Darkborn

by Matthew J. Costello

  It was the last cookout of 1992, the last time you could wear short-sleeved shirts and a baseball cap. The last time you could sit outside and feel the sun on your face and hope that winter would never come. The last time you could imagine that there was no such thing as snow and ice and dark, ugly clouds.

  But Indian summer was no summer at all, and the deceptive warmth of midday gave way to long shadows that sprouted too early on Will Dunnigan’s backyard lawn.

  The breeze carried the smoke of the barbecue away too quickly, as if eager to be done with this nonsense.

  Will pressed down on the burgers, cruelly squeezing juice out of them that splattered down to the gas-fed pumice stones. A small blanket of flame came to life above the stones and licked at the sizzling meat.

  Will liked tending the barbecue, though he eschewed the usual accouterments of chef’s hat and goofy apron.

  Give the chef a kiss!

  Will knew why he liked it, and so did Becca . . .

  He picked up his beer, a warmish Coors Light, took a sip, and looked at Becca. She was sitting with a bunch of their friends gathered around her. She was laughing and making them laugh. Two things that she was very good at.

  Becca was, they both recognized, the complete opposite of him. With all her natural exuberance, her openness, her warmth, Will was at the other end of the universe.

  I’m the yin to her yang, he’d joke. And that was true enough. She thrived in social situations. The more the merrier. She put everyone at ease, made absolutely sure that everyone knew the name of all the other guests. She’d introduce people two and three times, until everyone felt like old friends.

  Parties and picnics were her natural element.

  And then there’s me, Will thought.

  Though his few personal friends from Legal Aid wouldn’t say so, Will felt handicapped in any crowd larger than two. The social wheels just don’t spin for me, he thought.

  Which was why he liked tending the grill.

  It gave him something to do. People might come over and jokingly ask the chef how things were coming. Stand there a moment and inhale the aroma of charbroiled burgers blackened to a primitive state of carbon. But Will could squeeze and flip the burgers, and generally keep busy.

  His daughters played hostesses. Sharon, the older, walked around with tacky little wieners wrapped in dough that she insisted just had to be served at the picnic.

  She wore a long dress and no shoes. Her brownish-blond hair caught every bit of sunlight God was sending down.

  And she was beautiful. Will ached with love nearly every time he saw her like this, at a distance, as if she were someone else’s kid.

  And thought: She’s my daughter.

  There’s something halfway decent I turned out.

  He took another sip of his beer.

  Then there was Beth, named for Becca’s mother just a year before she died.

  Except Beth, at six years old, was no Beth. More of Larry . . . more of a Moe.

  She had no interest in the long dresses or beautifully combed hair. She tended to mutilate her Ken and Barbie, removing legs and heads as her play bordered on the Frankensteinian.

  And what gift did Beth have?

  That was easy. Laughter. It didn’t always come when they appreciated it. More than once they stormed out of a restaurant, fed up with Beth rocking in her seat, laughing at the food, or the service, or the other patrons.

  She had a thing for bald-headed men.

  Made jokes about their egg-shaped heads.

  Sharon would laugh or grow embarrassed, whatever was her ladylike wont for the day. While Will often felt prisoner of Beth’s wicked, out-of-control sense of humor.

  Which left Becca to do the disciplining.

  Will flipped the burgers. This first batch was nearly ready.

  He tried to signal Becca, to let her know. She was talking to some of the teachers from her school.

  Will waved a spatula.

  Someone patted him on his back.

  “Calling in the reinforcements?” a voice said.

  Will turned around. It was Brian Vann.

  Invited at the insistence of Becca.

  “You never know,” Becca had said. “You might leave the public defender’s office and want to start a practice. Brian could help you.”

  Will tried to explain that you don’t start a practice at forty-one. Doesn’t happen.

  I made my bed, Will tried to explain. Public defending is dirty, cheap-paying law work. It serves the public good but you’ll never get rich.

  Hell, even with Becca’s salary, sometimes it was hard to make two ends meet anywhere near the middle.

  How was I to know that the eighties were to be the decade of greed? Missed that boat completely. I always did have a proclivity toward the unfashionable.

  “Hello, Brian,” Will said. Will looked at Brian’s Molson bottle, the dark green glass hiding its status.

  “Need a fresh one?”

  Brian shook his head. “No, just grabbed this one myself. So how are you doing, Willy?” Brian asked, with the concerned, forthright expression of someone who wanted, in intimate detail, the exact status of your life at that moment, from the bedroom to the bankroll.

  Will turned back to the burgers.

  “Good. Keeping busy. Handling a few interesting —”

  “I bet. Say, did you read about John?”

  John Fortier was another neighborhood lawyer who was, from all appearances, doing extremely well. He was also at the picnic, sitting and listening to Becca.

  “No.”

  “He’s been made a full partner in his firm.”

  Will nodded. Trying his damnedest to be disinterested.

  Brian came closer.

  “The grapevine has it that he’s going to be good for half a mil a year, minimum.”

  Will smiled. “That’s great.”

  Super. Fantastic. Best fucking news I heard all day, Will thought.

  As if to confirm that fact, the pleasant part of the day faded as a puffy cloud, a rogue cumulus patrolling the blue ceiling, blotted out the brilliant sun. Gooseflesh rose on Will’s arms, encouraged by the ever-stronger breeze.

  “Getting chilly,” he said. To Brian. To himself. He wasn’t sure.

  Then he turned to Brian Vann, alighting at last on a strategy to make him go away. “Could you ask Becca to come over? We’re about ready to go here.”

  “Oh, sure,” Brian said. And then Will watched him hurry over to Becca, interrupting her in midlaugh.

  She looked over at Will, and he guessed that he must look like a forlorn figure, standing by his Gasjet grill, a reluctant soldier in the suburban army.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said, walking up to him, her smile now gentle and sweet. It was it special smile that, for all of Becca’s social graces, he knew she reserved only for him. “I was just talking about my new principal . . .” She made a small laugh.

  “That’s okay.” He pointed down at the grill. “These suckers are ready.”

  “Gotcha,” she said, grinning more broadly. “I’ll get the paper plates set out.”

  “What a smart girl.”

  Her hair was darker than Sharon’s, but it was long and — for these days — unusually straight. She felt no need to crop it to the size of a beanie or whip it into a frenzy of exotic curls that — in another era — would have been called tawdry.

  And though she was a bit rounder than when they got married fifteen years ago, she looked appealingly sexy. As he liked to joke with her . . .

  I guess we’ll keep you around.

  The truth of it was more simple.

  Without her, he’d be lost.

  To his work, to his thoughts, to his dreams.

  To himself.

  She’s my lifeline to the planet, he knew.

  “Don’t boin the boigers!” she said. Her best imitation of a Brooklyn accent.

  An accent that he had lost somewhere between skiing in Vermont and four years of college in Massachusett
s.

  He smiled and started shoveling the meat patties onto a big metal tray.

  “Hors d’oeuvres?”

  He looked up. Sharon held her tray of pigs in blankets as if it were a gift from the Magi. She was twelve going on forever.

  The only time Will felt hopeless, defeated by life, was when he thought about the future.

  What kind of world will she and Beth get?

  It’s not just a case of it being different.

  The world had become a jungle. Dangerous, hostile, thick with vile things that could take her sweetness and squeeze it right out of her.

  We should move to fuckin’ New Zealand, he thought.

  But then — he had just read a story. They got crack there too. Some local politico helped finance a crack operation run right there, out of Christchurch.

  “Oh, cocktail wieners,” he said, gushing. “My fave.” He snatched one and tossed it into the air.

  “Dad-deee!” Sharon said, horrified by his gaucheness. But she was smiling, laughing at his trick.

  He nearly missed. But he caught the end of the mini-frank and gobbled it like a cormorant tossing back a squirming herring.

  “Dad, that’s not how you eat them!”

  “Oh, no?” he said in mock surprise.

  Sharon shook her head in disapproval.

  But Will was saved from a real scolding by Becca, calling their guests to the suddenly set picnic tables.

  And he left his post, and carried his spoils to his well-lubricated guests.

  “What do you think, Will?” It was Brian Vann again, attempting to lure him into the discussion.

  Into a discussion about a subject Will knew nothing about. He looked at Becca, feeling her eyes on him, knowing how uncomfortable he was.

  Vann recapitulated. “You see, the SEC claims insider trading, since the corporation counsel did have prior awareness of the sale. But the CEO countered with the fact that his counsel had only heard speculation about the possible sale, among a number of other possibilities. It’s a judgment call, the legal team claims. All perfectly legal.”

  Will winced. Why is he doing this? he wondered. Is he trying to embarrass me?

  “It’s way out of my field,” Will said, wiping his mouth.

  Brian was at least four Molson Goldens on his way to lugubriousness. He pressed on.

  “But that’s exactly what I mean. You’re out of the corporate rat race —”

  We all know what that means, don’t we? Will thought.

  “You’d have a good legal opinion on the matter, as an outsider.”

  Will nodded, feeling the trap close, irresistibly tight.

  Vann waited. Then he said: “So what do you say?”

  Will cleared his throat.

  Stand back everyone and hear the lowly paid, onetime idealistic public defender speak on a matter that he has no knowledge of.

  Crack I know. I knew four different ways to process the shit, a dozen ways it can be brought into the country. I know how a human mule forces the condoms full of raw cocaine into his stomach, making, for once, their dumb-ass lives finally worth something.

  And I know about guns, not that I’ve ever fired one. But I know what people in the inner city favor as a weapon — a police magnum, if they can get it. But any compact 35mm handgun will do. I know how many drunk drivers are on the road each Friday and Saturday night and how many of them are tooling around in unlicensed cars without insurance.

  I know about men who beat women and children. Every day, until something really bad happens and they sit there, shaking, talking to me.

  They got rights too, I tell myself.

  And sometimes all I want to do is blow them all to hell, all of their fucked-up, twisted lives, filled with drugs and weapons and pain and stolen cars.

  Blow ‘em the hell away.

  While I pack up my family and go . . . where?

  Not New Zealand.

  A town called Alice? Down under . . . and sinking fast. Or Ireland, where the potato famine reigns eternal? Or Japan, where the stressed-out businessmen read S&M comics like Rapeman?

  Mars. Ice Station Zebra?

  Face it, kiddies, there’s no way out of here.

  Despite what the Joker said to the Thief.

  “Well,” Will said slowly, realizing that everyone was listening for one of his infrequent excursions into the chatter of human concourse called conversation, “I think that if anybody is dealing stocks, bonds — junk or otherwise — and they have any inside information of any kind and they use it . . . well, I think that you can probably get their ass thrown in jail.”

  Will took a slug of his now putridly warm beer. He realized that there was silence.

  Wrong answer, he guessed. That wasn’t the answer that everyone was clamoring to hear.

  Brian nodded. Then, as his look of dismay melted away, he forced a big grin onto his tanned face.

  Aruba, Jamaica.

  That’s where the big bucks take ya . . .

  “Right. Sure, Will. With the right prosecuting DA, with a crackerjack government lawyer.” He paused for effect. So that everyone could realize the unlikelihood of that happening. “But with the best legal help money can buy, I don’t see how any company would have to spend more than a few minutes worrying about it.”

  “Not that we’d recommend it,” Fortier, new VP with stock options to burn, added.

  People laughed at his witticism.

  Which Will didn’t see as a witticism at all.

  He rubbed his eyes, retiring to his role as ex-chef and member of peanut gallery.

  When he took his hand off his eyes, he saw Becca looking at him, her smile small, and sad now. Knowing what he was feeling.

  Which is what? he thought. What the fuck exactly am I feeling?

  He looked at Beth playing with the other kids, tossing a Frisbee with a hole in it, running around, dashing in between the long shadows of the house.

  What am I thinking?

  That I have to do something about my life. Make some time for friends. Do things . . . play golf, racquetball, something to shake me out of my funk.

  And maybe — go on, he told himself, admit it . . . you’ve been thinking about it . . .

  Maybe ask for some corporate work on the side. Some legal stuff, a handout from Vann that would bring some extra money in the house.

  So they could upgrade one of the cars.

  Maybe finish the family room that still looked like a garage.

  He smiled back at Becca.

  Here I am, he thought.

  This is my life.

  And — for some reason — I don’t feel too happy about it …

  He got up to clear the table. Becca didn’t stop him. She understood.

  He just hoped that nobody suggested that they move inside, and let the picnic roll on into the evening.

  But like a lot of his wishes lately, that one didn’t come true either.

  * * *

  Becca combed her wet hair, pulling the brush through in smooth, gentle strokes with her head tilted to the side.

  Will picked up the remote control and flicked to the National League play-off game. It looked as if the Mets were about to go down to another loss to the Cubs. Then the series would be tied 3-3.

  “Was it terrible for you?” Becca said.

  Will grunted, kicking off his sneakers, undoing his jeans, watching Frank Viola trying to pitch his way out of what had been a disastrous inning.

  Take him out, Bud, Will urged the manager.

  Another pitch. A ball. And then — the telepathy worked as Bud Harrelson oh-so-slowly crawled out of the dugout and ambled over to Viola.

  A tad too late, Will thought.

  “Well, was it?”

  Will turned to her.

  “Was it what?”

  “Terrible. The picnic.”

  He shook his head. “No. It was fine.” Then — a look of concern —”Did something go wrong? Something happen?”

  She shook her head. Her robe sl
ipped open a bit. The kids were sound asleep, exhausted from all the playing and partying that kept them up past their bedtimes.

  He looked at Becca and was glad that this unfortunate ball game was nearly over. He considered a shower.

  “You seemed really — uncomfortable, when we were eating.”

  He turned back to the tube. Bud Harrelson called John Franco in from the bullpen. A good choice, though his relief work was a bit off these days.

  “No. It was fine. Just talk. The usual.”

  She got up. He saw her out of the corner of his eye as she walked over to him. She draped her arms over him and pressed herself close. He smelled her hair, the wonderful clean smell. She leaned up and kissed his cheek.

  “You made wonderful —”

  Another kiss.

  “Burgers.”

  He smiled.

  Franco’s first pitch was a ball.

  “Shit,” he said.

  She reached down, in front, rooting into his underwear. Will grinned. “Come on, John,” he said. “Throw something with a little action on it.”

  Her hand grabbed him, squeezing him with an authority. But now he enjoyed teasing, watching the game while she worked on him, pressing against him.

  Franco threw a strike.

  But it didn’t seem to matter anymore.

  “Hmmm,” she murmured against him. She was up on her tiptoes. She took a swipe at his ear with her tongue, tracing a wet line around the outer lobe and then down his neck.

  She pulled at him, hard, then gently, letting her fingers work an ancient magic.

  Who cares about baseball? he thought.

  He shut the tube off with the remote and turned to Becca just in time to see her slip out of her robe.

  * * *

  Later, in the dark, he turned away from her. He looked at the window, heard the rustle of the trees outside. The tiny squeaks of air trying to whistle their way into the house.

  Becca threw her arms around him and pulled herself close. Sleep came fast for her now, and — while still breathing a bit hard — Will knew that this would take him away, a perfect moment, in just an instant.

  And he lay there, suspended, detached, feeling safe and warm for the first time today.

  Loved, protected.

  God is in His universe.

  And all is well with the world.