At Home in the Dark

by Joe Hill

  Tacks of rain

  sprinkle points up.

  The wall stain stares:

  Yellow-brown outline,

  silent,

  self-absorbed.

  Hag.

  Wire lips which kiss not.

  Bat-bitten throat.

  I’d kiss even that.

  Maddy just looked at Jason. “It’s the stain in the corner of the bedroom,” Maddy said. “The roof needs repair. We meant to do it.”

  Jason said, unsure if he should tell them more, but he went on. “There was another one, called ‘Old Urge’. It talks about a coffin being the ‘ultimate Instead’. It was dated five years ago, so maybe he’d been thinking about it for a quite a while. I feel bad I didn’t know, didn’t maybe listen. I should’ve known he was that sad.” Jason’s eyes filled. “I’d better go,” he said, and pushed his chair back to rise.

  Grant flung himself up, knife in hand again. He came toward Jason, turned the knife to him butt-first, pleading for him to take it. “Kill me!” he said. “I beg you! It won’t be punishment enough. It will be a favor!”

  • • •

  Years later, when Jason would fasten his view on the Pacific from his studio where he formed stone fountains and plaster-of-Paris flamingos and garden elves, garden gnomes, smiling turtles, even a couple of mermaids, he would see a wandering figure on the beach at sunset or notice in the incandescent heat of afternoon the shafts of light and planks of shadow play tricks on his mind.

  And at night, if Jason happened to be looking out over the ocean from his bedroom window, he might spot those same creosote pilings that he and Alfie sat upon the day of Alf’s twenty-first birthday; and, farther up the shoreline, observe the waves shove against the rocks, bubbling at the corners of the world’s slack mouth.

  Then it would seem a piling would move, obtain legs and walk off slowly down the beach like a man searching for a gleaming thing he could never find. At times, the figure seemed like his lost friend. At times, he thought it was Alf’s father, although he knew Grant Langdon was a hollowed-out man who watched endless games of sport on TV and never smiled, never cheered or cursed a team, rarely left the house, while his wife took over all responsibilities.

  About six months after that day in the Langdon home, while searching for a peace that would not come, Jason put aside all other activity and went looking for the man called Uncle Willy. By then he knew Willy had not left the beach town, for Jason had glimpsed him downtown as the man was about to board a bus, and another time saw him up closer, eating a sandwich while watching a girls’ volleyball game on the beach. That time, the man turned as if feeling Jason’s stare. Under the shadow of his bill cap, his blue eyes seemed to lock on Jason’s. A calm carried in his expression. To Jason it was as if Will Evans also waited for the next thing, whatever it would be named, challenged it, mocked it . . . waited . . . and maybe willed it.

  Jason could not help himself then.

  He followed him. He obsessed on the man. He felt himself changing, becoming someone he had never been: stronger, more assured of purpose; wiser, kinder, meaner, closer to his dead friend than ever before. He would haunt this man. He would make him pay. Because, also some things Jason found on Al’s computer tablet were five stabs at love letters; five revisions, the first long and the others increasingly short. They were, in their own way, honed poems as well. The file name on the last one was simply YWillyY.

  Jason also noted obvious Internet links to erotic websites—porn, if you will, featuring women and men and every combination thereof. The tablet was easy to destroy. The memories from those sites not so much.

  • • •

  What was it Maddy said? We do things, if we live long enough, that we would never imagine. Yet life goes on. For some, anyway.

  Death: a punishment to some, to some a favor.

  Rough Mix

  Warren Moore

  I was first at practice, as usual. Okay—as always. But we had played a gig the weekend before, and I hadn’t set my kit up since we brought it back to the practice space. So I spread the rug on the concrete floor to keep the bass drum from sliding, unbuckled my cases, and put my kit back together before Gary and Josh showed up. I turned the jam box on—the local dad-rock station was playing “Turn the Page”, and the Metallica version is even shittier than the original. So I switched it off and got back to work.

  I had already worked up a pretty good sweat by the time I had finished tuning my snare drum. Not surprising. The “practice space” was a corrugated steel self-storage unit at the edge of the county, where an old dragstrip had been. Everything was concrete and metal. Air conditioning wasn’t in the picture—we even had power strips and cords plugged into an overhead light fixture, and if a fire broke out while I was behind the set, I was screwed—I’d be crisp before I made it to the door. But it was cheap and far enough from anyone who cared that the cops didn’t bother us when we played late. We did have a minifridge, and I got a Gatorade out and stood outside, hoping for a breeze to break the stillness of the South Carolina summer.

  But there wasn’t a breeze coming, and until the sun moved a bit farther west, I might as well duck back into the space, which at least had places to sit. There were a couple of camp chairs and a love seat by the PA board. I picked my way between Gary’s bass amp and Josh’s stack to one of the chairs—the thought of the cloth-covered sofa gave me the creeps. There wasn’t enough Resolve in the world to clean that thing.

  It’s not like I’m an innocent or anything; Mandy and I had used the space as an impromptu fuckpad ourselves from time to time. But that had been some time back. As had Mandy.

  We had gone out a few times the year before, after hooking up at a friend’s field party—we weren’t even playing it. But I had seen her silhouetted in the headlights, and when I got closer, her hair was between blonde and brown, almost amber. So I grabbed an extra beer, and we talked a while, and she told me about an out-of-the-way tattoo, and well, you know.

  And it was good for a while—really good, thinking-about-a-ring good, but then it just seemed to run out of gas. I didn’t know why, and she said she didn’t either, and it just kind of hung there, and I didn’t know what to say or do, so I let her go. And a few months after that, she started showing up at our gigs again, but it wasn’t until one night when I saw her between sets with Josh’s arm around her waist and her hand in his back pocket that I figured things out.

  I was pissed—I mean, it’s not like this was some pass-along fuck from a one-nighter at the Brass Ass or something. I thought about quitting, but I liked Gary, and I was the one who started the band in the first place. Then I thought about firing Josh, but then I’d just be the guy who broke up a band over a girl. And even though Josh was an asshole, he could play, and he drew an audience. As I had learned. We had even started to get a little interest from A & R guys at a couple of labels. I wasn’t going to just walk away and leave that for him. I tried to shake the thoughts out of my head and got back to work.

  The microphone stands were already set up, but I got the mics placed. Each one had colored tape on it so we’d know whose it was. I get blue, Gary gets red, and I was putting Josh’s mic with the yellow tape into its cradle when I heard a car roll up. It was Gary’s van, and he swung out of the driver’s door and banged on the sliding door. “Come on, you guys!”

  I heard Josh’s voice: “Fuck off.” And I heard Mandy’s giggle. But they got out of the van and we all went back inside. Josh was working a rockabilly look today—a black, western-style shirt with fake mother-of-pearl buttons, along with tight jeans and boots. It was gonna be hot as hell when we got going, but I knew he’d make it look good. Some people can just do that. Then there’s me. I could drop a grand on wardrobe, but I’m still gonna look like Joe Shit the Rag Man. Mandy was wearing a pale blue tank-top and white denim shorts, and she scrunched herself into a corner of the love seat. Our eyes met for a moment, but then she looked away, back toward Josh.

  Josh was talking to
Gary about a new pickup he had installed in his Strat—he had changed one that came from the factory for something called a humbucker. I tried to look interested, but that wasn’t really my territory. Some guitarists are like custom car guys or mad scientists—they just like to take things apart and monkey with them. Guitars, amps; rewire this, replace it with that. Drums are easier, and it’s just as well—I’m no tech guy. The other guys barely trust me to roll up the cables when we’re loading in or out.

  In fact, that was why Josh started putting tape on the microphones. I didn’t sing enough to need anything fancy, but he had hotrodded his and Gary’s mics, and he was really particular about it. I told him once that I couldn’t really hear a difference, and he got salty about it, “Oh, the fucking drummer doesn’t hear the difference.” Now I’m pretty sure the issue wasn’t me as much as it was that we were playing in a steel shed, but some folks are like that.

  Besides, we—drummers, that is—get a lot of that kind of shit. There are a million drummer jokes out there, but they all boil down to this one: “What does it mean when the drummer drools from both corners of his mouth? The stage is level.” You get used to it, and you know people don’t really mean it, but people kind of take you for granted. “Would all the musicians—and the drummer—report to the stage?” Stuff like that. But you don’t want to be an asshole about it, so you just laugh it off.

  Had Josh been more like that after he hooked up with Mandy? Maybe I was just noticing it more. Or maybe it was because she was around again, and he had to be Mr. Big Shot, the band leader. Keep the drummer in his place on the back line. Hell, we’re a three-piece band. I am the back line, along with the amps.

  How the hell had that happened? I had started the band, I had booked the gigs at every dive in the Carolinas and a couple in Georgia, and I had always been able to come up with enough to keep the practice space when one of the other guys was short that month. But now Josh was the leader—the front man. And Mandy’s man, and I was on the back line.

  But even though Josh seemed to have won, it didn’t seem to be enough, and he’d still take shots at me—especially in front of Mandy. Really? You took her away from me and you’re fucking her and bringing her to practice, and you still have to rag me?

  He looked at the mics, and said “Way to go, Barry. You at least got them in the right places. We’ll make a gearhead out of you yet.”

  I shrugged and edged my way behind the drums, and decided to play it as a joke. “Hey, I may not know much about this shit, but I can recognize colors.” I grabbed a coiled PA cord and tossed it in his direction for him to get it connected up. Just my luck—the twist tie, like those things you use to keep the bread bag shut came loose, and the cable came partly uncoiled and knocked a box of picks off the top of Gary’s amp, scattering some of them on the floor. I started to come back around to help gather them back up, but Josh just shook his head and said, “I think you’ve done enough.” And he cut his eyes toward Mandy with this “why-do-I-put-up-with-this schmuck” look. She smiled at him, patiently, admiringly. I looked down at my stick bag and got a couple out. I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my back.

  We ran the cords from the mics to the marked inputs on the board—red to red, blue to blue, yellow to yellow, and then Josh and Gary turned on their amps and tuned up. When they were ready to go, Josh hit an A chord, stepped to the mic, and looked like he was lip-synching. We hadn’t turned the board on.

  He tugged his wet shirt away from his chest and pointed his chin toward Mandy. “Could you reach behind there and throw that orange switch on the back of the board?” She stretched to do it, and the hem of her shirt rose enough to reveal some of her waist above the belt-loops on her shorts. I remembered how her skin had felt under my fingers, and then under my lips as I had slid the shorts below her hips a long time ago. Josh saw me looking, and gave me a glare.

  I suggested that we start with one of our originals, but Gary had been on a reggae kick lately, and there was no way Josh was gonna agree with me, so he called for one of our covers—Marley’s “Every Little Thing Is Gonna Be All Right.” We ran through an 8-bar intro, and then Josh leaned into the mic to start singing.

  The guitar shrieked feedback and Josh collapsed, dropping to his knees and slumping sideways, with one leg and his guitar still touching the mic stand. The PA made a popping noise that sounded like a gunshot. Mandy jumped up and was moving toward him. I yelled for her to stay back, but I don’t think she heard me. Gary figured out what was going on, though, and body-blocked Mandy back to the sofa.

  It smelled like burned wiring, and there was a hint of smoke from the hem of Josh’s jeans. The guitar amp kept screaming feedback, but Mandy was almost as loud. It seemed like forever but it was only five or ten seconds before a breaker somewhere must have kicked in, and then there was nothing but the sound of Mandy’s screams. I looked around—the lights on the amps were out. The box fan by my drum kit was slowly coming to a stop, but the scorched smell would take much longer to clear the room.

  Gary told Mandy not to look as he led her out and I grabbed my cell phone to call 911. And the EMTs got there in a hurry, but all they could do was sedate Mandy. There wasn’t anything they could do for Josh. The police and fire people were there a few minutes later, and they took some of our gear, but they figured out it was an accident pretty quickly.

  “Josh couldn’t fucking leave anything alone,” Gary told me a few weeks later, as we were waiting for auditions to start. I nodded. “He must have decided to dick around with the PA. Somehow, he swapped the ground wire for the hot one, and when he touched the stand while he was wearing the guitar, it closed a circuit.

  “It’s happened before,” Gary said. “Back in the 70s, a guitarist got electrocuted on stage like that.” I knew that—it was a guy named Les Harvey, from a band called Stone the Crows. But Gary didn’t need to know that I knew that, any more than he needed to know that I knew green wires are ground and white ones are live.

  I might not know much about this shit, but I can recognize colors.

  This Strange Bargain

  Laura Benedict

  The children emerge from the misting rain on the right shoulder of the road, and I take my foot off the gas, trying to decide if I will stop. Inside the Buick it’s warm and dry and smells of cinnamon and chocolate, and the music is Satie, my favorite. I don’t want to share the pleasure of this moment with a couple of stringy brats who don’t have the sense to carry a flashlight or wear shoes with reflective bands on the heels. But this hesitation is only a game I play with myself. I’ll stop. I always do.

  A boy and girl, I think, the girl much taller than the boy. Their hair shines platinum in the headlights. They hold hands, which might be touching to some. Sister and younger brother?

  Slowing the car, I put the blinker on. I’ve always been conscientious. A rule follower.

  The Buick idles, the Satie plays. I wait for them to reach me. Blondes. Always blondes. I wonder who decided that. I press the button to lower the passenger window.

  But the children have abandoned the shoulder for the ostensible safety of the opposite side of the drainage ditch. The girl strides purposefully on. Stay away from us! might as well be blinking in lights above her. It’s the boy who is curious, and as the girl pulls him along, he stares, open-mouthed, at the car and me. His denim overalls are loose, the legs baggy and too short. He’s also barefoot, and the night is chilly, the grass wet. How miserable.

  Turning down the Satie, I clear my throat before calling out, “Nice night for ducks!” I smile, assuming they can see me by the soft lighting of the Buick’s interior. “Do you need a ride?”

  In response, the boy stalls and raises his hand in a tentative wave. Then he looks up at the girl, who jerks him forward.

  Damn it. She’s going to play hard to get. I ride the brake, letting the car creep forward. The rain picks up.

  “Where y’all headed? I hate to see you out in this nasty weather. Won’t you let me at least give you
an umbrella?” The girl still won’t look at me. The boy is not so suspicious of middle-aged women in big cars, bless him. If he has a grandmother, I bet he misses her already. I bet she bakes him cookies and spoils him with presents. Though from the state of his clothing and his shaggy hair, I suspect that the presents—if there are any—are modest. She might even be a heroin addict, or a drunk who beats him. I lean as far as I can toward the passenger window to hold out a cheap folding umbrella.

  The girl and I are both surprised when the boy jerks loose of her hand. She shouts as he hurtles down the bank, headed for my car.

  “Braylee! Stop!” She sounds more annoyed than panicked. I put the car in park.

  The sun-browned face that appears at my window wears a shy smile, revealing a gap where a front tooth should be. Excitement shines in his eyes, and his breath is quick and shallow. Braylee? Why do children’s names seem to get less dignified with each generation?

  “Why hello, Braylee.” The words feel foreign in my mouth. I don’t want to know their names. “Here you go.”

  After snatching the umbrella as though he’s afraid I’ll change my mind, he turns and jogs a few feet. But he stops and looks back.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He has an adorable lisp.

  “You’re welcome!” I dislike adorable.

  Turning his attention to the umbrella, he fumbles with the catch. Just as I’m about to offer my advice, the umbrella shoots open. He laughs, but the wind drops from nowhere and plucks the thin sound away. The umbrella is no match for the wind, and its dome fills in an instant, causing the boy to stagger sideways, out of my sight. Has it forced him into the dangerous road?

  A curtain of rain crashes against the windshield, enveloping the Buick. Water pours into the passenger window before I can close it. When that’s done, I push open my door against the driving rain, and hold onto the car as I make my way to the boy, who lies motionless on the shoulder.