The Other Side of Midnight

"Don't ask her," Noelle replied. "Tell her." There was a final implacable note in her voice.

Larry nodded. "All right."

"You won't be sorry, darling. I promise," Noelle said.

For Catherine time had lost its circadian rhythm; she had fallen into a tesseract of time, and day and night blended into one. Larry was almost never home, and she had long since stopped seeing any of their friends, because she did not have the energy to make any more excuses or to face people. Count Pappas had made half a dozen attempts to see her, and had finally given up. She found herself only able to cope with people secondhand: by telephone or letter or cable. But face to face, she turned to stone, and conversations flinted off her in hopeless, futile sparks. Time brought pain and people brought pain, and the only surcease Catherine found was in the wonderful forgetfulness of liquor. Oh how it eased the suffering, softened the sharp edge of rebuffs and gentled down the pitiless sun of reality that beat down on everyone else.

When Catherine had first come to Athens, she and William Fraser had written to each other frequently, swapping news and keeping each other up-to-date on the activities of their mutual friends and foes. Since Catherine's problems with Larry had begun, however, she had not had the heart to write to Fraser. His last three letters had gone unanswered, and his last letter had gone unopened. She simply did not have the energy to cope with anything outside the microcosm of self-pity in which she was trapped.

One day a cable arrived for Catherine, and it was still lying on the table unopened a week later, when the doorbell rang and William Fraser appeared. Catherine stared at him, unbelievingly. "Bill!" she said, thickly. "Bill Fraser!"

He started to speak and she saw the excited look in his eyes turn to something else, something startled and shocked.

"Bill, darling," she said. "What are you doing here?"

"I had to come to Athens on business," Fraser explained. "Didn't you get my cable?"

Catherine looked at him, trying to remember. "I don't know," she said finally. She led him into the living room, strewn with old newspape

rs, filled ashtrays and plates of half-eaten food. "Sorry the place is such a mess," she said, waving a vague hand. "I've been busy."

Fraser was studying her worriedly. "Are you all right, Catherine?"

"Me? Fantastic. How about a little drink?"

"It's only eleven o'clock in the morning."

She nodded. "You're right. You're absolutely right, Bill. It's too early to have a drink, and to tell you the truth I wouldn't have one except to celebrate your coming here. You're the only one in the whole world who could make me have a drink at eleven o'clock in the morning."

Fraser watched with dismay as Catherine staggered to the liquor cabinet and poured a large drink for herself and a smaller one for him.

"Do you like Greek brandy?" she asked as she carried his drink to him. "I used to hate it, but you get used to it."

Fraser took his drink and set it down. "Where's Larry?" he asked quietly.

"Larry? Oh, good old Larry's flying around somewhere. He works for the richest man in the world, you know. Demiris owns everything, even Larry."

He studied her for a moment. "Does Larry know you drink?"

Catherine slammed down her glass and stood swaying in front of him. "What do you mean, does Larry know I drink?" she demanded indignantly. "Who says I drink? Just because I want to celebrate seeing an old friend, don't you start attacking me!"

"Catherine," he began, "I'm..."

"You think you can come in here and accuse me of being some kind of a drunk?"

"I'm sorry, Catherine," Fraser said painfully, "I think you need help."

"Well you're wrong," she retorted. "I don't need any help. Do you know why? Because I'm--I'm self--I'm self..." she groped for the word and finally gave it up. "I don't need any help."

Fraser watched her for a moment. "I have to go to a conference now," he said. "Have dinner with me tonight."

"OK." She nodded.

"Good, I'll pick you up at eight."

Catherine watched Bill Fraser as he walked out the door. Then with unsteady steps, she walked into her bedroom and slowly opened the closet door, staring into the mirror hanging on the back of the door. She stood there frozen, unable to believe what she was seeing, sure that the mirror was playing some dreadful trick on her. Inside she was still the pretty little girl adored by her father, still the young college girl standing in a motel room with Ron Peterson and hearing him say, "My God, Cathy, you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," and Bill Fraser holding her in his arms and saying, "You're so beautiful, Catherine," and Larry saying, "Stay this beautiful, Cathy, you're gorgeous," and she looked at the figure in the mirror and croaked aloud, "Who are you?" and the sad, shapeless woman in the mirror began to cry, hopeless, empty tears that coursed down the obscene bloated face. Hours later the doorbell rang. She heard Bill Fraser's voice calling, "Catherine! Catherine, are you there?" And then the bell rang some more, and finally the voice stopped and the ringing stopped and Catherine was left alone with the stranger in the mirror.

At nine o'clock the following morning, Catherine took a taxi to Patission Street. The doctor's name was Nikodes and he was a large, burly man with a white shaggy mane, a wise face with kind eyes, and an easy, informal manner.