When Darkness Loves Us Read online

  The flow of blue trickled, then stopped. Gradually, reality reentered her senses. She heard Harry’s raspy breathing. She heard the wild wind rattling and shaking the house. She opened her eyes. She saw David’s unconscious frame lolling in the chair. She moved her hands, and saw the long forearm covered with blood, and a thin red scar running down its length. She dipped a towel in the warm water and washed off the blood. The arm was pink and healthy looking.

  She dared not look into Harry’s face. She kept working, cleaning the blood away, frightened, trembling, not understanding. When the arm was clean, she indicated the couch. “Let’s get him to the sofa.” She looked up at Harry. He was staring, open-mouthed, at her. She didn’t want him to look at her that way. “Come on, Harry.”

  Between them, they dragged David to the sofa and laid him down. Fern fetched a pillow for under his head. Then she covered him with a blanket and made two cups of tea. Her hands were shaking. She had to keep them busy.

  She put the tea on the table, then sat down next to Harry. He was still staring.

  “That arm was laid wide open.”

  She nodded. “I saw.”

  “It’s a miracle.”

  She thought about that for a moment. “Yes,” she said. “I guess it was.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Martha kneaded the dough. She pushed and folded, pushed and folded, sprinkling flour in the sticky places. It was an automatic, easy rhythm. Her pudgy fingers knew the work by themselves. As she pushed, her body rocked forward, up on her toes. As she folded, she fell back flat on her heels. Pushed and folded, sprinkled more white flour, pushed some more.

  Her mind wandered.

  The chickens squawked and fought over the new food. She didn’t think they would like it; it was just hard pieces of corn and seeds. Looked like rocks, too, in it. But they loved it. They just scratched and pecked and flapped.

  Martha tried eating a little of it, but it was too hard to chew. How can the chickens chew it when they got no teeth? How come they like that better than the bread? Mr. McRae knows.

  Martha’s hands told her when the dough was ready. She greased up a big mixing bowl and plopped the dough in it, turning it once to oil the top. Then she put a clean kitchen towel over it and sat down to watch it rise.

  Now she could think about the sparkling wall. All those pretty glasses lined up in front of the mirror. All those bottles with different-colored waters in them. The cool empty room. No, not empty. There were those men. And that funny feeling when her feet wouldn’t go straight.

  She thought about that drink in the bar only when she had time to sit down and concentrate. She knew there was more to it than she remembered. She knew there was more to it than she would ever even know. She didn’t understand a lot of things. Most of all, she didn’t understand the moments of clarity she had, when the whole world looked sharp, in focus, and her mind understood.

  It was as if she lived her whole life under water—no, under oil. Greasy oil that coated her whole perception of things, but once in a while, her subconscious would break through the surface, take a roaring gasp of fresh air, and look around while the filmy sheets of grease ran down her eyes. And at those moments, understanding would rock her soul with great heaving sobs of newness. Then she would slide under again, swimming in murky clouds of distortion.

  Somewhere, though, those pieces of understanding were stored. She thought of them as little golden eggs—no, little fragile bubbles—with knowing stored inside, and they were stacked up in little triangular piles in some unused storeroom of her mind.

  Martha gave the table a slap that stunned her hand. Now where did I get such a thought as that? What kind of an idea is that, anyway, bubbles in my head? Bubbles in my head all right. Bubbles in that drink they gave me.

  She wanted to go back to that place with the shiny wall. She wanted to see the man with the apron, the one with the toothpick in his mouth, and the one without a tooth in front. She wanted to feel a part of something, a part of a friendly something.

  Oh, I wish could understand.

  Then a new thought came to her and her brow furrowed, her curly gray hair slid forward toward her eyebrows, her lips circled up, and her twisted lump of a nose wrinkled.

  If understanding is in the bubbles, maybe I can pop one and catch it.

  But the storeroom was guarded by a monster. She had seen it in her dreams, and as she thought of it now, its monstrous face snarled at her. Sharp teeth dripping with vicious saliva were bared; purple pink gums backed by wild yellow eyes showed its ferocity. It lunged straight at her eyes, rotten breath pushing her back in her chair.

  She stood up quickly, startled, before her feet were under her, twisting her ankle, the pain driving the vision from her eyes. She bent over and rubbed it, automatically putting her trip to town off another day. She couldn’t walk on this ankle.

  A glance at the rising dough showed it had a long way to go yet, so she hobbled over to the sofa and lay down. She put her foot up on a pillow. Comfortable, she looked at the worn brocade pattern next to her head and began to pick at it. How does this go, she thought, picking absently, pulling apart the threads to see what was underneath. All thoughts of the bar and the people who inhabited it were gone, chased away.

  Martha packed carefully for her trip to town. She put five loaves of bread in each brown paper sack and filled two more little sacks with eggs. She wanted Mr. McRae to be very happy with her.

  She dressed in a special red-print dress, her going-to-town dress. She looked in the mirror, thought she looked a little different but she wasn’t sure how, put on powder and lipstick, and brushed her hair back. That was it; her hair was too long. If the girl didn’t come soon, maybe she could cut it herself. Mother had always told her to keep her hair short, then she could just wash it with a washcloth and not have to worry about more soaps and stuff. But now her hair hung in gray curls around her face. She put more powder on her nose.

  She put one bag of eggs in each bread sack and lifted them carefully. They were light. She went out into the sunshine and the early morning cool and began walking.

  There was no one in town. The streets were quiet and deserted. She could hear the chatter of birds in some distant tree. Mr. McRae’s store was closed, so she sat down on the curb in front, one paper sack on each side, to wait.

  Was it that first day? When her mother died, Mr. McRae gave her a folder of pretty pictures. Under each picture was a whole bunch of squares. He gave her a red crayon and told her every morning to get up and feed the chickens, then to mark a red X in the next square that had a big black number on it. When all the squares were full, he gave her a new one, with different pictures. He told her that he was never at the store on the days of the first square. She tried to remember. Did she mark the square this morning? Was it the first square? She couldn’t remember.

  She didn’t know what to do. So she sat there, to wait for something to happen.

  But it was just early, and soon traffic started to come into town, and then Mr. McRae opened the door to his store and saw her sitting there. He surprised her; she thought he’d come up the street. How did he get into the store if she didn’t see him? Was he there all night? He came out and helped her up and carried her packages into the store. He had such a pleasant face.

  “Martha! How nice to see you! Had you been waiting long?”

  She tried to think how to answer him, but he went right on. “And you’ve brought me bread. And eggs! Wonderful. Let’s take a look.”

  He pulled each loaf of bread out and slipped it into a plastic bag, twisted the end shut and wrapped a little green wire around it. “These loaves are beautiful! How many are there? Let’s see . . . ten.” He handed her a small sack filled with plastic bags. “See how this is done? These green wires twist together like this.” He showed her, then watched her bag and tie two loaves. “Put your bread in these as soon as they’ve cooled, okay?”

  She nodded.

  “And eggs. Oh, my, let’s get you some car
tons. Did your chickens like the new feed?”

  Her eyes opened with enthusiasm. She bobbed her head and opened her mouth, but there were so many words, they all got stuck. She didn’t know which to say first. “Cluck, peck,” she said finally, in a rush of air.

  “Cluck peck. Right. It’s cluck peck food. I’ll give you some more. Now. You’ve brought me ten loaves of bread; I’ll buy them from you for fifty cents each. And twenty eggs. I usually buy eggs by the dozen but I’ll pay you for two dozen today, at seventy-five cents; that comes to six dollars and fifty cents.” He counted out the money on the counter.

  Martha just looked at it. She gave him money at this store. The bank gave her money; then she gave it to Mr. McRae. He wasn’t supposed to give her money.

  “No,” she said, uncertainly, and looked out the window at the new brick bank building across the street. She pointed at the bank, then slapped her fingertips on top of the money on the counter. “I go bank, they give me money, I come here, give you money, take flour home.”

  Mr. McRae understood immediately. This was too confusing for the poor woman. Now, what should we do? “Okay, Martha. I’ll tell you what. You use this bread and these eggs to pay me for the things you buy here instead of with the money the bank gives you, okay?”

  Her face clouded over in heavy thought.

  “Do you need more flour?”

  “Flour, yes.”

  “And the rest of the things you usually buy?”

  “Yes. And soap. And cluck peck.” She was proud of the name she made up.

  He laughed. “Okay. You wait right here.”

  He brought the groceries to the counter, added the plastic bags and three empty egg cartons. “Now, Martha. Listen carefully.” Mr. McRae waved aside a few customers who had come through the door, holding them off while he explained. “I sell you flour, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you go home and bake bread.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you bring the bread here, and I will pay you for it with more flour and yeast and milk, okay?”

  “Trade?”

  “Trade. Exactly.”

  “Okay!” She smiled at him crookedly, understanding at last. “You want more?”

  “As much as you can bring me.”

  “Okay!” She turned and smiled at the customers waiting in line. “Trade!” she said, grinning widely; then she took her sack and left the store.

  She walked into the sunshine and the beginning heat of the day. She looked over to the bank, new and solid, on the corner. She should go talk to them. This was the first time she’d come to town without talking to them. She walked slowly down the street, conscious of the door coming up on her left, the door with the glass you couldn’t see through, the door with the shiny wall inside. She wished she had to go to the bathroom, but she didn’t, so she couldn’t stop. She kept going.

  When she got home, ankle swelling and sore, Priscilla was there, with her haircutting scissors and a pitcher of cold, fresh lemonade. Martha put her sack of purchases on the counter by the sink and sat down at the table, pulling Priscilla down into the next chair. Her expression was intense.

  “Mr. McRae and I trade.”

  Priscilla’s tiny little features looked calmly on this gross older woman. Cutting Martha’s hair was a chore, but one she’d promised to her mother. Every month she would come and do Martha’s hair. She tried to make it as pleasant as possible, but Martha was quite disgusting. She was overdue, and the poor woman’s hair hung almost to her eyes.

  “Trade?”

  Martha nodded hard, shaking her head of hair that was way too long. “I buy flour, take bread.”

  “Oh.” Priscilla’s eyes lit up in understanding. “You’re trading with Mr. McRae. How nice. I’ve seen your bread, Martha. You make a lot of it.” She looked at the clean, bare countertop. Oh, God, I hope she isn’t taking him that moldy stuff.

  “Good bread.”

  “I’m sure it is. Let’s do your hair, okay? Then we can have some lemonade, okay?”

  “Okay!”

  Martha put her head into the tub, let her hair be shampooed, expert, practiced fingers massaging the scalp. It felt good; even in this awkward position, she tried to relax. Priscilla rubbed some sweet-smelling balm into her head afterward, then rinsed it with warm water. Martha sat still, out on the porch in the heavy wooden chair, watching the little curls fall into her lap as her hair was snipped short again, while Priscilla chatted on about nothing Martha could follow. Then she ran her fingers through Martha’s new short locks, fluffing it, and took the towel from her neck to dust her off.

  “All finished!”

  They went inside for lemonade. Martha smacked her reddened lips. “Pris. Teach me this?” She pointed at the glass.

  Priscilla was taken aback. Martha had never asked her for anything before. Not in all the years she’d been coming to cut her hair. “Sure. Come, I’ll show you the lemon tree.”

  They walked outside through the weeds, Martha moving more slowly, limping on her sore ankle, keeping her dress from catching all the burrs. Behind the littered concrete foundation that used to be the barn was a little green tree with plump yellow fruit.

  “Pick the yellowest and the fattest, see?” Priscilla showed her. Martha lifted up her skirt and filled it, like a basket. She carried it with pride back to the house where Priscilla showed her how to cut and squeeze the lemons, mix the juice with sugar and water. “Easy, eh, Martha?”

  “Easy. Yes.” They grinned at each other, freckles scampering over Priscilla’s pert and fresh nose. Martha felt her own numb, meaty outgrowth ringed by scars, and the laughter fled. She reached a finger out and touched Priscilla’s face, ran her touch lightly over the bridge of her nose, feeling her own face with her other hand.

  “Like that, huh? Maybe I’ll will it to you.”

  “Will?”

  Priscilla was instantly sorry she’d been so flip. “You know, will. Like it’s yours when I die.” She let Martha’s fingers roam over her face.

  “Pretty,” she said softly, and tears flooded Priscilla’s lower lids. This poor woman. This poor old, ugly, half-witted woman, so alone, so rejected, so talked about, so teased. When Priscilla was in grade school, the worst insult a child could give another was to call someone a “Martha.” And here she was, sensitive, human, just trying to do what she could with what she had.

  “You’re pretty too, Martha,” Priscilla said, with surprising truth. “You have beautiful, sensitive eyes.” She put her arms around the large older woman and hugged her close. “I’ll come back next week, okay? And maybe we can learn to do some other things besides bake bread and make lemonade. Maybe we can sew you a new dress . . . or . . . or something.”

  Martha pulled back from the embrace and pointed at the calendar on the wall. “Which square?”

  Priscilla put her manicured forefinger on the next Sunday. “This square.”

  “I be here,” Martha said with finality. She was so pleased. She had learned two new things today. She waved to Priscilla as she pulled out of the driveway in her little blue car, then sat down. She thought about the smooth feel of Priscilla’s little pink nose; she thought about Mr. McRae and trading; she thought that it was pretty good that she understood, at last, that the squares were days, and that Priscilla would come back on one special day. She smiled to herself and hummed a little, and rubbed her ankle and waited for the days to go by.

  CHAPTER 4

  Harry sat astride a kitchen chair, resting his chin on his arms. He watched his wife at work, bent over the young girl on the sofa. The girl’s hoarse breathing broke the silence in the room.

  It was Christmas. They awoke early to see fresh snow atop the yard, the drift on the north side of the house now higher than the roof. The day was ringing clear, with a cloudless blue sky looking down proudly on all the whiteness it had left during the night. Fern made a big breakfast while Harry tended to the animals. After eating, within the ring of warmth from the iron kit
chen stove, they opened their presents.

  Colorful boxes from the townsfolk were piled high under their little tree, gifts of gratitude from the people Fern had helped. Harry had to chunk out a little freezer room in the ice alongside the cellar door for all the turkeys and roasts they’d been given in appreciation; they’d all have to be eaten before the thaw.

  Fern oohed and aahed over the hand-embroidered tablecloths and matching napkins, the quilt, the kitchen towels and potholders. Harry opened sets of coffee cups and a hand-painted teapot, feeling mildly uncomfortable. He should be providing all these things, not the neighbors. Then he opened his present from Fern, a brown-plaid wool shirt, heavy and sturdy and warm. Fern had made it at Addie’s. He hadn’t a present wrapped for her, but he took her hands in his, looked into her eyes, and promised a new room to be built onto the house in the spring. A room she could use for her sewing, or whatever, until it became a nursery. Fern wept a little, so Harry got up and put on the teapot. He didn’t like tears.

  Now those hands that had fondled delicate lace only this morning were moving quickly over the small form on the sofa. Intense concentration deepened frown lines on her forehead. What was she feeling?

  Tom and Mae Wilson had driven up shortly after noon, their little girl wrapped with blankets. Mae had been crying; her puffed face showed it. Tom’s face looked old and tight, as he carried their only child, born late in their lives, into the house.