On the Shores of Darkness, There is Light

by Cordelia Strube

  In the parking lot, a man wearing two pairs of sunglasses tells a fat lady that he’s not disagreeing with her, even though he keeps disagreeing with her.

  Dee sucks on her straw. “Sprites totally rocked it. We did killer stuff like fill condoms with water and pitch them at the stuck-up Pixies. But that twat told on us and we had to write an apology.”

  “I’m not disagreeing with you,” the man in two pairs of sunglasses says. The fat lady fans her face with a pizza slice container.

  Dee jabs her straw into the ice in her Slurpee. “Then the skank fucked up my puppetry badge. My mom was too busy to make a puppet with me so she bought a kit I could glue together. Caitlin told Snowy Owl my puppet was store-bought and shouldn’t qualify for a badge. ‘I still made it,’ I said, but Snowy Owl denied me the badge, which was, like, so unfair. Everybody knows homemade puppets are made by moms. The girls didn’t do shit. At least I glued my puppet.”

  Harriet pulls Dee’s phone from her pocket and speed-dials Buck again. This time he answers. “Who dis?”

  “Dis is Harriet.”

  “Ranger, whassup?”

  “When are we running today?”

  “How ’bout after dinner when it’s a little cooler? Eat light. Put Dee on.” Harriet hands Darcy the phone.

  “Pops, I need cash. Mom won’t give me any. She wants me to starve.”

  “I’m not disagreeing with you,” the man in two pairs of sunglasses says. The fat lady fans her face.

  “Okay, deal.” Darcy pockets her phone. “I got to meet my dad in the Mickydees parking lot. He’s taking me to some health food joint.” An unexpected yearning wallops Harriet and she badly wants to go with them, to be included, to belong.

  Dee drops her empty Slurpee cup in the trash bin. “Catch you later, H. Text me.” A small boy with a Mohawk jumps out from behind a dumpster and aims a stick at Harriet. “This is an AK-47,” he says, “and you’re iced.”

  After Mrs. Rivera’s last surgery, there were complications and she developed double pneumonia. Drugged, hooked to a respirator, with bags of fluid dripping in and out of her, she lay unconscious. As her temperature soared, her favourite saints huddled around her. “It was like the Last Supper,” she told Harriet, “except the table was my bed.” Harriet was familiar with the Last Supper painting in the Riveras’ dining room. “We had tinola together,” Mrs. Rivera said, “and talunan. Then the Blessed Mother came and held my hand. Saint Jude and Saint Peregrine massaged my feet and gave me a pedi. They painted my toenails with gold, anak.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Harriet said, although she didn’t believe any of it. Mrs. Rivera scared small children when they misbehaved by telling them momo could appear at any time and snatch them away. “Sshh, momo’s here,” she’d gasp, pointing to a dark corner. Mrs. Rivera had a very active imagination.

  The saints, according to Mrs. Rivera, asked advice about many things, including the best way to cook adobo. Mrs. Rivera shared all her secret recipes with them. The saints were extremely grateful and gave her a mani as well as a pedi, and painted her fingernails with gold. They told her she would no longer have to wash the skid marks out of Mr. Rivera’s underpants. “You have done your duty,” they told her. “You have been a dutiful wife and mother and now you must rest and have kakanin.” They served her boiled sweet rice with shredded coconut, steamed in banana leaves. Before her last surgery, Mrs. Rivera had been unable to eat white rice or coconut because it gave her diarrhea. But when she was partially dead she ate whatever the saints offered, including halo halo special, which, when she was completely alive, went right through her. In those two weeks while antibiotics warred with the bacteria in her lungs, Mrs. Rivera saw her life clearly, and the sacrifices she’d made. She had no regrets, she told the saints, but she was tired and didn’t want to do it anymore. She wanted to play the harp in heaven. The saints gave her a glistening golden harp with silvery strings and taught her to play in three days. “My fingers moved like magic, anak.” The saints asked her to accompany them as they sang her favourite song, “What a Wonderful World.” “You have never heard such beautiful voices.” Mrs. Rivera pressed her hands together when she said this and closed her eyes as though she were listening to the saints’ voices. “Like silk, anak.”

  When the fever broke and Mrs. Rivera slowly regained consciousness and was taken off the respirator, she insisted there’d been some mistake, that she should be on the other side with the saints. Her family tried to convince her that she was meant to be on earth with them. By the time they brought her home, she’d accepted being earthbound and lay docile on her bed as she always had, but Harriet sensed something different about her. She told Harriet not to miss her chance. “You mustn’t allow yourself to be crushed by duty, anak,” she said. “You must become yourself, nobody else.” The saints helped Mrs. Rivera to “get to the bottom of everything.” As Harriet urged her to drink clear fluids, Mrs. Rivera said, “I understand everything now.” Harriet didn’t ask her to explain everything because she was weak and talking wore her out. But Harriet understood the longing to go back inside a dream or a memory. She wanted to go back to before Irwin was born, to float in the pool at the Americana under a cloudless sky. She played rummy with Mrs. Rivera but never pushed her to speak or eat as her relatives did. Harriet knew that Mrs. Rivera was waiting to die so she could return to the saints.

  Staring at the white oil paints, trying to decide what will work best for Irwin’s angel wings, it occurs to Harriet that Mrs. Rivera’s visions were no less real than Mr. Blake’s. Mr. Chubak said when Mr. Blake was on his deathbed surrounded by people pleading with him not to die, he jumped up and sang, “Angels! Angels!” He was happy because he was going with the angels and ditching the humans. By not believing in Mrs. Rivera’s or Mr. Blake’s visions, Harriet is flattening her world based on her past experience and seeing things only thro’ the narrow chinks of her cavern. She is turning in the same dull round while Mrs. Rivera is on the other side with golden fingernails, playing harp with the saints and spooning halo halo special. Suddenly eternity pops open above Harriet, even though she’s indoors. Angels and saints swoop around her, singing “What a Wonderful World” with silky voices, and she feels enlightened, as though she has gotten to the bottom of everything. The Titanium White glows like angel wings, and the Zinc White offers a soothing softness, while the Sevres Blue and Ultramarine shimmer like oceans. She holds the tubes in her hands, knowing they cost more than she can afford, but she must have them to paint Irwin—to become herself. The Sap Green beckons to her for mountaintops, and the Azo Lemon Yellow offers rays of heavenly light. Six tubes of paint at $4.95 each. She has $12.65. The tubes become sweaty in her grip. Without looking around for security cameras, she slides two tubes in each of her front pockets, easy-squeezy.

  “What on earth possessed you to steal?” her mother asks while Irwin lurches around the cramped, windowless office because standing still isn’t something he does. “Why?”

  Harriet has sat quaking on the broken office chair with the store detective’s bulgy eyes on her for over an hour. She banged her infected toe on the steps and watched fresh crimson mixing with the burnt umber of her pus.

  “Technically you’re under arrest,” he told her. He didn’t look like a detective but wore a Batman T-shirt, skateboard shorts and shoes. He explained that he was undercover. When she pleaded that she’d made a mistake, that she would never do it again, he responded, “I still have to call it in,” and speed-dialled the police.

  Sweat splotches Lynne’s tank top even though she hasn’t been running. “Why, Harriet? Tell me why you took those tubes of paint.”

  “Because I wanted to paint Irwin.”

  “She’s going to give me angel wings,” Irwin explains.

  “Why didn’t you ask me for money for paints?”

  “Because you wouldn’t give it to me. You never give me art supplies.”

  Lynne b
ecame repulsed by her paintings after Harriet discovered Hieronymus Bosch, Pieter Bruegel and Francis Bacon. Before Irwin was born, when Harriet was into the Impressionists, Lynne thought it was cute that her little daughter’s favourite pastime was leafing through the library’s art books. But after Irwin turned three and Harriet realized he would never turn into a normal little brother, and Trent moved into Uma’s house, Harriet began figurative paintings of subjects unrecognizable to anyone but herself.

  The tubes of colours lie exposed on the desk in front of the store detective.

  “How did you become a store detective?” Harriet asked him to turn the attention away from herself. This works at school; a teacher will ask her a question she can’t answer and she’ll ask the teacher about something vaguely related to the original question.

  “I went to security guard school,” the skateboarder said. “This isn’t permanent. I want to be a cop.”

  Irwin leans against Harriet’s knees because standing for long periods tires him. “You stole?” he asks, his mouth forming a circle, his head listing to one side.

  “I am so disappointed in you,” Lynne says, snapping open her purse and fishing for a Kleenex to wipe Irwin’s nose. “As for you,” she says to the detective, who is scribbling on the form with Harriet’s name, address and birth date on it, “was it really necessary to call the police? She’s just a child.”

  “It’s procedure, ma’am. The officers should be here shortly.” His knees bounce constantly as he sits in the chair, and he repeatedly clicks his ballpoint pen.

  “I’m staaarved.” Irwin pulls on Lynne’s hand, dropping his butt to add leverage.

  “We’ll get you something in a minute, peanut.”

  Harriet stops trembling finally. At first when the detective asked to see the contents of her pockets, she felt the floor growing spongy and the world as she knew it orbiting farther and farther away from her. Even now her mother and brother seem alien, a billion miles away. Dee has told her about juvie, that most of the girls there are dykes and force you to eat them out, or eat you out, or shove things up your snatch. Harriet will jump in front of a subway car before anyone sends her to juvie.

  “Surely the police won’t charge her,” Lynne says. “She’s a child.”

  The store detective clicks his pen. “Attempted theft is attempted theft, ma’am. A lot of these juvenile shoplifters get around without their parents knowing about it. I’m not saying your daughter’s lying, ma’am, but I can’t take her at her word given the circumstances.”

  Sickening shame pulses through Harriet. When the police finally arrive, they tower over her in hats and epaulettes. “Have you ever been in trouble with the police before?” the ginger-haired one asks.

  “No.”

  He stares down at her. She’s afraid to look at either of them.

  “Of course she’s never been in trouble with the police,” Lynne says. “She’s eleven years old.”

  “Crime has no age requirements, ma’am. Just give us a minute.” He gestures to the store detective, who grabs his forms and follows the cops out.

  “I can’t believe this is happening, Harriet. It’s Darcy, isn’t it? Does she steal? Does Buck know?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with Darcy. I wanted to paint Irwin and I didn’t have enough money.”

  “That’s no excuse for stealing.” Lynne slumps against the desk. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “It’ll be okay,” Irwin says. “Stop fighting. Harry doesn’t have to paint me. We’ll give the paint back.”

  The Titanium White no longer glows and the Zinc White looks flat. The Sevres Blue and Ultramarine appear drab against the dirty grey desk, and she can’t believe she even wanted the gaudy Sap Green or Azo Lemon Yellow. She never wants to paint ever again.

  The cops and the detective return and surround her, but only the ginger-haired cop speaks. The other cop, who looks like he shoots people, crosses his hairy arms and stares at her.

  “Okay, Harriet,” the ginger-haired one says. “Tell me something I don’t know. Explain it to me so I can understand it.” Harriet dares to look up at him. His badge says P.C. Dandy. “Come on, kid, talk to me. We checked and you have no record, so this is a first offence. Explain it to me.”

  “I needed paint to paint my brother. He’s sick and might die before the end of the week.”

  “What?” Lynne sputters. “What are you talking about?”

  Irwin stands uncharacteristically straight. “I’m not dying.”

  “Me and Darcy did Ouija, and Grandpa Archie said Irwin would die in a week.”

  “Oh for god’s sake,” Lynne says, covering her face with her hands.

  “Take it easy, ma’am,” P.C. Dandy says. “Okay, Harriet, so you wanted to paint your brother. Vince here says you paid for some of the paint.”

  “I had enough for two tubes plus tax. I bought the whites for angel wings.” The cops exchange solemn looks. Lynne keeps shaking her head and mumbling, “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “Well, Harriet,” P.C. Dandy says, “can you promise me you will never steal again?”

  “I promise. And I will never paint again either.”

  “Thank god for that,” Lynne says. “I’m sick to death of this art thing, Harriet. You have to get over it, read about vampires or boys like normal girls.”

  “Ma’am, go easy on her. You can see she’s sorry for what she did.”

  “Harriet’s never sorry for what she does. Otherwise she wouldn’t keep doing it.”

  “Are you sorry for what you did, Harriet?” P.C. Dandy asks.

  Harriet manages to nod even though she feels like vomiting and sliding to the floor and never getting up again.

  “Well, I’m satisfied if my partner’s satisfied.” He looks at the killer cop who’s playing Call of Duty on his smartphone. “You okay with not charging her?” P.C. Dandy asks. The killer cop, without looking up from his game, nods. P.C. Dandy ruffles Harriet’s hair. “Don’t believe that Ouija stuff. There’s always some smartass moving it around. Okay, you’re free to go, but if you do it again, you’ll be charged. You name is tagged in the system so we won’t let you off so easy next time. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” As they leave, both cops glance at Lynne’s legs. “Good day, ma’am,” P.C. Dandy says. “Go easy on her, she looks a little raw.” Harriet would rather go with P.C. Dandy than stay with her irate mother.

  “Let’s go,” Lynne says, ignoring the store detective. She lifts Irwin onto her hip and grabs Harriet’s hand, yanking her out of the chair so hard it hurts Harriet’s shoulder.

  Eighteen

  They don’t bother trying to keep it down in the kitchen. “What have I been saying about her all along?” Gennedy bellows. “There’s something wrong with her.”

  “She’s been through a lot.”

  “Irwin’s been through a lot, you’ve been through a lot. That girl does what she wants when she wants. Nothing stops her. I’ve never seen anything like it—it’s sociopathic.”

  “Are you calling my daughter a sociopath?”

  “She lies, she steals, she tries to poison her brother, she feels absolutely no compassion for anyone, refuses to obey school rules. How many times have you been called in to talk to her teachers? Do you realize how close she just got to having a criminal record? The cops gave you a break this time. It won’t happen again.”

  Lynne ordered Harriet to watch Irwin. She sits with him on the cratered carpet by the flying machine. His clumsy movements mean he’s tired.

  “When will they stop fighting?” he asks.

  “Soon.”

  “I have a headache.” He gets headaches when his shunt is infected.

  Harriet grabs some plastic animals. “Find them seats.” Irwin carefully arranges the animals in the egg carton cabin.


  “I’m saying,” Gennedy bellows, “she needs professional help. She has a personality disorder. She needs medication.”

  “I’m not drugging my daughter. And we can’t afford a therapist, you, of all people, should know that.”

  “Shrinks are covered if a doctor orders it.”

  “Theo won’t send her to a shrink. He thinks she’s artistic. All he says is keep her off the red dye and MSG.” Theo, their GP, is an old hippie and smells of dirt.

  “Well,” Gennedy says, “all I can say is we’re on a slippery slope here and something must be done. She’s a danger to herself and everyone around her. Seriously, I think she’s capable of harming Irwin.”

  “Gennedy hit me!” Harriet screams, startling Irwin. He drops a giraffe and stares wide-eyed at her. She listens for sounds from the kitchen.

  “Don’t listen to her,” Gennedy says. “She’s vengeful.”

  “He hit me in the face yesterday,” Harriet shouts. “All the seniors saw how red my face got.”

  Lynne trudges wearily out of the kitchen and leans against the wall. “Then why didn’t you tell me yesterday?”

  “Because you wouldn’t have believed me. Just like you don’t believe me now.”

  “The timing’s a little convenient, Harriet.” Lynne treads back into the kitchen where Gennedy is cursing the “badly designed” can opener. According to Gennedy, anything he has difficulty operating is badly designed.

  “Did you hit her?” Lynne demands.

  “Don’t you see what she’s doing? She’s using diversion tactics. Divide and conquer is her modus operandi. It’s sociopathic.”

  “Did you hit her?”

  “I cut myself.”

  “What?”

  “On this fucking can opener. Who designed this thing?”

  “Did you hit my daughter?”

  “She was running out to collect garbage or scrounge money off the old folks. I tried to stop her because Irwin was crying, but as you know, nothing stops her. So I slapped her.”