thick with dust, the battery long dead.

  “No—you didn’t sleep well?” Her voice was mocking. Following him from her nest, she twined herself around him as he searched for his clothes. Her fingers trailed down between his legs and began to toy with him. He moaned.

  “Or,” she whispered, pressing the words against his throat with lips and teeth and tongue, “perhaps you mean that you—” (squeeze) “—don’t want to try again?”

  As Paul sank to the floor, collapsing around himself in a miserable lust-soaked heap, Helen laughed. “Pity,” she said, stepping away with a little kick to Paul’s side. “I had thought you rather enjoyed yourself.”

  Paul’s face was slick with tears as he stared up at her. “Please,” he said. His voice was small and hopeless. “I need to go home.”

  “Home? All right, but you must know you may not have one anymore. A night can pass so quickly, sometimes—hours feel like minutes, and years—well, they feel like hours.”

  She turned away, and began to pace around the room, clearly waiting for him to go. They were in a small studio, he thought—a round, bright room that felt like the inside of a tower. After a minute, not knowing what else to do, Paul took a few deep breaths and began pulling on his clothes.

  As he found his shoes behind a row of potted plants, he began to wonder what he might say to Wendy. An hour could be explained—even two or three, if he were very careful—but an entire night? And what had he been thinking—what had ever possessed him to go home with a total stranger? He felt like some dark, unknown part of himself had been in control the night before—surely he’d never have done… what he had done… of his own volition?

  “Are you quite finished?” Helen was waiting by the door, looking impatient. “I have things to do today, so I think you should be going.”

  Paul advanced on her, suddenly furious. “What the hell did you do to me?” Remembering the strange, sweet drink she’d given him, he said, “What was in that cup? Did you drug me?”

  “I gave you nothing, my dear fool, that you did not ask for first.” Helen batted her lashes and made her face stupid. “Oh, miss, may I try it, please? Let me walk you home?”

  He raised his arms, and for a second was sure he would strangle her—but Helen stepped between his hands and laid a chaste kiss against the corner of his mouth. Immediately, his anger left him.

  “Why?” he said sadly, lowering his arms.

  “That’s enough now,” said Helen gently. “It’s time for you to go.”

  Paul let her lead him to the door, like a tired child being taken off to bed. He felt as if the world were ending. What would he do when he went outside? How could he go back to Wendy, after what he’d done? How could he approach her, with the scent of another woman’s body on his skin—with the prints of Helen’s nails across his back?

  “Let me stay with you,” he said, suddenly grabbing her hand. “Please. I’ll do whatever you want—just let me stay for a while!”

  She laughed. “A man who would betray his wife and child, and go home with a stranger? Please be serious, Paul—I’d never be able to trust you.”

  He was opening his mouth to protest—though what he’d say, he didn’t know—when he saw his reflection in a mirror that hung beside the door.

  The man behind the glass was a gaunt, weary, ugly stranger. He looked a bit like Paul, if Paul were ten years older and had lost most of his health and vitality. His back was hunched, his face creased and drawn. His hair was thin and graying, and his clothing looked about to fall apart from the buttons outward.

  Paul swallowed. “Who is—” Then his voice dried out, like the last water falling from a dusty pump.

  “Time slips by so quickly, you see.” Helen looked vaguely sheepish, as if she’d left a window open or forgotten to pick up the dry cleaning. “I only meant to take a few months, but I got too carried away… You were very enthusiastic, you know.” She flashed him the consp
iratorial smile that had so engaged him at the café… had it been the night before? Or a decade ago? “And I get so hungry,” she went on wistfully. “You have no idea how hard it is—finding someone who’ll come along willingly, then stopping before too much time has gone. Sometimes I just get…” she shrugged girlishly, “lost in time.”

  Giving Paul’s shoulder an encouraging pat, she opened the door. The hall beyond was blank and anonymous—they might have been anywhere in the city. “I think your odds are good, though. In the grand scheme of things, ten years really isn’t that that long—I’m sure your wife will still remember you, if she’s here.” She gave him a little push, and he stumbled out into the hallway. “Even if you can’t find your family again, don’t worry—there’s a place for you somewhere. You’ve got all the time in the world.”

  Then she closed the door, and Paul was left alone.