The Dark and Other Love Stories

by Deborah Willis

  “Jake found you, huh?” He walked into the room with the same cup they used last night, except now it was full of coffee. He sat on the edge of the couch and gave her a sip. The coffee was creamy and sweet, the only way she liked it.

  “You into omelets?” he said. “They’re my specialty.”

  They ate sitting on the couch, sunlight streaming in the window and hurting her eyes. He talked about the future: he planned to stay on at Telus and go back to school in the evenings. He would finish high school, then apply to Langara College.

  “Maybe you want to hang out again?” he said. “What are you up to tomorrow?”

  Tomorrow. Next week. Next year. He talked about the movies they would see, the meals they would eat. He told her he liked his haircut now, that both his parents were dead, and that her eyes reminded him of the ocean, but not the ocean around here. The kind of ocean you see on postcards. “Let’s go away sometime,” he said. “Fly down to Mexico. I’d like to see you on a beach.”

  She looked out the small window above his bed at the gray sky and asked every question that came into her head. The name of his first girlfriend and how it felt to inject heroin and how modems worked. Have you ever seen anyone die? Have you ever paid for sex? Do you ever pray? Has your heart ever stopped?

  “Jesus.” He ran his hand through his bad hair. “You’re a funny one, Rachel.” But he answered everything: Yes, he’d seen his dad die and a few friends too. No, he’d never paid for sex. Maybe his heart had stopped once or twice, but he didn’t know for sure. And yeah, he used to pray every night before bed. “I was raised that way,” he said. “But then one day I got tired of talking to the sky. It’s nicer to talk to people.”

  When he’d answered every question she could think of, she kissed him—because she owed it to him, and because she wanted to. His mouth tasted like the coffee in the mug.

  “What about you?” he said, his face close to hers.

  “What about me?”

  “Do you ever pray?”

  “I used to,” she said. “But my parents aren’t religious or anything. I just did it on my own.”

  “What changed?”

  “My friend Marina’s Catholic and she took me to the cathedral. That just made everything seem complicated.”

  “What about your parents?” he said. “What are they like?”

  Her parents. They thought she was at Marina’s and wouldn’t start worrying about her until later tonight. And if she stayed here until tomorrow, next week? She would be Rachel, twenty-four years old.

  “They’re normal,” she said. “My parents. They don’t know me at all.”

  Eddie put his arm around her. “I bet they miss you.”

  Then he called Jake over so the dog would show her tricks: sit, shake, jump, dance.

  They ate leftover Chinese food, drank coffee with whiskey poured in, snacked on Corn Pops straight from the box, lay naked on Eddie’s single bed. “I could do this for a year straight,” he said. But she was telling time by when the crows flew over the city: once in the morning, once in the evening.

  After the second darkening, she put on her clothes. “I’m going out for smokes. You want anything?”

  “You smoke?” He was in the bathroom cleaning his piercing, that wound that never healed. “Maybe you can grab me a Pepsi?”

  She quietly shouldered her backpack, stepped into the hallway, and clicked the door shut behind her. She ran down the stairs to the street and nearly knocked into a woman on roller skates, a cigarette dangling from her caved-in mouth. “Watch where you’re going!” shouted the woman, pigtails flapping behind her like wings.

  Where was she going? Home. Her dad will make oatmeal; she’ll go to school; Marina will probably break up with the boy who keeps rats.

  Tomorrow. Next week. Next year. She’ll finish high school, barely passing math and biology, and will graduate without any distinction at all. Then she’ll move to Vancouver, for real this time. She’ll study at UBC but drop out after one semester, disappointing her parents forever. To make rent, she’ll lie about her experience and get a job editing internal documents for Scotiabank. She’ll use words like derivative and high-risk investment seriously when talking to coworkers and ironically when talking to friends. Like everyone else, she’ll fail to predict the financial crash. And that same year, when she really will be twenty-four, she’ll run into Eddie on the SkyTrain.

  At first she won’t recognize him—he’ll have had his teeth fixed. But then, holy shit, it’s that guy from that weekend when she was sixteen. She’ll have told the story since then, made it funny, no longer a secret. I got on the ferry with five bucks in my pocket, wearing this slutty halter top, thinking I was so badass.

  “Rachel.” Eddie will look at her and a smile will shatter his face. “How are you?”

  Who is he? What is he capable of? She’ll know he would be heavy in her life, would anchor her to the ground. And in the end, what would she call it? Gravity? Love?

  “That’s not my name,” she’ll say, even though she’ll remember the omelet he made her when she was sixteen and hungry, even though she’ll want to open her arms and hug him. “My name’s Samantha.” And it will feel like a lie. “I don’t know you.” Like giving herself a small, keen wound. “You’re thinking of somebody else.”

  The Ark

  “What is love, people?”

  —LYNN COADY, “Mr. Hope”

  I knew the answer. Pick me, pick me. I wore my Sunday dress: blue like the sky, with puffed sleeves and a lace collar. I still remember how it felt to spin in that dress, then watch it settle around me like a cloud.

  I stretched my hand so high that little grunts escaped my throat. But Miss Robb’s eyes passed over me, scanned the other children fidgeting with their fancy church clothes or picking their scabs.

  We didn’t sit in rows like in real school; we sat on the floor in a half-moon around Miss Robb. She sat in a chair, above us, ankles crossed—I remember the shimmer of her pantyhose.

  “Miss Robb,” I pleaded. “I know! I know the answer.”

  “Toby?” Miss Robb always called on Toby. “What do you think?”

  Toby’s spine straightened. Eyes widened. He was holding a plastic figurine of a giraffe, one of the animals Miss Robb used to illustrate lessons about the Garden of Eden or Noah’s ark. He squeezed the giraffe’s neck. He hadn’t heard the question.

  “Love.” Miss Robb pulled a Kleenex from the sleeve of her sweater and dabbed at her delicately runny nose. “What is love?”

  Toby shifted his weight and reached inside the hole in the knee of his pants to scratch his grass-stained skin. He must have fallen and skidded on his way to church, because he also had a bruise above one eye. He was the kid who fell out of trees, who cried often and easily, who popped wheelies in the church parking lot instead of standing calmly beside his parents and brother. He’d once punched Kipp Fitch in the stomach.

  “It’s—” Toby turned to me for help, but I kept my eyes forward. “It’s love.”

  “Love is love?” Miss Robb had a habit of thoughtfully touching her hair-sprayed bangs. Her nails were always painted pink and were never chipped. “Interesting. But where does love come from?”

  I couldn’t take it anymore. “God!” I nearly shouted. “God is love!”

  My arm dropped once the words were out. Relief at giving the correct answer. At six years old, I believed that giving correct answers was essential. Otherwise, no one—not Miss Robb, not my parents, not even God—would like me.

  “Very good.” Miss Robb gave me a tight smile. “Both of you.”

  That’s why I hated Toby. Because I was the best, and he was the worst, and yet people grouped us together like a pair on the ark.

  And it wasn’t just Miss Robb. Our families lived on the same block, so we carpooled to church, all of us crushed into the Burkes’ minivan—me seated with Toby and his older brother Jerome. Our parents socialized outside of church, visiting for barbecues on the back deck or orga
nizing what our parents called activity days. How many hours of my life did I spend in roller rinks or bowling alleys with Toby and the rest of the Burke clan? Forced to stand by while he skidded around the waxed floor in his bowling shoes and let balls thunk heavily on the wood? Our parents were busy drinking beer, so it was Jerome who had to thwack his little brother upside the head. Give it a rest, Toby. Jerome, who only threw strikes or spares.

  Even Toby himself seemed confused—he thought we were friends, when in fact we were enemies. He brought me gifts: two twists of Twizzlers he’d tied in a knot, a purple stone he’d found in a park, an eraser in the shape of a troll. He would slip these into the pocket of my blue Sunday dress so subtly that I wouldn’t notice until I got home, pulled off the dress, and the offerings dropped to the floor and glared at me. I wanted to throw them out but instead hid them under my bed, tucked beneath a corner of the carpet that had lifted away.

  The worst was Story Time, when Toby sat next to me, too close. We were all at Miss Robb’s feet, in that half-moon, as she read to us from her Illustrated Bible. She rested it on her knee so we could see the panels: Mary and Joseph surrounded by lambs and donkeys, or Jesus walking on placid water, or the angel Gabriel floating like a helium balloon.

  Story Time should have been one of my happiest moments. I loved the illustrations, I loved the musicality of Miss Robb’s voice, and I loved the expectation of what came next: we would all file out of the Sunday school room and into the main church, past the tidy wooden pews, toward Pastor Guthrie. His white mustache had two yellow stripes that extended from his nostrils—the discoloration came from smoking cigarettes, but I believed that God had bestowed a golden mustache upon him to match the cross that gleamed behind the altar. All the children would kneel in front of him and he would place a light hand on each of our heads. What can I say about Pastor Guthrie? Only that he was genuine—his blessing made you feel safe. Then the service would be over, and we would get to have cookies.

  But all of that was ruined because Toby sat next to me during Story Time and he smelled like Bazooka gum, like the gel his mother combed through his hair, like a sweater left out in the rain.

  He even ruined my favorite story, the one about Joshua and Caleb, who were rewarded for their faithfulness while everyone else was punished for their wickedness.

  If the Lord is pleased with us, he will lead us into that land, a land flowing with milk and honey, and will give it to us.

  Toby tapped my shoulder but I kept my eyes on the illustration, on Caleb’s outstretched arm. I nudged him away, but he tapped again. And again. When I glanced toward him, I was confused—Toby held a small animal in his hand, something soft and tender. Defenseless. Then I understood: he had unzipped his fly. He was holding his penis.

  I gasped, turned away. Focused on Miss Robb’s nylons.

  Because my servant Caleb has a different spirit, and follows me wholeheartededly.

  I held that word in my mind, the way I used to hold Kraft caramels in my mouth, hoping they would never dissolve. Wholeheartedly. It sounded right, sounded pure, sounded perfect. I would live my life—I decided it then—wholeheartedly.

  How old were we when we built those small replicas of Noah’s ark? Miss Robb was still Miss Robb, not yet Mrs. Lopez, so we must have been nine or ten. Miss Robb said, “Leanna, you’ll work with Toby.”

  “Yes, Miss Robb.” I hoped my voice conveyed my dismay but also my forbearance, my charity. Toby was beside me—we must have been younger, only seven or eight, because he still wore that suit with the hole in the knee.

  “Please get started,” said Miss Robb to the class. “I’ll be back in a few moments.”

  We were left to make arks out of construction paper, popsicle sticks, markers, swatches of fabric. There was so much that didn’t need to be said: that we should gather our materials, then sit quietly and work. That once we finished our arks, they would be displayed in the classroom and admired by our parents. And that my ark would be the best.

  “What should we use?” I picked up a swatch of material, blue to match my dress. “For the sails.”

  “The ark had sails?” said Toby.

  I couldn’t believe his stupidity. “It was a boat.”

  “Not all boats have sails.” Toby picked up a pair of scissors that were gummy with glue and flashed them in front of my eyes. “Ferries have motors.”

  I began gathering popsicle sticks, sheets of paper. “Fairies don’t exist.”

  “Do so. I’ve been on one.”

  I clenched my fists, accidentally crumpling the blue paper. “Noah’s ark had sails.”

  Toby grabbed a chunk of my hair, and, with those gummy scissors, cut an inch off the end. My hair. I’d washed it that morning, brushed it thirty-six times per side. Tears rushed to my eyes. But I did not, would not, give him what he wanted—a reaction. I continued to gather popsicle sticks, squeezing them until my hands hurt.

  “We’ll build the body out of these.” My throat thick. “Because the Bible says Noah used wood.”

  “Fine.” Toby seemed to deflate like a week-old balloon. “You start, okay? I’ll be right back.”

  “Where are you going?” As if I cared.

  Toby snapped the scissors at my face, but when I flinched, he only laughed. “None of your beeswax,” he said.

  At our wedding, people hugged us and cried. Such a beautiful couple, people said, pressing their damp cheeks to my face, smudging my makeup. You two are just perfect.

  Toby and I sat at the head table, held hands under the tablecloth. His grip warm, familiar, nearly crushing the bones of my fingers. When people tapped their glasses, a soft tinkling sound that rose like a tide, we would lean toward each other and kiss, sometimes for longer than seemed proper.

  But why didn’t my memories match anyone else’s? It was as though they believed we’d always been these people—as though I’d worn a white dress my whole life, as though Toby had never been a bruised and bruising boy, had never smelled weird, had never scared and annoyed me.

  Only Jerome made sense. He swayed in front of the microphone during his speech, slurred about how much Toby and I used to hate each other.

  “All three of us would be in the back of my parents’ van,” he said. “Them on either side of me. They’d fight the whole way, didn’t matter where we were going. Leanna would tell Toby to quit staring at her. Toby would tell Leanna to shut her ugly mouth. Leanna would tell him he was ugly. Toby would say, Good one. Leanna would get all righteous and say he better be respectful or she’d tell. Tell who? Toby would say. Jesus?”

  When Toby left the room, the air shifted—an exhalation, a settling of molecules. I inspected my hair. He hadn’t cut enough that anyone would notice, so I decided not to tell my parents. The last time I’d told on him—when Toby pinched my arm so hard it left a welt—Jerome dragged him to our house and shoved Toby through our doorway.

  “What do you say?” Jerome stood behind Toby, arms crossed. He was four years older, impossibly grown-up. “Come on. We don’t have all day.”

  Toby looked so small in his torn suit.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “It didn’t hurt that bad.”

  “Toby has something to tell you,” said Jerome. “And we will stand here until he opens his mouth and says it.”

  So we did. Stand there. Toby started to cry, gulping tears that he tried to swallow. He sounded like a drowning victim, but Jerome didn’t put an arm around him or pat his back. Jerome already had power in his body, sureness about the way he placed his feet. From then on, when I prayed, I envisioned God looking exactly like Jerome—tall and blond, with a face that seemed to be made of finely cut glass. Even my parents, who stood in the entryway, were somehow frozen in place, unable to stop this display.

  Toby finally choked out the word, “Sorry.”

  “What was that?” said Jerome. “I don’t think I heard you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Toby said, louder.

  “I know.” I only wanted it to st
op. “It’s okay.”

  Jerome looked at me, a brief stare that stilled me. “What else, Toby?”

  Toby took a breath. “And it will never happen again.”

  Then he turned and ran from our house, tore up the street. Jerome nodded to us, and my parents spoke to him as though he were an adult: “Well, thank you for coming by,” and “We’ll see you on Sunday?”

  I couldn’t live through that again. It had left me shaken for weeks, unable to hate Toby with my usual purity and heat, my usual wholehearteness. And it had made me clumsy and nervous around Jerome. He was the usher at the church, trusted with keys to the front door, tasked with arriving early and greeting parishioners as they arrived. Now I tripped on the church steps when I saw him, became tongue-tied when he handed out the week’s bulletin. And when our families went skiing together, Jerome holding my mittened hands and helping me to balance on the bunny hill, I kept crossing my skis and landing in the snow. I could barely pull the thin mountain air into my lungs.

  So I tucked my hair behind my ear, and set to work glue-gunning popsicle sticks together. I don’t remember how long I worked, only that when Toby came back I’d burnt the ends of my fingers and had nearly completed the bones of the boat. He stood beside me and I could feel the reverberations of his body: he was breathing hard, keyed up.

  “Leanna.” He tugged on the sleeve of my dress. “Come see something.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Leanna.”

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  I’d never heard Toby say please before. And even when Jerome or their father was nearby, I’d never seen Toby look so scared. So I let him take my hand, pull me from the Sunday school room, down the hallway.

  He brought me to a door I’d never noticed before, a door that opened to a dark staircase. We walked slowly down the stairs and I saw that it was a basement like at home, like every basement I’d ever seen. Full of crap nobody wanted to deal with—old stained coffee cups and rolled-up altar cloths and bank boxes held shut with stiff, crackly tape. This was probably my first disappointment with the church, my first moment of doubt: this building was no better than any other.