The Midnight Decision

Charles avoided late-night work sessions. His clearest thoughts percolated at dawn, before the household erupted with needs. And yet, here he was at a minute before midnight—barefoot and blanket-draped, hunched over the laptop. He froze with his eyes fixed on the glowing screen and fingers poised over the keyboard. The cursor blinked like a metronome, demanding a response, but for the first time in years he could not make a simple decision: Yes or No. The mental tug-of-war made sleep impossible for him.

His wife and son slumbered in the silent house, and even the cat, curled like a crescent moon at his feet, dozed. Outside his window, frigid gusts whipped the branches of the oak tree. Its limbs groaned, brittle in the October cold. He pulled the soft acrylic fabric tight around his shoulders and made a mental note to mount the storm windows in the morning. Before class and office hours and the routines of the new day. But he could not face all that until his choice was clear.

An hour earlier, driven by insomnia, he’d tiptoed out of the bedroom to avoid waking Sherrie. She needed her sleep—the long clinic days took a toll—and he’d slipped like a trespasser to his office computer. Since it was too soon to access the New York Times games, he’d answered the most pressing emails: a doctoral student’s question about her upcoming defense, a reminder from the department chair, a forwarded article. None of these required much thought.

However, one message remained. Its subject line read: “Invitation to speak—Human Communication: A New Perspective.” Typical academic jargon, he thought. But its innocuous words chilled his blood. He’d read it half a dozen times, hoping the sender had directed the message to him by mistake, but he knew better. He had yet to decide on the perfect wording for his response to the question it posed: “Dr. Erskine, would you be willing to speak at the AAA conference next month in Atlanta?” He’d drafted a polite rejection including regrets, scheduling conflicts, and gratitude. But even though the cursor lingered on the Send icon, he couldn’t make himself press the Enter key.

He leaned back into his creaky wooden chair, grasping its arms as if bracing himself for an ordeal, and exhaled slowly. Of course, he would love to cobble together a presentation for his fellow anthropologists and enjoy the lively discussion sure to follow. Adam Kenyon would try to tear his reasoning to shreds, as he always did, but Charles could defend himself. My data is compelling. I’ve conducted enough studies over the years to convince anybody that human communication is culturally, not biologically, determined. We speak what our contexts teach us to speak. Even in silence, we convey learned meaning. This speech would be his last before he retired as a university professor, and it should be his best, the legacy by which they would all remember him. If he agreed to do it, that is.

His wife had discussed the conference with him over a hearty veal stew earlier that evening. She couldn’t go with him due to her overbooked schedule of patients.

“You’re working too hard,” he’d told her.

“And you aren’t?” she’d said with one brow lifted. “You need to attend that forum. It will give you a well-deserved break.”

“I don’t want to leave you alone for five days. You have so much going on, and you’d have to take care of Jonathan by yourself.” He chastised himself; his concern for her was valid, but he wasn’t telling his wife the whole truth.

“You think I can’t manage for five days? Charles, really!”

“That’s not what I—” He spread his hands, shaking his head.

Sherrie held his gaze and smiled.

“Okay,” he said. “But I still need to think about it.” He changed the subject by asking their son about his day at school.

Now, weary and tense at midnight, he replayed the conversation in his mind. There was so much he longed to tell Sherrie, but it would destroy their marriage, their family. He hated to hide things from her because their relationship was the bedrock on which he’d built his career. She was as necessary to him as loving touch to an infant. He could not risk telling her about the danger that awaited him at in Atlanta.

Angel. The name came unbidden, too easily.

Dr. Angeline Thomas had emailed him the invitation to speak at the conference. He’d gotten to know her at the AAA finance committee meetings, where she’d impressed him with her spreadsheets and charts. Angel would tempt him with her combination of physical beauty and world-class intellect. They hadn’t spoken face-to-face since last year’s convention, where the two of them had shared an unforgettable moment in the elevator alone. She’d given him a direct look and said, “You can have me any time, you know.” He’d responded with stunned silence then. If her offer was still open, how would he react today?

Springing up from his chair, Charles paced a circle, heat climbing his neck. I still want her. I love Sherrie, but with Angel it’s different—it’s a kind of madness I thought I’d outgrown. But I know it will flare up like sparks igniting dry grass when I see her. He yanked the blanket from his shoulders and threw it on the floor in exasperation. His wife could not help him, and he feared he could not help himself.

He crossed the office floor again, his feet making no sound, and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. How could he, a happily married man, a proud father of two children, an esteemed professor at the apex of his career, even consider infidelity? Yet just the memory of Angel was enough to torment him. If they were alone together again, it would be so easy to cross the line. Dalliances happened at these conferences all the time, and they all turned a blind eye. But it was different for him—or was it?

He pounded a fist into his other hand, bringing his attention back to the email waiting on his laptop. The blinking cursor mocked him with its patient question. Would he seize this opportunity to present the culmination of his life’s work to his peers? As he stood at the desk and scratched at his short, grizzled beard, Charles read his answer. It was a pathetic excuse about the pressure of work. It showed his cowardice dressed up in diplomacy. Instead of finishing his teaching career with a triumph, he was cringing like a frightened dog.

Enough! Time to decide.

He settled into the chair and leaned forward. The ghost of an idea floated into his mind like a life raft—his daughter Maureen.

She’d mentioned her longing to attend a professional anthropological conference. Her dissertation was on nonverbal cues—gestures within cultural contexts. This meeting would provide her with exposure to experts in the field and a golden chance to network. A door opening into the world from which he was retiring.

But more than that, Maureen could be his shield.

He bent over the laptop, highlighted his response, and deleted it with a quick tap.

“Hello, Dr. Thomas,” he began. “I am honored to accept your invitation to speak. I plan to bring a guest to stay with me. You haven’t met my daughter, Maureen, yet. She’s writing her dissertation on nonverbal communication, and she’s mentioned how much she wants to come to the conference. I think it will be an invaluable experience for her. I appreciate you thinking of me. Charles Erskine.”

He read it twice, checking for typos and asking himself if this was the right decision. The way his shoulders relaxed and his stomach unclenched told him it was. Maureen would be a reminder of the life and family he’d chosen, and she would bring him back to his true self when temptation arose.

His finger hovered, then pressed the Enter key with determination. Charles leaned back against the slats of the chair and took a slow yoga breath. In-hold-out. The wind rattled the window, but his storm had passed. Sensing a change in the atmosphere, the cat awoke, stretched, and padded over to his chair. He reached down to stroke between her ears and murmured, “I think I can sleep now.” She stared at him with wide green eyes and blinked in slow motion as if agreeing. He smiled as he shut the laptop, turned off the light, and eased down the hall, followed by the cat.