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

by Joe R. Lansdale

  “I said move!”

  Mac forced himself to lean forward over the pain.

  “Move!”

  He grabbed the wheels, pulled, grit his teeth yet cried out involuntarily. The chair inched back. But it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t fast enough.

  “Fuckin’ move!” It was a flash then, a movement of body so rapid that it only registered in residual ghost-image after it was done. Darien’s hands locked together and he swung them up, around, and down, driving them against Mac’s shoulder with such force that Mac and his chair toppled over and down the steps. Mac’s hands shot out, grasping for something to stop the fall, but it was happening so fast, another rib breaking as he struck a step and flipped again, falling, falling. A shoulder cracking. His wrist. The chair bouncing over his head, reaching the second floor landing before Mac did.

  Mac knew he was going to die the moment before he did. He saw how he was to land, and knew with certainty that he would never travel with Lisa to the west, never find those exclusive, exotic, and curiously old-fashioned restaurants, never get another job as a chef, never fix himself and Lisa lunch at an old picnic table off a two-lane highway where vintage metal trashcans were tethered to concrete blocks and cars hummed by, not caring who you were or where you came from. In this moment he was indescribably sad, until he saw that Alva was on the second floor, staring up at him in horror and up past him at Darien with rage.

  She had seen the assault. She had watched the drug dealer slam Mac down the stairs to his death. She and Mrs. Carter could tell the police all they would need to know. Lisa wouldn’t have to do anything, just let her angry, righteous neighbor and landlady take charge. They wouldn’t be afraid to testify. Murder would put Darien behind bars for many years. If not for life, then at least long enough for Lisa to start over, to come up from the shadows in which she’d been living, to move, to grow, to find the beauty that was there that she had never truly seen before.

  Or will she just go on to another like Darien? Will she even know how to save herself? Who will help her?

  “Lisa!”

  Mac’s head struck the floor at an angle, the weight of his body following, driving him hard against the unpolished wood, snapping his neck in a burst of golden and silver flames.

  The fire went out.

  — | — | —

  DANCE OF THE BLUE LADY

  GENE O’NEILL

  Timothy Shaw winced when his mother said, “Goodbye, Timmy, I’ll see you at lunch.” Timmy was really a little boy’s nickname, but Tim was thirty years old now. Today, he didn’t complain though as he slipped out the front door. His mom had been sick lately, and Uncle Liam was here to drive her over to see the doctor in Jackson.

  Tim paused outside the door and listened for a moment as they talked. Earlier they’d been whispering loudly back and forth, as Tim had dressed for work in his room. Uncle Liam was always pretty bossy. He liked to give everyone advice, including Tim’s mother. That’s what he seemed to be doing this morning.

  “Kathleen, the boy is a man now. It’s past time to discuss his future—”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “No, we need to make some decisions, just in case things don’t go well in the next few days at Sutter Memorial Hospital, and well…” His uncle’s voice tapered off.

  There was a long pause, then his mom said in a barely audible voice, “We’ll talk tonight, after dinner, Liam. After I have a chance this afternoon to explain the situation to him.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Tim wasn’t too good with numbers or reading, but he usually picked up well on what people meant when they talked, especially how they felt. Even though he wasn’t sure what they were talking about, he knew his mom was definitely upset.

  It was nippy outside. He blew on his hands, pulled up his collar, hurried over to Main Street, along the two blocks of wood-planked sidewalk of Marshall Creek in the Sierra Nevada foothills, past the boarded-up storefronts called downtown, seeing no one out on the street. As he came to the end of Main Street, before it climbed away from the town and headed over the hill toward Jackson, he crossed the road to the town park. A neat, green area of grass, bushes, and oaks, much smaller than the city park over at Jackson. With no play equipment, no statues, no birdbaths, no fountains, no picnic tables or grills. Only two buildings in sight. The old gazebo back on the mound of grass that rose up then sloped down and dropped out of view before reaching Marshall Creek. And far to the right under a large spreading oak, the restrooms.

  Tim headed toward the cinderblock building.

  Waiting for him near the public toilets was Chatterbox, and the gray squirrel was indeed chattering away this chilly morning: Click, click, click, click.

  Tim approached the men’s side of the building, slipped his hand out of his jacket pocket and kneeled near the squirrel. In his palm were five Cheerios. “Hi there, boy,” he said, as the little animal set up on its back legs, carefully plucking each individual piece of cereal out of Tim’s hand, and then popping them into its mouth. “Hungry this morning, eh?”

  Quiet now, with puffed up cheeks, Chatterbox turned and scampered up the nearby large oak. Tim watched the squirrel disappear up the tree, and then smiled to himself. Chatterbox was his only friend left in Marshall Creek.

  After checking around the cinderblock building for non-existent trash, he peeked into the open door of the men’s restroom. Everything looked fine, just as he’d left it yesterday. The women’s side was in the same condition. No one had used either restroom. In fact, the toilets were rarely used now that almost everyone had moved away from Marshall Creek. Still, Tim had his job to do.

  He checked the wastebasket, then the paper towel and toilet paper dispensers. Nothing needed servicing today. Now for the cleaning. He went to the supply closet at the far end of the women’s restroom and took out his equipment. With his green duster, he brushed imaginary spider webs and dust from the spotless cinderblock walls; next, he swept the polished concrete floor with the big mop-broom after spraying it lightly with a coat of pine-scented oil; then, he thoroughly scrubbed both sinks and the two toilet bowls with Comet, wiping the fixtures down with a thin coat of 409; and finally he sprayed and cleaned the big mirror with Windex. Mr. Spinoza, the Mayor, had shown Tim the routine years ago. Back when he was first hired. His mom said the money to hire him came from an old bank account his grandfather had left to keep up the park. But the money had run out last year around Easter time, and the town could afford nothing more. Tim had continued working five days a week in the small park, taking money for his supplies and gas for the power mower from his savings. Actually, he only needed to come for half a day now that no one regularly used the facilities. It wasn’t necessary to do anything in the afternoons—except Fridays when he mowed the lawn and trimmed bushes.

  He repeated his cleaning routine next door on the men’s side. By the time Tim finished polishing the mirror in the men’s restroom it was almost 11:00. He took all his supplies and equipment back to the cleaning supply closet on the women’s side, carefully storing them away.

  Then, Tim walked around behind the men’s restroom to the storage shed, the padlocked door marked, Staff Only. He took out his key and unlocked the old shed, his pulse speeding up slightly. He opened the squeaky door, ducked his head in, clapped his hands, and smiled broadly. Inside the storage shed, next to his neatly arranged small tools, shovels, rakes, hoes, and big power mower, was a piece of casted sculpture, a statue roughly shaped into a feminine figurine, five feet high, her face lacking distinct features. She wore a coat of greenish-blue rust. On her base were two words faintly stamped into the metal: Prima Ballerina. Tim couldn’t read the inscription, but he’d carefully written down the letters and asked his mom what they meant. He’d seen the ballet on TV a number of times and loved the dancers in their funny costumes. So he understood the elegance suggested by the unknown artist.

  He’d found the statue with three other sculptures, a birdbath, a number of metal picnic tables
and benches, and a bunch of other stuff, all packed tightly into an old Quonset hut down by the creek. He’d gone exploring down there after his mother told him that his grandfather had odd ideas about a park. She said that before Tim was born, when his grandfather agreed to set up a trust fund for maintenance of the existing park, the old man required it be cleared of all the donated clutter from the gold rush days. Tim’s mother said her father insisted a park should be kept as pristine as possible—a word Tim liked the sound of, but didn’t fully understand. He knew it meant something like: just green grass, bushes, and trees. The old man had reluctantly agreed to keeping the gazebo donated by the owners of the Fort Ann Mine Company for concerts, and allowing the construction of the restrooms as a modern necessity. But the rest of the stuff had been given away or stored down out of sight in the Quonset hut. When Tim first uncovered the figurine, its natural beauty had taken his breath away. He called her simply, the Blue Lady.

  Eventually Tim had drug the Blue Lady up here to the restroom storage shed, nearer to where he worked. Each day after he finished his janitorial chores, he opened the shed and rewarded himself with a long look at the beautiful sculpture. Sometimes, like today, Tim lifted the Lady out of the shed, closed his eyes, and after a second or so, he’d imagine classical music playing down at the gazebo—violins and all the other instrumental sounds. Then, for a few minutes the Lady would dance for him. Graceful and elegant—two words his mother often used describing the ballet on TV. Oh, how wonderful. He never touched the Lady when she was dancing. No, he didn’t dare. Neither did Tim clean off the rusty stuff. It was like a special blue-green costume she wore. No, the Blue Lady was marvelous just the way she was. And her special dancing and the classical music were Tim’s secret.

  After the dance today, Tim carefully put the Lady back in her hiding place. He locked the shed, circled once around the park to ensure that everything was in good shape, and waved goodbye to Chatterbox in the oak tree, before heading back home.

  It was still early so he walked slowly along Main Street, glancing at the signs above the boarded up window fronts, finally pausing at SHAW’S HARDWARE/DRY GOODS—the second part of the sign almost completely faded out now. He wasn’t sure what DRY GOODS meant anyhow. His grandfather had started the store back when the mines and mills were still running at full strength, maybe fifty or even a hundred years ago, he wasn’t sure. Then, his mom took over when Grandpa died. Tim had been just a young boy then, a real Timmy. She said the town had 3,000 people back then after the Mother Lode was discovered. But people had moved away as the mines closed and the lumber mills shut down. She said the unlucky town was off the beaten track and didn’t get the tourists, like Jackson and Sutter Creek over on well-traveled Highway 49. Tim didn’t understand the numbers or much of what she called economics, but he’d watched his mother shrivel up and grow old unsuccessfully trying to make ends meet at the hardware store. Until last year after the 4th of July parade in Jackson, when she finally closed it. Then just before Christmas she found something wrong in her chest, a bump or something. Tim shook his head. Thinking about stuff like that made him feel funny, kind of sad, nervous, and helpless all at the same time. He sighed and continued along the boardwalk.

  As he passed by the boarded-up windows of the GROCERY STORE/U.S. POST OFFICE, he heard a voice behind him, “Hey, Timmy.” It was Mr. Spinoza, who lived behind the grocery store he once ran. Mr. Spinoza had been the Postmaster and Mayor, too, back when the town had been full of people.

  Tim nodded and smiled.

  “How’s your mother doing, Timmy?” Mr. Spinoza asked, the use of the nickname making Tim clench his teeth. The ex-Mayor was like the rest of the old people left in town: they all called him Timmy. “Haven’t seen her out and about for a while.”

  “Fine, Mr. Spinoza,” Tim said politely. He knew his mother wasn’t fine, and he didn’t feel like mentioning the doctor visit today. He also hoped if he were quiet that Mr. Spinoza would mention something about his daughter, Ava. When the store closed, maybe two years ago, Ava went away to Sacramento to college. Before that she used to occasionally come over to the park and bring Tim a tuna fish sandwich and a cream soda or root beer at lunchtime. “Least I can do for all your hard work, Timothy,” she’d said. Ava was only seventeen then, but she seemed older to Tim. Sometimes he’d pretend that she was his girlfriend. But he knew that was silly. He was too old for her, and, besides, she already had a boyfriend—a football player from Sutter Creek. She was sure pretty though, and had been a really good friend. He missed her. He’d never actually had a real girlfriend to take over to the movies in Jackson or anything like that.

  Mr. Spinoza didn’t say much about Ava, just that she was doing okay at Sacramento State, maybe going to be a nurse pretty soon. He said to give Tim’s mom his best, then the ex-Mayor disappeared around the side of his grocery store. Tim watched the stooped old man go, the smells of something cooking reminding him it was lunch time.

  ««—»»

  At lunch that afternoon, Tim’s mom had fixed his favorite, meatloaf and mashed potatoes with gravy. But he hadn’t really enjoyed it all that much, because he felt something was wrong. For one thing, his uncle was not eating with them, out walking, checking out the Fort Ann up on the hill. And his mom’s eyebrows were drawn together in that funny kind of way. She wasn’t eating, just sort of moving her food around on her plate. At last she set her fork down.

  “Timmy, we need to have a little talk.”

  He knew this wasn’t going to be like that sex thing, because she didn’t have that silly-nervous smile on her face, her voice strained and high pitched. No, she was really serious…and almost looked scared.

  Tim nodded, “Okay, Mom.” He set his fork down beside his plate and paid close attention.

  “Ah, well, you know, I went over to see Dr. Mikkelsen in Jackson today,” she said, not looking him straight in his eyes.

  “I know.”

  “And you remember that Dr. Mikkelsen had sent me to the hospital in Sacramento for a bunch of tests and to see a specialist last week?”

  “Sure, I remember, Mom.”

  He’d gone with her last Monday, missed work at the park. Aunt Martha had come and picked them up real early, then driven them to Sacramento. After dropping off his mom, Aunt Martha had taken him to the zoo near William Land Park. And they’d had a hot dog, coke, and pink popcorn. Like a long time ago, when he’d been younger. But his mom had stayed at that Sutter Memorial Hospital all day. She’d looked really tired and worried when they picked her up late Monday afternoon. No one said much on the ride back to Marshall Creek. Which was funny because Aunt Martha was like Chatterbox. Tim also noticed that his mother was doing that thing with her eyebrows.

  “Well, son, those tests came back, and I had to go over to Dr. Mikkelsen’s this morning to talk about the results. What needs to be done for me to get well. You understand?”

  He nodded and waited, because he could tell there was more.

  His mother took a deep breath and managed to look him square in the eyes now. “The news isn’t real good, Timmy. I have to go back to Sacramento, have an operation, and be in the hospital for a little while. You are going to have to stay over there with Aunt Martha and Uncle Liam, until I can come home. That’s why your uncle took off work, came over this morning, and brought his Lexus SUV to haul us and some stuff back to Sacramento.”

  Tim liked Aunt Martha okay, but Uncle Liam made him real nervous. Always interrupting everybody, never listening. Whenever they’d visited them in Sacramento, Uncle Liam never let his two girls, Fiona and Kara, be alone with Tim. Funny. He wouldn’t have been rough with them. He knew they were just little girls. In fact, he wasn’t really interested when they tried to drag him outside to play in their tree house in their backyard. He didn’t have to worry, because Uncle Liam was right there, sending the girls to their room or some place else. His uncle acted like he was…sort of scared of Tim. Like Chatterbox when Tim first tried to feed the squirrel from his ha
nd. But Uncle Liam was as big as a bear. So he didn’t understand, or even much like, his mother’s younger brother.

  ««—»»

  After dinner that night, Tim went in to his room. Uncle Liam had helped him pack a suitcase full that afternoon. Seemed like an awful lot of stuff for a few days.

  He turned the TV on to Friends, while he looked over his CDs. He didn’t always understand all the jokes, but the familiar voices of Rachel, Chandler, Joey, and the others always made him feel good. Sometimes he wished he could go visit them in New York City. But it was too far, perhaps even farther than San Francisco. On his wall was a poster of Barry Bonds, who played for the San Francisco Giants. Ava had given it to him. He’d never seen the Giants play, but he listened to their games sometimes on the radio. Looking over his collection, Tim had to pick out ten CDs—that was all he could take. At least that was all Uncle Liam said he could take. Hmm. The Eagles…the Righteous Brothers, his mom’s favorite…Janis Joplin…Joe Cocker…and Arlo Guthrie, his best favorite.

  In the kitchen, Tim could hear his mother and Uncle Liam arguing over the sound of the TV.

  “No, I won’t agree to that,” his mother was saying in a loud, forceful tone. She rarely used her loud voice to him or anyone, but when she raised it to this level, Tim always listened carefully.

  He edged closer to the door.

  “Kathleen, be reasonable,” Uncle Liam said, his voice calm, lower than usual. “He’s a boy in a man’s body and…well, you know. Sonoma State has a terrific program, like I’ve been saying since you found out about him way back when he was a baby—”

  “Timmy is very high functioning, especially his social and verbal skills, he doesn’t need to be institutionalized. I’ve discussed it thoroughly with Dr. Mikkelsen. The people at Sonoma State are all lower functioning.”