A Knock at Midnight

Patrick Keppel

Continued . . .

      "He is?" his mother said to fill the gap. "Well, you did the right thing, Stefan. We couldn't have let him in. We didn't know who he was. He could have been anybody--"
         "I knew he wasn't a criminal," Stefan cut in.
         Stefan's mother looked stunned. "How?"
         Stefan sighed. "Because I told him help was on the way, and he didn't run off," he said rather sharply, then grimaced, recalling his own doubt.
         Stefan's mother searched his face, apparently a little unsure why her son was so agitated, then at last smiled halfway. "Oh, you did?" she said, weaving this detail into the story she would tell tomorrow. "That was a good idea--very clever."
         The side door creaked open, and Stefan's father quietly joined them in the hallway, his eyes on the floor; perhaps he too had begun to feel a little useless outside. For a moment the three of them stood there frozen in an awkward silence, which as always Stefan's mother was compelled to break. "What's happening?" she said to her husband. "Did they ask you for a statement?"
         Stefan's father stared past her, rubbed his elbow. Just then there was a knock at the front door, and he lunged forward to open it. A policeman poked his head through the crack and asked politely if they might use a blanket.
         Stefan's father nodded, shut the door. "A blanket, they need a blanket," he said, charging back down the hallway.
         Stefan's mother bit her fist. "Oh, God!" she said, following her husband out of the hallway. "We don't have a blanket!"
         Stefan winced. "You must have a blanket," he said under his breath, and then he too followed. Together they paraded through the kitchen to the closet near the bathroom. Stefan's father threw open the door, and all three Mauers stared dumbly at the six shelves on three sides crammed with fat, flowered blankets and thick stacks of colorful towels.
         "We don't have any blankets!" Stefan's mother said again.
         Stefan's mouth fell open in speechless horror. He looked to his father; apparently he agreed there were no blankets in this closet. Stefan tore himself away and reeled back to the hallway. He looked at the door; they were out there, waiting for their blanket: What was taking those people so long? Can't they see this boy is about to go into shock? Filled to the throat with shame, Stefan thought of offering the police his new overcoat, even started to take the awful thing off his back, but then stopped and shook his head miserably. He couldn't do it, couldn't bear to make it all so clear--spelling out his parents' selfishness in a young boy's blood! He was embarrassed for them, and, in truth, even a little afraid of how they would react; for when they found out what he'd done, they would no doubt recoil from their exposed shame and go on the defensive right then and there, even while the boy still writhed right outside their door. They'd shout at him: How could he do such a stupid thing? Oh, he always had to be so dramatic. Of course they weren't going to give them one of their "good" blankets, they weren't expected to; no one would do such a thing. "Well, now you don't have an overcoat," his father would say in disgust to end the discussion, as though Stefan couldn't possibly have realized that this would be the result of his rash act.
         So Stefan put his coat back on. No doubt the policeman would have been surprised and embarrassed; he'd have probably just handed it back: Any old blanket would do fine. Stefan shivered, wrapped his arms around his stomach. He felt trapped, frozen to his spot; meanwhile, ten feet away a boy was going into shock. It was awful! What spell had this house, this family, cast on him? Oh, if only this had happened outside his front door, it would all be so different. . . .
         Stefan's parents stepped briskly into the hallway. "We might have something upstairs," his mother said calmly, like a store clerk. Stefan paused a moment, then followed them up; this time he would grab the first thing he saw and run like a thief no matter what they said. At the top of the stairs his father and mother stood gazing into another closet likewise crammed, transfixed like careful shoppers before the meat rack. Stefan joined them and was about to push between them when all at once Stefan's father stepped into the closet and selected a thin, pale blue blanket from the top left shelf. "Good, that one," Stefan's mother said.
         "I'll take it down," Stefan said, seizing the blanket. He ran downstairs, down the hallway, and out the side door, but then slowed to a stop at the pear tree. The paramedics had arrived and were scrambling to get their equipment out of the ambulance. One of them was spreading a sheet of yellow canvas on top of the boy to keep him warm. Stefan stood there for a moment in awe of those who knew precisely what to do to save lives. He felt useless again, his parents' threadbare blanket dangling from his hand like a dirty scrap of tissue, but at last he shook himself free and timidly approached the porch.
         "Do you need this?" he said. The policeman who before had been pressing a cloth to the boy's head looked at Stefan as though he were standing in some other, distant world. Perhaps he was thinking, "Of course we need it!" or else something more critical like, "It's about time! Don't you people see what's happening here?" In any case he took the blanket without saying a word and lay it down on top of the boy, whose legs at once began to quiver. He was unconscious, in shock; a faint cloud of steam rose steadily out of his open mouth, until the paramedics snuffed it with an oxygen mask.
         Stefan turned away, squinted up at the crisp moon glaring harshly down through the pear tree's bare branches that stood straight up on end in quiet terror of the night, limbs raised in immediate surrender, taut strings fearing to be plucked. Stefan thought of his grandmother who had died in this very house, died in the very bed in which she was born, and how one misty night just before she was buried he had come out here and all at once stood deathly still, knowing as sure as he lived that if he were ever to see her spirit, taking one last look at the farm that had been as flesh and blood to her, one last look before it was swelled and lacquered into the Country Inn, The House By The Side Of The Road, it would happen right then. He'd peered bravely into the mist swathing the edges of the rotting barn and sheds, alert to any shapes or shadows dancing at the corners of his eyes, ready to whirl and see her standing there as plain as day, smiling, child-like, as though playing a game she'd let him win. But of course nothing had happened, and he'd shrugged and gone inside; it had been a ridiculous notion, but at times later he suspected he just hadn't been patient enough, that he just hadn't believed . . .
         Anyway, Stefan felt the same way now--wondered whether the boy would die there on their front porch, or whether he might already be dead and gazing down at them all, as many people who had come close to dying later claimed to have done. Stefan glanced suddenly to his left, to the empty swing dangling on rusty chains from the apple tree, then straight ahead to the dead fields beyond, where blades of red light fanned wildly outward in a wide arc to the invisible horizon, as though on a desperate search for the boy's confused and drifting soul, hoping with their garish touch to sweep it back into this safe world where presumably it still belonged. Stefan followed the sweep of every blade, his heart skipping at the sudden gleam of a stone or a darting rabbit, then peered hard between the blades, until instead of a flurry of motion he saw a vast stillness, a taut red web with a black cloud looming at the center, formless, empty--if that was where the boy's soul had fallen, who dared follow?
         Stefan sighed heavily and turned back to the porch, where the paramedics were beginning to lay the boy onto their stretcher. And if they failed, if the boy did in fact die, was not he, Stefan Mauer, in part responsible, perhaps even more than his parents? Yes, if this were a play he were taking apart scene by scene for his theatre class, he would ask, to open the discussion, "Now then--who is most to blame in this Unholy Family? The Mother, who is chronically selfish and inane, but who, as a victim of an oppressive patriarchy, is understandably terrified of life; the Father, who is likewise just playing the role he's been assigned, the emotionally absent (block)head of the household; or the Son, who claims to be so different from them but who proves, when tested, essentially no better? For what does it matter whether he would have acted differently at his front door (Does anyone besides me wonder if that were really true?)? The fact is, a life is clearly on the line, and even after he realizes how much precious time and blood he's lost first in idle dreams and reflections and then in deciding whether or not the Dying Boy is going to slice their bourgeois throats, the Son is ultimately just too cowardly to act in any way contrary to his parents. Not only does he fail to stop the Boy's bleeding, he consciously denies him even the slightest human touch that might have held him just so much longer in the world. Like the others the Son must deny any possible connection to this bloody stranger, must to the point of absurdity pretend that this bloody scene is not taking place on their front porch. Yes! Did you notice? The Son can't even bring himself to take his parents' poor excuse of a blanket out the front door, though it's right there at the foot of the steps. In his great rush to prove (to himself) how differently he's reacting to the situation, he sprints right by it! Oh yes, this family approaches life only through the side door, always the side door. . . ."
         And then Stefan's students, the young men and women of the jury, would begin their deliberations, condemning and defending all the characters in turn. At least the Son has a clue as to what's really going on, one might suggest on his behalf; besides, maybe now he'll change. Over the years he's managed to convince himself that the new identity he's developed away from his family's influence is the true expression of his being--the life, in fact, he's lived all along, even while he was being firmly embedded in his family's stifling household. Well, the Dying Boy throws all this into doubt, makes the Son see that his new life is just a costume he's put on, and a thin one at that. Of course, this idea is repulsive to him, since it seems to verify the essential truth of the other, older life. But of course this isn't so either, and at the end it's clear he comes to see that all lives, even that tyrannical inherited life that begins at birth and seems forever thereafter to pulse through one's veins like fate, are but fictions that one must constantly shape and re-shape. And maybe now this realization will ironically make his new layers even more real to him than before; maybe now by accepting the tainted life he contracted from his parents as an essential part of his developing character, the Son can make more meaningful progress toward a cure.
         This would sound like the best interpretation for a while--yes, how interesting that the Dying Boy is at once the Son's past and present selves. But no doubt countless other possibilities would arise--the Dying Boy as a projection of the Son's castration anxiety; as sacrificial lamb in the Son's resurrection fantasy--all equally enticing. Perhaps one clever juror might suggest that after all there is one character they'd yet to discuss, that really the tragedy is the House's fault most of all, that above all the play is trying to show how unquestioned institutions like Property and Police and Family are just so many heavy stones with which people have entombed themselves. This argument would certainly seem attractive for an instant--So no one is to blame after all!--but then a few would see that to the contrary this actually implicated them, the innocent readers, in the crime, since they all wanted houses too, and would start to argue fervently that come to think of it you couldn't blame the family for not opening the door, that all the time you heard how people were robbed or raped or murdered by criminals pretending to be in an accident and needing to use a phone. No, the Dying Boy was most to blame; he said himself he was driving too fast. Why read more into it than that? And then suddenly it would be the end of the period, the jury would hand in their verdict of Not Responsible, and all would go on with their lives, safe and unchanged. . . .
         The paramedics picked up the boy on their stretcher and quickly carried him down the steps of the porch and past Stefan. The policeman to whom Stefan had given the blanket stood nearby, and together they watched the paramedics load the boy into their ambulance. "Will he . . ." Stefan began, then faltered. "Do you think he'll be all right?"
         The policeman sighed, shrugged. "Probably," he said. "He lost a lot of blood, but he should be ok."
         Stefan stared hard at the man. Unlike a lot of cops, he seemed straightforward and sincere, even kind in a neighborly way--why, then, was it impossible to believe him? The policeman turned away and went back to the porch, where his partner had already begun wiping bloodstains off the railing with his handkerchief. Stefan's father returned and stood next to his son in silence. Finally one of the policemen looked up at them. "You know, if we could have a bucket of water . . . ," he said politely. "We should probably get this off before it dries."
         "Yeah, yeah, sure," Stefan's father said and charged off as before. This time, however, he was back in no time with not only a bucket but an old broom as well. The policemen stepped aside as Stefan's father carefully poured out the soapy water over the bloodiest areas. The porch sizzled, and wispy clouds of steam rose up from the slats. The policemen went back to work with their cloths, while Stefan's father grabbed the broom and, in a series of quick hard strokes, scrubbed up a milky red froth.
         Stefan gasped. It really was as though he were witnessing a crime. Tomorrow all traces of the boy would be gone, not a single spot of his blood anywhere. But no, of course they could never get rid of it all; flecks of blood would soak through the porch or between the slats, would cling forever to the tiniest splinters and fall like dust to the soil beneath. Then at the first rain it would run in muddy rivers to the cracks in the foundation, seep in stealthy drops inside the walls of the root cellar, then breathe through those old stones at last in invisible clouds of condensation.
         Stefan bowed his head, which suddenly seemed as heavy as rock, and gently pressed his eyelids shut with his thumb and forefinger. He felt completely detached, as though he were in a dream standing lost and alone in a vast, reddish brown darkness. He had a great desire to run headlong into the unknown, toward anywhere else on the face of the earth than where he was, but at the same time he felt as rooted to the spot as the surrendering pear tree he knew was looming just beside him. He felt like a prisoner who, although he craves the privilege of an afternoon walk in the common, can never bring himself to use up the full amount of time; for there was something awful about the open spaces that lay beyond, something even more oppressive, perhaps, than the prison walls themselves.
         Stefan heard another splash, more scrubbing. Without opening his eyes, he turned on his heel and hurried toward the house. Once more his mother was standing just inside the door to greet him. "What's happening?" she asked breathlessly.
         Stefan took his coat off and draped it over a chair. "They took him away," he said, then added after a pause, "The police say he'll be all right."
         "Oh, good!" Stefan's mother said, clasping her knotted hands to her breast. "Oh, the poor boy . . . Well, it's in the Lord's hands now."
         Stefan raised his eyes and glared at his mother, his lips parting, poised to rebuke or to smile. Surely there was no Lord here, no room for Saviors in this Country Inn. . . . The poor child, the star eclipsed after just one day, the Word silenced before it can be spoken, the Play closed down before it even opens. The spotlight flickers and goes out; the stage is broken down in pieces and sold for scrap. Angels curse their luck and scour the want-ads. The Author is disappointed, but philosophical; even had the Play gone on and on, its praises sung on every continent, it would only rarely have been understood and would have made no real impact on the world, would have changed none of the corrupt institutions it held up for scorn. No, it's much easier this way. The shepherds follow their usual routine, do their jobs as they're supposed to; the astrologers stay home, content to gaze only at their own skies. Herod rests easy, even shrewdly turns the star's death to his political advantage, making a great show of his benevolence by calling off the massacre. The blind remain in the dark, the dumb keep quiet, and except for the lucky ones hoarding their scraps of bread and fish, the multitudes go hungry. The knock at midnight goes unanswered, and the Prodigal Son is turned away. There is no hope of a revolution to be crushed, no passion, no pain, and no butterfly dream of salvation. Needless to say, the dead stay dead. No, there was no use bothering with all that. The Play's aborted run makes only one real difference, and it's strictly personal: now there is a little less to remember, a little less to desire, one less story to make life seem more real.
         Stefan turned away and drifted out of the kitchen, but his mother scurried after him. The dam burst, and words spilled out of her in a relentless rush: "You did the right thing . . . very dangerous to let people . . . a murder nearby . . . so worried when Grandma . . . all by herself . . . What a story! . . . different where you are . . . don't expect all this excitement here! . . . certainly hear about this tomorrow . . . all over town . . . the Knapps . . . the Wands . . . "
         Stefan fled to the living room and took refuge wherever he could--mindlessly surveyed every ornament on the tree, drawing his face toward the red glass spheres until the distorted reflections deep within ballooned to meet his vacant stare; peered into the proscenium of the c animals until the goat's eyes seemed to slide into a leer; then poked at the molten red wound in the fireplace until it bled tiny fingers of flame. From there Stefan spun away into the library, and he might have kept going on and on through the whole house, into the bathroom for another long bath, if necessary, except that at the threshold of the front hallway Stefan heard faint traces of that awful scrubbing going on just outside.
         So Stefan stopped in his tracks, turned, and was at once engulfed in his mother's flood. Beneath all her banalities she sounded oddly angry, as though she were berating him for something, demanding an apology for having wounded her in some way. Meanwhile Stefan was gritting his teeth, thinking over and over, "She can't help it . . . she doesn't know what she's doing . . . she's just miserable . . . I can't do anything to help her." In desperation he cast his eyes about the room, let them glide like a wall of clouds over the spines of the books no one read and the keys of the piano no one played; over cabinets crammed with the fat scrapbooks that proved what a happy life the Mauers all had; and over the shelves of family photos, especially one of the four Mauer children which Stefan had come to believe proved beyond a doubt that he had always been essentially different from the others. It was taken on the first day of school some twenty-five years ago; the young Mauers were gathered as one on the front porch of their house, everyone smiling broadly but Stefan, whose face was pale and contorted in obvious distress. His hands were locked at his abdomen like two small mammals, the left hiding in the tight cradle of the right, the former afraid to come out, the latter afraid to let go. Even today they resorted to this position whenever he was particularly nervous or afraid.
         Stefan stifled a gasp, resisted the impulse to whirl and see that these uniquely troubled hands of his were after all none other than his mother's. Instead, he scanned the whole section of one wall devoted to his awards and degrees. He'd always taken a secret pride that no one else in the family was thus honored, but suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps the wall stood as a kind of apology for the fact that he had produced no family of his own, a way of filling in what they perceived as an embarrassing absence in his life, and thus in their lives too. They had left some space, but there would be little else to add from here on; his mother would have to rack her brains to come up with something, anything. Perhaps if the boy outside survived he would write the Mauers a thank-you note they could frame and display here like a trophy: "The Boy Whose Life Stefan Saved!"
         Stefan glanced up at his mother, silently pleading with her--Oh, if only she could just be quiet! But still she rambled on, apparently about all the things he was looking at, and as there was nowhere else to go, nothing else to look at, Stefan sat down in an exhausted heap at the desk, on which were the scattered pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. His mother had assigned him the task of assembling it a couple of days ago, had seized his arm and led him into this room as though a marvelous surprise awaited him there. "Remember how good you were at these?" she'd asked, sitting him down at the desk. She'd opened the box, set the lid up by the lamp as his model, and then had run off to gather a few of his nephews and nieces to pose with him over the puzzle in a photograph--"Uncle Stefan The Puzzle King Shows How!"
         Stefan lowered his head as though dropping away into deep meditation. Yes, this was the right thing to do; she would leave him alone now, because at last she'd have the proof she so urgently needed that she was right, that nothing bad had happened, not now, not ever. She could call anyone into the room right now and pronounce like a tour guide, "Look here at this happy time. Here is my youngest son, Stefan, who is very good at working puzzles."
         Stefan stared intently at the lid, the picture that had been carved up into a thousand pieces--a man and his three sons trudging across the snow at dusk, dragging behind them a felled tree on a sled. "Their prisoner," Stephanie had laughed--poor Stephanie! He'd told her the secret: Forget the picture. Sift through the pieces until one of them appears that seems to say, at times in a ridiculous scream but usually in the faintest whisper, "It's me," and then let it guide you to its place--Don't fight it! You know where it goes.
         And thus had the four bright red human forms materialized in jagged little islands, along with their massive farmhouse in the distance, their barns, their cars and trucks. They made their way in silence; it wasn't much fun, it was a job, a tradition, something to photograph. And of course, as a result they'd never really get there. The women--the mother, the sister--were inside yelling at each other, their own tradition. Stefan heard nothing; perhaps his mother had gone. Someday she would be dead, like his grandmother, and then what? No, he was no better, no worse; he had merely chosen a different way to express his shame. He was leaving tomorrow, it would be better then. Ah, but the poor boy outside--what would become of him? And what was his name, and who was his mother? Stefan's eyes welled over with a clear film--no matter, he wouldn't need them. He sifted through the remaining pieces, flicked the dust from his fingers, and set to work. Nothing was left to fit together but the parts that were impossible to see in fragments, the dense brown forest that filigreed into the hazy purple mountains, and then the blinding white snow, and last the milky, bloody sky.

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