When Darkness Loves Us

by Elizabeth Engstrom

  She dried her hands on a kitchen towel and put her arm around him, helping him to the bedroom, where she undressed him and put him into bed. She sat on the edge, smoothing the hair away from his pale forehead. He’d had a stroke. His body was worn out. If she were to heal him now, there’d be another one tomorrow.

  “There’s nothing I can do, Harry.”

  His gaze wandered over the room, avoiding her face.

  “We’ve had a good life together, you know.”

  The breath caught in his throat. He closed his eyes, resting for a moment. Then he looked up at her, moistness collecting in the tanned wrinkles around his eyes. “How can you say that, Fern?” The words were slurred, his tongue thick.

  “Because I’ve spent my life with the two people I love. That’s all.”

  “It’s been hard. I’ve been . . .”

  “It’s not been easy. But then . . . that’s how it is, sometimes.”

  “You’ve been a good wife.” He reached for her hand and pressed it to him.

  “Don’t be afraid, Harry.”

  She reached down and kissed him slowly, tenderly, on the cheek. He closed his eyes and died.

  She pulled the covers up to his chin, smoothing the quilt that had been his parents’, that had been on this bed when he was born. The empty ache inside her burned like a fire, from the pit of her stomach up through her throat. The tears were lumped behind her eyes, but they wouldn’t come. She wandered around the room for a moment, hanging up his work clothes, touching his things, then she went back to the kitchen to finish the breakfast dishes.

  Martha, sensing a difference in the atmosphere of the house, came out of her room and sat quietly at the kitchen table, waiting. Fern poured a cup of coffee and sat down next to her, taking her hand. Martha’s hand was not young, and hers looked like a claw on top of it. She sipped.

  “Your father died.”

  Martha nodded.

  “I loved him very much.”

  Martha nodded again. Suddenly the flow of tears burst forth and Fern sobbed, her head on her arms, shaking uncontrollably. She cried for all the lost good times of their lives, for the retirement she had hoped to have. She cried for the shattered dreams they had once shared, of selling the farm and moving away, of having a houseful of children, of being a close family, full of joy and laughter and fun. And she cried for Harry, a worn-out man, unhappy with himself, bitter and mean in his way, so afraid, so afraid.

  The tears ebbed; she caught her breath, blew her nose on the tissue Martha brought. She looked at their daughter and thought to cry again, but she’d chosen her path in life, with Harry and Martha, and there was no room for self-pity here. Not now. There was too much to do.

  She sniffed, regaining control, smiling weakly. “I have to call Mr. Simmons.”

  She dialed the black phone and counted the rings. Mr. Simmons answered.

  “Fern Mannes, Mr. Simmons. Harry has died.”

  She listened.

  “That will be fine. Thank you.” She hung up and turned around. Martha was gone.

  Fern walked into the bedroom, and found Martha sitting on the edge of the bed, just as she had moments ago. She was touching his face, his eyes, his nose, his lips. Fern just watched, leaning against the doorway. Is this the first time she’s ever touched him? This little girl who now had gray in her hair and wrinkles on her face? The tears pushed again, but she held them back.

  “He’s quiet,” Martha said.

  “Yes.”

  Fern rode into town with Mr. Simmons and his aide, with Harry in the back and a metal box of papers on her lap. The black car paused at the curb outside the bank, and Fern got out, said a few words to Mr. Simmons. Then he drove off and she went inside. An hour and a half later, she came out and walked across the street to Dave McRae’s store, then to the post office, and the dress shop, and each store in turn. The more places she went, the faster she began to walk, the more intense was her mission. As she walked out of the last shop in Morgan, she was exhausted. She stood on the curb, perspiring, breathing heavily with the exertion of the emotional work she’d been doing.

  She stood there for a moment, leaning against a street-lamp, looking down the street with its parking meters and cars, with the neon signs and fancy mannequins in the windows, and remembered how it was that one hot and dusty day forty-nine years ago when she walked through this street as Harry’s bride. She could feel the heat, smell the dust as it caked inside her clothes, in her throat. She was small then, thin, and carried two heavy black bags, and she was so in love with her man. What had happened to that love? Nothing, really, love was love.

  Fern turned down the street and began the trek home. Her feet ached. A car pulled up next to her and Dave McRae looked out at her. “Give you a lift, Fern?”

  “No thanks, Dave. I need to walk a little more.”

  “Pretty hot day.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Okay. Take it easy.” He drove off, leaving Fern standing there, sweltering in the heat, drowning in her memories.

  She began walking again, mentally making a list of all the things she needed to teach Martha. With Harry gone, the reaper wouldn’t be wasting any time coming for her. Martha would be in good hands in Morgan, as long as she was meticulous as she laid all the groundwork.

  Just as she turned down the drive, a pain erupted in her chest. It reached out her arm to the fingers, dragging with it a bale of barbed wire. She didn’t know whether to bring her hand to her chest or fling it away; it was just a foreign appendage, and it hurt like bloody hell. It was a terrible thing, the pain, and it brought not so much panic and fear as sorrow and a more urgent prayer that her time not be up yet. She clutched at her breast, then sat down heavily in the middle of the road, rubbing her hand, her arm, tears flowing silently, freely down her face. Not yet, please God, not yet. I have to take care of Martha first.

  She lay down gently in the road. The pain subsided slowly. When it was gone, she got up and walked carefully to the house.

  CHAPTER 21

  Leon finished loading the truck with trash for the dump, then went into the kitchen to wash his hands. “I’m leaving now, Martha. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  Her voice came from close behind, startling him. “I’m going with you.”

  He looked her up and down. She looked terrific. Her gray hair was brushed up and held with a pin in the back. She had some makeup on, powder, lipstick, and what looked to be a new dress, belted in at the waist. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  They got settled in the truck, and Leon drove slowly toward town. “Where do you want to go?”

  “The bank. The store.”

  “Okay.” Uneasiness filled him. This was The New Martha’s first venture to town. No telling what the townsfolk would say. “Want me to come with you?”

  She looked directly at him. “You’re going to the dump.”

  “I can always go to the dump.”

  “No. I think I’ll go alone.”

  “Okay.”

  He dropped her off in front of the bank. “I’ll pick you up right here.” He smiled.

  “Okay.” She took a quick look in the side mirror, adjusted her dress, and walked away. Leon wanted to go with her, but he suppressed his protective instincts and instead gunned his engine and headed for the dump, determined to be back as soon as possible.

  The bank was cool and expansive, with a slight sickening odor she remembered. She went to the first person she saw, a redhead at the teller window.

  “I want to talk about my money.” The girl’s eyes widened in recognition and disbelief. She came forward to look closely.

  “Martha?”

  “Yes.” Martha smiled.

  The girl cleared her throat, recovering from her surprise, “Just a moment. I’ll bring over Mr. Hillis.”

  Martha folded her hands in front of her and waited quietly.

  Soon a little man in a suit came hurrying over, talking quickly and quietly to t
he redhead. As he approached, an uneasy smile spread across his face. He held out his hand.

  “Miss Mannes. How good to see you.”

  Martha looked at his hand and held out her left one. The man squeezed it gently, then led her back to his desk, in the corner of the big room. “Please. Have a seat. Some coffee?”

  “No. I want to talk about my money.”

  “Fine. What can I tell you?”

  She looked blank. “Everything.”

  His smile faded. “Everything. One moment.” He pushed a button on a little box on his desk and spoke into it. “Julia, please bring in the Martha Mannes file.” He sat back and studied Martha. “You look well.”

  “Thank you. I feel good.”

  In a moment, a tall, thin girl placed a thick folder on the desk. Mr. Hillis put on a pair of half glasses and began to sift through papers.

  “I assume you know nothing of your financial status?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Okay. Let’s start from the beginning. There is a trust in your name, a gift from Mrs. Addie Smith. The original amount was for just over twenty-five hundred dollars, but it’s grown now to . . . let’s see . . . almost nine thousand.” He took off his glasses and smiled at her. “We invest our clients’ money wisely.” She just looked at him, trying to understand. “Ahem. Then there was your parents’ estate. They left everything to you, of course, and your mother, uh, Fern Mannes, left the bank here as trustee.” He took down his glasses again, and looked at her. “That means, Miss Mannes, that we would take care of you, give you the money that you need, and when you . . . uh, died, the rest was to be given to the various charitable organizations that your mother worked with while she was alive.”

  “How much?”

  “All together?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, just a moment.” He fingered a calculator, riffling pages as he went. “Not including the farm, let’s see. Not including the farm, I see a net worth here of one hundred thirty seven thousand dollars.”

  “Would you write that number down for me, please?”

  “Certainly.” He tore off the calculator tape, circled the last number and handed it to her.

  “And to get money, I just come in and ask for it?”

  “Yes. But please, don’t spend it all.”

  She smiled at him for the first time. This was very tiring. “I just want some new furniture.”

  He grinned, broadly. “You just tell the store to send the bill to me. Within reason.” He handed her his card.

  “Ran-dolp Hiles.”

  “Randolph Hillis.”

  “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” He walked her to the door, but before he opened it, he leaned closer, and whispered conspiratorially. “Miss Mannes . . .”

  “Yes?” She smiled.

  “Um, we’ve seen you in here a lot these past years, since, uh, since your parents died. And, I must say, I’ve never seen . . . um . . . well, you’re looking very good.”

  “You mean—what happened?”

  “Um, well, yes, I guess that’s my question.” He began to wring his hands.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Hillis. Good-bye.” She walked out the door into the warm air, and looked up and down the street.

  Hillis turned to face the wide interior; every eye was on him, questioning. He shrugged his shoulders and went back to his desk. He canceled his appointments and went to church.

  Martha walked across the street and entered the McRae store. Dave was putting a new tape in the cash register. He looked clean and fresh in his white shirt, his bald head nicely tanned, the gray fringe around his head combed neatly down. He looked up briefly as she entered, then went back to his work.

  “Hello, Martha,” he said. “Long time no see.”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s been a while.”

  Slowly his head came up to look at her smiling face. Jesus Christ! His face reddened; he cleared his throat. Such shocks were not good for the heart, he thought. He smiled. “Bring me any eggs?”

  “No. I want to talk to you about my mother.”

  Dave came around the counter and took both her hands in his own. “You look pretty as a picture, Martha. I’d never have believed you’d look this nice. What’s happened in your life?” God, her eyes are absolutely beautiful, he thought. Like sparkling snowflakes inside.

  “I don’t know. Something.”

  “Something indeed. I’d be delighted to talk about your mother. A dear, dear lady.” He showed her his forearm, where a thin white scar ran the length from the wrist to the elbow. “She did this for me.”

  “She cut you?” Martha was horrified.

  “No, no, dear, no. I cut myself helping your father when I was just a lad. He half carried me into the house. I was bleeding terribly. And your mother laid her hands on the cut and healed it.”

  “She healed it?”

  “Yep. Worked miracles, that woman. A natural healer.”

  “Did she . . . ? Did . . . ?” Martha groped for the question.

  “Did she heal a lot of people? Most everybody in town was helped by your momma at some time or another. A wonderful woman, she was, yes indeed.” His eyes looked beyond her, far into the past.

  “And father?”

  “Your father was a farmer, Martha. No more, no less. Your momma loved him with all her heart, as she did you. She didn’t have an easy life. Harry was set against her healing, but she did it anyway. And brought you up at the same time. And look at you now! Glory be, I wish Fern were here to see you now, looking so sharp, standing in my store.”

  “Mother was a healer.” A faint memory tickled at the back of her head. “You’re a very special girl, Martha. Someday everyone will find out just how special you are.”

  “Yes, she was.”

  “Thank you. I have to go now.”

  “You’re welcome, Martha. Come back anytime.” He opened the door for her, and touched her shoulder on the way out.

  When she’d gone, he sat in the folding chair he kept next to his counter and delved into memories of his youth, with a sweet-sad smile on his face.

  Leon was waiting in his truck, parked in front of the bank. He sat up straight when he saw her come out of the McRae store, then reached across and opened the door for her. She got in and smiled at him.

  “Leon,” she said as she opened her purse and took out the tape Mr. Hillis had given her, “is this a lot of money?”

  Leon looked at the circled figure and whistled. “Yes. A lot of money.”

  “Enough for new furniture?”

  “Yes.”

  “And a new truck for you?”

  “Oh, Martha, come on.”

  “I’m serious. Is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s go.”

  He kissed her on the cheek and put the truck in gear. Mother was a healer, she thought.

  CHAPTER 22

  Fern sat at the kitchen table, note pad and pen in front of her. The pressure inside her head was tremendous. Martha sat next to her, watching the tortured look on her mother’s face. Fern tried to think of everything she needed to teach Martha, everything she needed to know in order to get along on her own. It was a heartbreaking task.

  With pictures she wrote out the recipe for a stew, and for a vegetable soup. She made grocery lists, pinning together labels from all the canned goods and things Martha liked to eat. She showed Martha how to wash clothes, rinse them well, and hang them on the line. It was hard—Martha’s attention span was so short. She had to talk quickly, with lots of action. They went to the yard to look at the vegetables and the chickens.

  “Most important, Martha. Martha, concentrate. Most important, feed the chickens. The chickens gotta eat. The chickens gotta eat. If you have chickens, you have fresh meat and eggs, okay?”

  At this, Martha brightened. She loved the chickens. “Okay!” she said.

  Fern laughed. “Okay!”

  “Okay!” Martha imitated her. They hugged each other. She’ll
be all right, Fern thought. A hot tear started to form again in Fern’s eye. I’ve had enough crying, she thought. Martha pointed at it, questioning.

  “Dust,” Fern said, swiping it away.

  When Fern announced they were going to town, Martha’s eyes got shiny and excited. She picked out her favorite dress and slipped it on, then watched her mother get ready, watched her brush her long gray hair, then twist it up in a bun. She powdered her nose and put on red lipstick. This routine fascinated Martha, and she was content to watch, anticipation of the trip to town forgotten as she shared this time with her mother.

  They walked quietly down the road, nervous energy flowing through Martha, a dreaded heaviness in Fern.

  First stop was the bank. Mr. Hillis saw them coming through the doorway and came right up to meet them. He introduced Martha to each of the tellers, and together he and Fern explained that this is where she should come for money to go to the store. “Just come in and ask for twenty dollars,” Fern told her several times. Martha seemed to understand. Mr. Hillis had suggested that she just open an account with McRae’s, to be paid by the bank, but Fern wisely suggested that Martha needed more contact with people—she would be so alone at the farm. Mr. Hillis agreed, and so it was settled. A wise old woman, Mr. Hillis thought.

  Martha cheerfully smiled her crooked way at all the pretty girls in the windows. They all smiled and waved to her until she was embarrassed and turned toward the corner window to look at her reflection. Fern thanked Mr. Hillis, waved to the girls, and took her out.

  They looked both ways before crossing the street and going into Dave McRae’s store. Dave had inherited the store when Hiram retired ten years ago. He was a very pleasant man, eager to help. When Fern told him her mission, he could see the wisdom in her actions, but was saddened to think that this wonderful woman would eventually be taken from their lives. And it was with sadness in his face that he greeted them both on this important day.

  “Mr. McRae will be your best friend, Martha. Your friend.” Martha smiled up at him shyly. “Whatever you need, you come here, see Mr. McRae, okay?” Martha wandered off, looking at all the bright packages and bottles and cans and jars, while her mother and the nice man with no hair talked. Soon she was called back.