Where Darkness Dwells (6 page)

"A night or two is all. I'm passing through from all I can tell." He could look her in the eye now. Bo mentioned she'd been in California making movies. That's where she belonged, away from this small town, her face plastered on billboards and handbills announcing her latest film. She would be a cinch for a coquettish role. She could own the part of a shrew.

Thea nodded and Cooper could just about pluck the words from her head and place them on her tongue:
So you're one of those, a transient. A vagabond
?

He glanced at his clothes, at his threadbare knees and shineless shoes. His pack was by his feet, all his worldly possessions in one small, dingy pile. Thea's glare made Cooper feel about as small as a full-grown man could get. She stormed past and pulled a pad of paper from behind the counter.

"Can you sign your name?"

The question stymied Cooper. No one had ever asked him that since childhood. Of course he could read and write. He had read a library's worth of books.

"Do you have the ability to read? Can you even speak, or has the cat got your tongue?"

"I… sure I can read." He stepped up to the counter. Thea slapped the pad in front of him to read.

She decided to paraphrase anyway, in case he'd been lying. "Basically, we have three meals a day. One at seven, one at noon, the last at five-thirty. Five minutes late, you're out of luck. I'd rather serve the food to the dog than to a man late for a meal I slaved over. Also, lights out at ten. A minute after, you'll be out on the street. It'd be a shame considering no one else rents rooms for miles around. You pay for the following night's occupancy during the morning meal. If you aren't going to eat at the morning meal, you'll bring your payment to the morning meal anyways. Are we clear on all that?"

He nodded then signed the bottom and slid the pad back to Thea.

Thea inspected Cooper's signature before setting it aside. "I'll show you the room now. And another thing, for God's sake clean up after yourself. I'm too young to be someone's momma, and I'm not going to start acting like one for you."

"Sure thing, Thea. Uh, Miss Calder. I wouldn't want to be a burden on anyone." He followed her around the grimy pickle barrel and up the stairway.

"I don't repeat myself. If you can't act like a human being, you can move on to somewhere else that tolerates such behavior. And another thing, how'd you know my name?"

"I just had my hair cut. Bo Tingsley recommended your place."

"Don't get me started talking about Bo Tingsley." She didn't need prompting; she started on her own just fine. "That sonofabitch tried to break up my family. He had an unnatural attraction to my momma. He pined for her openly, brought her little trinkets. In some ways I'm glad for the pneumonia. She'd started to bend to the beady-eyed dwarf after awhile."

Cooper had lost the ability to speak again. He had a feeling he risked losing his room if he said the wrong thing. He also had an idea there was never a right thing to say to Thea Calder.

"Here's your damn room," Thea said, reaching the top.

She threw the door open. Cooper looked inside, but when he turned around to thank her, she was gone. All that remained was a haunting hint of perfume.

5.

Shocked and confused, Betty had climbed into bed after those men had taken her dad. Pulling the covers to her chin, it felt like a one hundred pound weight sat against her sternum. She watched the bedroom door, waiting for it to open, terrified the strangers would return to take her away.

Exhausted, she fell asleep with the sun's rising.

By the time she woke and pried herself from bed, she'd missed breakfast. She left her bedroom, keeping an eye on the cellar door as she made her way to the kitchen. It all seemed unreal; everything she'd seen last night, everything she didn't see.

Junior was already off doing whatever he did during his lazy summertime days. Probably causing some mindless ruckus somewhere. Obviously, he didn't know their dad was gone, didn't know that three featureless strangers had broken in during the night, had
dug
their way in to steal him away. Or that he had gone along without a fight.

Her mom had left her a breakfast plate at the kitchen table. A hollowed-out baked apple, filled with chopped dates and brown sugar. It was congealed and cold. Betty had no appetite.

She went to the back door, and despite wearing house shoes and a summer nightgown, she stepped outside. Her mom was in the garden next to the house. Her dad's garden. She never ventured into the extensive vegetable patch, claiming she had a black thumb compared to the emerald brilliance of her dad's.

"Mom?" She stopped at the chicken wire fence used to keep out the rabbits.

Her mom was on her hands and knees, crawling through rows of lettuce, working her hands under the wide outer leaves. Holding a long paring knife between her teeth, she looked up at Betty. She took the blade and cut a head from the ground. She then held it up to the sunlight, appraising it.

"Have to take out these heads before they get soft. Can't risk ruining your dad's reputation because I didn't get his lettuce to Calder's on time. I won't stand for it. He doesn't deserve it." She gently placed the head in a basket beside a half dozen others. She crawled a few feet down, found the next ripe head, and went at it with her knife.

"Mom? What's going on?"

"You gone deaf? I'm getting the lettuce ready for market. It'd be nice if you changed into some work clothes and lent me a hand. There's plenty of work to do." She hacked the knife through the lettuce root, held it up, found it to be an exemplary specimen, and placed it in the basket. "This garden… I didn't realize all the work he did," she said through panting breath, pulling the basket along with her to the next row. "Just think, he grows the best lettuce in all of Summerset County. People come from miles wide, because it's the crispest, and stays that way the longest."

"Mom, what the hell is going on?" Betty shouted, surprised by both her force and open vulgarity. "Where's Daddy? Who were those men who came in through the cellar?"

Her mother sighed, ignoring her obscenity. She placed the paring knife inside the basket and groaned as she stood. "Oh, my knees. I don't know how he managed this. I'm gonna be broke in half by winter." She blew an errant strand of hair from her eyes, walking stiffly to the chicken wire gate.

Her mother placed a hand on Betty's shoulder, guiding her away from the garden and empty house.

"You shouldn't go outside dressed like that anymore. You're no longer a girl. You don't know who could be watching you." Her mom squeezed her shoulder, but it wasn't a mean-spirited gesture meant to punctuate a scolding. There seemed to be a smile in her voice. An acceptance that her little girl was a grown woman.

They walked in silence through the apple orchard at the back of their property. A grown-over path through thick grass abutted the property boundary with two other farms. Her mom's cousins, the Newsteins, lived on one. Her dad's sister, Paulette, lived on the other. At the grassy corner was their family graveyard.

At first Betty thought they were walking to her Aunt Paulette's house. Such an even-keeled woman, Paulette would shed light on what was going on. A widow, she worked her one hundred-twenty acres side by side with a dour, quiet man, named Nelson. They had lived together for almost twenty years. Betty called Nelson her uncle, when she knew he wasn't; but he was a nice enough man. Hard working. Honest.

Betty's Uncle Craig was buried here. Aunt Paulette's husband. She came out every Sunday morning at sunrise and sat by the headstone, staring at the ground covering him. She sometimes cried, sometimes she smiled. Sometimes both at once. But she never forgot her Sunday visits, even though she'd been with Nelson twice as long as her first love.

Betty realized they weren't heading to her Aunt Paulette's when she saw the dark brown dirt of a freshly dug plot next to her Uncle Craig's.

"Mom."

A new headstone, with sharp-edged letters untouched by the elements, sat behind a blanket of recently turned loam.

With disbelief, she read the headstone's inscription:

Gerald Lincoln Harris

Born: March 19th, 1875

Died: July 8th, 1934

"No, Momma. NO!"

"Let me explain," her mom said, touching Betty's elbow. Betty shrugged her away. "Betty-Mae."

Betty turned from the grave and stared at their house without really taking in any detail. Her mind was a cluttered muddle. What in the world was happening to her life?

"That's not what happened," Betty said softly. She faced her mom, said resolutely, "He's not dead. I saw him. Those men took him away. You can't tell me different. He was alive. He
is
alive. Momma, tell me, tell me Daddy's alive!"

"He is, Betty-Mae, your daddy's alive."

"Then why, Momma? Tell me what's going on." Betty knelt by the new grave, the moist soil dirtying her nightgown. "Tell me everything is going to be all right." She touched the soil, ran her hand over the cool surface. She cried as if he really were dead. Her tears fell, soaking into the soil. She began to tremble uncontrollably, and she didn't try to fight it.

"Junior mustn't hear a word of this."

Her mom let her tears come and fall, let her purge her pain. Then she told her everything.

6.

In his room above Calder's Mart, Cooper broke open his pack and pulled out his cleanest and least threadbare clothes. With a haircut and wearing a clean set of clothes, he felt like a new man. Now, if only his bones would stop aching.

The room was sparse, but he thought FDR himself would like it just fine. A porcelain washbasin sat atop a short bureau. A coat rack was in one corner, while the other corner had windows on either side overlooking the main street below.

Before he took to the road, he'd lived in a first floor bedroom of his parents' row house in Chicago's Alta Vista neighborhood. His family had moved to the exclusive town home in '05, and he had little memory of the time before, the years when his parents had to worry about their next meal. After advancing from stockyarder to foreman, his father secured a bank loan and branched out to form his own company. He had refined a method for the further processing of the waste at the slaughterhouse. The Cooper Meat Company now shipped all across the forty-eight states, touting to be "The purveyors of the finest processed meats in Chicago." The quick ascent through class and wealth brought his family relative comfort, but Theodore never had the drive or passion that his father possessed--at least that's what his father told him. He would often rile on about Theodore's lack of understanding for how far they'd come, for just how hard he had worked to afford their home, their furnishings, the damn books in which Theodore always had his nose buried.

Once he finished buttoning his fresh shirt, Cooper reclined on the bed. Nothing had felt softer or more soothing since he'd devoured cotton candy at the county fair when he was a kid. He reached over to his pack and pulled out a battered copy of Dostoyevsky's
The Idiot
. He found the dog-ear where he'd left off and read a few pages until his eyelids became heavy. Starting to doze, his rumbling stomach reminded him how long it had been since breakfast.

When sleep overtook his hunger, Cooper dreamed.

The dew-heavy grass slapped his thighs as he ran. His heart pounded a staccato rhythm, adrenaline seared his veins. Feeling alive, alert and full of fear, he had no idea where he was, just that it was nighttime and gray clouds shrouded the nearly full moon. The sensation of being followed was an interminable focal point. With single-minded clarity, his every thought centered on this feeling--a slathering wolf keening in on a staggered prey. He ran, his eyes prying every shadow, behind every hiding spot.

For reasons Cooper didn't understand, the relief at reaching the top of a sloping field made him feel like he had just been born again.

The roof's A-shaped peak looked like an opened book resting on the August-high cornstalks, as if set aside by a giant for later reading. Closing on the building, its beacon-like windows washed the bursting corn a warmer shade of gold. Someone played a pipe organ inside the home: a lulling dirge sweeping the field like a collapsing sigh of sadness. It was a sign--one he didn't know he was listening for until he heard the organ's lofty bellow. His fear dissipated into the misty air.