A MIDSUMMER’S NIGHT

     Morgan Mansfield stood before her new creation for what felt like hours. It had taken on a life of its own somewhere between midnight and dawn, and now, as she looked up at the monster that hulled before her, her skin prickled.

     She hadn’t paid much attention to what her hands had been forming in the cold, gray clay. Her mind had been elsewhere. She worked through most of the night in silence, the studio windows wide open to let in the warm breeze of midsummer’s night. The scent of the night flowers she had planted around the studio, combined with the sounds of lurking nocturnal creatures, had pulled her into a semi-conscious trance of creation and connection with the world around her. As it turned out, the world Morgan had touched on some cosmic level was darker than she had believed.

     “Sleep, that’s what I need,” Morgan said quietly to herself. It was the first human sound to crack the early morning silence, and it made her anxious, as if she had somehow disturbed something dangerous. Morgan worked quickly, wrapping the creature with several dampened cloths, then covering it with a heavy, transparent plastic membrane. The statue would settle; the moisture would stay trapped, keeping the clay soft for the days of work still ahead. Morgan turned away, wiping her hands on the smooth cotton of her artist’s apron and putting the small collection of gold and silver rings back onto her fingers. She turned off the light at the door, and as she did, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

     Had there been a crackle of plastic? Or perhaps a smooth, seamless movement of clay behind her in the early light of day? 

     She faltered. As silly as the idea was, she hesitated. Morgan thought about turning back to the thing she created in the night, to rid herself of such foolishness, but her instincts urged her to leave. Her breath came soft and ragged, and as she closed the door behind her, her eyes resting on the rough stone steps leading to the main house, she could almost feel the being’s eyes on her from beneath its wet, plastic wrappings.

     Morgan felt for the small brass key she kept in the front pocket of her apron and turned it in the lock. Whatever her misgivings or imagination, it no longer mattered. The door that held that world was locked, and the world she knew and trusted stretched and yawned to life before her very eyes.

     As she made her way back up the steps, one well-worn stone at a time, her senses calmed. The borders hummed with life; the lavender Morgan had planted the same year she bought the old place was thick with scent, and the low, buzzing hum of bumbles as they made their way lazily from one purple-spiked bloom to the next reassured her that her misgivings about the day ahead were unfounded.

     Morgan reached the top step and was eagerly greeted by Buster, her one-eyed black cat with the chipped front tooth and the oddly short tail. He wasn’t the type of cat someone adopted from a friend or even found along a bad stretch of country highway. No, he had mysteriously come with the property, and right now, he was looking for some breakfast.

     “Hunting didn’t go as well as planned, I see,” Morgan said to the cat as he rubbed her bare leg vigorously. “I don’t usually see the likes of you until noon.”

     The cat let out a raspy, half-hearted grumble that seemed to confirm the night’s poor choice of prey. If he’d managed to kill something, it was either lying dramatically by the back door for Morgan to find or was too small to fill his growing belly. Either way, he now wanted to be fed by his adopted human’s hands.

     Morgan reached the house without incident, carefully watching where she placed her feet so as not to step on any of his leftovers. Luckily, nothing dead covered her patio floor like it sometimes did, and she slid the glass door open wide enough for her and Buster to walk inside comfortably.

     The house was one of those multi-level contemporary designs conceived in the mid-1930s. White brick and glass everywhere, cold stone floors in various shades of gray, and more nooks and crannies than an English muffin. By the time they reached the white-on-white kitchen, Buster was nearly insufferable.

     “Hold your pants on. I’ll have to find something.” Morgan popped into the pantry in search of a can of tuna or some other random packet of prepared meat.

     She had been a vegetarian for nearly ten years, initially trying to go vegan entirely. Only her love of cheese and genuine ice cream ended that attempt. When she first met Buster, she—like most animal lovers faced with a hungry stray—rushed to the store and bought several types of commercial cat food. As it turned out, Buster was as particular about what he ate as she was, and he probably suspected Morgan was trying to poison him.

     After some trial and error on Morgan’s part, it turned out that he would accept only real food—nothing too processed and nothing even slightly below human quality. Morgan had assumed, like most humans, that he would take anything recently alive, as shown by the array of dead things he left on her patio, but she was mistaken. It turned out that if Buster didn’t do the killing himself, it had to be top of the line. The compromise was usually tuna packed in spring water—never oil—and served to him on a pretty flowered tea saucer. This arrangement suited both of them. She never had to cook meat on her stove, and when he ran out of mice and rats, which were common on her property, there was always something fresh and lovely for him served up on a pretty plate.

     Halfway through Buster’s tuna and Morgan’s egg and spinach frittata, their peaceful early morning silence was abruptly shattered.

     Someone was at the door, and judging by the sound of it, they were in a hurry.

     Morgan had stopped eating mid-chew as the tension of an unwelcome guest filled the room. Neither was keen on visitors, and this morning was no different from any other. There was a brief pause, followed by a panicked glance that darted between the two of them before the cat slipped off into one of the connecting rooms. 

     It wasn’t that Morgan was especially antisocial. She was careful and distrustful of most people and new situations.

     The knock sounded again, and Morgan sat still. She thought about not answering the door at all and just waiting for whoever it was to give up and leave her front porch. The most likely explanation was that it was just the UPS man with another delivery; he could leave whatever she ordered on the doorstep, as usual, and she would pick it up after his truck was back on the main road. But whoever it was wasn’t giving up. They knocked again, this time a little harder. Morgan let out a heavy sigh as she slid down from the barstool and her breakfast, knowing she’d have to answer the door. As she turned the corner to face the double door, she saw her sister Fiona leaning against the transparent glass, her hands cupped around her face, trying to see inside.

     “Maybe my feelings about the day were right after all,” Morgan mumbled under her breath. She mustered up her best fake smile for her sister and slid the double bolt back that held both doors locked to one side.

     “Were you sleeping? You look like shit,” her sister said, stepping in and slipping off her flip-flops.

     “Thanks, but no. I was up all night working on a new project. I just came in for a bite to eat and some sleep.” Morgan moved against the foyer wall to give her very pregnant sister room to pass.

     “Sorry about that. It seems the bigger I get, the smaller my filter becomes.” Tears welled in her sister’s already red eyes. “I think it and POP, there it goes.”

     “Don’t worry about it,” Morgan gave herself a once-over in the large silver-framed floor mirror that graced the cavernous hall. If the truth were told, Fiona never had a filter in her life, so why on earth would she start now? “I do look like shit. But what can I say? It’s been a difficult project.” She tried to smooth back her wild red hair, but it just bounced right back into crazy pixie mode. On one side of her alarmingly pale face was a smudge of gray clay. She licked her finger and gave it a few quick rubs, but the smudge refused to budge. “So, what’s up?”

     “I think Seth is seeing another woman,” Fiona croaked, her eyes filling with tears again. “And no, it’s not just the hormones talking this time. I’ve seen them together.”

     Morgan turned to look at her sister in tired disbelief.

     “Okay, well, before you go giving birth to that kid of yours on my nice, clean floor, how about we have some tea and try to calm down?” Morgan took her sister by the arm and led her down the short set of steps to the living room.

     “I know what you think, Morgan. I always know what you think. You think I’m crazy, but I’m not. I saw her. I saw them together at his club. He’d left his briefcase at home, and I was bringing it to him. That’s when I caught sight of them in the parking lot together. There’s no way that was just business. Not with the way he was touching her.” Fiona settled into the couch and, as she did, burst into a fresh wave of tears.

     “Two minutes for the water to boil,” Morgan said uncomfortably. “How about I serve up a few Danish to help take the edge off? I picked up a nice selection at the market yesterday. There’s fruit and cheese.”

     Fiona didn’t respond. She was still in the middle of her breakdown with no clear end in sight.

     “Tell you what, I’ll bring both,” Morgan quickly left the room in search of tea and some well-needed sugar-laden medicine.

     When she arrived in the kitchen, Buster was frantically pawing at the glass door leading to the backyard and his freedom.

     “Thanks for the support,” Morgan said, sliding the door open just enough for the plump cat to squeeze through. “I’ll remember that next time you’re looking for a handout.”

     The empty threat meant little to him, and the cat shot out of the house like a furry black cannonball across the gray stones of the patio. In less than two seconds, he vanished into the thick canopy of the garden that covered every inch of Morgan’s two-acre property, with no sign of his intention to return.

     Morgan considered the benefits of living a carefree, unencumbered life, like that of a wild animal, scratching out an existence with only cunning and strength.

     The kettle shrilled loudly and jolted Morgan out of her thoughts. There would be no freedom today. No cleverness needed, just the strength to get through one of her sister’s now-weekly hormone-driven emotional breakdowns.

     Morgan filled two mugs with hot water and a tea bag, then placed them on the slim silver serving tray. She added a small bowl of sugar cubes, a plate of Danish pastries, and two pale blue napkins to help clean sticky fingers and wipe away the occasional tear.

     The thought of adding a splash of bourbon to her mug before reaching the living room and seeing her now crying sister struck her as a fantastic idea. Morgan straightened her shoulders and shook her head. No, today she would go without any alcohol. After all, it wasn’t even noon yet, and she was a respected member of the arts community. Besides, there would be plenty of time for bourbon after her sister left.