When Darkness Loves Us

by Elizabeth Engstrom

  “Sure, I’ll have some lemonade.”

  They went into the cool interior and Leon sat in a kitchen chair while Martha filled two glasses.

  “You know, it looked like you have enough money in your purse to fix the roof there by the porch and the chicken coop too. And the whole place needs painting. I’m looking for a job, and I’d sure like to help you out.”

  Martha didn’t understand anything he said.

  He moved a little closer to her and talked more slowly. “With money,” he pointed at her purse.

  “Money, yes.”

  “I fix roof and chicken house.”

  “Fix chicken house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.” She handed him her purse. He opened it, took out the wad, and counted it. Over five hundred dollars! He took five twenties and rolled up the rest of it.

  “I’m going to take a hundred and buy some materials. When the work is all finished, you can pay me for my time, okay?”

  She just smiled at him. He put the bills in her hand. “I’m taking this.” He held up the twenties. “You pay me more later.”

  “Yes. Okay.”

  Leon looked around the little house. “Let’s find some place to hide the rest of this money. He looked at the cookie jar, a big fat bear sitting up. He took the wad from her slack hand and went to the counter, lifting up the bear’s head. “The rest of the money is here, okay?”

  Martha giggled. Money inside the bear. “Okay!”

  Leon finished his lemonade. “I’m going now to buy supplies. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Back?”

  He nodded.

  “Which square?” She pointed at the calendar on the wall.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Next square.”

  “Yes.” He stood up and looked down at her. She was really something. Slow, yes, but there was something else, nice, trusting, like a little puppy.

  “You leaving?” She pushed her chair back and got up, came right over to him and hugged him hard. He felt a lot different from Priscilla. She was small and tiny, and Martha’s arms went all the way around her. Leon was much taller, and his back was wide and strong. It surprised her how different he felt.

  Leon stood there, unprepared. He looked down into the gray curls; then, helpless to move, he gave her a light hug back.

  “Friends hug,” she said. Priscilla had taught her that. Now he understood, and gave her a good squeeze. She was soft and mushy under his arms and against his chest. Not at all like the skinny girls he took to the drive-in movies. They were slim and bony and they slithered around a lot under his hot hands. Martha was a woman, plump, soft, and cuddly. He felt himself push against the inside of his jeans. Jesus, Leon, you adolescent punk. He released her and quickly went out the door, waving.

  “See you tomorrow!” He backed around and drove off in a cloud.

  Martha sat back down in her chair, her fingers automatically searching out the imperfections in her nose. She thought of Leon, nice, tall boy. He felt good to hug, the place where his body touched hers still felt warm and tingly.

  She smiled inside. A new friend, she thought. A whole new world was opening up right in front of her eyes. She’d spent her whole life here in this house with just her mother and father, and now she was finding that there were so many other things out there.

  Suddenly she froze, as a vision of her mother, sitting in the next chair, swam up before her. Her dark eyes were piercing. She said, “Do not listen to what your father says about you, Martha. You are a very special child, and you must let those nasty things just slide right over you. He doesn’t understand you like I do. You are very special, and some day other people will understand that.” The image began breaking up, and Martha reached for it, calling her mother. Don’t go away, come back, tell me, tell me. Her fingers clutched only dry air, but for a moment she really remembered what her mother looked like.

  The vision made her sad. Special. Like Leon. He’s special. Like Priscilla. She’s special. And I’m special too. And she wished again she could understand, and felt it well up deep inside her, like gas, only it didn’t hurt, it felt more like filling up, like something starting to come up from the very depths of her soul. She groped again for the room of understanding, that which would make her normal, could help her keep up with her new friends, and the snarling growl deafened her as yellow eyes and sharp canines lunged and snapped with threatening viciousness. Her mind shut down. She turned on the television.

  As soon as Leon and Martha left the bar, the two boys ordered another round of beers and slithered into the corner booth, out of the bartender’s vision.

  “Jeez-us! Did you see that wad of cash?” The words kind of whistled through the space where he was missing a front tooth.

  The other boy looked at him. “Yeah.”

  “Maybe we ought to go pay her a visit tonight.”

  “Come on. She’s just an old retarded lady.”

  “Do you know where she lives?”

  “Sure. Everybody knows where Martha lives.”

  “Where?”

  “First farm on the right out the north side of town. Hey, Leslie, you can’t be serious.”

  “Serious as a heart attack, my friend. It was your idea, remember?”

  “Shit, I was just kidding.”

  “I ain’t.” His steely eyes glinted in the dim light of the bar as he sipped his beer and stared into his fantasy.

  CHAPTER 6

  The daily routine of life became easier for Fern. As the months went by she spent less time with Addie, feeling more capable of handling things on her own. The seasons swept through her life, one by one, all exemplifying their own personalities. Winter was a mean ogre, dangerous and ugly, yet his reign was oddly cozy and comfortable as they rested during this respite from the sweltering summer. Spring was a baby bunny, soft and warm, but skittish, and able to dash into frantic motion in less than a heartbeat of time. Spring was clean. Then summer again, a paper queen of vivid reds, purples, and greens, fading in the sunlight, turning all the colors a sickly yellow while the paper itself became crisp and brittle. Autumn was a deer, beautiful and swift. And winter had come again.

  Fern did her chores cheerfully, always busy, mind continually racing on a path of its own, far removed from the repetitive tasks at hand.

  She dreamed of becoming a great healer, speaking of God and love to multitudes of people on a grassy knoll. She dreamed of waving her hand over a hospital and having all within healed in an instant. She dreamed of being visited personally by God and all his angels one day while she was baking bread or making jam.

  Harry was a problem. No, not really a problem; they just lived with a totally different outlook on life. Harry believed in a vengeful God; Fern believed in a loving God. Their differences of opinion always resulted in the same argument.

  “I’m going over to the Nielsens’ after lunch today.”

  “Someone sick?”

  “Nat. He’s got a fever.”

  “And you’re going to cure him.”

  “I’m going to do what I can.”

  “What if he’s supposed to have a fever?”

  “I’ve been given a gift, Harry. I’m supposed to use it.”

  “To change the world.”

  “Not to change the world, to ease the suffering.”

  “There’s got to be suffering, Fern. It’s the natural way of things. You take that away, and there won’t be any joy.”

  “God doesn’t want suffering.”

  “It’s up to him to put it here or remove it.”

  “Well, and he put it here, and put me here to remove it.”

  “That’s crazy talk.”

  “Harry, I don’t understand. I don’t understand why my hands heal people. Maybe it’s so they’ll take a closer look at God. But I really don’t understand why you’re so against it.”

  “Because it ain’t right, Fern. It just ain’t right. And the longer you do this, the more credit you take for it, the har
der we’re going to get it.”

  When Harry talked this way, a terrible look came across his face, his lips turned back into a kind of a grimacing smile, his eyes winced to slits and Fern’s blood ran cold.

  Eventually, Fern learned not to discuss it. The arguments made them both feel bad. Harry learned, too, and tried to accept his wife’s preoccupation as a cross they had to bear. He delivered scathing looks her way whenever she went to visit someone sick, and he would moon around in a dark cloud of despair and a feeling of impending doom for the rest of the day and the night.

  Their casual talk was only of farm things and news of the community, things without controversy.

  The talk in the community centered on Fern. Details of her miraculous healings were told and retold until they were blown all out of proportion. People stepped out of her way in town—they viewed her with a mixture of fear and respect. They never hesitated to call on her, though, when in need.

  When she and Harry went to town together, he scowled at the way everyone treated them. He would become angry and silent. Fern could almost hear his teeth grind. In his fondest dreams, he hoped he and Fern would be looked upon as good Christian folk, salt of the earth, pillars of the community, but instead, he felt he was some sort of freak, a specimen in a bottle, something interesting to look at.

  But he kept it to himself as much as he could.

  Fern had come to know most of the people in the community, had visited their homes, had held their babies. The vision of Fern riding in a buckboard became a standing symbol of good on its way to conquer evil.

  Then the community had something new to talk about.

  Doc Pearson was seen around the Mannes farm frequently in the spring. The quilting bees and church socials were filled with excited speculation. Once Doc’s diagnosis was confirmed, he told his wife.

  “Morning sickness.”

  Mrs. Pearson grabbed her shawl and went to the neighbors’, and soon everybody knew. Fern was pregnant.

  A hundred hands flew to work, making quilts, diapers, knitting booties and caps. Here was a way they could all show their appreciation to Fern without one of “those looks” from Harry. It was plain that Harry didn’t think too much of Fern’s work, and thought less of the gifts. But the baby . . . well, Harry couldn’t say anything about that.

  And what a child they would have! Fern with her small, dark looks and Harry, what a handsome boy. Their baby would be a perfect angel, happy and delightful, and it would bring Fern and Harry together in a new way.

  The whole town of Morgan, Illinois, was pleased. This would be their baby.

  As soon as her pregnancy began to show, Fern stayed at home. Visitors came daily, bringing little treats for her, and loads of advice. Eat this, drink that, don’t think about bad things, stay away from loud noises. Do this, don’t do that, here, let me help you, sit down, put your feet up. Fern gained weight. And more weight.

  She laughed readily, enjoying the attention. Her healing work was reduced to a minimum, emergencies only, and the friction between her and Harry disappeared.

  The doctor said the morning sickness was good—it meant the baby was well seated. But Harry worried. When the sickness passed, as Doc said it would, and the baby grew steadily and rapidly, Harry lost all his foreboding and looked forward to the birth with exuberant enthusiasm.

  He built a cradle, and a crib. He painted the new room pink and blue, and the ladies all decorated it like a nursery.

  Fern sat in the overstuffed chair and knit and grew larger. She waddled around the house, doing little more than cooking, and toward the end of her pregnancy, her feet swelled up, and she moved barely at all. She just sat and grew.

  Christmas came and went. The baby’s room was filled with toys and stuffed animals and quilts and blankets and clothes. Fern would wander through the room, fingering all the handmade things and she would feel surrounded with love, so grateful for all that she had been given. This new life in Morgan was stranger than anything she had ever imagined, but it was a good life. Long ago she had stopped grieving for the old days in the white house on the tree-lined street.

  After Harry went to work, she would slip off the huge dress Addie had given her and stand naked in front of the mirror. She was amazed. Her thighs looked like hams, and her belly like a pumpkin. Her breasts were swollen, huge, and they sat atop her stomach. Itchy, sore red welts striped her sides. It was not pretty, but it was certainly fascinating.

  And she, too, dreamed about the future of their child. Could every mother feel this way about her children? She couldn’t imagine that. Surely no child was as special as this one. Did her mother feel this way about her? Did Addie feel this way about her kids? How could she ever let them grow up and move away? This baby would grow up with the blessing of God. Surely it is a chosen child, born to one who has his direct healing powers. She would spread her fingers over her swollen stomach and feel the baby, an active child, and wonder would flow through her entire being.

  The winter had been mild, with less than three feet of snow. Fern prayed the weather would hold until the baby came, to make it easy for the doctor and midwife to attend. They’d settled on names: Martha for a little girl, Harry Junior if it was a little boy. The time was close. Fern just waited.

  The weather didn’t. The most disastrous blizzard in anyone’s memory hit the Midwest in early January. It swept up huge mountains of snow, covering the north side of all buildings. The weight of the wet snow collapsed structures and homes. Some people were killed in the collapse; others froze to death as they wandered outside afterward. Livestock froze, water pipes burst—the toll in Morgan was heavy. The storm raged, a complete whiteout for three days. On the second day, Martha was born.

  This time, this morning in January, with the baby so close, Fern watched, helpless, back aching, as Harry went out the door, one hand tight on the lifeline stretched to the barn. She would wait, heart pounding, until she again heard footsteps on the porch. Of all there was to this life, she hated most his treks to the barn during a storm. She hated to see his brown coat disappear before he’d taken three steps. She knew it took a long time to see to the animals, break the ice in their troughs, feed them, shovel, sweep, and spread new hay. She had it timed in her head, but every time he walked out the door, time stretched. She had to consciously chant to herself, “Patience. Patience.”

  She picked up her knitting. A little yellow sweater hung from the needles. She would knit four inches before she would worry. Four inches. She took each stitch deliberately, resisted the temptation to measure after each row. Her needles were rhythmic, clicking in time to her heartbeat.

  Before she finished four inches, she heard his heavy step on the porch. She exhaled mightily in relief; she didn’t know she’d been barely breathing. Then a terrifying pain ripped through her back, her sides, scraping slowly, with jagged nails. It was so powerful, so overwhelming, it crushed the rest of the breath out. When it eased up, Harry was kneeling by the side of the chair, looking into her face with worried brow. She took some deep breaths, perspiration beading on her upper lip, and managed a smile.

  “It’s the baby.”

  “Now? There’s no way I can get Doc.”

  “Don’t worry, Harry. This takes a long time. Maybe the storm will clear.” He helped her to their bed.

  The wind howled outside, blowing snow so hard it sounded like sand rasping off a layer of wood. Fern listened to it quietly, taking strength from it between pains. Harry made her tea, fussed over her, worried himself into a frenzy, and paced, cursing. He hated this. This was something he had done to her, and he was sorry. He saddled up a horse in the barn, to keep ready in case the storm eased and he could ride to Addie’s. Addie had experience in things like this. Addie could help.

  Just before the white dusk turned to dark, the wind stopped. Absolute silence outside made Fern’s raspy breathing loud and terrible to his ears. The pains were frequent. He’d tied a rag to the headboard for her to hold, and as he walked into the room,
she was pulling on it, perspiration rolling down her face and neck, moaning, cords and muscles standing out in her neck and arms in dramatic chiseled relief. He slid into his overcoat, and when the pain passed, he walked to the side of their bed.

  “Storm broke, Fern. I’m going for Addie,” he whispered softly.

  “No. Harry, it’s close. Stay here.” Another pain gripped her, and he ran out of the house.

  Addie grabbed a coat and swung up behind Harry. Sam said he’d saddle up a horse and be along presently. They rode urgently through the knee-high snow, only guessing where the road was. The wind began to pick up again as they neared the house. They heard the screams, both fearfully telling themselves it was a trick of the wind. It was no trick. Addie jumped off the horse and ran inside, dropping her coat on the kitchen floor. Harry dawdled in the barn, his heart racing, feeling helpless and useless.

  Fern’s knees were bent high, tenting the covers. She gripped the rag, her face and pillow soaked. A wail began deep inside, forcing its way through her exhausted body. Addie closed the door quickly and whipped off the covers. The bed was soaked with blood. The wail stopped abruptly as Fern’s eyes bulged, a dark vein stood out in the middle of her forehead, and she gave a tremendous grunt, a push, and Addie saw the brown top of a head poke out, then recede back inside.

  “Push, Fern, he’s almost out!”

  Fern pushed. She let go of the rag and gripped her thighs with strong fingers. Addie watched as they dug deep into the flesh, little droplets of blood mixing with sweat and trickling down her thighs. Fern’s back arched with the effort, oh, God, it was so awful, it was right there, why won’t it come out, push, push, oh, God, PUSH!

  The baby gushed out into Addie’s waiting hands. Fern fell back against the pillows, her eyes rolling. Addie noted it was a girl, and laid the baby down on the sheet. She quickly ripped the hem of her dress and tied the umbilical cord.

  “It’s a girl, Fernie. A baby girl!” So announced, the child took a mighty breath and let out with a cry.

  “A girl,” Fern sighed, trying to smile.

  Addie ran to the kitchen for a knife, signaled to Harry who had just come in. “A girl, Harry.”