In Dark Places

by Darryl J Keck

  It’s confession time. “I’m not a solicitor. I am hoping we can have an important chat.”

  “Aren’t you that McAllister girl?”

  “Yes, I am Mandi McAllister.”

  “You’re that little brat that would constantly throw hateful racial slurs my way when I would stroll past your grammar school.”

  “Did I?” I am stunned by this declaration. In addition to a criminal record, I’m apparently a prejudice shithead. I thought my life was terrible back when Willie went to prison, but this version of Mandi must have been quite a twat. A shitload of damage control will be required to rise above my blemished reputation. Not that many people will be as open-minded and forgiving as Delaney.

  “You sure as hell did,” she says. “You might as well have been wearing a pointed white hood and riding a horse.”

  “If I said anything offensive, I’m truly sorry,” I say, displaying remorse for an act for which I haven’t the slightest memory. “I certainly didn’t mean anything I ever said in the past.”

  “You had a new insult cocked and loaded every day when I walked by. I never knew there were that many derogatory things to fire at a black woman. Don’t you find that a bit disrespectful?”

  “Can I try to explain this to you?”

  “It’s too late to listen to hollow explanations. Tell your story to someone that might give two shits.” She slams the door so hard that a gust of warm air blows through my hair.

  “I’m not the person you’re talking about,” I shout at the closed door. “When I woke up this morning, I learned that Benny was institutionalized as an indirect result of a mistake I had made years ago. Give me five minutes to clear it all up.”

  I’m waiting for the chipped white door to reopen—it usually happens that way in the movies. Patricia is looking at me through the window while talking to someone on a landline. I better split because she could be phoning the police. I avoided one landmine today, so it’s better not to push what little luck might still be in my corner.

  It was lunacy to visit Patricia. What would I be able to say that could provide the slightest relief? Anything I revealed about what led to Benny’s arrest would probably make a bigger mess of things.

  Living alone in a rickety trailer is undoubtedly waiting for me when I become an old lady. Once my looks are gone, this is precisely the type of place where I’m likely to end up. No one of quality has ever cared enough about me to stick around. Billy would have been the one guy that probably would have loved me, but I couldn’t get past the dark gunk lodged under his grotesque nails.

  I’m scared to death regarding the future—especially the concept of growing older. At what age do you become interested in scrapbooking, wearing housecoats, and decorating with doilies? I’m suddenly overpowered by a series of pessimistic questions. When does your voice go from cute to that “annoying old lady” timbre? Will there be a day when I’ll actually get my hair set instead of using a curling iron and blow dryer? Why am I thinking about this? With my love for frosted bakery items and the continuous stress in my life, living beyond the “cougar” stage seems out of the question.

  I’m beginning to realize that the time to get serious about my life is at this very moment. I’m tired of coloring outside the lines. I better quit pissing away what youth remains. Have I even made a difference? The only people I’ve really touched are guys that were touching themselves. What a feeble legacy to leave in my wake.

  I get behind the wheel, adjust the mirror, and drive down the gravel road through the shambolic trailer park. As I turn the corner, an old black man is holding a baseball bat while blocking the only exit out of this dump. I would like to think his intentions are the same as when James Earl Jones stood in front of Kevin Costner’s car in Field of Dreams. In my case, his confused expression indicates that he didn’t just see Moonlight Graham’s name on a scoreboard. If anything, my car is about to get thumped by the baseball bat he’s gripping like a crowbar.

  I’m not about to run the old fart over. The casualty list attached to last night’s slapdash wish is already too long, so I apply the brakes. When the car comes to a halt, I realize the man in the gray sweatshirt is Clancy—a regular from Ray’s. We’ve had some lengthy chats while I tended bar. Of all the scumbags residing in the county, he has the least amount of dirt clinging to him.

  I crack my window about ten inches to hear what he is spouting. If he makes the slightest malicious gesture, I’m bolting—even if that means crushing one of his feet with my back tire. If one of us is leaving with a limp, it’s going to be him.

  “Can you please move out of the way?” I ask, talking through the tiny cracked space above the opened window. “And please lower the bat! There’s no need for hostility.”

  “Young lady, why are you hassling one of my tenants?” he asks, lowering the handheld weapon to the ground.

  “I’m not hassling anyone,” I say. “I came here to talk with Patricia Jackson, but she refused to speak with me.”

  “There’s a good reason for that. Pat just called to recite some of the offensive slang you’ve flung in her direction. We don’t allow that kind of talk around here.”

  “I’ve never called her anything—not even under my breath. I have never been anything but kind to her. She is talking through me to someone else.”

  He points to a telephone pole alongside the entrance. “I clearly have a no trespassing sign posted upon entering our little private community.”

  “I didn’t see that sign,” I admit. “I was too busy trying to keep my car from bottoming out. Too many potholes line the entrance of this little slice of heaven. You know, Clancy, if you’d do some maintenance around here, I would have noticed that sign.”

  He suddenly appears to be in shock, loosening the death grip on the bat. “What did you call me?”

  “Clancy,” I say.

  “How did you know that my nickname was Clancy? No one has called me that in over thirty years! Certainly, no one around these parts has ever mumbled that to me.”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Don’t be so sure, girlie. I just might give your answer some consideration.”

  “In another life, let’s just say that you and I had many detailed conversations.”

  He has that priceless look of dubiety in his eyes that shouts, “Kid, you’re completely full of shit!” He pompously grins and asks, “Did we now? What the hell are you trying to sell? You better not be one of those con artists out to snag our social security checks.”

  “I’m not selling anything nor am I on the grift. How else would I know that you have a fetish for tiny Scandinavian women? You got your first taste of those women during your six-year stint in the Army.”

  Revealing what appears to be an undisclosed compulsion wipes the smugness from his face. He breaks eye contact, glancing around as if an unseen cameraman may be filming our graphic conversation. Any man harboring a deep secret doesn’t want his darkest desires being broadcast to the world.

  “You must be mistaking me with someone else.”

  “Don’t worry, Clancy. You told this to me in confidence while nursing a rum and ginger ale,” I promise. “You certainly slipped me enough unreported tips to afford your privacy.”

  “We’ve never spoken before. If we had, I’d recall it. Girls that look like you don’t usually strike up a dialogue unless they’re trying to lure me into paying for a round of drinks or soliciting an expensive date.”

  Nothing will change your disposition faster than being told, point blank, that you look like a whore or a barfly.

  “We’ve had many conversations,” I say, regaining my composure. “Unfortunately, you wouldn’t remember because those years have all been wiped clean like a family recipe washed from a blackboard. I came here to tell Patricia some information relating to Benjamin’s innocence, but she refused to talk. Therefore, I’m all jammed up.”

  When I mentioned Benny’s innocence, his posture changed from property pro
tector to an attentive listener. Apparently, he is more emotionally involved in her life than just the role of landlord. Considering this town is devoid of Scandinavian women, I wonder if he’s been receiving more from Patricia than her lot dues.

  “You can tell me what this is all about, and I’ll pass it onto Pat.” He may not be admitting his Scandinavian indiscretions, but he’s suddenly curious enough to be obliging.

  “I’m not sure if anyone other than Patricia would believe what I have to say.”

  “Don’t be so sure. If your story contains a shred of validity, I will discuss it with Pat. That’s about the best shot you’ll have at getting her attention today.”

  “Do you promise to talk with her? The message always seems to differ slightly by the time it reaches the other person. Sort of like kids playing telephone.”

  “This is the best offer you’re going to get. I’ll give you five seconds to reach a decision.”

  “Fine, but please put the baseball bat away. I can’t be worried about your next move.”

  “I can’t believe a girl in her prime would be afraid of a 71-year-old man holding a baseball bat. How hard to do you think I would actually be able to swing the damn thing?”

  “If a beautiful woman around my age can twist apart my life, then anyone of any age can potentially wield some power.”

  “Fair enough,” he says, tossing the wooden baseball bat into the weed-infested flowerbed to the left of his trailer. “Park to the right of my mobile home and come inside. I’ll give you ten minutes of my undivided attention.”

  “I may need a little more than that.”

  “Don’t push your luck, sweetie.”

  Chapter 19

  Mandi

  Clancy’s living room hasn’t had a single cosmetic upgrade since at least 1972. An itchy afghan, stitched with orange, yellow, and brown yarn, is draped over the torn couch—it looks as if a jack-o’-lantern took a wavy shit. Clearly, he refuses to spend money in the home decor department.

  I’m not here to size-up the inventory of his house. While perched on the arm of the couch, I divulge every fact I revealed to Delaney earlier. This time, I include the detail about removing Willie’s gun and tossing it inside the wishing well. My time-edited version takes twenty minutes to summarize, and he didn’t glance at the clock a single time. Instead, he stared at me with wide-eyed enthusiasm.

  “That’s quite a story,” he says after spitting out my last word. “How do you expect me to react to everything you just told me?”

  “I have no reason to invent any of this. I expected to wake up to a better life like slipping into a pair of comfortable shoes. Not once did I think anyone else would have been nabbed for those crimes. I figured once Willie was in the clear, the case would just go away.”

  “Nothing as big as that just goes away,” he says. “Anyway, considering that you’re related to Agnew, wielding some fiction might be a way to get some of the focus shifted away from you.”

  I ask how he reached that conclusion based on the order of events that I presented. He doesn’t answer because he has to see that part of the blame for Benny’s incarceration would be placed on me. “I can only imagine how ludicrous this sounds, but Benjamin has been falsely imprisoned for the crimes. That was my primary reason for coming here to talk with Patricia.”

  I’m a little worried that I told him too much—especially concerning Willie. I’m talking to the customer I knew from the bar in that other life. In this reality, he doesn’t know me from anyone. I’m going for broke since he may be the only person able to get me a sit down with Patricia. He’ll either buy what I’ve said or think I’m completely nuts and send me on my way.

  “If any of what you said is true, it would appear that you need to make restitution to the Jackson family for what you’ve done.”

  “She refused to open the door, so how am I supposed to put the pin back in the grenade?” I ask. “Believe me, my life was less complicated before crawling out of bed this morning. I’ve spent my share of time self-loathing, but I never felt guilty for messing up anyone else’s life. I see dark days on the horizon.”

  “Telling these facts to Pat may only hurt her more. She has endured more pain than one woman should be subjected to in three lifetimes.”

  “I did not come here to do anything other than to explain what transpired as the result of the evidence I removed. Benny has suffered terribly for my mistake. With Agnew out there, it’s adversely affecting people all over the state. I can’t live with that.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Does that ‘hmmm’ mean you don’t believe what I just told you?”

  “No child, I believe every godforsaken word of it,” he says. “You were given a chance at a different life. For that opportunity, you were required to remove evidence that unintentionally caused the imprisonment of an innocent young man. I’d say that was one hell of a nasty request you made. You should have known you were getting over your head when she expected you to allow a guilty man to go free.”

  I explain that I was in no position to argue about the manner used to get out of the predicament. I didn’t think Benny would get pinched nor that Willie would end up siring a psychotic son. It sucks reciting these facts for the second time. I might as well go on a talk show, express my shortsightedness, and beg for public forgiveness. Yeah, that would happen. Due to the confession, the governor would probably stone me to death publically. I ask Clancy not to tell anyone about Willie.

  “Don’t worry about that,” he says. “If your kin is responsible for the killings, I certainly don’t need him shutting me up. Pat already knows that the gun belonged to someone else, so bringing that up is pointless.”

  “Thanks. That’ll give me some time to sort this out.”

  “Since this woman at the wishing well had the power to take you back in time, it does bring up a question,” he says, perplexed. “Didn’t you wonder why she didn’t take you back to a moment where you could have stopped the murders rather than intervening after he killed all those people?”

  “She acted like taking the gun on that night would be the most beneficial. I was quick to act because of the lure of a better tomorrow.” It’s always clearest in the light of the day; that adage means so much more to me now. It’s strange that Delaney didn’t ask this question. It seems to be quite significant. I’m scratching my head too!

  “You’ve learned a valuable lesson,” Clancy states. “Your request wasn’t specific enough. Benny learned the same lesson when he made his wish at the well.”

  “What wish?”

  “Just before he was arrested, he wished that he could sleep in a different bed. A metal spring had been poking him in the back every night. He got his wish. Benjamin now has a nice pillow-top mattress with restraining straps attached to it.”

  “Jesus! What can I do to remedy such a hopeless situation?”

  “Hmmm,” he mutters. He sure likes these long pauses to collect his thoughts. “I believe the only way to invalidate your wish would be to climb inside the well and retrieve the gun.”

  The idea of being inside that dark wishing well sends a cold chill throughout my body. I feel shortness of breath coming on. “I’m fairly confident that I could never pull that off. I’m deathly afraid of subterranean spaces.”

  “Dear, you may need to put those fears aside for the time being.”

  “Claustrophobia has been an acute fear my entire life, so it’s far from a ‘mind over matter’ situation. I get immobilized anytime I’m in a tight space. I would probably freak out if I had to climb down there. This sounds a little too dangerous for the likes of me.”

  “It is more dangerous to allow a butcher like Agnew to continue taking lives! Benjamin has been locked up for nearly 25 years. The prints on the gun will serve as proof of his innocence. Although I’m no expert in these matters, Agnew may just dematerialize as a result of removing the weapon.”

  “Dematerialize? Is that even possible?” I ask, pompously.

  “
I’ve been listening to you rattle on about changing life as we know it based on traveling back in time,” he reminds me. “Do you really want to quibble about what is possible?”

  I drop the condescending tone. “Are you sure that removing the gun may rescind the wish?”

  “I’m not sure of anything,” Clancy replies, “but that was how Jessica Higgins turned her fate around.”

  “Did something happen to Jessica? I knew her back in high school.”

  “You certainly haven’t been present in this time, have you? Jessica’s best friend, Shelby, was killed by a drunk driver.”

  “I knew Shelby too.” She was eating a sandwich at Rachel’s Diner last week. For all I know, she was alive and well yesterday. Shit, how many people have died because of me fucking with the past?

  “After the accident, Jessica tossed her friendship bracelet in the wishing well,” he says. “She bargained for Shelby to still be alive. Whenever Jessica thought of her, Shelby would appear. This might have been comforting for Jessica, but Shelby materialized as the mangled corpse—post accident.”

  “How did you hear about this?”

  “Jessica’s mother lived at the far end of this court for a few months,” he says. “She told me that Jessica went crazy from being unable to steer clear of her mutilated best friend. As a result, she had a nervous breakdown and was sent to Franklin Hills. She slipped out one night, crawled inside the well, and removed the friendship bracelet floating in the water below. After that, she no longer saw Shelby. Within two months, Jessica fully recovered and was released from Franklin Hills. Her family moved to Oregon to be as far away from that wishing well as she could get without leaving the country.”

  Removing the gun certainly sounds like the only solution on the horizon. A shitty one, nonetheless. “Clancy, can I get you to climb inside the well and remove it for me?”

  “Young lady, you made the wish, so for it to be truly rescinded, your hand must remove the article that caused the transformation.”

  “Is this merely a theory or a fact?”