The Comfort of Black

by Carter Wilson

  Hannah stood, almost wanting her father to come alive, to attack her, in the same inexplicable way a person stands on the edge of a tall building and feels tempted to jump.

  But Billy moved no more. Even if he was still barely alive, Hannah knew he was not a threat.

  Then he said something. Maybe he opened his eyes and saw Hannah’s feet. Maybe he sensed her nearby. Or maybe he was talking to God, telling Him it was a shame they would never meet.

  Whatever he said, Hannah didn’t understand him. And she didn’t care.

  “You aren’t my father,” she told him. Hannah then raised the gun and pointed it at the back of Billy’s head. When she fired, the sound made her jump, but only a little. The gun kicked in her hand, but not enough to make her miss. The back of Billy’s head came apart, but from Hannah’s viewpoint, he still looked like the man he’d always been.

  EPILOGUE

  YEAR 5

  The brim on Hannah’s sun hat orbited her head, shielding sunlight that was bright but not particularly intense. A summer thunderstorm had rolled through last night, leaving the lake sprawled in front of her a little more full and the trees surrounding it more lush in their greens. The hills around the lake always made her think of Washington this time of year, the shades of green ranging from the lightest of teas to the dark skin of a ripe avocado. But not as lush as Washington. Nor did these hills have the density of the Washington woods, where one hundred yards deep was enough to make you forget from which direction you’d come. It had been a long time since Hannah had been in the Washington woods.

  She pushed her sunglasses up along the ridge of her nose. She wore sunglasses the same way the Lone Ranger wore a mask: all the time, and for the sake of anonymity.

  “Volete altro?” The man’s voice was on her right, and Hannah looked up at the waiter. His olive skin was pitted from acne scars, and his deep black hair swept back tight against his head. He carried a small silver tray that he balanced expertly on his hand as if it were simply an extension of his body.

  “No. Solo il conto, per favore,” she said.

  “Bene.” He nodded and offered the slightest of bows, then handed her a small piece of paper that listed the cost for an espresso and a small piece of torta caprese. He then left her alone, and Hannah knew she could stay here for hours more if she wanted. Here, there was never a hurry, not even during the summer when tourists swelled the cafés. Here, there was only time.

  They knew her at this café, one of the few places Hannah allowed herself to become known, even if the person she was known as was a Canadian woman by the name of Sylvia Genout.

  She had coffee here almost every day. Black always had a pastry. The torta was half-eaten on the plate, chocolate crumbs dotting the white porcelain plate, the silver fork upside down on the tablecloth. Black had been distracted by something interesting enough to lure him from cake.

  “Mama, look,” the boy called out. He was twenty feet away, on his hands and knees atop the sand-red flagstone that swept in a large arc along the top of the cliff. The café looked down onto Lago di Varese, which always looked to Hannah like the kind of water that would never be captured as beautifully in a photo as it looked through one’s eyes. Her small villa was nearby.

  “What is it?” she asked her son.

  Her boy was peering down at something. He turned his head back to her. “A bug! A big one.”

  Hannah stood and walked over. She could tell it was indeed a large insect, about as long as one of her boy’s fingers.

  “Not too close, Black,” she said.

  But Black only leaned in closer, peering at the bug through squinted eyes. He reached out with his right hand, his index finger pointed out.

  “Don’t touch,” Hannah said, her tone leaving no room for Black to ignore. He pulled his hand back.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Hannah looked down and felt a mild revulsion at the creature. She had never cared for bugs. It looked almost like a large cockroach, but its back legs were longer than the front ones, so the insect sloped forward. Long, spiny antennae probed in front of its head, feeling, sensing. The creature was otherwise still.

  “I don’t know,” she said to her son.

  “Can it hurt me?”

  “No,” she reflexively answered. Then, not wanting to give Black a false sense of security, added, “I don’t think so.”

  She reached down and touched the top of the boy’s hair, his thick black hair warm from the sun. His arms and neck were tanned from hours in the Mediterranean sun, and his skin had the smoothness of a child still too young for permanently scraped knees and elbows, though that would surely come.

  He craned his head and looked up at her, and she felt herself nearly gasping as he looked at her. It happened from time to time, seemingly more so the older he got. Black had the exact pale green eyes as his namesake, a color that would have blended into the summer foliage surrounding the lake. There were moments where the look just hit Hannah, took her breath away for a moment, as if she was looking at the child-ghost of the man she had only known for a few weeks, five years ago.

  “Can I bring it home?”

  “No, sweetie. The bug doesn’t want to come home with us. I’m sure it wants to go back to its own home tonight.”

  “Where does it live?”

  “I’m sure the bug has a nice apartment nearby. Maybe down by the shore. Probably has TV and everything.”

  “Really?”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  Hannah leaned down and kissed the back of her son’s head, which smelled like lavender from the shampoo she bought at the small grocery store in Biandronno. She ran her fingers one more time through his hair and then went back to her table, leaving Black in his rapt and seemingly mutual fascination with his new friend.

  She took one last sip of her espresso, which had cooled but still tasted perfect, a rich, smooth cream on her tongue. She drank too much of it since moving here, but she hadn’t had a sip of alcohol since she’d disappeared five years ago, so she allowed herself a few minor vices. The first three months without booze had been the worst, and she realized why rehab programs were often ninety days.

  Life wasn’t perfect, nor had she expected it to be. Certainly she had enough money not to have to find other resources, though that didn’t mean she could live anything but a conservative existence. She’d had to move four times in five years. Being alone with two broken fingers, assuming a new identity, and giving birth to a child was a confluence of events she could never imagine wishing on anyone. And still she ran, because that was what Black had told her to do. Never let down your guard. Never assume you’re safe.

  A bird effortlessly rode a breeze over the edge of the cliff, making it look much more regal than what it was: a dirty pigeon.

  Hannah hadn’t checked the news, turned on a TV, or been online during the first month of her disappearance. That was the first thing Black had written in the volume of advice on his phone. Establish connections to no one or nothing for at least the first month. Don’t go online. Don’t use a phone. No bank. No ATM. No credit cards. Take out enough cash to last. Don’t go out at night where you could meet someone. Be no one. Be invisible. Untraceable.

  She hadn’t planned on having broken fingers during the time of her disappearance, and the pain had been constant. She’d bought some splints at a drugstore and had dieted on Motrin for a month as she tried to heal them herself. The bones fused slightly off-center, so now Hannah dealt with swollen joints and limited motion from those digits. Someday—maybe soon—she’d have a doctor break and reset them.

  On the thirty-second day of her disappearance, Hannah chanced an Internet cafe in Bruges and opened the world before her for the first time as a new woman. She Googled “Hannah Parks” and was stunned to see the first article that appeared.

  It had been dated two weeks earlier. She had frantically clicked the link and read the story as fast as she could, then a second time, and then slowly for a third.


  There was not much to it. Justine had walked into Dallin’s office one day after lunch, alone and unannounced. Dallin had apparently told his assistant it was fine, since clearly they knew each other. He shut his office door, and less than a minute later there was a shout and then a bang. Seconds later another one. Security broke open the locked door and found Dallin dead on the floor, a single shot to the chest. Justine lay to his side, her head bleeding from the second shot, the gun inches away from her fingertips on the floor. She had left a note behind at home declaring that Connor was Dallin’s son and Justine was truly very sorry, and nothing more.

  The blood from Billy ran through Justine, and on that day it had boiled enough within her that she could take it no more. Without thinking of her children, Justine took her own life after killing Dallin.

  Hannah had consumed as much information as she could that day at the computer, staying no more than two hours to avoid calling attention to herself. She read article after article. There was no mention of Justine rescuing Dallin from the motel, though clearly she must have. Hannah saw the story clearly in her own mind. Dallin loved his boy, but he didn’t love Justine. He probably wanted joint custody of the child, or, perhaps, full custody, but did not want to marry her. She had no one left, and in her anger and desperation, she took his life and then her own.

  That’s how Hannah saw it, and though it was senseless, it was the only explanation that made sense. The media came to a similar conclusion, and this blossomed into suspicion that perhaps the missing Hannah Parks had in fact been murdered as a result of a jealous sister, a straying husband, and a father with a violent past.

  Good, Hannah had thought. Let them all think I’m dead.

  She had visited several different Internet cafes for the following week, each no more than an hour a day, wiping the cache and history from the computer each time she left.

  She cried quietly when she read a brief interview with Hannah’s neighbor Cynthia, the one Hannah had asked Justine to let take care of Zoo. Zoo was doing quite well, even though he didn’t have the same apartment space he’d been accustomed to. There was even a picture, which shattered her. She missed that dog so goddamn much.

  In everything she read, Hannah found no mention of Jill, the web slut/waitress. To the woman’s credit, she apparently never said a word to anyone. Jill was probably still up in Silverson, unaware of any news, slinging drinks to anonymous passers-through, wondering if Black was ever going to walk through the bar doors again.

  The moment Hannah realized she could not go back home, she had stopped reading or watching the news. Because in her mind, if she saw enough of a crack of hope she would go claim custody of her nephews. Of leaving everything, nothing was more painful than knowing she couldn’t go back to those parentless boys. It was an easy fantasy to assume she would be cleared of all suspicion, a fantasy that played around in her mind when she was too tired being on the defensive every second of the day. But she had done too many things to make a return possible. Yes, she had the video of her time in the cabin, a video that would explain what had happened, to explain why her prints and strands of her hair were found near the bodies of an escaped felon and of her father. But there were other things, things like a burned body in the woods that might eventually be traced to her. Things like false passports. Things like access to eight million dollars in that account.

  Hannah knew she might never go to jail, but she would never be given custody of her nephews. In that case, there was no point in returning. Dallin had a sister in New Hampshire who had reportedly requested custody of both boys. Her name was Chelsea, and Hannah had always liked her. Chelsea had always given tight, embracing hugs. Hannah didn’t know her well, but she imagined the boys would be safe—and thrive—with Chelsea. Dallin’s will left everything to Chelsea in the event both he and Hannah were dead, so Chelsea would be able to raise the boys comfortably. Very comfortably.

  A seagull landed on the patio and inched closer to the bug her boy was still guarding over. The bird bobbed its head and stutter-stepped closer, its eyes black, unblinking beads.

  “Go away,” Black said. He shielded the bug with hands that wavered a few inches above it. Black shouted again, louder. “He’s mine! You can’t eat him.”

  “Aidan, it’s okay,” Hannah said. She rarely called her son Black in public. That was a special name, a name she always wanted to know, a name forever connecting father and son. In public, though, he was Aidan, which was the real name of the boy’s father. She never looked at the file on the phone with Black’s real name, not wanting to know the man by any name except the one he’d introduced himself with. But finding out was unavoidable in all the articles she had read. Once Black’s body was identified, his name was tied to several of the stories about Hannah. Black’s real name was Aidan Hainsworth. Former cop, then convicted murderer. So her son had a namesake in both Aidan and Black, but Hannah would always know—and remember—the man as Black.

  The third body discovered that day was about a mile from the cabin. It was the body of Samuel Light—a.k.a. Peter—an ex-con with an I.Q. of one-sixty and a penchant for securities fraud. Hannah thought about Peter every now and then, the hulking man who had stayed around to make sure Black and Hannah escaped safely, only to end up getting shot by the man he originally worked for. Another life lost to Billy. Hannah thought about Peter’s dream to move to Mendoza, Argentina and run a vineyard. If she still drank, Hannah would happily raise a glass of Malbec in Peter’s honor.

  For the first three years, Hannah didn’t know if she could keep running. More than once she came close to turning herself in, to getting on a plane, going home, and just seeing what would happen. Other times she had come within a cap-twist of drinking again. On a very rare occasion she thought about walking straight into a lake and never coming out. The first years were the worst, but she had always stopped just short of each of those decisions because of her son. Her life wasn’t ever going to be normal, but Black deserved the best she could offer. So she had to keep trying.

  Hannah kept looking at her boy. He was all she had, and she would never give him up. She wouldn’t give up anything, anymore, ever. She had given up too much, and all that remained was hers to keep.

  She wondered if she would tell her son about her past. Tell him about who she used to be, who his father was. Who Billy was, and what happened to him.

  No was usually the answer she heard in her head.

  Billy didn’t need to be spoken about. His name didn’t deserve the effort of muttering it. She hadn’t even had the Billy Dream in over a year, so, like her past, everything was becoming a distant memory, the kind of memory that bled into the realm of maybe-it-never-happened. Occasionally, Black would throw a horrible tantrum, the kind involving the lashing out with fists and feet. All kids had such moments, she knew, but when it happened to Black, Hannah saw flashes of her father in her son, and she feared Black had inherited Billy’s dark rage, despite Justine’s declaration that Hannah was not Billy’s daughter. Other times Black would do something so kind or even simply innocent that Hannah knew in her heart her boy had none of Billy’s blood in him.

  Such were the scales of Black’s childhood, tipping ever so slightly one way and then to the other, and only time would truly tell what kind of man Black would grow up to be. All Hannah could do was raise her son with limitless love, compassion, and patience. And hope for the best.

  Hannah sighed and looked at her watch. It was just past seven in the evening, late for espresso and cake, but too early for dinner. Tonight, as most nights, they would have a simple dinner at home. There would be two books at bedtime, one in English and one in Italian, and Black would sleep deeply next to her as she lost herself a bit deeper in her own book. Tonight she would finish The Great Gatsby, one she had read twice before. This time, she felt Daisy Buchanan’s loneliness so achingly that every word spoken by her in the book could have come from Hannah’s own mouth.

  Tomorrow she would begin again. One sunrise at a time, h
oping the brightness of the day would set them free and not expose them like roaches caught in the open by a kitchen light.

  A bruise-gray cloud passed in front of the sun. Hannah was jolted by the sensation of looking out her window onto Puget Sound, waiting for the dark to come. Hating the in-between when the sun was rolling through the last moments of its day. Of longing for the certainty of night.

  It would be dark here soon enough.

  “Aidan, time to go,” she said.

  Black looked over and asked one more time if he could keep the bug.

  Hannah said no.

  Black frowned, looking for a moment as if he was going to argue, but said nothing. Then he looked back down at the bug, which hadn’t moved the entire time, and tilted his head as he considered it. As the cloud passed and the sunlight once again warmed her face, Hannah watched her boy. She felt her body tense as she suddenly envisioned Black deciding to stomp on the bug, smearing it against the ground. That’s what Billy would have done. A young Billy would have played with the creature until he got bored, then he would have killed it.

  Instead, Black stood, said something to the bug, then ran over to his mother, laughing.

  “I told him I could come back tomorrow and play with him some more,” he said.

  Hannah exhaled and brought her boy close into her, holding him, running her fingers through his thick hair, and then bending down and kissing the top of his head.