In Dark Places

by Darryl J Keck

  At the trial, Willie said he was trying to teach his victims about humility and their lack of empathy. Aside from the bullet, he didn’t give the people he killed a chance to let anything else sink in. Many witnesses said Willie was a time bomb waiting to go off like a disgruntled postal worker. I’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt. Apparently, I’m alone in this assessment.

  “Are you sure she’s even related to the monster?” the other woman asks. “McAllister sounds like it may be a common last name around here.”

  “Mitchell did a search on her. It took a while because he wasn’t able to locate a Facebook or Twitter account; she’s practically a ghost as far as social media is concerned. Luckily, we found an old article that had listed her as the psycho’s niece. We figured either she had no friends or was hiding something. After looking deeper, we discovered a few misdemeanors on her record—nothing that compares to her relation to Willie, but she is spiraling in that direction.”

  I thought the people at Leighton discovered my online enterprise. Instead, they dug up my two arrests from back in college. I hate how easily personal information can be found on the Internet. The Patriot Act can lick me where I pee. No one has any privacy anymore. In the old days, a person would be required to make a visit the courthouse to gain the type of information that is accessible online to any dick that can press the ‘enter’ key.

  “I can’t believe she had the nerve to come here for an interview,” the other woman states.

  “She must not have realized that two of her uncle’s victims had lived here in Bluff Ridge. It took some guts for her to show up; I’ll give her that.”

  “How bad was she?”

  “She was a feisty thing,” Carolyn admits. “She demanded the reason that I wasn’t willing to hire her. I wasn’t about to reveal that her blighted pedigree kept her from being awarded a timecard. We could end up with a lawsuit over our hiring practices. She almost provoked the truth out of me with her crafty retorts.” I detect a compliment masked under the scorn.

  “What tipped you off about her? Was she shifty?”

  “Considering her lineage, she was surprisingly articulate. The name ‘McAllister’ jumped out at me upon taking a second glance at her application. I almost offered her a position as an editorial assistant. She was actually quite bright in her own low-rent way. She would have been easy enough to train. It’s too bad that her DNA is so inferior.”

  Her shrouded accolade isn’t softening the blow. Since they are unaware that I’m hiding in this stall, I want to hear the rest . . . no matter how much it stings.

  “How bright can a descendant of that family be? She probably had a tiny revolver stuffed in her purse. I wonder if murder is a family trait.”

  Violence must be inherited because I feel like kicking the living shit out of these two bitches. I do have restraint because I’m talking myself out of taking any action.

  “From this point forward, if the name ‘McAllister’ appears on any application, we’ll instruct Katie to turn them away. It’ll save me from dealing first-hand with the sludge. I actually shook her hand on the way to my office. Maybe using this antibacterial soap will wash away the scum—or scabies.”

  She pumps the soap dispenser three times while activating the sink. The bitch is actually scrubbing her hands. I’ve just reached the insult threshold. I climb off the toilet, yanking the stall door open. I stand directly behind Carolyn with my arms folded. I could so easily kick the tender area behind her knee with the point of my heel. Watching her squirm in agony on the tiled floor would be justice, but I don’t want to conform to the stereotype . . . I haven’t completely lost my sense of right and wrong. Instead, I just stare the woman down.

  Carolyn looks up and catches my reflection in the mirror. The element of surprise causes her to spin around and back against the sink. She has to be worried that I’m about to force her to watch her own demise similar to those horrific acts my uncle committed. If that were actually the case, spinning in my direction wouldn’t save her. I don’t think the other woman—a stuffy business type with a tight perm and wire-rimmed glasses—has any idea that I was the subject of their conversation. Upon seeing Carolyn’s distress, it won’t take long for her to put it together.

  “I pity the two of you.” I aim my hostility directly at Carolyn. “Thanks for the belated explanation for not hiring me. My attorney will be in touch. I recorded the entire conversation in the voice memos on my phone, so you’ll have a difficult time arguing your way out of this company’s discriminatory hiring practices.”

  I pull open the bathroom door, leaving them both shaking in their conservative shoes. Carolyn just got a peek how the rest of the world is forced to live now and then.

  Chapter 2

  Mandi

  For most of the 45-mile drive home, I’ve been an emotional mess. I expected to be launching a new career. Instead, I’ve chalked up another reason to despise prudish women in business suits. Leaving Carolyn with the parting words, “my attorney will be in touch” was an exemplary exit but would have packed more punch if I was actually in a position to afford legal services. The lawyers in Wilkinson Creek all play golf together at the country club, so you can’t trust any of them. I would have a strong case against Leighton, but I could never receive a fair trial in any neighboring county. Willie left a wake of misery all over.

  Yes, Willie murdering seven people is horrific, but more innocent people will die from texting and driving in this country before the day is over. I don’t see anyone holding the phone providers responsible. What about all the people that get senselessly killed by drunk drivers? Why aren’t bartenders, breweries, and beer distributors being castigated? It’s not natural to blame someone that isn’t directly responsible for the death. I only share his last name; I’m not some abomination with nothing to offer. Being undervalued has made me a bit desperate.

  Wilkinson Creek’s large “Welcome” sign is always depressing. It’s such a featureless northern Illinois town teeming with small-minded residents—most terrified of any life existing beyond the county line. The ‘powers that be’ rarely make any upgrades or entice new businesses to open shop here. We might be the only town this size without a Walmart or a Target. The city council doesn’t want those chain stores destroying Main Street’s independent retailer curb appeal. When you don’t come from old money in this town, you can’t get anywhere. Hell, you can’t even park the car without feeding a two-hour parking meter.

  As I pass by the boarded-up movie theater on the corner of Main and Elm, I get stuck at the most unnecessary stoplight in town. It turns red even when no one is coming from the other direction. The amount of exhaust from idling cars contributes significantly to the carbon footprint. Doesn’t anyone listen to Al Gore drone on about the environment? Oh, well, this gives me a moment to glance at Town Square—the oldest stretch of land in this crappy whistle-stop.

  Town Square is a charming little park surrounded by eight blocks of struggling retail businesses, bars, and restaurants—all facing the open lawn. Town Square’s authentic Civil War cannon is featured on advertisements and postcards as an attempt to lure in visitors; it has been entirely unsuccessful at doing so. In addition to the cannon, the park has a beautiful gazebo, an old wishing well, and a few other relics left over from 150 years ago.

  Since public transportation operates in a limited capacity, cutting through Town Square is typically how the poor people get from place to place. I notice Patricia Jackson carrying two bags of groceries through the small park. When I think about what she has endured, I should bitch less about my life. She is one of the few black women in town and has somehow managed to deal with these local pricks for nearly four decades.

  Her son, Benjamin, was born a little slow but can carry on a conversation if you don’t mind listening to him droning on about the 1974 Chicago Cubs. He’s pushing 45, weighs about 230 pounds, and collects the shopping carts at the Piggly Wiggly. Most of the time, he stands around and mumbles to himself.
His actions are not unlike the freaky little fuck from The Sixth Sense that communicated with dead people. Patricia’s family is a good reminder not to get too hung up on my appalling ancestry.

  Five minutes later, I hesitantly walk through the back sliding door of my house—well, it’s Trudy’s house. God, I hate living in this relic. The stench of generic sanitizer and one-dollar air freshener permeates the air. The kitchen is stale due to the absence of anything baked from flour and sugar. She won’t take the time to whip up a batch of oatmeal cookies like most grandmothers. Anything sweet in this joint comes directly out of a processed wrapper.

  If my bedroom had an entrance from the exterior of the house, living here would be more tolerable. Due to the retrograde design of this small ranch, I’m forced to pass through the kitchen to reach my room. Standing between the refrigerator and my doorway is Trudy and her uplifting words of wisdom. She might even hold in her morning shit until she gets in a few cheap shots. I’m her granddaughter but far from a loved one.

  I’m still pissed from the events of the morning, so my nerves will only be able to tolerate a small helping of her browbeating. I kick off my uncomfortable black heels with more force than I intended, sending the left shoe airborne. It strikes the bare kitchen wall with a loud thud.

  “What’s all that racket out there?” she yells from the living room.

  “One of my shoes accidentally bounced off the wall, Trudy,” I yell back. I never call her Grandma. She doesn’t like admitting she is that old, and I don’t like giving her that much respect, so it all balances out. “It’s not worth having a coronary over.”

  “Shoes have three places around here: on your feet, on the mat next to the door, or on the floor in your bedroom. Pitching them at the wall is not an acceptable option. Pick ’em up, or they’re going in the trash.”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose. One flew off harder than I expected. Uggghh.”

  I reach down and pick my shoes from the floor. I inspect the wallpaper to make sure the sharpness of the heel didn’t rip any of it. She would go ballistic if it got scuffed. Luckily, the gaudy sunflower wallpaper—dating back to at least 1965—is still perfectly intact. Outside of the addition of a microwave oven and a new coffee maker, there hasn’t been a single cosmetic modification to this room since I moved in over 20 years ago.

  Trudy is not a big fan of change. She still has the high school photos of her three children mounted on the living room wall. Because I’m such a burden, you won’t find a single picture of me displayed anywhere throughout the house. Everything I do is a setback, but the kids that slid out of her have never done a single thing wrong in her eyes. Ronald is a womanizing alcoholic that can’t keep his fly zipped, Wendy abandoned her only child (yours truly) while skipping town, and her other son murdered seven people. Trudy did a real bang-up job in the child-rearing department. Having grown up under her care, it’s surprising I’m not some strung-out lot lizard giving $5 handies to scurvy truckers.

  I enter the living room full of doilies, framed pictures of tropical birds, and itchy wool blankets. In addition to the stagnant air, one look at Trudy in her oversized flowered housecoat makes her the most antiquated element in the joint. She recently turned 72 but looks 85 with her tight gray perm, round bifocals, and her insistence to wear bright red lipstick at all hours. Some days, she looks like a Raggedy Ann doll left too long on the fluff cycle.

  “I take it that your job hunt didn’t go as well as expected,” she says, rubbing in my defeat.

  “Why would you assume that?”

  “I can read your face like a Dick and Jane book. Your expressions have become quite predictable.”

  She should talk. She has three moods: gloomy, bitter, and nasty. Her given disposition usually coincides with the outfit she decides to wear. She has six blouses in the rotation, and I can nearly predict which one she’ll be sporting each morning. After watching In Her Shoes, I’d love to replicate what Cameron Diaz did in the retirement community, but I could never get Trudy to accompany me to the mall or trust me with her credit card. After secretly charging a few personal items around Christmas, she won’t let me near her plastic again. Trudy even hides loose change. Trust is nearly impossible to earn back.

  After a long pause, she asks, “How long did you wait ’til you got confrontational?”

  “If you must know, I waited a long time. The people there played dirty and did a sneaky background check on me.”

  “I can only imagine the doodads they must have pulled from your back story,” she mocks. “I’m surprised you’re back already.”

  “That’s a good one.” She loves taking comfort when life trips me up. Every pitfall is ammunition for her next insult. “They might have found a couple of infractions of mine, but they wouldn’t offer me a position because of what Willie did all those years ago.”

  This morsel wipes the grin right off her smug face. Trudy still hasn’t come to terms with Willie’s murder spree. She suffers from perennial deniability. She will always see him as a little boy in multi-colored suspenders, not the prisoner serving two back-to-back life sentences in a maximum-security facility.

  “You know, I’m growing quite distraught over your insistence to blame your uncle for all of your problems,” she snaps, abrasively. “You’ve been using that worn-out excuse your entire life.”

  “It has been an ongoing obstacle for me.”

  “The kids don’t like me because of Willie, my teachers gave me a bad grade because of Willie, they wouldn’t let me join their Girl Scout troop because of Willie,” she mocks in a nasty tone. I’ve never sounded that insolent. “Now, you can’t get a decent job because of him; you’ll be complaining about that ’til the cows come home. Your failure to secure a decent job has more to do with your absence of a college degree.”

  “I was wondering how long it would take for you to go there.”

  “Take some responsibility for your actions and quit blaming each setback on a mistake Willie made when you were just out of diapers. That should not be standing in your way.”

  “I’m not blaming him for all of my complications, but he has tarnished our name quite a bit. Can you ever just admit that?”

  “I don’t have to admit shit.” She stands up, walks to the kitchen, and pours a glass of wine. This action is usually my cue to sneak away, but dashing off to my room would only put a bookmark on the bickering. Trudy is like a hawk circling a wounded squirrel. She can be very patient and will lunge as soon as my guard is down later in the day. It will be better time management to stand my ground and let her wrap up the attack.

  “Why can’t you see that my life has been difficult as a result of all that has happened?” She has her back to me, but her ear hairs—and she has plenty of ’em—are picking up every word.

  “Difficult for you?” she spins around, sneering. “Let me tell you what has been difficult, missy. Your mom running off to North Dakota was a dark day for me. Since she couldn’t cope, I got stuck raising another child—one that never appreciated all my sacrifices. Your mom has not been back since, nor has she assisted with a single dollar of financial support since 1998.”

  Trudy won’t admit that Willie’s little killing spree caused my mom to become the scorn of this patronizing town. She got mocked because I was born out of wedlock and this town frowned on single mothers. To make matters worse, the identity of my father remains a total mystery. Since no one will discuss the details of my biological father, my birth has not been a celebrated occasion. After Willie’s incarceration, the townsfolk didn’t like becoming national news. The small community aimed their anger at the remaining McAllister offspring. Mom couldn’t take the daily sneering, so she decided to travel light and fly the coup. As a result, Trudy got stuck with the burden of raising me. She has made sure I’ve known it every damn day too!

  “I’m sorry raising me was such an obligation,” I express.

  “Is there another way to look at it? I had already raised three children. I didn’t thi
nk I’d be a full-time parent as I got up in years.”

  What a load of fucking shit. Trudy was a guardian but never acted like a parent. I would see these moms on TV like Shirley Partridge with all those kids and no husband. For a 10% commission, her manager was more of a caring parent to those kids than Trudy has ever been to me.

  I finally say, “You should have told her that I was still her responsibility. She brought me into the world; I didn’t get a choice in the matter.”

  “I had that difficult conversation with her several times on the phone. She always came up with an excuse as to why she couldn’t send a check.”

  “I don’t get it,” I yell. “Once I became a teenager, why didn’t you ship me off to live with her?”

  “Because she didn’t want you there,” she rudely points out. “She was depressed and barely functioning. I took on that encumbrance because I figured she’d eventually pull out of her despair and come to her senses. Well, you’re still getting mail at this address and driving up my water bill.”

  “Yeah, I’m working on getting a place.”

  “How do you expect to accomplish that? You’ve got no degree, no decent employment, and no man.”

  “I’ve had more than my share of men, Trudy. They typically turn out to be a disappointment. If you haven’t noticed, it’s slim pickings around here. The ones that are single are usually a bigger mess than I am.”

  “I’d hardly agree with that,” she says. “I notice many men without wedding rings that drive some very nice vehicles. You can tell a lot about someone’s character by the items they own.”

  “I’m not interested in a man simply because he’s an earner. It’s a bit calculating to be engrossed in someone simply because he pulls in a decent paycheck. It should be more about what he offers romantically and emotionally.”

  “There is always an exchange when it comes to men and women getting together,” she says. “A smart woman should view the relationship both from a romantic and financial standpoint. You don’t want to be carrying some lazy man for forty years just because you want a warm body up against you at night. That’s why a man’s vehicle tells a lot about his character.”