When Darkness Loves Us

by Elizabeth Engstrom

  “Jesus, Leslie. Give a girl a break.” She rubbed her lower back, then fished in her purse for a Kleenex and walked a ways into the woods. Leslie looked into the trees and felt relaxed for the first time.

  “Got any beer?” He looked up and saw her standing there, blond bush poking up between her legs. She was shaking out her jeans.

  “In the back of the truck. It’s warm.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Bring me one, too. But leave your jeans here.”

  She looked at him quizzically, cocking her head. “Leave my jeans?”

  “Yeah.” He sat up and grabbed them from her, wadding them up and shoving them behind his head.

  “Okay.” She laughed as she picked her way back to the truck, her wrinkled blouse hanging just short of her solid little buns.

  She returned with a quart for each of them. They drank in silence, listening to the sounds of the night. Priscilla sat cross-legged, Leslie absently playing with her curly blond hairs.

  “So what, you going to jail?”

  “Probably. That little fuck Ned.”

  “Yeah.” She thought for a moment. “You really went into that house while those people were there asleep and ripped them off?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That takes balls. Weren’t you scared?”

  “Scared? Of what?”

  “I don’t know. The dark. The people. The guy might have had a shotgun or something.”

  “Nah. Nothing to be scared of.”

  “I could never do that.”

  “Sure you could.”

  “I’d faint.”

  “Nah.”

  They drank again, and the feeling of being in that house returned. He had been scared. It was a terrible/wonderful feeling, that rush of adrenaline. Then he remembered sitting in his truck watching that old retard’s house.

  “Hey, Priscilla.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Seen Leon lately?”

  “Nah. He’s been with Martha. Nobody’s seen him. Real mysterious. He goes into town now and then, in the mornings, then right back out there. I guess he’s moved in.”

  “With the retard, right?”

  “Yeah. She’s a nice lady. But Leon’s . . . I don’t know. It’s real weird.”

  “Go fetch me another beer, okay? Then bring your sassy little bottom right back. I want to talk to it.”

  She upended her beer and choked down the rest of it, then stood up unsteadily and made again for the truck, stopping to whiz again along the way. When she got back, Leslie was hard as a rock, stroking himself, and she dropped the beers on the blanket and lowered herself onto him.

  He sat up, hugging her, rocking back and forth, and whispered in her ear. “Let’s go pay them a visit, okay?”

  “Who?” Her breath was coming hard.

  “Leon.”

  “Leon. Oh, Leon, okay. Oh, God, Leslie.”

  They came together, and Leslie pushed her off quickly and stood up. She looked at him, drunkenly, dazed. “C’mon. Get up.” He threw her jeans to her.

  “What?”

  “We’re going to go pay a visit to Leon.”

  She giggled and popped open a beer.

  CHAPTER 18

  The puzzle of Martha took up most of Fern’s waking moments. She tried to fit pieces together—the incident in the barn, the closed doors in the mind, the monster, Sam’s funeral—none of it made sense. Trauma, the doctor said. Shock. How could she go in and out like that? How could she have moments where she looked and acted almost normal, when most of the time she was so . . . so . . . unfeeling? And if she could come out once, why not twice, or more often?

  Fern bustled around the house, cleaning. She swept and mopped and dusted and hauled the rugs outside to be whacked and aired. She sat down often: the years had accumulated on her, turning her hair almost totally gray; her face was lined and her small frame hung with rolls of fat. As she worked, she thought of her daughter.

  There’s a purpose to all of this, she thought. There’s always a purpose. A purpose for everything, good and bad. At twenty-nine years old, Martha was capable only of basic tasks—cleaning herself, doing some routine chores. She spoke one-syllable words. Most of her vocabulary consisted of grunts and hand gestures, delivered in a moronic fashion. A truce had been set up between Martha and Harry, which kept the house a tolerable place to live. Although it was a constant heartache for Fern, the two ignored each other’s existence entirely. She tried to be grateful. It could be worse.

  Fern pulled potatoes out of the bin and began peeling them for the stew. Harry was out in the fields, as he was every day during the spring, summer, and fall. He lived for his work; it was all that mattered to him. Occasionally, Fern felt a twinge of guilt that Harry had spent his whole life on this farm, tied down with a retarded daughter rather than having a normal family, traveling a bit, seeing the country, playing baseball with a son—but the guilt was fleeting. Harry had made his own bed.

  As far as the farm went, they’d been very successful. There was a solid bank account; Harry had new tools and a good tractor. They’d bought a car, and Fern no longer had to sew clothes for them to wear. They were probably wealthy, Fern thought, but Harry wouldn’t part with a dime that wasn’t absolutely necessary.

  The furniture was in rags, none of the dishes matched, and they could certainly afford to take a little trip or buy some new things, but Harry wouldn’t even hear of it. He did bring modern plumbing to the house: toilet, bathtub and shower, a water heater for the kitchen. The rest he considered wasteful excess.

  She picked up a fresh potato, one ear cocked toward the bathroom where Martha was bathing. Fern had picked up some fancy bath salts at Dave McRae’s store, and Martha sat and soaked among the bubbles until the water got cold.

  The peach and apricot trees were heavy with fruit. Next weekend would be reserved for putting them up for the winter. Maybe Martha would help, watch, and understand some of it. Not a difficult process, but exacting if the fruit was to last. How will she ever get on after we’re gone? The thought sent chills all through Fern. She tried not to think about it, but the thought slipped in now and again. God takes care of his own, she thought. She’ll be just fine. The good people in town will take care of her.

  Fern was on her fourth small potato when the gasp came from the bathroom. Fern’s heart froze, midbeat, as it always did when an unusual sound came from Martha. There was no other noise, but a few little splashes, so she kept on peeling.

  “Mootheeeer!” A wail shrieked through the house. The knife slipped, skinning Fern’s knuckle; she dropped the potato and the knife into the sink, shoved the knuckle into her mouth and ran for the bathroom.

  Martha was sitting in the tub, water around her hips. Her hand was covered with soap bubbles, and a look of delighted awe covered her face.

  “Mommy. Look!” She held the bubbles up to the light. Fern knelt next to the tub, her eyes on Martha’s rapt face.

  “Look!” Martha insisted.

  Fern looked at the bubbles in the light, colors sliding all around them, swirling reds and blues. In each bubble was a miniature window, with little panes, just like those in the bathroom.

  “Beautiful,” Martha breathed softly.

  Fern looked at her daughter’s face. The lips were even, curving in a smile. Her eyes were clear and focused; she looked at the bubbles in amazement, then back to her mother. She held her hand closer to Fern’s face. “See?”

  “Yes, they are beautiful.”

  “I never saw that.”

  “Beauty is all around us, Martha.”

  Martha sat up straighter, turned in the tub to face her mother. She rinsed off her soapy hand and touched Fern’s cheek. Fern again admired Martha’s beautiful eyes. Why did she notice them only occasionally? A fingertip traced slowly, carefully, the lines of her cheek, across her cheekbone, one eyebrow.

  “Pretty,” Martha said.

  “You’re pretty, too.” A tear gathered strength on Fern’s lower lid.


  Martha watched it with interest, and as she did so, her mouth began to slacken, one side drooping again, her eyes going vacant, retreating from her face, leaving the horrible nose the dominant feature. The little smile stayed, though.

  “Martha?”

  Slowly, she slid down into the water, her knees coming up, and she slid back and forth, watching the water lap at the edges of the tub.

  “Martha? Talk to me.” The moment had come and gone, and Fern knew it, but she wanted it back again. Wanted it so badly she burned inside.

  Martha’s head turned slowly to her, and it was plain that all semblance of intelligence had escaped. The only thing that remained was the smile, crooked as it was, and Fern wondered if maybe Martha’s eyes hadn’t finally been opened to beauty.

  She kissed the top of her daughter’s head and went back to the kitchen to finish dinner, pondering the development—if it was development—that had taken place.

  Harry came in as Fern was setting the table, and went directly to the shower. Martha came from her room, dressed, still smiling. It softened her face, gave her a pleasant look. She went around the table polishing the spoons on her dress, straightening the plates, rearranging the glasses, and folding the napkins as she’d seen Fern do on Sundays. Then she went outside.

  “Dinner’s almost on, Martha. Stay close.”

  In just a few minutes she was back, clutching flowers she’d ripped up from the garden, dirt and roots hanging below. With that same little smile on her face, she touched the velvety petals of the colored pansies, then held them up for Fern to touch. Fern smelled them first, then touched the petals gently, and the smile on Martha’s face deepened.

  Oh God, she’s getting better, Fern thought. She’s responding! She put her arms around her child and hugged her close, tight, rocking her back and forth, afraid to laugh, afraid to cry, this new development seemed so tenuous, so fragile.

  She took down a jelly glass from the cupboard and filled it with water. Then she snipped off the roots of the flowers and put them in the glass, slowly, carefully, so Martha could see what she was doing; then she helped Martha arrange them. Martha set them gently in the center of the table, turning them around and around until they suited her.

  She watched them, lightly smiling, head tilting this way and that, throughout their silent dinner.

  Fern was delighted. Harry pretended not to notice.

  CHAPTER 19

  Martha heard the truck scrunching the gravel in the drive. The night was cool and quiet, the sound of the truck out of place, menacing in its inappropriateness. She looked over at Leon, sound asleep next to her, the faint shadow of a beard giving his cheeks a hollow appearance in the moonlight. The engine outside died, and she heard the rusted creak of a door opening.

  “Leon,” she whispered, shaking his shoulder.

  He cracked a sleepy eye.

  “What?”

  “Someone’s outside.”

  “Nah. Why would someone be outside?” His eyes rolled, and his lids closed again.

  Gravel crunched underfoot.

  “Leon, wake up. Someone’s coming.”

  He opened his eyes again and lay there, patiently. Then he heard it, and his eyes widened as he sat up. They heard a giggle, a low, harsh word, then a soft footfall on the porch steps. Leon swung his legs out of bed and grabbed his jeans, pulling them on quickly. He motioned to her with his hand. “Stay here.”

  She nodded, her eyes wide with fear, and pulled the covers up to her chin.

  Leon looked around the room for a weapon, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. There was nothing.

  He walked quietly through the kitchen, looked cautiously out the kitchen window and saw two silhouetted forms on the porch. He waited in the dark, his heart pounding, his breathing loud in his ears.

  The doorknob turned slowly and stopped. It was locked. He heard a muffled curse, and digging and scratching. He couldn’t decide whether to turn on the porch light or not. Better do it. Maybe they’ll just go away. Better than having them inside.

  He took two quick steps and turned on the light switch.

  Two startled faces looked up at the light, squinting. Leslie recovered quickly. He smiled through the glass.

  “Hey, Leon! That you, Leon?”

  Leslie and Priscilla. Shit. Both drunk.

  “What do you want?”

  “Come on, man, let us in. We just came by to say hello.” Leslie dug Priscilla in the ribs, starting off a whole new set of giggles. She looked pretty unsteady.

  “Get out of here, Leslie. It’s the middle of the night.”

  “Hey, Leon, buddy, just thought you might want to . . .”

  “Go home!” Leon snapped off the porch light. He heard Priscilla start to whine.

  “C’mon, Leslie. This wasn’t such a good idea.”

  Leslie started to pound on the door. Leon flicked on the light and whipped open the door at the same time. Leslie almost fell on his face. Priscilla stumbled in behind him.

  “I’m going to give you ten seconds to state your business and decide to go home.”

  “Hey, brother. Don’t be so hasty. Where’s your manners? Come on, how about a beer?”

  “Yeah, Leon, how about a beer?” Priscilla thought she was real cute. “Why don’t you invite Martha to come join us?”

  “I don’t need an invitation in my own house,” Martha said from the doorway. She was wrapped up in her robe, her hair all astray, hands clutching the robe closed.

  Priscilla’s eyes opened in amazement. Sobriety settled over her. This can’t be Martha!

  “Hey, Martha,” Priscilla said. “What happened? I mean you look terrific.” She belched without even trying to be polite about it.

  “What is it you want?”

  “Just thought we’d drop by for a little party, right, Priscilla?”

  “Uh, right.” Priscilla couldn’t take her eyes off Martha. “Hey, Martha, remember when we painted the living room, you and me?”

  “No.”

  Priscilla’s eyes turned to Leslie. “We better go, Les.”

  “Not until I get my beer.”

  “I don’t have any beer, Leslie,” Leon said.

  “C’mon, Les. Let’s go.” Priscilla looked at Martha with something close to fear in her eyes. She grabbed Leslie’s T-shirt and pulled him toward the door. “This is too weird.”

  Leslie punched Leon lightly on the arm. “Take it easy, eh, Leon? Maybe we’ll get together for that beer soon.” He followed Priscilla out the door. “I’ll come back.”

  “There’ll be a shotgun waitin’ next time, Leslie.”

  Pure evil rippled across Leslie’s face. His arms hung limply at his sides, as if the beer were finally catching up with his body, but his face sneered. He whispered menacingly. “You fuckin’ pervert.”

  Leon clenched his fists and stood his ground, watching as Priscilla grabbed Leslie’s T-shirt again and pulled him out to the truck. Leslie stumbled backward, then jerked out of her grasp, eyes clamped tight on Leon’s.

  They both got in on the driver’s side, and Leslie started the engine. It coughed. He wanted it to roar. When it caught, he tried to spin around, spitting gravel fifty feet behind him. Instead, the truck died, and the headlights dimmed again and again as he ground the starter. He cursed it to life, and the truck with its two drunken passengers lurched out of the drive as Martha and Leon watched them go.

  “Take me home, Leslie,” Priscilla said. “I don’t feel too good.” She leaned out the car window and puked.

  “Sonofabitch! All over my truck, you cunt. I’ll get your ass, Leon, and that weird retard, too. Son of a bitch!” He pounded on the steering wheel.

  Leon turned out the light and locked the door. He went to Martha, standing in the doorway, staring straight ahead. She was trembling, and perspiration stood out in little drops on her forehead.

  “Martha? You okay?”

  “I don’t know. I feel . . . for a moment there, I felt . . . whi
le you were in here and I was in the bedroom, I almost . . .”

  “Shhhh.” He put his arms around her and held her close for a moment, then guided her gently back to bed. He got in next to her and held her, a very young man and his very strange lover. He did love her, in a way.

  “I felt out of control, Leon.”

  “Fear can do that. I was afraid, too.”

  “Out of control?”

  “Not exactly, but men are supposed to be braver than women.”

  “This wasn’t brave, or scared. This was . . . was . . .” she shuddered. “Something else, like taking hold. Inside.”

  “They’re gone now. And they won’t be back.”

  She leaned up on an elbow and looked at his eyes, shining in the faint light.

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  She lay back down and traced the lines of his cheek with her finger, trying hard to forget the terrible, ter­rible feeling.

  CHAPTER 20

  Harry limped in from the fields about ten o’clock one morning, his left arm hanging useless at his side. Fern took a look at his pale face and knew he was dying. Her healing powers had become so attuned to life that she could discern the least imbalance. Harry had been not well for about a week, and today he would die.

  Oh God, she thought, where have our lives gone? She knew it was coming. They were not young anymore; Harry still drove himself too hard, he was never happy. God had not gifted Harry with laughter. Life was a serious business to him, not something to be joyous about.

  She looked at his gray, worn face and flashes of their relationship flitted through her mind. The good times. The times when they had made love, when they were courting, the oftentimes humorous things he would say by mistake, his embarrassment at her laughter. She saw him as he used to be—young, virile, handsome, and muscled. Where did all the years go?

  Now he was old and gray, skin matching closely the yellowed color of his hair. His face was wrinkled and marked with brown spots. We should have retired years ago, she thought.