The Darkest Place

by Daniel Judson

  Kane watched him emerge onto his back deck and make his way down the long stairs to the beach. He was wearing a white terrycloth bathrobe and unlaced boots. Once on the beach, the old man walked to the water’s edge and threw off the robe and stepped out of the boots. Kane watched this, waiting. He muttered, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” And then there it was, the old man rushing into the water, plunging into it with a dive. He climbed out as fast as he had jumped in and hurried into his robe and boots. Then he headed back up the stairs to his deck. Kane watched till the old man was back inside his home. He wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it. He had seen it and still didn’t believe it.

  Of course this only reminded Kane of his grief. He hadn’t gone near water since his son died four years before. Meg’s place was the closest he ever got to it. And that wasn’t without its cost to him. But of course his child wasn’t the only one to have died that way, to have drowned. It wasn’t his grief and his alone, he knew that, though the knowledge helped him little.

  Just two weeks before, while Kane was asleep in his dingy apartment in town, and Meg was beside her husband in the other room, that very same old man had, during his morning plunge into the bay, found the body of a dead young man. When Meg had phoned Kane later at the college to tell him about this, her first concern was that this would be big news and that the cops and reporters would be camped out, as it were, around her place, maybe even for days. Kane would have to stay away if that was the case; they were that cautious. Meg’s husband had been home for a week, longer than was normal, and would be leaving that afternoon for five days. Both she and Kane craved each other, deeply, and people nosing around would mean they would have to wait. It seemed intolerable. But in the end, the cops had come and gone quickly, very quickly, and no one except a curious neighbor or two came around. Even that only lasted into the afternoon. Kane showed up after dark, a little haunted, and threw himself into Meg, into the pleasure of too much drink and her soft flesh. They tore at each other for hours. The next morning, watching the water, seeing it differently, Kane had observed as the old man came out for his morning swim, though this time he entered the water with obvious trepidation. According to Meg, the old man hadn’t seen the body but instead bumped into it shortly after diving in. This was back during the long Indian summer; the water was not yet freezing, and the old man’s swim would have been much more leisurely than the ones Kane had seen of late.

  Kane left the front room then and entered the kitchen. The glare wasn’t going to be any better here, he knew that, but this was where he would find Meg. She painted there, had two easels set up at all times, two paintings going at once. As he entered she was standing beside the butcher block island in the center of the open room, her back to the wide window, the morning sun on her shoulders, a steaming mug of tea in her hands. She was wearing a fisherman’s sweater and white socks—nothing else. The sweater hung to the top of her thighs, barely hiding her ass. Normally she spent her mornings undressed, sipping her tea with the sun on her as she looked over the work she had done the day before. She claimed there was something about being naked at the start of the day, being naked in front of her work. It both focused and opened her mind, she told him. He didn’t care why; he liked the look of her, her short red hair alive in the morning light, her pale skin just a little golden. But these last two mornings, when Kane emerged from the front room, he had found her in one of her husband’s ratty sweaters. Oddly enough, that was somewhat more distracting to Kane than the sight of her in all her glory. He wasn’t really certain why but didn’t much care.

  She didn’t look at him at first. This was her time to be silent with her paintings, to look at them with rested eyes and a mind not too far removed from the landscape of dreams. Kane sat at the small dining table, just inside the room, and watched her as she stood in profile to him. She was tall and thin, built like an Olympic swimmer—long legs and lean arms, a sleek torso and flat stomach. She had that kind of refined look that comes with having money, or marrying into it. She was tired now, that was obvious. A morning person by habit or necessity but not by nature. By nature she was a night person, like Kane was. A drinker, yes, but not big on parties or get-togethers. Her husband dragged her to those, or used to. He liked to be with his friends, maybe to show her off. Kane could understand that. But she said that most of her husband’s friends were awful people. She was an awful person, too, but at least she knew it and didn’t impose it on others. She preferred to be at home, with her work, or at least within sight of it, within reach of it. If there was no paintbrush in her hand, then there was a glass of wine, sometimes, just now and then, a joint when she needed to get away from herself; the kind of away that leaving the house or taking a walk wouldn’t bring her.

  She watched her two paintings now, looking from one to the other, trying to decide which one, in her words, needed her more. Holding the steaming mug in her right hand, she reached up to rub the heel of her left hand into her eye, to further wake herself up. Her arm up like that raised the sweater enough for Kane to glimpse her bare ass and tufts of her strawberry blond pubic hair. His heart rushed then, his throat tightening. In his gut, he felt a dozen fists. More than anything now, he wanted her.

  She let her arm down, the sweater covering her lower half again. Kane spoke, breaking the silence. “I was thinking about calling in sick today, hanging out. What do you think?”

  She smiled. She knew what he meant by “hanging out.”

  “I need to get some work done this morning. And you need to go to work. We can ‘hang out’ all you want later.”

  “I had a bad night again, that’s all.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s only one more week left to the semester anyway. I think the damage is done, missing-classes-wise, don’t you? What’s one more day?”

  “I really need to get work done. I don’t work well with you staring at me the way you do.”

  “I could wait in the other room.”

  “I don’t work well with people waiting for me, either. You need to go to work, Deke.”

  Kane said nothing to that.

  “You weren’t able to fall asleep last night?” Meg asked.

  “No.”

  “Sorry I passed out on you. You tired me out.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Last night, when you couldn’t sleep.”

  “I just sat up.”

  Meg nodded, her eyes on one canvas now. She was zeroing in on which one needed her, getting ready to approach it.

  “You should go into the other room when that happens,” she said.

  “Watch TV, listen to music. Do anything but sit there and look out at the water. I mean, there’s no point in torturing yourself.”

  “I’m not torturing myself.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way, Deke. Maybe you should see someone. A doctor or something. Talk about it.”

  “Talking makes it worse.”

  “It shouldn’t.”

  “It’s got to break soon, you know. That’s what I keep thinking. It’s got to end soon.”

  “It’s been a bad few years for you.”

  “It hasn’t been all bad.”

  “That’s sweet of you. But you still have to go to work.”

  “You’re a hard woman.”

  “To know me is to love me.”

  She was ready, ready to begin, knew what needed to be done. She looked at Kane then, as if from a trance. Her mouth dropped open immediately at the sight of him.

  “Oh my God,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Your face.”

  “What about it?”

  “Did I do that?” Her hand rose to her mouth then, to hide a sheepish smile she couldn’t suppress, or didn’t want to. She turned, facing him fully. Kane saw her pubic hair. She shaped it for swimming but let what remained grow full. He’d seen this, what, a hundred times n
ow, maybe more? And still, this thrill.

  “Did you do what?” Kane said.

  She walked toward him, the mug of tea in her right hand. It was filled to the top, so she moved carefully, holding it away when she reached him. She stood over him and placed the fingers of her left hand under his chin, lifting his head up a little to get a better look at the four fresh scratches on his face, long ones running from cheekbone to jaw.

  “You don’t feel that?” she said. “Doesn’t it sting?”

  “What?”

  “I must have scratched you last night.”

  “What?”

  “I must have scratched you.”

  “How bad?”

  “Bad enough.”

  “Shit.”

  “I don’t remember doing that.”

  “Let me see.”

  Meg moved aside so Kane could stand. He walked to the small bathroom on the other side of the kitchen and looked at himself in the mirror over the sink. He saw four long marks running right through the stubble. The cuts were bloody, shiny in the bright morning light. Meg came in and stood behind him.

  “Shit,” he said again.

  “Sorry.” But she wasn’t, not really. By her tone he knew she was more amused than ashamed.

  “This isn’t good, Meg.”

  “I really don’t remember doing that. And obviously neither do you.”

  “I’m supposed to go out like this?”

  “No one will care.”

  “Yeah, says you.”

  “Wear them like a badge. Don’t give a shit.”

  “Jesus, Meg. People will think I’m a rapist.”

  “You were close enough to it last night.”

  “This isn’t funny. I can’t go in, not like this.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t teach looking like this. I’m going back to sleep.”

  “I need to be alone to work, Deke.”

  “You won’t know I’m here.”

  “I will, though.”

  Kane ran some water and washed his face. He could feel the stinging now. When he was done he dried his face, careful around the scratches, and then his hands. He took one last look at Meg’s handiwork, looked at her in the mirror, and walked back out into the kitchen.

  She followed him, but not closely. He glanced over his shoulder at her. She looked worried, even a little bothered. But Kane knew it was more than the loss of privacy in which to work that was bugging her.

  He stopped and turned to her. “Just cut me some slack today, okay, Meg?”

  She opened her mouth to speak but said nothing. She was like a mother uncertain what to do with a child who didn’t want to go to school. Kane turned again and headed toward the bedroom. He didn’t look back.

  “You curl up into a ball too easily, Deke,” she said to him as he walked away. “Every little setback just knocks you down. I don’t think that’s good.”

  “I just need some sleep, Meg. That’s all this is. You won’t see me all day, trust me.”

  “Don’t you have to call someone and let them know?”

  “My students will figure it out. I think they know the drill by now.”

  “Deke—”

  He closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed. He barely noticed the cold now, or the glare, for that matter. He didn’t look out the window but down at the palm of his hands. What was the line? The useless things these hands have done. The last thing he needed was to see the water, to be reminded yet again. He knew Meg was right. Of course she was right. But being right, knowing what was right, well, that didn’t really help matters any. He’d come back to his alma mater to teach when the money ran out, when he had found it impossible to put words onto paper. This was what, his fourth semester now? Four semesters, two long years. He’d missed more classes than he had taught. Too tired, too much to drink, drowning in grief. How long would they put up with this crap? How long before he was fired for cause? Yes, Meg was right, of course she was right. He should go, should show his face, no matter how he felt or looked. It had taken a lot of wrangling to get that job. And what exactly would he do for money when it, too, was lost?

  But knowing all this didn’t change anything. Kane continued to just sit there, staring at the palms of his hands. If the place had caught on fire, he probably wouldn’t have moved. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he heard the phone ringing in the kitchen. It could have been awhile. His thoughts were a maze, and he had long since gotten lost in them. Meg picked up in the middle of the third ring. Kane listened to her voice, and he knew even before she came to the door that the call was for him.

  She opened the door and leaned in. He looked up from his hands. She wasn’t a beautiful woman, her face was angular, her blue eyes were too narrow. Still, it was a face most people couldn’t help but stare at, men and women. It was like a painting just a few strokes from greatness.

  Kane looked at her face and immediately wished she was coming back to bed. He wanted to kiss that face, wanted it to kiss him, to see her with her eyes half-closed as she rocked slowly above him, eclipsing out the rest of the world. But he knew that wasn’t going to happen this time.

  “It’s a guy named Mercer,” Meg said.

  Kane nodded. “Okay.”

  “I thought no one was supposed to know you’re here.”

  “Mercer’s my department head. I had to give him the number, just in case. He knows to say he got a wrong number if a man answers.”

  “What else does he know?”

  “He’s cool.”

  “Do you want to talk to him?”

  “Yeah.”

  Kane went back into the kitchen and picked up the receiver off the top of the butcher block. The phone was corded; all of the phones in Meg’s house were. Her husband was security conscious, and cordless phone calls, he had told her, could be picked up on certain kinds of radios. For whatever reason, that mattered to him.

  Kane said, “What’s up?”

  Mercer had a voice that sounded as if it was coming at you through a barrel of oak. He had been born and raised outside of New Orleans but left there some forty years ago, when he was fifteen, to join the merchant marines. Along the way he had earned a PhD in American literature. He’d been teaching at Southampton College for the past twenty years. But to listen to him speak, you’d think he’d just come up from the French Quarter maybe a day or two before.

  “It’s Mercer,” he said. “Listen, you need to come in today. You need to come in right now.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “There are two cops in your office. Detectives. They want to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “Listen, Deke, one of your students is dead. I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you. His body was found last night.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I said.”

  Kane’s first thought was to ask which of his students had been found, but that really wouldn’t have mattered, he barely knew any of them—any of the males—by name. Instead he asked another question. It was one he almost didn’t want to ask. “Where’d they find him? I mean . . .”

  “Shinnecock Bay.”

  “Shit.”

  “The detectives want to ask you some questions. They went to your place but you weren’t in. They’re waiting for you in your office.”

  “Tell them I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “You might want to get here a little faster than that. Dolan is with them. And he’s got that look on his face.”

  “Great.”

  “Hurry on in, buddy. I’ll try to keep them busy till you get here.”

  The line went dead. Kane hung up and looked at Meg. She was standing by her easel with a paintbrush in her hand, watching him. She had turned on a small quartz heater. It purred by her now-bare feet. Kane knew that anytime now the fisherman’s sweater would be coming off and she would be standing naked in front of her work.

  He headed toward the campus in his ’94 W
rangler, wondering as he drove about the student who had been found dead. It both was and wasn’t hard for him to imagine, someone being there, then not being there ever again. His classes were informal, small, twenty students tops. Yet that didn’t help him picture all the faces. He could see many of the girls but only a handful of the men, the ones who spoke up or kept company with the girls who had caught Kane’s attention. The rest of his students just slipped into the background, where it was clear to Kane they wished to be. Had he been one of them, the dead boy? Which class had he taken? How often had his and Kane’s eyes met? Had their eyes ever met?

  Kane thought about all this only for a moment or two. Meg’s house was fifteen minutes from the college, on the Southampton side of the Hampton Bays line. Most of the time he spent driving away from her house was spent thinking about her, about getting back to her. Kane thought he’d meet with the cops, go to his two morning classes, sit around for his office hours, and then cancel his afternoon classes and catch Meg while she was taking her four o’clock nap in the bed they had left in shambles. There were only a few days left before her husband was to return, and after that Kane and Meg would have to go without each other for an unknown period of time. Meg never knew what her husband’s travel schedule would be. He only mentioned when he was to leave next at some point after his return. Meg never inquired about his schedule, pretended not to really care. She was focused on her work. It was her cover. Only after she and Kane had already gone a day or two or three without each other, talking only briefly on the phone, would Kane learn when he would next see her, and for how long; for how many days or sometimes just hours, they would be free, as Meg put it, to make good use of each other. It was a hard way to live, considering she was all Kane had, and all he wanted.