Darkfall

us.”

For minutes, they lay in silence, touching.

Jack was exhausted by the flood of words and feelings that had rushed from him, almost without his volition.

He desperately wanted Rebecca to be with him for the rest of his life. He dreaded losing her.

But he said not more. The decision was hers.

After a while she said, “For the first time in ages, I'm not so afraid of loving and losing; I’m more afraid of not loving at all.”

Jackos heart lifted.

He said, “Don’t ever freeze me out again.”

“It won’t be easy learning to open up.”

“You can do it.”

“I’m sure I’ll backslide occasionally, withdraw from you a little bit, now and then. You’ll have to be patient with me.”

“I can be patient.”

“God, don’t I know it! You’re the most infuriatingly patient man I’ve ever known.”

“Infuriatingly.”

“There’ve been times. At work, when I’ve been so incredibly bitchy, and I knew it, didn’t want to be but couldn’t seem to help myself. I wished, sometimes, you’d snap back at me, blow up at me. Bit when you finally responded, you were always so reasonable, so calm, so damned patient.”

“You make me sound too saintly.”

“Well, you’re a good man, Jack Dawson. A nice man. A damned nice man.”

“Oh, I know, to you I seem perfect,” he said self-mockingly. “But believe it or not, even I, paragon that I am, even I have a few faults.”

“No!” she said, pretending astonishment.

“It’s true.”

“Name one.”

“I actually like to listen to Barry Manilow.”

“No!”

“Oh, I know his music’s slick, too smooth, a little plastic. But it sounds good, anyway. I like it. And another thing. I don’t like Alan Alda.”

“Everyone likes Alan Alda!”

“I think he’s a phony.”

“You disgusting fiend!”

“And I like peanut butter and onion sandwiches.”

“Ach! Alan Alda wouldn't eat peanut butter and onion sandwiches.”

“But I have one great virtue that more than makes up for all of those terrible faults,” he said.

She grinned. “What's that?”

“I love you.”

This time, she didn't ask him to refrain from saying it.

She kissed him.

Her hands moved over him.

She said, “Make love to me again.”

XII

Ordinarily, no matter how late Davey was allowed to stay up, Penny was permitted one more hour than he was. Being the last to bed was her just due, by virtue of her four-year age advantage over him. She always fought valiantly and tenaciously at the first sign of any attempt to deny her this precious and inalienable right. Tonight, however, at nine o'clock, when Aunt Faye suggested that Davey brush his teeth and hit the sack, Penny feigned sleepiness and said that she, too, was ready to call it a night.

She couldn't leave Davey alone in a dark bedroom where the goblins might creep up on him. She would have to stay awake, watching over him, until their father arrived. Then she would tell Daddy all about the goblins and hope that he would at least hear her out before he sent for the men with the straitjackets.

She and Davey had come to the Jamisons' without overnight bags, but they had no difficulty getting ready for bed. Because they occasionally stayed with Faye and Keith when their father had to work late, they kept spare toothbrushes and pajamas here. And in the guest bedroom closet, there were fresh changes of clothes for them, so they wouldn't have to wear the same thing tomorrow that they'd worn today. In ten minutes, they were comfortably nestled in the twin beds, under the covers.

Aunt Faye wished them sweet dreams, turned out the light, and closed the door.

The darkness was thick, smothering.

Penny fought off an attack of claustrophobia.

Davey was silent awhile. Then: “Penny?”

“Huh?”

“You there?”

“Who do you think just said 'huh?”

“Where's Dad?”

“Working late.”

“I mean… really.”

“Really working late.”

“What if he's been hurt?”

“He hasn't.”

“What if he got shot?”

“He didn't. They'd have told us if he'd been shot. They'd probably even take us to the hospital to see him.”

“No, they wouldn't, either. They try to protect kids from bad news like that.”

“Will you stop worrying, for God's sake? Dad's all right. If he'd been shot or anything, Aunt Faye and Uncle Keith would know all about it.”

“But maybe they do know.”

“We'd know if they knew.”

“How?”

“They'd show it, even if they were trying hard not to.”

“How would they show it?”

“They'd have treated us different. They'd have acted strange.”

“They always act strange.”

“I mean strange in a different sort of way. They'd have been especially nice to us. They'd have pampered us because they'd have felt sorry for us. And do you think Aunt Faye would have criticized Daddy all evening, the way she did, if she'd known he was shot and in a hospital somewhere?

“Well… no. I guess you're right. Not even Aunt Faye would do that.”

They were silent.

Penny lay with her head propped up on the pillow, listening.

Nothing to be heard. Just the wind outside. Far off, the grumble of a snowplow.

She looked at the window, a rectangle of vague snowy luminosity.

Would the goblins come through the window?

The door?

Maybe they'd come out of a crack in the baseboard, come in the form of smoke and then solidify when they had completely seeped into the room. Vampires did that sort of thing. She'd seen it happen in an old Dracula