Protector - Laurel Dewey [172]
Emily dug through the attic and came up with a halfway decent sleeping bag. By Friday night, Emily was wired and unable to sleep. She dragged herself out of the bedroom and stood at the threshold of the living room. The television was on mute. Jane sat on the couch in the semi-darkness pensively looking through the various newspaper clippings that featured Chris and Jane’s photos on the front page.
“I can’t sleep,” Emily said, her back wedged against the living room doorway. Jane nonchalantly stashed the clippings back into the files and replaced them into her leather satchel. “Can I watch TV with you for a while?” Emily asked.
“PBS is the only station that’s coming in right now. And it’s begging time!”
“Begging time?”
“They’re doing their annual pledge drive. So it’s not too entertaining.”
Emily sauntered over to the couch. She glanced at the clock. “Hey, you know what? Tomorrow at this time, I’m going to be sitting in this living room with Heather and her friends. We’re gonna be dancing, telling ghost stories and having fun!”
“Uh-huh,” Jane said in a dubious tone.
“How come you can’t be happy for me?”
“I don’t trust Heather,” Jane stated.
“You don’t trust anyone.”
“That’s true. You know why? Because most people have motives.”
“I don’t and you don’t either.”
Jane couldn’t argue with that. “So you and I are exceptions to the rule, but—”
“Maybe Heather is too!”
“Emily, I don’t know what she wants from you, but it’s very obvious to me that her intentions are not pure. I can’t understand why you don’t see it! I mean, she’s staring you right in the face and serving you a line of bullshit.”
Emily shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe I don’t want to see it. Is that so bad?” She plopped onto the couch and motioned to the TV. “They’ve gone back to the show.”
Jane looked at the screen. “Hey, that’s the Three Tenors!” She clicked on the sound. “See that heavyset guy to the right? That’s Pavarotti.” Jane was drawn into the moment, a fact that didn’t escape Emily’s watchful eye. The orchestra swelled into the heartfelt strains of “Nessun Dorma.” For a painful second, Jane was transported back to her mother’s bedside on the day of her death. The camera zoomed in on Pavarotti as he sung with heartfelt emotion.
Emily was equally drawn into the aria. She quickly recognized the evocative melody as the same one that played on her Starlight Starbright projector. “Do you know what the words mean?” Emily asked.
“Yeah,” Jane said, her eyes still fixated on the screen. “He’s talking about a princess, alone in her room. She’s watching the stars, trembling with love and hope.” She waited until Pavarotti began the second verse. “He’s saying, ‘But my secret lies hidden within me . . . no one shall discover my name . . . Oh, no . . . I will reveal it only on your lips when daylight shines forth! . . . And my kiss shall break the silence that makes you mine!’ ” The orchestra performed the interlude as Pavarotti took a step back from the microphone. Jane leaned forward. “Watch him. Watch his eyes.”
Emily stared at the screen, completely transfixed by the moment. Pavarotti moved back to the microphone. “What’s he saying?” Emily urgently asked.
“Depart, oh night! . . . Set you stars! . . . At dawn, I shall win! . . . I shall win!”
Pavarotti sang out the final dramatic words, his face etched with frightening passion. “Vincero! . . . Vincero!” Jane’s eyes welled with tears as the audience let out a thundering ovation. “I shall win,” she whispered to herself.
Emily finally drifted off to sleep and Jane carried the sleeping child to her bed. But the niggling disquiet inside Jane’s mind kept her awake long into the early morning hours. Nothing but test patterns filled the TV screen and she had a throbbing headache from going over the case files. She lit a cigarette and paced between the kitchen and living room, checking the locks on the doors with an obsessive fervor.