Scared of the Dark

by Easton Vaughn

  “James? Listen to me.”

  “I’m counting to ten,” Merritt continued, returning his gaze to Shepherd. “You tell Dmitri to come out in the open. If he doesn’t, I swear to you I’m gutting this motherfucker. Then I’ll start working on Wood. Slide my hand right down his bitch shorts and cut the head off that garter snake.”

  Mosley, down on his knees, groaned.

  Haywood sniffled beside him.

  Shepherd said, “I assure you, James, I’m alone.”

  “One…two…three…”

  “James, please.”

  “Four…five…six…”

  “Will you stop a moment and listen to reason?”

  “Seven…eight…nine…”

  “I escaped,” Shepherd said. “Killed several of Dmitri’s men and came back here on my own.”

  “Ten.”

  Merritt’s eyes narrowed to slits and he lowered his head like a dog on the cusp of charging and glowered at Shepherd, ignoring the old man’s, “No,” and slicing his blade through the cartilage of Mosley’s left ear. Damn near lopped the whole thing off.

  Mosley fell away and writhed in the dirt and screamed and grabbed at the side of his head.

  Haywood moved to comfort him but Merritt yanked Wood back by the scruff of his undershirt. “I’ll continue carving these motherfuckers up until Dmitri comes out,” he told the Shepherds.

  They had their mouths open but weren’t speaking.

  Even in the chaos, Merritt heard the stir of dry leaves, the crack of ground branches snapping. He released Haywood’s collar and gripped the knife tighter and stood up tall at the ready.

  Rather than an imposing black blur a dirty white boy shambled down the footpath and settled in the glade near Shepherd. Just the two of them. That quickly Merritt’s vision was jolted back to clarity.

  Dirty White Boy said, “Did someone call for a doctor?”

  More calm than Merritt could even pretend to have at this moment. He called up some spit and swallowed it.

  Shepherd shuffled forward another foot. “You’re hurt, James. Your skin’s going gray. Unless you’re looking to reunite with Miss Amelia, you should let this man help you.”

  Merritt shook his head and licked his lips.

  “If you refuse his care,” Shepherd said, “at least let him tend to Mosley. That ear doesn’t look good.”

  “Please,” Haywood begged from the ground.

  Merritt finally found his voice. “You and this dirty white boy BFFs now, Shepherd?”

  “We discovered we have some things in common,” Shepherd admitted.

  “Love for a certain light-skinned beauty?”

  There was something in the old man’s eyes. Merritt glanced at the dirty white boy—something there as well.

  Merritt squinted and looked in the near distance, called, “Lemon? You out there, bitter fruit? Hiding behind an oak? Ready to spring out and take me down? Delilah to my Samson?”

  “Please, stop,” Shepherd whispered.

  “Bitter fruit…bitter fruit…come show me that smooth peel, bitter fruit.”

  “Please,” Shepherd said.

  Merritt couldn’t remember ever hearing the old man beg. “Come out, bitter fruit. I’m craving that sour pulp.”

  “Lemon’s dead,” Dirty White Boy said, trembling.

  That sobered Merritt. “What?”

  “Dead because of you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “An episode we don’t have the strength to revisit,” Shepherd said. “Just know that she’s gone.”

  Merritt didn’t quite know how to respond to this latest bit of news.

  “I’m going to help this man,” Dirty White Boy said, nodding at Mosley.

  “Did the old man tell you about his time in Brazil?” Merritt asked, speaking softly. “The great beauty he met and fell in love with while he was there? The darkest, blue-black skin he’d ever seen? So black it could overwhelm a glass of milk?”

  “We’ll have plenty of time to talk,” Dirty White Boy said, something menacing in his voice. “Right now I need to—”

  “He has a tendency to speak fondly of the time,” Merritt said, cutting him off. “But he always leaves out the best part. How he left my mother, Anuli, swollen with me and so poor she had to do unspeakable things to provide us food, clothing, and shelter. I remember her tipping out at night the moment I closed my eyes. Right from the start I knew about the room she used. Hidden up a narrow staircase between two shops. Room was a cross between a prison and a hostel. Bare concrete floors. Little cot she laid on in display for the men who came to her door to decide if she was the flavor they desired that evening. When I was fifteen I went there. They had a guy at the bottom of the stairwell on a stool that had to let you pass. He had a crooked smile on his face when I walked up. I was prepared to fight him if he didn’t let me go up, but… My mother showed no surprise when she looked up and found me standing at her door. She calmly suggested I visit with Cida, the girl in the last door at the end of the corridor. I did.”

  “I made a mistake,” Shepherd said. “I’ve atoned for it.”

  Merritt said, “By whose count?”

  “I’ve looked out for you, son,” Shepherd replied. “Covered for you. Sheila. And now Candace and Miss Amelia…Jesus. I can’t make excuses for you any longer, James. You’ve gone too far, son.”

  Dirty White Boy, surprise on his face as he looked at Merritt, said softly, “You’re Shepherd’s son?”

  Merritt smiled and didn’t answer. It wasn’t a question, really. Haywood turned and looked up at him. Mosely stopped squirming on the ground for a moment and studied him, as well.

  “Surprise, surprise,” Merritt said to no one in particular.

  “My Lord, my Lord.” Haywood.

  “Okay, boy,” Merritt said. “You can have Mosley. Do your magic and nurse him back to health. But I get Shepherd as a trade.”

  “You’re in no position to barter,” Dirty White Boy said, smiling. “You’re fading fast, my friend.”

  Merritt snatched Haywood, the closest one to him, and moved to cut a smile in his throat.

  “No, James. No.” Shepherd held his arms out in front of him, wrists touching as though shackled. “There’s no need to do that. I’ll accept the trade.”

  Haywood was trembling, tears in his eyes. The dirty white boy stood silent. Mosley moaned again.

  Merritt said, “Step over there,” motioning where he wanted Shepherd to settle.

  Shepherd did as directed.

  “All yours,” Merritt said, shoving Haywood’s back. The dirty white boy rushed to catch him before he hit the ground, eased him down gently.

  “Let’s come to some sort of level ground once and for all,” Shepherd was saying as Merritt approached him. The old man looked up just as Merritt eased—yes, eased—the blade into his gut just below the ridge of his ribs and gave it an upward thrust. Shepherd made no sound other than a muted grunt. His arms were surprisingly strong as they wrapped around Merritt’s waist. There was a moment’s pause before he dropped to a knee, his face buried in his son’s stomach.

  “Jesus, no,” Haywood called.

  Merritt turned Shepherd so the others could see. The old man shivered and took Merritt back to a different time. The boom of mortar strikes and rising white-gray clouds. A musty wool blanket draped over his shoulders. Warm urine dribbling down his leg. Dirty white boys and charred black boys calling out for their mothers. Even those who whored themselves in tiny rooms in Brazil.

  “Once more for good measure,” he said, tugging the blade from Shepherd’s chest, smiling.

  The pain bloomed a split second later, before Merritt could stab the old man a final time. He stumbled backward a step. He touched his forehead. Fingers came back wet and stained the color of sweet red berries. He opened his mouth to speak, weak and faltering, but any words he might’ve managed were stolen as something else plunked him—hard in the chest, directly over his heart, a blow that took away his brea
th and his feet out from under him. Lying on his back suddenly, he tried to make out the rain as it fell. He couldn’t. It was much too fine. A mist, really.

  Then, a moment later, Noah was standing over him. Merritt noticed the slingshot in the little boy’s hand. “You tagged me with rocks?” he asked Deborah’s son.

  Noah nodded.

  “Awful thing to do to your big brother,” Merritt said, hearing his own voice, as frail as the rain. “I can’t seem to get up now.” He shook his head. “Fucking rocks; I can’t believe it.”

  He chuckled, thinking of how he’d spared the little man when he did what had to be done with Miss Amelia. Oddly, even now, the end so near, Merritt didn’t regret the decision. Wouldn’t regret it when the fiery flames of hell boiled off his skin and singed his bones, either.

  He fumbled his fingers on the soft ground, searching for the knife, not as a weapon but as a means to an end. Better this was self-inflicted. Perhaps that last bit of honor would smooth his wrinkles and fade his spots when he stood before the real Shepherd in the hour of judgment.

  He wasn’t able to recover the knife, though.

  The long barrel of a rifle swung in shadow above him. The business end settled against his forehead. He looked up into the dirty white boy’s eyes. Saw the quiet rage in them but how steady he was. “Lemon’s really gone?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Dirty White Boy said, no quaver in his voice.

  “I’m sorry,” Merritt replied, and he was.

  “Me, too,” Dirty White Boy said.

  And then the too-close rifle barked, “Doong!” and something surprising descended upon Merritt.

  Total black.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  A moment later, the man named Haywood said, “I know about triage. Will you start with Mosley’s ear or Shepherd’s chest?”

  “Mosley’s ear,” Aiden replied, still holding the warm rifle. Noah standing, unflinchingly, over Merritt’s body. Aiden reached out and moved the little boy away. He offered no resistance.

  “Noah, come sit with Uncle Haywood while Aiden here works on Mister Mosley and Shepherd.”

  “Just Mosley,” Aiden whispered.

  “I figured you—”

  “Shepherd’s gone.”

  “No,” Haywood said. He stood there and stared at the old man for a long stretch.

  “I’ll need water,” Aiden said, after some time. “To flush Mosley’s cut. A wet rag, to apply pressure.”

  “Shepherd,” Haywood moaned.

  “That’s done,” Aiden said. “Mosley really needs stitches. I have the boat. We could be back at the mainland in—”

  “You’ll have to make do with whatever we have,” Haywood said, interrupting him.

  “That’s foolish. After everything that’s happened?”

  “This is our home, Aiden.”

  “Mmm.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  Aiden sighed. “Actually, I do.”

  Haywood smiled and Aiden noted it wasn’t the smile of an evil man. It was a smile of stark sadness. A smile Aiden had seen before, in a mirror. Haywood said, “Water and a wet rag?”

  “That’ll do.”

  But the tall thin man didn’t move. He looked down at his feet, shy almost. Aiden asked him what the problem was. “I feel terrible asking—considering what we’ve done to you—but I have a favor to ask.”

  “Okay.”

  “Once Mosley’s settled…I assume you’ll be riding back to the mainland.”

  “I will.”

  “We need supplies.”

  “Go with me. The boat’s yours.”

  “I can do that. But I can’t risk being seen. I was hoping you would…”

  “What? Go to the local Wal-Mart for you while you wait behind?”

  “Tar-jay is fine, too,” Haywood said, doing his best to smile again.

  Aiden shook his head. “This is a story I’ll tell my grandkids.”

  “Everything except how to get here, I hope.”

  Aiden looked over at the old man, lying in a heap on the ground; in his death, he was quiet as a thought. “Shepherd told me that the word ‘paradise’ was originally used for an orchard in Persia. Written in the Septuagint as the Garden of Eden. Like a heaven.”

  “Sounds like something Shepherd would know,” Haywood said softly.

  “We’ll have to take a”—Aiden paused—“circuitous route back. I have a feeling there might be another bad man waiting for someone to land.”

  “The Dmitri character Merritt was yelling about?”

  Aiden nodded.

  “Something else for us here to worry about.”

  “He’s a rough man. He’ll come for you at some point.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Meanwhile, when we get back, if you get some water and Djarum Blacks for me, I’ll watch your back like it’s an episode of Oprah.”

  Aiden frowned. “What does that even mean?”

  Haywood waved it off.

  They didn’t speak on the boat ride back. It took Aiden several hours to walk to the nearest town, grab the listed supplies with a soggy twenty Haywood gave him—“last penny to my name”—and clomp his way back to Haywood’s hidden spot in the woods. He refused to hitchhike.

  He dropped two plastic bags filled with supplies in the boat and clasped Haywood’s hand in his own and squeezed. Still no words were spoken.

  None needed to be.

  And that, to Aiden, was the greatest miracle to have occurred since his ride down a dark country road.

  He thought on it as he walked down another.

  The Fall of Our Discontent

  Lemon still visited his dreams, and more often than not he told her he was sorry, that she was right, and that he had been foolish to believe he could actually save her. She never responded. But she was with him this September morning, months after what happened on the island, whispering encouragement in his ear as he sat on a tree-lined street in Brookline, about a twenty-minute walk from Harvard Medical School and its gray hospital buildings and bleating emergency vehicles.

  He had his engine running, the old Honda he’d picked up for three hundred bucks throbbing like a stubbed toe. It was the only car on the lot worse than his lost ancient BMW. Some kind of love at first sight. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he was startled by his reflection. A coarse beard covered most of his face as well as his neck. Yet beneath the wild hair there was a rosy glow in his cheeks. His face had filled out some. His eyes were bright. “Healing,” the familiar voice said softly in his ear.

  He nodded and focused on the apartment across the street from where he was parked. It had been months since he’d been inside but its memory burned on like an electric candle. The first bedroom on the left down the short hall just beyond the living room—small, round in shape, a fake fireplace and a window that, though it looked out on a brick wall, always offered him a glimpse, in his imagination, at least, of the Trader Joe’s a few blocks over and the world beyond. Many nights he’d sat on the bed pushed against the wall just beneath the window thinking about the future. Never had he envisioned it as being anything but swollen with promise.

  “It still can be.”

  He shook his head to shrug aside the voice. There was no point in arguing with her, though, for Lemon was persistent in her belief that life could still matter for him. He held no such optimism.

  The truck—brown and boxy—seemed to materialize from thin air. He sat up straight as it settled along the curb in front of the apartment. Then, realizing his view of the apartment’s porch was obscured, he cranked open his rickety door and quickly moved down the block, settling himself behind the shield of a polished SUV.

  People are creatures of habit, he thought. The only optimism he could offer Lemon.

  A man dropped down out of the boxy brown truck, wearing a shirt and shorts to match its color, tapping at the keys on a rectangular gadget, a thin packing envelope under his arm.

  Aiden held his breath
as the man pressed the apartment doorbell, and kept holding it as the front door finally crept open.

  Despite her understated dress, she was as beautiful as ever—more so, maybe, than Aiden had remembered. Her hair was hidden under a Red Sox baseball cap she had turned backwards, her form lost in baggy sweatpants and a Harvard sweatshirt whose cuffs hung all the way to her fingertips. Aiden had gifted the sweatshirt to her to replace the MIT one she’d worn that night they’d first made love.

  He swallowed.

  The driver said a few words to her, she even less to him in response, and then he handed her the packing envelope and bounded back to his truck.

  People are creatures of habit.

  Aiden let his features ease into something close to a smile as she began ripping open the package right there on the porch. Some things never change. Her enthusiasm and patience had always seemed to collide. Plus her love of mail was legendary. Receiving it set her pulse racing.

  She hesitated once she saw what was inside the envelope. Aiden ducked as she looked around, searching the street. After a short pause, she plucked her mother’s chain and locket from the envelope and, trapping the empty packing envelope between her knees so her hands were free, she worked at the clasp. Aiden couldn’t tell from this distance whether her hands were shaking but he imagined they were.

  She managed the necklace around her neck and stood there, her eyes closed, her head tilted back as if she was warming her face in the sunshine.

  Then she opened her eyes.

  Looked around again.

  Nodded and smiled and stepped back inside her apartment, gently closing the door behind her.

  It gave Aiden a glimpse of a moment without any regret.

  He would not allow himself to wonder when the next such moment would come.

  The Isabel Montana Group

  New Jersey

  SCARED OF THE DARK. Copyright 2017 by Easton Vaughn

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher. For information, address The Isabel Montana Group subsidiary rights department: TheIsabelMontanaGroup@hotmail.com