Piercing the Darkness: A Charity Horror Anthology for the Children's Literacy Initiative

by Joe R. Lansdale

  “Okay.”

  Mac finished the pasta dish—lovingly sautéing the vegetables with olive oil and rosemary, then letting them cook over a low heat. When the sauce was perfect, he ladled it over the pasta in a casserole dish, securing the lid, then wheeling it out into the hall on a thick, folded towel. He knocked on Lisa’s door, his heart beginning to race.

  Maybe this time she would open the door. Maybe this time, for the first time, he would be able to see her face to face.

  It took a good minute before he heard her at the door. He held the towel-padded dish up toward the peek hole.

  “Looks good, Mac. Thanks. Just leave it there.”

  “If you open the door I can just hand it to you. I’ll be real quick, I promise.”

  “No.”

  “Lisa...”

  “Darien could be back any time now.”

  “His car is gone.”

  “He’s fast, Mac. You can’t know how fast.”

  “He can’t be that fast.”

  “He can be anything he wants.”

  The dish was growing heavy but still he held it out. “Come on, Lisa. You know what I think of him. You know what I think you can do, what you should do. Yet there you are, still letting him control your life. You’re way too good for that.”

  “Mac.” She sounded exasperated, defeated. And in that single utterance Mac heard, yet again, her inability to shed the man who so abused her. Then she said, “Please just leave the food or take it back with you.” He heard her withdraw from the door and back into the bowels of her apartment.

  Mac put the dish on the floor. He ran his thumbs along the padding on the arms of his chair and stared at the door—the water stains, the mildew, the frayed veneer at the bottom that resembled dried fronds of an old hula skirt. Then he went back to his apartment.

  In the kitchen, he dumped the remaining pasta and sauce down the disposal, and took his time grinding it into nothing.

  ««—»»

  Darien returned to Lisa’s apartment three hours later, bringing along two of his friends. The friends were stoned but Darien sounded sober. Mac had heard Darien boast to Lisa that the best dealers don’t mess with the shit they sell. They just let the morons lose their minds and their money.

  Mac lay in his bed against the adjoining wall, his hands pressed to his chest, his heart thundering, afraid of what would Darien might do to Lisa, wishing he could kill the man, and wanting Lisa more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life. He listened to the feral laughter next door, the grunts, the meek, indecipherable responses from Lisa to whatever the men were saying or doing.

  If he had arms of steel, Mac would slam them through the wall and catch up the criminals by surprise. He would snap them up, wring their necks, and then drop them one at a time out the window to let them splatter blood and brains on the quartz-sparkling sidewalk. Warning signs for anyone else who might want to mistreat Lisa. People would step over the carcasses, afraid to move them, afraid that whoever put them there wanted them there, and who would challenge such a powerful man?

  “Then she would want me, too,” he whispered to the ceiling and to a spider that hung from a fragile line. He closed his eyes, trying to think louder than the men next door. He saw in his mind Lisa coming to his apartment with the empty casserole dish. She was dressed in her tight jeans, thin t-shirt, no bra. She sat beside Mac on the bed, telling him he was right, that she was better than to let herself be treated so poorly. Telling him that she hated Darien and that she had only stayed with him because he had terrorized her into staying, that she wanted to run away with Mac and never look back.

  She fell onto the bed on her side. Mac tenderly stroked her hair and kissed her tears away. Lisa moaned, rolled onto her back, and placed his hand upon one of her soft breasts. Mac felt the delicious stirring in his blood, the sudden electrical current that would not be denied, flowing outward from his soul like sun’s rays, coursing to his mind, his heart, his groin. Lisa lifted her body to kiss Mac’s lips. He reached between her legs to find the jeans gone and her dark and secret place trembling and damp.

  Somewhere beyond there was a heavy sound, a thud, a groan...

  Mac found his own shorts gone, his underwear as well, and he was swollen and ready. As Lisa opened her legs she whispered, “I love you, Mac. I love you so much you can never know.” He drove himself into her, into her, into her, into her. His muscles cramped deliciously with each movement. Lisa clung to his back with her fingers.

  Somewhere beyond there was a muffled cry...

  Lisa cried out in ecstasy. Mac’s explosion was exquisite, divine, and he threw his head back, thanking God with a loud and primal roar that made the hairs on his arms and chest stand at attention.

  Somewhere beyond there was a swearing, and the words, “Fuck, you hear that?”

  Mac opened his eyes. His throat was dry as gravel. He was wet below the waist. He stomach spasmed.

  It was Darien next door. “You hear that?” The dealer laughed and pounded on the wall with what sounded like his foot. It made Mac’s headboard rattle. “Cripple over there’s jackin’ off! Holy shit!” There were other male voices now, joining in the laughter. Beneath it all, Lisa’s soft weeping.

  Mac let his breathing slow. He swallowed against dryness, and then wiped his forehead. The laughter through the adjoining wall dropped off and the voices shifted, moving on to conversations about something that sounded more serious, something that was hard to hear. Mac wondered what they had done to Lisa to make her cry. Was she hurt or just sad?

  Surely she had heard Darien making fun of Mac, banging on the wall.

  He must pay.

  Mac switched on his clock radio to his favorite oldies station and turned the music up.

  Hot town, summer in the city…

  He once again saw himself with steel arms, bashing in Darien’s brains and sweeping Lisa up and away.

  He fell asleep to jovial radio co-hosts giving a weather report and talking about an upcoming festival of some sort, something to do with water, with cleaning up the river, or fishing or boating, he couldn’t quite tell because the world was falling away.

  ««—»»

  He awoke to a headache so heavy, so fire-hot, that all he could do was to crush his skull between his hands to alleviate the pressure. His pillow was soaked with sweat and dream-tears, though he could not recall the dreams with any clarity. The radio droned on, playing some nondescript classical tune defined by violins and oboes. The clock face read 6:07 a.m.

  Is Darien still there with you, Lisa? Or is he gone?

  Mac eased off the bed onto his chair, sponge bathed in the bathroom, and put a kettle on for morning tea. While waiting for the water to hiss, he went to the adjoining wall, pressed his ear to the scabby paint, and listened. There was no snoring, suggesting that Darien and his minions had left. He looked out his living room window; the Mercedes was gone.

  Turning on the computer, Mac pulled up his e-mail, discarded the spam, and then went back for his tea, black, straight, no milk and no sugar. He worked on his site for several hours until he heard gentle noises next door. He rolled to the wall, rapped.

  A return rap, and “Good morning, Mac.” She sounded exhausted but not terrified. She was obviously alone.

  “Hi. How was the pasta?”

  “The—?” She hadn’t even tasted it. She likely put the whole thing at the bottom of a trash bag. Mac felt a flush of heat—frustration, disappointment—at the back of his neck. “It was…very good.”

  “It was?”

  A hesitant, “Yes.”

  “You didn’t really try it yet, did you?”

  “No, Mac, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lie. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

  “It’ll reheat in your microwave if you still have it. Or…you could bring it over here and I can reheat it if you want.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  Mac rubbed at the fire on his neck, pushing it down, away. He took a long breath, held it,
let it out. He changed the subject. “You on your way to work?”

  “In just a while. I have to put on my makeup.”

  Lisa served pizzas at a “child-friendly” restaurant five blocks over, where families held frantic birthday parties and children crawled through pools filled with plastic balls and played Skee-Ball and Whack-A-Mole. Lisa worked part-time, three days a week, ten-thirty in the morning until nine in the evenings. She wore the uniform of the establishment—beige polyester slacks and short-sleeved white blouse with a little plastic nametag reading “Lisa.” She usually put her hair up into a ponytail, making her look younger than her twenty-four years. The makeup was often used to hide the evidence of Darien’s mistreatments, applied heavily from what Mac could see through his peek hole and window.

  Mac scrambled for something else to say, something to keep her talking. “I was looking at some of the National Parks online last night. Gorgeous places. I’d love to see the Grand Canyon, the Smoky Mountains, some of the rest. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Just imagine, traveling across the country.” He tried to make his voice sound even, not overbearing. “Think of all the stuff there is to see. I’d especially like to visit all those different restaurants spread across the states, the big city eateries with the high reputations, the little diners off forgotten roads. I bet I could find a new job some place unique and exciting, start over. I’ve never had the chance to do that, to go anywhere much. How about you?”

  “No,” said Lisa. “It sounds like fun.”

  Mac took a deep breath. “When was the last time you had fun?”

  It sounded as if she spit air. “Never.”

  “You need to leave Darien.” It came out faster than he thought it would, though he wasn’t sorry he’d said it.

  Silence. Then, “I can’t, Mac. He’ll kill me.”

  “He’s killing you now.”

  She sighed.

  “How did it get like this? How did you let him take over your life so much?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Why? This is me, remember.”

  “Fuck. Okay. I was out of a job. Darien was great. He set me up in my place, paid the rent, still pays for most of it. You think I can afford even this mouse-infested shit box for what I make at the restaurant?”

  “I don’t know what you make.”

  “Well, I can’t. And even if I could, he’s been around a long time, more than a year, Mac, longer than I’ve known you. He’s told me over and over he’ll kill me before he lets me go.”

  “You need to get away. It’s not his decision to make.”

  Silence.

  “Call the police. Get him arrested.”

  “He’ll kill me. They’ll hold him, let him out, and he’ll find me and kill me.”

  “Get a restraining order.”

  “Ha! You think that’ll stop him? He brags he’s never been held by the cops before, he’s too smart.”

  Mac clenched his teeth together. It felt as though matches had been struck behind his eyes, pinpoints of red hot. “He’s not smart, he’s evil.”

  Her voice dropped, becoming almost inaudible. “The only thing that will get him away from me is if he was put in prison or killed. That ain’t never going to happen.”

  “Never say never, Lisa.”

  A very long silence. Mac thought for a moment that she had moved away but then he heard her shifting.

  Mac put his hand on the wall, willing her to feel his love through the plaster.

  “Lisa, let me help you.”

  The reply was loud and abrupt. “You? You’re kidding, right? How can you help?”

  Mac was taken aback. He withdrew his hand. She saw him as only the cripple next door, the young man who had nothing to offer but pasta, pie, and a friendly word through the wall.

  Her voice softened as if she had read his mind. “Mac, it ain’t about you and the way you are. It’s Darien and the way he is. Nobody can help. Not you, not the police, not God, not even Superman.”

  Mac had a sudden, silly, brilliant idea. His heart rose with the revelation, the clear vision of what they could do. “Hey, let’s just leave together. Right now. I don’t have money to buy a car but I can afford two bus tickets. Head out to where we’ve never been before. Leave all this mess, this pain, this fear in the dust.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Wait. Think. Don’t say you can’t. You can.”

  “Darien knows people everywhere, he pays for information. He’d find us. He’d find the bus we take. He’ll kill us both and nobody will ever find us.”

  “Lisa, please…” Can’t you tell I love you?

  “No, Mac. I have to get to work. You have a good day, okay?”

  And she was gone.

  The day was long, the afternoon sun hanging for an inordinate amount of time atop the building across the street, sending stifling heat into Mac’s apartment. The curtain was no good at holding the heat at bay, neither was the torn plastic shade. There was no air conditioning, of course, another reason the place was so cheap. Mac worked on his site, paced, flipped through a cookbook, read the first three chapters of a novel Alva had given him a month ago, then put it aside, bored. He drank iced coffee and patted the fire away with wet washcloths.

  He thought about Darien, he thought about Lisa. He imagined himself and Lisa on a bus west, her head in his lap, his chin atop her brown hair. He imagined the two of them having inexpensive roadside picnics at rustic tables where squirrels watched from treetops, the scents of honeysuckle and a near-by sun-warmed stream drifted in the air, and the world glowed like the fires of heaven.

  Lisa got home a little after nine. Mac prepared to tap on the wall to say hello but heard Darien’s car pull up in front of the building, and seconds later Darien come up the stairs. Through the peek hole, Mac could see the man had a crystal vase filled with roses for Lisa, as scarlet as the blood he drew from her at his whim.

  Lisa had said, The only thing that will get him away from me is if he was put in prison or killed. And that’s never going to happen.

  Mac heard Darien open the door, call cheerfully for Lisa, and then everything went silent. It was silent for a long time and then music began to play, the same heavy stuff Darien listened to in his car. Mac sat on his bed, not wanting to listen beneath the music, afraid not to listen.

  The beating came around midnight. Darien’s blows, Lisa’s cries. It lasted a good twenty minutes. There was a shattering on the sidewalk outside. Mac knew it was the vase of flowers, tossed out by Darien to prove some point. Then Darien left, cursing, stomping, down the stairs to his car.

  The only thing…prison or killed.

  And that’s never going to happen.

  Mac didn’t have the strength to kill Darien. And if he did, he wouldn’t survive prison. He’d be shanked to death, tormented, or tortured by Darien’s buddies on the inside. The only thing left was to get the man arrested and imprisoned for a long time.

  The rest of the night Mac stayed awake, knocking futilely on the wall to get Lisa’s attention, listening to her sob. Mac had never heard such despair in his life, nor had he ever felt it as strongly or completely himself.

  ««—»»

  Two days later, Darien drove to the apartment building with Lisa in tow. He’d picked her up from work and had a need he wanted her to fill. He brought her up the stairs, past Mac’s peek hole, and into her apartment. Darien’s mood was hard to pinpoint, he seemed distracted though not particularly angry. He didn’t stay long with Lisa, but when he came out he encountered a legless young man in a wheelchair blocking the staircase.

  “What the…?” said Darien, pushing back his hat and scratching his forehead. The man’s eyes were rimmed with red, dangerous, narrowed. “Whoo hoo! Who let the cripple out?”

  Mac leaned forward in his chair, his arms folded and resting in his lap. His body burned with determination and dread, though he fought to keep his words cool, calm. “You’re not gett
ing past me, Darien.”

  “You’s a stupid fucker, man,” laughed Darien. “Get out my way before I make you get out.”

  That’s what I want, Darien. Make me get out, hit me, knock me cold. Then I’ll have you arrested. I’m not afraid to call the cops on your pathetic ass. And Lisa and I will be out of here before you’re on the streets again.

  “I’m not moving.”

  “Hell you ain’t.” Darien stuck out his foot and shoved it against the chair, trying to kick it sideways and into the wall beside the stairs. The chair bucked up against its brakes and scooted back a foot. Mac grabbed the wheels and pulled the chair back into its original position.

  “You brain damaged, that’s what you is. I said get out of my way. I don’t ask nice twice.”

  “You’re not even good enough to be called an asshole, Darien,” said Mac. “You’re a shriveled up little shit-smelling nothing. You’re an asshole’s asshole. Beating up women, how brave is that?” His breathing came in shallow, irregular pulses. His heart banged at his chest, warning him to stop what he was doing.

  How much will it hurt when Darien actually strikes?

  Darien laughed loud and long then, hands on hips, head thrown back, his hat wobbling. He couldn’t believe what he was encountering. Mac could hear Mrs. Carter across the hall, thumping against her front door, peering out. That was good. A witness.

  Then Darien’s laughter cut off, dead in his throat. He leaned over and slapped Mac soundly on his face. It stung mightily. “Move that chair.”

  Mac just stared at the man, locking his jaw to keep it from trembling.

  Darien lifted his boat-sized foot and drove it into Mac’s chest. Mac felt something crack in a bright explosion of pain. A rib. Breath rushed out; he gasped, nothing came in. He gasped again, again. Nothing. And then, a pain-filled rush of salt-tasting air.

  Okay, he’s done it now, back up, let him by!

  “You fucker,” snarled Darien. “You got what you asked for. Now move!”

  Lisa, he’s going to jail, I can promise you!

  Mac tried to pull his wheels to let the man get by, but the agony in his chest wouldn’t give him the strength.