Such Dark Things

by Courtney Evan Tate

  I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m not going to chance it.

  I let the bathroom steam up.

  None of this is Corinne’s fault. The very fleeting resentful thought that I had just means I’m a selfish bastard. I’m in a beautiful home in the suburbs, and my wife is in a psych ward. Even worse, I pray every day that she won’t remember everything that put her there.

  Because I’m a prick.

  I feel like even more of a prick when my phone dings a second later and the woman who sent the text is not my wife.

  You doing ok? I miss you.

  Guilt billows through me like storm clouds, through my gut into my chest. So much of this is her fault, this woman who isn’t my wife, and while I should stay far far away from her, I can’t. For so many complicated reasons, I can’t.

  I sigh as I head out the door to start my day.

  3

  Thirteen days until Halloween

  Jude

  My house is silent when I get home from work, and Corinne is nowhere to be found. I check my phone. Nothing. Like always, she has gotten distracted at work and forgotten to text.

  The clocks tick, mocking me, as I pace around.

  I’m alone. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go.

  Fuck.

  Seven p.m.

  Seven-oh-one.

  Seven-oh-two.

  Fuck this.

  Before the silence kills me, I climb into my car and head out of the neighborhood.

  My Land Rover’s engine rumbles, and it’s one thing I like about this vehicle: it’s manly.

  Vehicles should reflect your personality. My wife drives a sleek Mercedes sedan. It’s refined, like her, efficient and beautiful. It suits her. Mine is aggressive and rugged, two things I think a man should be.

  Sure, on the outside, I’m a gentleman. But on the inside, like every other man on earth, I’d like to think that I could hunt an elk and eat it raw if I had to, tearing into its muscle and sinew with my bare teeth. I want to believe that I could protect what is mine, that I could beat my chest and howl at the moon.

  Not one of those things are necessary, because I live in suburbia, but I could do it. That’s what counts.

  I head down the highway toward the outskirts of town, toward Immaculate Conception. Its lights are warm and bright, a muted glow from the stained glass windows as I pull into the lot.

  It’s a large church, as most Catholic churches are, but it somehow manages an air of intimacy, of comfort. When I walk up the steps and into the sanctuary, it greets me like an old friend, and I suck in the familiar smells...of the wood, of the reverence, of the quiet. If silence had a scent, it would be this church.

  It smells of wood bathed for a hundred years in sunshine and lemon polish.

  At this time of evening, I wasn’t sure that anyone would be here, but I hear low voices coming from the confessional, so I sit down to wait my turn. I can’t make out the words, only low murmurs.

  I cross my legs at the ankles and prepare to wait awhile, but it’s only a few minutes before the confessional door opens, and a girl steps out. She’s wearing a hoodie, and her eyes strike me.

  Big and brown, watery with tears. She barely meets my gaze before she shrugs past and hurries out of the church. Her footsteps fall quickly on the thick carpeting of the aisle, then she’s gone.

  My turn.

  I step inside and take a seat, and through the ornate wooden mesh, I can see the white collar in the dark.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” My voice is loud in the quiet. “It’s been forever and a day since my last confession.”

  I see the priest’s white teeth as he smiles.

  “Go on, my son.”

  “Well, how much time do you have?”

  He chuckles and waits.

  I continue.

  “This week, I lied a couple of times. To my wife. I told her I wasn’t frustrated when I was. She’s at work right now, and so I’m alone. No wife, no sex life.” I try to make light of it.

  “That’s unfortunate.” The priest’s voice is wry.

  “I know you don’t know what that feels like, but let me tell you, it sucks.”

  No answer.

  “Also, I was furious at another driver and flipped him off yesterday. He cut me off and didn’t even wave an apology.”

  “Anger is not godly, my son.”

  “I know,” I agree. “That’s why I’m confessing it.”

  “Anything else?”

  “So much,” I tell him. “But I don’t want to bore you. It mostly has to do with looking at scantily clad women and masturbation.”

  “What have I told you about masturbation?” The priest’s voice seems like it is cloaking amusement.

  “That the church is against it, but you’re not.”

  “That’s right. Are you ready for dinner?”

  “You bet your ass I am.”

  I open the door and step out, and wait for my brother to join me.

  Being identical twins, we look exactly alike but for the white collar circling his neck.

  Michel smiles at me as he steps out of the confessional.

  “How’s Corinne?”

  I shake my head. “Halloween is coming up. You know how hard this time of year is.”

  “I know. I’ve been praying for her.”

  “Thanks.”

  Michel pulls his purple stole off and hangs it up. We walk toward the door, and as we step outside, I turn to him.

  “Wait. You never absolved my sins.”

  “Are you truly repentant?” His raised eyebrow betrays his doubt.

  I grin. “Not really.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  We chuckle and head to the parking lot.

  “Do you want to ride with me or drive yourself?”

  “I’ll drive. I value my life.”

  “Whatever.”

  Michel heads to his old death trap of a pickup, and I head to my shiny Land Rover, and we head down the road, as opposite on the outside as we are identical on the inside.

  I’m behind him, so when the exhaust from his truck fills mine, I punch a button to filter the air.

  At a stoplight, I text him.

  Your truck is a piece of shit. Get a new one.

  He answers before the light turns green. Mine has character. Yours is soulless.

  Tell me that again when your character is broken down and you’re walking.

  Ridiculous banter with my brother is normal. It keeps me feeling normal...distracted from the current state of my reality. It might sound dumb and detached, but it helps me cope. It’s avoidance at its finest.

  Within a few minutes of traffic, we pull up to our favorite mom-and-pop café. The glow of the sign beckons me.

  Vilma’s. The light in the M is broken, but you can still read it. Every few seconds it flickers, then dies, flickers, then dies. It’s been that way for two years and they never fix it. It would cause a meltdown in someone with OCD.

  This place might be small and a bit dingy, but it’s also cozy and warm and familiar. I have breakfast here every day after my run and before I go to work. I know everyone here, and they know me, and there is comfort in that.

  Vilma herself greets us by name, and I smile at her. She’s aging and sometimes crotchety, but she likes me. She cares that I’m here, and that’s comforting, too.

  She leads us to our normal table, the one in the very back, the one where the wood veneer is peeling and the vinyl chairs are cracked.

  We sit down and examine our sticky menus.

  “So how was your day?” I ask, studying the list of food that I already know by heart.

  “Oh, good. I just got run-of-the-mill confessions today. You know how that goes. Lying. Cheating. Impure thoughts. So on and so
forth. How about you?” Michel asks, motioning for the waitress and her coffeepot. I don’t understand how he can drink coffee so late in the day and still sleep at night.

  “Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Depression, marital strife, OCD.”

  “Well, here we are,” he answers. “The Cabot brothers. Changing lives one soul at a time.”

  “I’ll leave their souls to you,” I tell him wryly. “I’ll worry about their minds.”

  Our normal waitress with the faded red hair bustles over with a pot of steaming coffee and fills Michel’s cup up to the brim. She knows not to pour me any at this hour.

  “You’ll have...the corned beef and hash,” she guesses for Michel.

  He nods. “That sounds good, Meg.”

  She nods, her pen pausing on her pad as she assesses my mood. “And you’ll have...the Texan, medium-well, toasted bun and fried onions.”

  “That’ll do me,” I tell her.

  She grins because she knows us, then heads to the kitchen to turn our order in. I return my attention to Michel.

  “How’s Artie doing?”

  “She sleeps all day,” I tell him.

  “Well, she’s getting old. A girl’s entitled to her beauty rest. Man, she’s gotta be... Well, you and Co got her right after you got married. How long ago was that?”

  I think about that.

  “Hell, I don’t even remember. Fourteen or fifteen years.”

  “That’s old for a dog, bro.”

  I know.

  “Her hips are hurting her,” Michel tells me, like I don’t know that. “She’s in pain. That’s why she’s getting mean.”

  “I’m not ready to put her down,” I answer firmly, because I know where he’s going with this. “She’s fine for now. She’s got a lot of life left. Corinne loves that dog, and so do I.”

  Michel nods because he recognizes the stubborn streak in me. It matches his own.

  “Well, let’s meet here for breakfast tomorrow, and you can bring Artie so I can say hi.”

  “Deal. And I’ll buy your dinner tonight as a thank-you for keeping me company.”

  “And breakfast tomorrow. You’re no picnic lately.”

  “I’m pretty sure priests aren’t supposed to be shysters.”

  Michel laughs. “Hey, you make the big money. I’m just a lowly servant of God.”

  I roll my eyes, because this particular servant of God plays poker every other week. He is a kind and caring soul, but he still pushes the priesthood boundaries.

  I’m still chuckling when I notice that he’s staring at something over my shoulder. The look of concentration on his face is intriguing, and I turn to see what he’s so enthralled with.

  Meg is coming back to our table with a girl in tow.

  The girl looks to be in her midtwenties. Tight curves in all the right spots, long legs, long caramel hair pulled back in a ponytail, the glow of youth in her cheeks. She’s definitely attractive.

  “You’re not supposed to notice that,” I tell him.

  He scowls. “I’m a priest, not a eunuch.”

  I laugh and he punches my shoulder, because we’re brothers and that’s what brothers do when they notice a hot girl together, even when one is a priest and the other is married.

  “Honestly, though, it’s not like that,” he adds.

  I raise an eyebrow because I don’t believe him.

  “Hey, boys,” Meg says, stopping by my elbow and putting our plates down in front of us. “Tonight is my last night here. But this is Zoe, and she’ll take good care of you from now on. This is her first night, so be nice to her. Zoe, these are my regulars, Jude and Father Michel.”

  Zoe smiles and her teeth are white. “I already know Father Michel,” she says, patting his shoulder. I feel my eyes widen, and I stare at my brother. He returns my gaze and smiles like a cat who swallowed the canary.

  The girl looks at me, and there’s something so familiar in her eyes...about her eyes...and... Is she the girl from the church? She must’ve come straight here.

  “It’s very nice to meet you,” she tells me, in a voice that somehow manages to be sultry and youthful at the same time. “I can’t wait to start taking care of you.”

  She laughs because her words sounded suggestive. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” she adds with a grin, and her lips are impish and full. There’s something in her eyes that tells me that she did.

  She sashays away and her arrogance is a bit annoying.

  The girl is full of herself. She’s young, though, and attractive, highly sexual. I’m sure she gets lots of male attention, which feeds her ego, and the more she gets, the more she needs. It’s a cycle.

  “So you got her the job here?” I ask needlessly. Of course he did. There was a Help Wanted sign in the window for two weeks, and it’s gone now. I didn’t notice when I walked in, but I see it now.

  He nods. “Yeah. She’s new to my parish, seems like a good kid. She’s just down on her luck.”

  I glance at her trailing behind Meg, her full hips swaying to and fro. “She’s too young to be ‘down on her luck,’” I observe.

  “Eh, you know kids. You used to be one of them, a hundred years ago,” Michel jabs. “She’s in her ramen-noodle-eating stage—surely you remember how that is. But I can’t really say more than that about her. Confidentiality and all.”

  “Oh, yes. You’re nothing if not professional,” I answer, gulping at my water.

  “You should get Corinne some flowers,” Michel suggests, changing the subject. “She needs to know you’re thinking about her.”

  “She’s all I think about,” I tell him. “You have no idea.”

  “Does she know that?” Michel asks bluntly. “Because you need to tell her. She can’t read your mind.”

  “Sometimes you’re a bossy dick,” I tell my brother. Michel rolls his eyes.

  “Just trying to help. Besides, I’m a priest. I’m supposed to be stern,” he tells me firmly. “I’ve got to lead people to Christ with an iron fist.”

  “Yeah, because that’s what people like,” I answer drolly. “An iron fist.”

  He laughs because he’s ridiculous, and his eyes twinkle, and I wonder once again just how in the world he can live his life.

  “Are you sure you never hook up with a nun?” I ask dubiously. “I remember your teen years. You blazed a trail through our high school girls a mile wide. You left no stone unturned.”

  “That’s how I got it out of my system.” He pats his napkin at his lips, almost primly. “Women hold no power over me now, Jude.”

  Yet his gaze is over my shoulder, and when I follow it, I find that he’s staring at the young waitress bent over a table. I raise an eyebrow.

  “Oh, really?”

  He laughs. “God didn’t make me blind, though. Since I can see, I figure that he wants me to look at all of His children. At least the ones who are of legal age...not the actual children. I’m not that kind of priest,” he adds.

  “You’re ridiculous,” I tell him, lifting my hand to signal for the check.

  He is unfazed, like he always is.

  Zoe comes to our table with a check in each hand.

  “One check or two?” She bumps my shoulder with her hip, and she smiles down at me, waving the checks. Her heat burns into my arm.

  “One,” Michel says. “My husband is paying.”

  Zoe’s mouth falls open as she stares at Michel’s white collar and he laughs, a loud guffaw.

  “Kidding. He’s my brother. But he’s still paying.”

  Zoe laughs and drops the check in her right hand in front of me.

  “At your leisure,” she says before she swishes away, her hips swinging wide like a pendulum. Michel watches her go.

  “Would you get your eyes back in your head, Father?” I demand. “Jesus.”r />
  “Don’t use His name in vain,” my brother chastises.

  “Don’t lust after women.”

  “Fine,” Michel counters. “But it’s not like I’m going to act on it. She’s one of God’s children. I truly just want to help her. Her looks are a separate issue.”

  “Uh-huh.” I laugh and toss some bills on the table for Zoe. She’s still staring at me, and I try not to notice.

  “Have a nice night, boys,” she practically purrs, and I swear to God her tits are going to bust out of her top. “I’ll be seeing you. Oh, and, Father...thank you again. You’re my hero.”

  Michel grins and I all but drag him out.

  “See you here in the morning, you big hero?” I ask as we pause by his truck.

  “Yep.”

  I drive home leisurely, with the windows down and the chilly wind blowing in my face. Soon it will be too cold, so I’m taking advantage of it tonight. I’ll never tell Michel, but I do swing by the store and pick up some flowers. They’re nothing fancy, just a bouquet wrapped in plastic, but Corinne will like them.

  The house is still dark when I get home, and I watch TV until I can’t keep my eyes open any longer, waiting for my wife.

  Like I have every night for days and days, I fall asleep alone.

  4

  Now

  Corinne

  Reflections Mental Facility

  I count the ceiling tiles in the night.

  The light from the moon illuminates the dark just enough to see them.

  From down the hall, I hear screaming, but that’s normal here. I’m under no illusions about what this place is.

  I hear the nurses’ shoes as they scurry toward the noise, and I look again at the ceiling. There are over five hundred tiles. I’m not sure of the exact number, because every time I count, I get distracted.

  I’m so lonely, and I know for a fact that I shouldn’t be in this room. I’m a physician. I should be medicating whomever is screaming.

  But I’m not a doctor in this building. I have no credentials here. I’m a patient, like everyone else. It’s a difficult pill to swallow. It’s a fact that lodges in my throat and won’t go down.

  With a sigh, I roll to my side and stare at the wall. It’s white and stark, and the sheets beneath me are cold and thin. My bedding at home is luxurious and thick, spun Egyptian cotton, one thousand thread count. It’s funny how accustomed I’ve gotten to nice things over the past few years.