The Devil Gave Them Black Wings

by Lee Thompson

  He shifted his weight on the merry-go-round and it made a horrible shrieking noise, and he ignored it, and thought: Where are you, baby? What has the bad man done to you?

  He shook his head. He’d told Loretta that he would not give up hope, but promises were easily made and just as easily broken.

  Richard cried, the tears coming softly at first, the uneasiness in his stomach growing, his whole body beginning to shake as he accepted the truth his wife never would—We’re not getting our daughter back, even if she survives somehow, she'll be someone else—and there was no reason for it other than some men were vile, base creatures. Richard had known that his entire life and he had his own lusts and sometimes his dreams troubled him because he knew that in his heart evil lurked as often and as gladly as it did in the hearts of any other man.

  He wiped his tears away, drank more, struggled to enjoy the peaceful night and pretend that everything was okay. And slowly, he let his imagination take him to a dark place—a room without windows, and dimly lit, where he was alone with his daughter’s abductor. He would have the man taped to a chair, and Richard would light an acetylene torch and place the flame to the man’s testicles. And he would enjoy hearing the man’s pleas for mercy, forgiveness, his incomprehensible utterings, and Richard would say to him: Did you show her mercy, my little girl? Did you?

  And he would burn the vile creature up, inch by inch, until the faceless man was little more than ash and cinder, and Richard would sit there in the incense slowly wafting from the human torch he’d created, and he’d dream that his daughter was with other children who had suffered like she had, and the place where they abided would always be warm and no one ever raised their voice, and no calamities befell them…

  I could do it, he thought, I could kill him. I might once the police find out who he is. No, I will kill him, and it isn’t going to bring our baby back to us, I know that, but it will erase him from this godforsaken place, and if there is a Judgment, a God, He will send that faceless motherfucker down deep in the pits of Hell where his agonies will only grow worse day by day.

  He set the empty bottle next to him, watched the lights go out in a house across the street—the Kunis’s house—and he thought how lucky they were to have their daughters and he wanted to tell them: Don’t let the world devour them…

  Richard watched a man walk down the street and though it was too dark to discern his features, he clearly walked with purpose, until he climbed into a nondescript SUV, either blue or black, and the man started the truck, its taillights bright, and Richard wondered: You him? The man who took my little girl?

  But he knew the man was just some poor guy who worried about work or getting drunk or getting laid. And he had a hard time feeling sorry for people like that. At least now, though he’d always been one of them, back before he knew what grief tasted like—that oily substance that coats your throat and insides, its coldness like a harsh winter storm in your soul, and it blinded you to everything else and it was hard to hope for anything when you were consumed by your loss. He rubbed his hands together, and thought, Cut them some slack, be glad for them, that they don’t have to know what you know…

  A girl crying snagged his attention, and at first Richard thought his heart might break, because he thought he’d look next to him on the merry-go-round and see Robin there, her skin bruised, her yellow dress torn in places, her mouth moving soundlessly for a few seconds as she cried silently, until her voice bubbled up in an anguished cry: Papa, why didn’t you save me?

  He closed his eyes tightly, shook his head, his shoulders so tense they felt as if they’d snap and he’d break into two men; the one he’d been last week and the man he’d become now. But slowly he realized that the girl crying was not his daughter’s ghost, and it wasn’t just something his mind had created to torment and punish him.

  Richard stood and nearly lost his balance and he cursed. His legs had fallen asleep so he stomped his feet to regain his circulation, temporarily drowning out the girl’s cries until she began to wail.

  And in the distance he could hear sirens, and as he walked to the road, and as he began to cross it, he saw Nina clutching her belly and walking in a tight circle, her head sagging, her hair hanging in front of her face.

  She stumbled, fell to all fours, clutched the lawn with both hands as if afraid to let go. Sobs wracked her body. He said her name as he stepped from the sidewalk to the lawn. “Nina,” he said again, louder.

  When she looked up he felt something crumble inside him, and he held his arms out to her and said, “Dear God, kid, come here.”

  She pushed herself up, snot running from her nose, her lips red and swollen, her eyes wet and bright in the gloom. And she wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed so tightly he could barely breathe, and she buried her head against his chest and shook against him.

  Richard thought: God, what can I do?

  He held her gently, stroked her back, and he wanted to shush her and tell her that everything would be okay but he knew it wouldn’t be. Something had happened in that house and he could hear the sirens drawing closer and see headlights speeding down the street in the distance and he said, “I’m here, honey, I’m here,” and he held her as if she were his own daughter.

  Saturday

  The following morning, after Richard Stark was there to comfort Nina the best he could, after her mother and Rick had been murdered, it took Victor and Jacob two hours to drive back down to Cleveland, Tennessee. Jacob sat quietly in the passenger seat and watched the land roll by, lush and green and beautiful. It was so similar to people, he thought; incredible and self-sustaining, yet there were pockets of darkness everywhere, places where predators roamed, ready to pounce upon and devour the unsuspecting…

  A nervousness and excitement overshadowed his idle thinking. That excitement twisted his stomach the way his first few months seeing Santana had. His left leg bounced involuntarily and he saw Victor look at his knee a few times, Victor annoyed by jittery people, believing them more dangerous and a bigger threat than the passive, stasis-like people that seemed to predominate the parts of America he knew and loved and hated.

  Yet Victor didn’t tell him to stop it, possibly knowing that Jacob couldn’t. The closer they drew to the home where Santana had grown up, the quicker his heart raced and the more he had to wipe the sweat from his brow, and the wider his smile grew.

  He figured Victor knew what a big deal it was to him. Whereas most people saw a large, dumb, intimidating figure who would use his mass and the force that mass created to get what he wanted, Jacob knew better. Victor was a soft, kind soul. Nobody would believe that by looking at him, much like they wouldn’t have believed, looking at his sister Santana, that she wasn’t some spoiled girl who used her beauty to acquire everything she wanted at the expense of rich and insecure men.

  To anyone besides Victor, finding Santana’s childhood home, and leaving half of her ashes there, might have seemed a waste of time, but Jacob knew it was something he needed. Whatever Victor thought he kept to himself, which was okay, and Jacob never asked him. He tried to imagine what it’d feel like once Victor located the house and parked at the curb. How they approached the place would depend upon if someone was living there, or if the home was abandoned.

  In town now, the sense of excitement inside Jacob overcame every one of his senses, and it made him want to weep, smelling her, tasting her, watching her, feeling her head lying against his chest as they’d slept. The house she grew up in would be different, it would not be the place she’d known, but would have been crucial in shaping her into that woman, which he found amazing, how many lives each person had living inside them.

  Victor said, “It’s not much farther.”

  “You remember exactly where it is?”

  Victor nodded. “It was an important place to my sister so it was important to me.”

  Jacob wiped his eyes, and then toyed with the rough patch of beard that for the past week had made his jawline itch. He had n
ot thought much of the beard he was growing, or the wrinkled and sour-smelling hoodie he wore, or the greasy skin beneath it, or his hair, which he hadn’t combed since being evacuated.

  He thought: After I see where she grew up I need to shower and shave. But he didn’t want to wash the hoodie. Santana had worn it countless times and it had still smelled of her up until a week ago when the sour scent of his unwashed body had overpowered it; yet there were times, when the wind hit his back just right that he could smell her again, and he lived for those moments now despite how crazy other people might believe him to be.

  They turned onto a shady, narrow street and drove slowly. The houses here were older one-story ranches, and outside those homes were an older generation of folks working in their flower beds—bent and in pain, but obviously committed to waging war on the encroaching weeds that sprung up faster than the homeowners gnarled hands could pluck them. Jacob admired their tenacity, even as they faced a losing battle against nature and time. The area looked very familiar, and Jacob felt his breath quicken, as he realized where he was and nodded to himself, remembering how Sebastian had told Jacob that he already knew where Santana had lived hadn’t he?

  So, he thought, they were one and the same. My hallucinations need to talk to me more, even if they’re fucking insane.

  Then Victor pulled into a driveway. In front of them sat a small yellow house with a matching one-car garage. The living room shades were open to let in the light and that light reflected painfully off the windows. The lawn was well-tended, the shrubbery trimmed, the roof in good shape. The chipped and weather-faded blue Mother Mary stood to the left of the porch. He looked at the small iron table where he’d imagined sitting with Sebastian within the first few minutes of meeting him.

  He said, “This is it?”

  Victor shut off the engine, said, “Come on,” and climbed out of the Lincoln.

  Jacob got out, disturbed by how badly his knees were shaking, and he followed Victor to the large bay window from which they could spy the interior. Both of them were careful to avoid trampling the yellow, white, and violet flowers. Victor put his hands to either side of his face and pressed his nose to the glass.

  Jacob remembered what the rude neighbor had said about the scary guy who owned the place. Probably an ex-con. “Should we be peeping in windows?”

  “Nobody here,” Victor said, backing up. “Come on.”

  Jacob’s fingers poked at the bag containing Santana’s ashes as he followed Victor to the front door, the concrete steps and five-by-five slab hard beneath his shoes, and Jacob knew that Victor was going to break the door to get inside and he didn’t want him to, or at least part of him didn’t. He looked at the neighboring houses and saw two old men in their seventies, both wearing hats and plaid shirts, a small table with two glasses of ice tea sitting on it between them. They waved and Jacob waved back weakly.

  Victor pushed the door open. Jacob noticed the keys in the doorknob just as the big man grinned. Jacob said, “You inherited this place.”

  “No,” Victor said. “I bought it as soon as Mom died. Come in.”

  He left the front door open. The air inside was cool and smelled slightly musty. Jacob took it all in: from the furnishings to the photographs hanging on the walls, stacks of magazines and books on the coffee table and rustic shelves hand-built onto the west wall, and an old Zenith television on a cheap particle board stand. All of it looked as if it was still lived in. Victor opened a few windows to air the house out.

  Jacob said, “You didn’t pack or discard anything.”

  Victor didn’t answer him.

  Jacob’s heart felt as if it were inching its way into his throat. He struggled to breathe, but moved easily, eagerly, to the photographs on the wall to his right. There were more than a dozen of them. Jacob saw Santana in five of them—from ages seven to perhaps sixteen. She had been just as beautiful as a child, albeit slightly chunky, the baby fat disappearing as each year aged her.

  Victor said, “I’ll grab us each a beer.”

  He walked to the back of the house and Jacob heard him open the refrigerator, heard bottles clink as he shut the door, and Jacob thought: I need to see her bedroom, even though the idea of it made his insides feel as if he was burning up with fever. The beer Victor brought him in the hall tasted so cool and refreshing he just wanted to sit in the living room and take time to soak everything in. There wasn’t any rush, was there? And he needed to savor what he could of his time there before heading home.

  Victor said, “She was quite a kid.”

  Jacob nodded. “I bet. She was quite a woman.” He finished the beer quickly and studied the photographs some more. “How come there aren’t any photographs of you?”

  Victor shrugged then sipped his beer. “Look at me,” he said, “if you were my mom would you want my picture hanging on the wall?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, she didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Victor drank more, then said, “It bothered me a lot when I was a kid. My dad was a handsome man and my mom was an attractive woman. But it doesn’t matter. Their good looks made them vain. At least I’m not vain.”

  He turned away from Jacob, who held the Ziploc bag of ashes at his side, and he walked slowly into the living room. He studied everything and Jacob watched him, unsure what to say. He gave the photographs a final once over, trying desperately to lock them into his memory forever, when behind him, Victor said, “You can have them if you want them.”

  Jacob turned. “Have what?”

  “We can pack all of her stuff today and you can have it.”

  “None of it’s mine.”

  “It was hers and she was yours.”

  He wandered into the kitchen again and returned a few seconds later with two more beers. He handed one of them to Jacob and said, “If you don’t take them they’ll just hang there for a few more decades, or if someone gets lucky and kills me they’ll get trashed in an estate sale.”

  Jacob swallowed. He did want them. He wanted every trace of Santana’s existence—especially all these things here in this house, hundreds of mementos he’d yet to see, but he said, “She wanted to come back down here so badly but I fought against her on it, tooth and nail.” He took a long drink and set the bottle on an old record player in dour condition. “I was afraid.”

  “That once she came back here she wouldn’t want to leave?”

  “Right,” Jacob said. “And I was a little afraid that I didn’t love her enough to move away from the place I loved if she gave me an ultimatum. It was already causing a rift between us—just her desire to come visit, and my desire to keep her away from the past.” He held the bag of ashes in heavy hands. It was a strange feeling, knowing that her physical being could be carried as easily as a six-pack of beer. “I should have supported her more, trusted her more.”

  Victor drank again, shifted his stance and wiped his lips. He nodded and said, “You should have. Seeing this house again would have given her some closure. We both missed our mother’s funeral. Me, I didn’t care, but Santana always regretted it.”

  “She never talked about her, and I was okay with that since I never cared to talk about my parents either. I’m not sure why it worked that way for either of us.”

  “Let it go,” Victor said, “there doesn’t have to be an answer to everything and what’s done is done.”

  Jacob sighed, partially convinced. “What do you plan to do with this house?”

  “I don’t know, it doesn’t mean anything to me personally. It’s just a house. Things happened here, both good and bad, like they do in millions of other houses…”

  He finished his second beer and Jacob thought he saw tears forming in his eyes but the big man looked away.

  He said, “Victor?”

  Victor looked at him and his massive shoulders sagged. “What?”

  “She really loved you, and so do I. You were a good brother.”

  “If you say so,” Victor said. �
��You want to look around?”

  Jacob nodded. “I’d like to see her bedroom.”

  He pointed across the living room. “Follow the hall, her room is the last on the left.”

  “Thank you,” Jacob said. He patted Victor’s shoulder as he passed him. He crossed the living room and wondered as he saw more eight-by-ten framed photographs on the wall if Victor was still thinking about how he should have been in some of them, and if it made him angry—it made Jacob angry—that he wasn’t.

  He thought as he neared Santana’s bedroom door: Victor’s probably one of the best people I know. I can see why him and Santana loved each other so much.

  Outside his true love’s closed bedroom door, he took a deep breath before lifting his right hand to the knob and entering. Santana’s bedroom had been a small one, maybe eight feet deep and ten feet wide. A twin bed with a Rainbow Bright bedspread, neatly made, where she’d slept thousands of nights before coming north, sat in the far corner. An old-fashioned alarm clock sat, still marking time, on a well-polished but antique night stand. There were posters of bands on the walls. A bookcase filled with tattered copies of Dr. Seuss, C.S. Lewis, and Arthur Conan Doyle. Random Justice League comics (which made him smile sadly) were piled upon novels by Steinbeck, King, Faulkner, and Koontz.

  He knelt in front of the bookcase and noticed, as he removed a few books, wanting to touch a part of her he’d never known, that there were notepads behind them. He paused, knowing that they were something she’d intended to keep hidden. She had always been lousy at concealment. There were three composition pads and his fingers brushed them.