The Darkest Evening of the Year

name.”
    “No. He didn’t know her name.”
    The water was black, the sky black, and the painter moon, though in decline, brushed the crests of the waves.
    “Then who named her?”
    Janet’s answer surprised Amy: “Reesa. Theresa.”
    The girl had not spoken this night, had only sung in that high pure voice, in what might have been Celtic, and she had seemed to be detached in the manner of a gentle autistic.
    “Why Nickie?”
    “Reesa said it was always her name.”
    “Always.”
    “Yes.”
    “For some reason…I didn’t think Theresa said much.”
    “She doesn’t. Sometimes not for weeks, then only a few words.”
    In the mirror, the steady gaze of the dog. In the sea, the sinking moon. In the sky, a vast intricate wheelwork of stars.
    And in Amy’s heart rose a sense of wonder that she was reluctant to indulge, for it could not be true, in any meaningful sense, that her Nickie had returned to her.

 
    Chapter
5
    M oongirl will make love only in total darkness. She believes that her life has been forever diminished by passion in the light, when she was younger.
    Consequently, the faintest glow around a lowered window shade will burn away all of her desire.
    A single thread of sunshine in the folds of drawn draperies will in an instant unravel her lust.
    Light intruding from another room—under a door, around a crack in a jamb, through a keyhole—will pierce her as if it is a needle and cause her to flinch from her lover’s touch.
    When her blood is hot, even the light-emitting numerals of a bedside clock will chill her.
    The luminous face of a wristwatch, the tiny bulb on a smoke detector, the radiant eyes of a cat can wring a cry of frustration from her and squeeze her libido dry.
    Harrow thinks of her as Moongirl because he can imagine her loose in the night, silhouetted naked on a ridge line, howling at the moon. He doesn’t know what label a psychologist might apply to her particular kind of madness, but he has no doubt that she is mad.
    Never has he called her Moongirl to her face. Instinct tells him that to do so would be dangerous, perhaps even fatal.
    In daylight or dark, she can pass for sane. She can even feign wholesomeness quite convincingly. Her beauty beguiles.
    Especially in purple, but also in pink and white, bouquets of hydrangea charm the eye, but the plant is mortally poisonous; so, too, the lily of the valley, the blossoms of bloodroot; the petals of yellow jasmine, brewed in tea or mixed in salad, can kill in as little as ten minutes.
    Moongirl loves the black rose more than any other flower, though it is not poisonous.
    Harrow has seen her hold such a rose so tightly by its thorny stem that her hand drips blood.
    Her pain threshold, like his, is high. She does not enjoy the prick of the rose; she simply does not feel it.
    She has total discipline of her body and her intellect. She has no discipline of her emotions. She is, therefore, out of balance, and balance is a requirement of sanity.
    This night, in a windowless room where no starshine can reach, where the luminous clock is closed in a nightstand drawer, they do not make love, for love has nothing to do with their increasingly ferocious coupling.
    No woman has excited Harrow as this one does. She has about her the ultimate hunger of the black widow, the all-consuming passion of a mantis that, during coitus, kills and eats its mate.
    He half expects that one night Moongirl will conceal a knife between mattress and box springs, or elsewhere near the bed. In the blinding dark, at the penultimate moment, he will hear her whisper Darling and feel a sudden stiletto navigate his ribs and pop his swelling heart.
    As always, the anticipation of sex proves to be more thrilling than the experience. At the end, he feels a curious hollowness, a certainty that the essence of the act has again eluded him.
    Spent, they lie in the hush of the blackness, as silent as if they have stepped out of life into the outer dark.
    Moongirl is not much for words, and she always speaks directly when she has something to say.
    In her company, Harrow follows her example. Fewer words mean less risk of a mere observation being misconstrued as an insult or a judgment.
    She is sensitive about being judged. Advice, if she dislikes it, might be received as a rebuke. A well-meant admonition might be interpreted as stinging criticism.
    Here in the venereal aftermath, Harrow has no fear of any blade she might have buried in the bedding. If ever she tries to