When Darkness Loves Us

by Elizabeth Engstrom

  CHAPTER 16

  Doc Pearson took the stethoscope out of his ears and hooked it around his neck. He motioned to Fern that she could dress Martha again, while he sat at his desk and made notes. This was a puzzler. The child had apparently suffered some major trauma, and had totally withdrawn. Only time would tell what kind of permanent damage had been done.

  Fern sat in the chair next to the doctor’s desk and pulled Martha into her lap. The child looked straight ahead, rarely blinking, seemingly oblivious to the world around her.

  “She’s perfectly healthy, Fern. I can find nothing wrong with her at all. Her reflexes are fine; her eyes look good. If it was something wrong with her brain, it would have come on slowly; there would have been symptoms. I think it’s been some kind of a shock, a trauma, but what would be so horrible as to induce this type of trance is beyond me. Does she eat?”

  “When I feed her.”

  “With your experience in healing, surely you’ve seen people in shock before.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, the body goes into a survival stance. Sometimes the feet and hands get cold because all the blood is reserved for the vital organs. What Martha needs is to be kept warm, and she needs lots of loving. I think she’ll come out of it just fine, but she’ll need lots of care.”

  “Could a . . . could a dog, or a wolf or something do this to her?”

  “I suppose it’s possible. Sure, if she’d been attacked. I don’t see any marks on her.”

  “No, I know—it’s just that when I tried to look inside, I saw . . .” She saw the skeptical look on Doc’s face. “Nothing, it was just an idea.”

  “Keep her warm and pay a lot of attention to her, Fern. I think she’ll be all right. Bring her back next week.”

  By the next week Martha was walking by herself. The week after that she began feeding herself with her hands. It was two years before she was again toilet trained, and Doc Pearson said the brain damage was permanent. There was only a slight ability to learn. Severely retarded, as a result of a trauma. Fern grew to accept it.

  Harry did not. Harry looked into homes for the retarded and spoke daily of taking Martha to one of them, insisting on it, but Fern wouldn’t even listen. She wiped the saliva that drooled from the corner of Martha’s mouth and talked softly in her ear. They began to fight bitterly over the situation, Harry’s voice rising in temper, Fern trying to quiet him down, telling him that it was love and care she needed.

  Harry hated the sight of Martha, and razzed and jeered every time she learned something new. When she began to dress herself, she would tend to button her dress wrong or put it on inside out, and Harry would stomp out of the house, shouting that the sight of her made him sick, and something had to be done, because he couldn’t live the rest of his life looking at a retard.

  Fern understood his fear and shame and anger. Harry was a sensitive man who just couldn’t deal with the disappointment of a child who was not right. His faith couldn’t handle it. To Harry, God was punishing them all, God hated them, they had somehow gone against his wishes, and had been cast out of his grace. And, of course, it was all Fern’s fault.

  The first strange experience happened when Martha was thirteen. Fern was in the kitchen, cleaning up after breakfast. Martha was bathed and playing quietly in her room. Then she started screaming. Fern dropped a plate that shattered on the floor and flew to the bedroom. Martha was standing there, blood on her hands, blood on her thighs, screaming, hysterical, out of control. Fern wet a washcloth and slowly wiped the girl clean.

  “It’s okay, Martha. It’s just a little blood, honey. It happens every month. It’s normal. It means you’re growing up to be a big girl. Let me show you now.” And she tried to cope with a new responsibility for the girl. Martha reacted in exactly the same way for six months in a row; then suddenly she began to take care of herself and the monthly hysterics stopped.

  Martha grew to be a big girl, strong and healthy. Harry started to give her jobs around the farm, which Fern objected to, but it seemed to put color in her cheeks, and Fern finally gave in and helped Martha understand the tasks at hand. She was good at chopping wood and painting. Fern gave her all the chickens and made her understand the responsibility for feeding them and gathering the eggs.

  By the time Martha was twenty, she could cook a stew, fry eggs and bake bread and can peaches. She worked with the chickens and did the wood chopping.

  She still retreated to her room when visitors came to call, knowing somehow intuitively that she was not up to it.

  Fern was afraid to leave the farm. She’d arrange for someone to stay with Martha whenever she had to go to town or out on a call to help someone. She would never leave her daughter at home alone again. It was a terrible burden, living with her retarded girl and her resentful husband, but Fern accepted it with as much grace as she could. She delighted in visiting with the townsfolk, who carefully skirted the subject of her family except in passing, and talked instead of funny things and unusual occurrences, which helped to lighten Fern’s load. The town mourned with this wonderful woman, and they were powerless to help.

  At the end of each healing session, when Fern sat with a cup of tea, resting, the people invariably wanted to give her bread or cakes or a roast or a chicken, but Fern would smile at them very gently, pat the generous hand, and say, “The only way you can repay me is to take care of my little girl when we’re gone.” This brought a tear to more than one eye in Morgan and solemn oaths were made. Each time, Fern felt a little better.

  Sam Smith’s heart had been going bad on him for some time, and Fern became a regular visitor. She’d sit with Sam, her hand on his chest, and slowly the pains would disappear, his breathing would come easier, and a slow smile would come to his face as the perspiration dried on his forehead. He’d given up all the farm work, hired young school kids to do most of it for him, so he just sat around and gave Addie a hard time as she went about her chores. He never could figure out how he had the bad heart while Addie was so fat. They teased each other mercilessly, but it was all in a loving way. The first time the pains came, Addie was terrified, riding at full gallop to Fern’s, and Fern had to bring Martha with them, but they reached the Smiths’ in time.

  Since then, Fern had come regularly, and sometimes Addie fetched her, but Addie had resigned herself to the idea that Sam wouldn’t be around for long. She’d written to her son in North Dakota and had plans to go live there when Sam had gone. She told all this to Fern one day after one of Fern’s healings, while Sam slept. She also told Fern that she had already sold the farm, unbeknownst to Sam, but that they could live on it until he died. Half the money she’d sent to North Dakota already, and the other half was to live on, to bury Sam, and for the train ticket to Dakota. Whatever was left over, she said, belonged to Martha.

  Fern cried, and so did Addie, the two of them sobbing and holding hands at the kitchen table. It hadn’t been an easy life for either of them, but they saw in each other the epitome of the strength of womanhood, and they loved and respected each other as much as any two women ever could.

  It was at Sam Smith’s funeral that the next strange thing happened to Martha. Fern insisted that Martha accompany her and Harry to the funeral, and Harry complained, but he saw there was no changing her mind, so he agreed. They sat quietly all through the service, Harry noting with intense embarrassment the hundreds of curious glances their way. He reacted by staring them down with a glare.

  When the preacher sprinkled dirt on the flowers and the casket, Martha started to squirm around a bit in the chair, then settled back again. Then when the service was over, and they were all standing around not knowing what to say to the widow, Martha looked at her mother, eyes focusing clearly on her face, and said, “I want to talk to Addie.” Fern was astounded. She led her daughter through the crowd, and Martha pushed forward urgently, wrapped her arms around Addie in a huge bear hug, then pulled back and said intensely, directly to her, “Sam was good. And now he’s better. And you.
You . . . you . . .” Her eyes unfocused, her face went slack, the mouth listing again to one side, as she put her head down and walked slowly back to her parents, amid stares and exclamations. Addie just stood there, mouth open, with fresh tears making tracks on her heavily powdered face.

  Harry grabbed both his women and hustled them toward the car. Fern looked over her shoulder at Addie, who was staring after them; then she let herself be propelled across the lawn of the cemetery, feeling the anger from Harry, the emptiness from Martha creating a tornado in her own being, swirling dizzyingly, losing sight of reality. She felt faint.

  She spent the entire next day working with Martha, trying to break through the barrier again. If she could do it once, she could do it again; maybe there was hope, maybe she could be normal; oh, God, wouldn’t that be wonderful?

  She worked with her all day, talking to her, trying to teach her. “Come on, honey, relax. Let it come. Don’t push it, just let it flow in.” Fern’s level of frustration reached new heights. She thought of what might have triggered the short moment of awareness. She went over every detail of the funeral she could remember. Addie had sat across the grave from them, her eyes dry, her face hard. Maybe it was the intense emotion. Maybe it was something the preacher had said—how come she couldn’t remember much of it? How did Martha know it was Sam in that casket? Whatever it was, she didn’t seem to be able to bring it back out of Martha, and she was afraid to go back into her mind, for the fear of the fierce yellow eyes still haunted her.

  Fern began to wonder if Martha was indeed blessed with a gift from God. Maybe she just couldn’t see it yet. Certainly what she said to Addie was significant. Maybe she was a healer, too. Fern’s gift didn’t blossom until she was married. Maybe . . .

  Fern began to speak slowly and carefully to Martha about God, and about special gifts. She explained to the slack face how it felt when she did her healing work, how she was out of control, and something else took over. She talked to her about how nice it was to have something else come inside her and work through her, and that she must encourage that feeling if it ever came to that. Not to fight it, but to go with it. Fern told her over and over that she was special, God’s chosen child, and she must work to break out of her shell and shine her light upon the world. None of it did any good. The girl didn’t seem to hear any of it, but she listened quietly.

  CHAPTER 17

  Leslie was on the prowl. He ground the gears in low and cruised through Morgan slowly, eyes everywhere. Looking for some action. Something. Didn’t really matter what, as long as it would take his mind off that fuckin’ jail. Jee-sus, what a hole. At a stop sign, he hefted the quart of Bud to his mouth and took several long swallows, eyes searching up and down the cross street. Nothing. Gotta get out of this place, it’s nowhere. Yeah, he thought, but go where? He had to make his court date or Ma could lose her bail money. That meant she wouldn’t get her diamond back. She hocked it every time. He swigged again, revved the engine, and laid a nice solid strip of rubber across the street. Felt fine. Sounded good. Smelled sweet. The truck jerked as he eased off the gas and continued his cruise, slowly, shifting to second and leaving it there.

  He kept going, aimlessly, until he ran out of beer and road about the same time. He pulled off to the side and cut the headlights. He could just turn onto the freeway here and make for Chicago. Or Joliet. Leave this pissant farm town forever. He caught the final drops of beer on his tongue and tossed the bottle into the weeds. He found his pack of Camels on the dashboard and lit one, inhaling deeply. What the fuck.

  He jumped out and unzipped his jeans, whizzing into the weeds, looking at the stars, watching the road for traffic. He shook it clean, stuffed it back in his pants and zipped up, doing a little hop on one foot as he adjusted. He kicked the back end of the pickup as he passed. Piece of junk. Back in the driver’s seat, he started it up, then made a U-turn. Mike’s. Maybe I’ll get lucky.

  Leslie pulled his rusted-out pickup into a parking spot across the street from Mike’s, scraping both tires against the curb. He sat there, finishing his cigarette, watching the door. The whole street was dark, shops closed, quiet, just the streetlights going and the light from Mike’s showing through the frosted glass. As the last drag from his cigarette burned his fingers, the door opened, and the street was momentarily flooded with noise—laughter, glasses, squeals, yells, and talk. Two people staggered out, a man and a girl in tight Levi’s, arms wrapped around each other as they made their way to one of the cars parked in front. They both got in on the driver’s side, giggling and laughing as she slid over—just barely enough for the driver to get in.

  “That’s what I need,” Leslie said softly. “A tight piece of ass.” The couple drove off after a lurching start, and Leslie jumped down from the pickup, slamming the door behind him. He tucked in his T-shirt and sauntered across the street.

  The humid air hit him like a steam bath. He stood at the door, surveying the place. A typical Friday night. It was packed. Smoke hung in the air like a thundercloud, stinging his eyes. The jukebox was too loud; there were too many people. Not an empty seat, as far as he could see.

  He shouldered his way to the bar and got a beer, then turned, one elbow on the bar and one boot hiked up on the rail, looking for somebody he’d want to drink with. He knew most everybody there.

  The old folks had the corner booth. They always took that booth; everybody said Mike served them for free so they’d hang around to stop trouble before it started. They did, too. Any loud swearing or rumblings, and the old gents were right there, either cooling it down or escorting the offenders out. Four old men. They played cards.

  The rest of the place was filled with young people, with an occasional visitor or old lady boozing it up at the bar. Come closing time, it got real friendly inside Mike’s, and most everybody got laid on a Friday night, trading partners around from week to week.

  “Hey, Les!” Leslie turned and saw Ned, his face flushed, perspiration running down his cheeks. “They let you out, eh? Let me buy you a beer.”

  Little asshole. Squealer. “Yeah, okay.”

  With a beer in each hand, Leslie followed Ned to his table in the back, pleased to see that there were already three girls sitting there, giggling drunkenly. His chances were looking better all the time.

  Ned tried to introduce them, but he forgot their names, all except for Priscilla. They’d been shacking up together. Leslie grinned. Priscilla was the target. He’d get that little asshole—he’d take his woman for the night. She was nice, too, a little old, maybe, but a nice bod.

  Priscilla grinned up at him, a little drunk, but not too bad. “Hey, Les. Good to see ya. Gee, they didn’t keep you long, eh?”

  “Nah. They ain’t really got nothin’ on me.”

  “Sheee-it,” Ned said. “That’s not what I heard.”

  “Yeah?” Les had to keep cool. “Just what did you hear?”

  “Be cool, guys. It ain’t no big deal. Leslie. Play some Stones on the jukebox.”

  “Okay. Come pick ’em out.”

  As they stood up together, the flush in Ned’s face got deeper. The other two girls watched silently, with quick glances at each other.

  Leslie followed Priscilla’s skintight purple jeans as they wiggled themselves between tables and chairs to the jukebox in the front corner. She stopped, drumming her fingers on the glass as she looked at the selections. Leslie stood just behind her, close enough to feel her body heat, but not close enough to touch. They both felt the heat.

  “A-thirteen,” she said.

  He reached around her, brushing the side of her breast with his forearm as he punched the buttons. He withdrew his arm slowly.

  “B-six.”

  Again his arm snaked around her, his lips so close to the little hairs on the nape of her neck that they moved with each breath. This time the pressure on her breast was more pronounced. She seemed to move into it.

  “C-eight.”

  His arm went wide to the right, so he pushed up agai
nst her as he moved closer to reach. He felt her giggle. It turned him on.

  “Hey,” he whispered into her ear. “Let’s split.”

  She turned around in one fluid motion, so their bodies, and their faces, were almost touching. Not quite.

  “What about Ned?”

  “What about Ned?”

  “I can’t just leave him.”

  “I can.”

  She giggled again, her cute little nose wrinkling up. She had a twinkle in her eye. A real tease. “C’mon. Get your purse.”

  “Okay. Be right back.” She touched his cheek with her finger, then slid out from between him and the music box. He watched her ass sashay all the way across the room. She picked up her purse and waved a dainty good-night to Ned and the girls, then wiggled her way back to him. Leslie saw Ned stand up, his face red with fury. Priscilla didn’t turn back. He put his hand on the small of her back and guided her to the door. He took one quick glance back to Ned, still glaring, and gave him the finger. Then he pushed the door open, into the cooler air, took a deep breath and realized he had a real handful of woman. It felt great.

  Her hands were inside his pants before he got the truck in gear. He drove fast, trying to concentrate on his driving, out of town, to the edge of the woods by the Blackman pond. He pulled up short, cut the lights, and pulled on the parking brake. He turned to her, gave her a sloppy kiss, all tongue, gave her crotch a squeeze, and opened the door. “C’mon.”

  She followed him out, giggling as usual, as he pulled a greasy, stained blanket from the back of his truck. Stumbling, they stepped over the fallen fence and walked through the trees until he found a place littered with beer bottles and other trash. He kicked aside a few things and laid the blanket down, then grabbed Priscilla and lowered her onto the blanket.

  Soon they were ripping off each other’s tight jeans, and Leslie almost came before he got inside. God, he needed this. He came twice, furiously, humping mindlessly, viciously, and when he finally collapsed on top of her, she rolled him over onto his back and sat up.