Darkroom

by Joshua Graham

  However, Mother always said, “You cannot enjoy a durian without suffering its stink.” In time, you learn to embrace it along with the sweetness of the fruit.

  As for the sweetness, Peter and I had experienced the joy of expecting a child. We chose the name Philip—after Peter’s father—and became deeply involved in matters such as purchasing a crib, a carriage, and many other things that a baby needs. Peter painted Philip’s room light blue and even bought a baseball glove for him.

  But around my third month, I began to experience bleeding and strange cramps. When I finally saw the doctor, it was too late. I had miscarried.

  For two weeks, I shut myself in my room and cried. Peter did all he could to comfort me. In order to tend to me, he canceled his trip to England to shoot the launching of the HMS Invincible by Queen Elizabeth.

  It is only now that I can even talk about it without breaking down. Our little Philip, whom we loved so dearly, represented my hopes and dreams in America.

  Peter does not bare his sorrow for others to see. Not even me. I learned this one day when I confronted him about his lack of emotion. “You have not even shed a tear!”

  Of course he was devastated, he said. But that just wasn’t his way. I did not accept that. He took that as my calling him a liar. In my anger, I stormed out of the apartment and spent the rest of the afternoon in Prospect Park, watching mothers pushing baby carriages or holding their children’s hands as they learned to walk.

  When I came home, I did not see my husband. I called out to him, but he did not answer. The radio in the kitchen was on. “Peter, are you home?” Ordinarily he would answer. But his briefcase and jacket were still sitting on the living-room chair. He was not in our bedroom, nor the bathroom. Finally, I heard something coming from the baby’s room. The door was half open. Without disturbing it, I looked inside.

  There knelt Peter, his head draped over the crib. He was holding the baseball glove in one hand and covering his eyes with the other. I had never before seen him like this, weeping and broken as a man could be.

  My own heart melted, and without another thought I went to him and knelt beside him. He looked at me with reddened eyes, tear-drenched cheeks, and a face crumpled with grief. He let out a wet sob. “My boy. My poor little boy!”

  And now it was my time to hold him as he cried. How greatly I had misjudged him. If only I had believed him, respected his way of grieving. I might not have added to his pain. As he buried his face into my breast, I rocked him back and forth, caressed the back of his head. “Philip is with the Lord, Peter. He’s in the best hands now.”

  That night, for the first time in months, I made love to my husband and he slept more soundly than ever before in our marriage.

  Brooklyn, New York: May 16, 1980

  I did not wish to say anything until it was confirmed. Peter has won the Pulitzer Prize for his never-before-seen photos, Survivors of the Massacre at Huế. Strangely enough, Peter was not happy when he found out. A friend of his had convinced him to submit his work and sponsored his entry. Peter never thought anything would come of it.

  The subject matter opened up old wounds and caused quite a stir in sociopolitical circles. Most people wished to leave the past behind and not resurrect the atrocities of the Vietcong, or the failure of the United States.

  But no one could dispute its importance. Nor could they deny the quality of the photos that captured so much more than the realism; they caught the emotion, the moment. Peter is widely acclaimed now and has become quite a celebrity. He deserves nothing less than this success, though he accepts it with reluctance.

  Had this been the only event of the year, I would have been content. But one other competes with it. Something of greater significance than President Carter’s grain embargo against the Soviet Union, Ayatollah Khomeini and the American hostages, or our boycott of the Summer Olympic Games in Moscow.

  I am once again pregnant and am expecting in February next year. We have tried many times since Philip to get pregnant, but to no avail. Though Peter is not a believer, I am. So in secret, one night after we made love, I went into the living room, took out my Bible, and prayed the prayer of Hannah:

  O LORD of hosts, if You will indeed look on the affliction of Your maidservant and remember me, and not forget Your maidservant, but will give Your maidservant a male child, then I will give him to the LORD all the days of his life.

  Peter thinks I should not write about this in my journal. “You’ll jinx it,” he always says. For a man who does not practice any particular religion, he certainly lives by faith. But I feel I must record this, even if I must do so in secret, lest one day I forget.

  One night at a Wednesday-evening prayer meeting, the minister laid hands on my head and prophesied over me. “You will be gifted a child. Through her, many will be blessed and helped.”

  Her? I kept that in my heart and never mentioned it to Peter. He did not quite understand why I reacted with such excitement when the doctor confirmed that we would indeed be having a daughter.

  Peter is nervous about this pregnancy and cannot fathom why I do not share his anxiety or partake in his odd precautions regarding bad luck and jinxes. I do not believe in luck. All things happen for a reason. Every event, no matter how random it appears, is connected by the hand of the Almighty. And I will have this child the good Lord gave me.

  Brooklyn, New York: March 20, 1981

  On February 23, 1981, at 6:35 a.m., Alexandra Phuong Carrick was born. She weighed in at seven and a half pounds and, to everyone’s surprise, had the pinkest, clearest skin of any baby they’d ever seen. Labor had lasted only one hour, and Peter was amazed that I had not turned into what he called “a disheveled Medusa.”

  How rude.

  But that was his way of complimenting me. He quickly explained, after I pinched his arm, that I looked radiant, not like a woman who had just gone through labor and childbirth.

  We must have spent well over ten combined hours choosing a name for our daughter. But we both agreed Xandra would be more unique than the traditional spelling (Sandra), and more accurately derived—from Alexandra, which means helper of mankind. How appropriate, though I still have not told Peter of the prophecy spoken over me regarding our little gift from heaven. He would probably just laugh anyway.

  I have just finished nursing my precious little Xandi, and she’s sleeping soundly. I wish the same could be said for my husband. With the exception of a few nights, he always tosses and turns, having nightmares of which he claims no recollection the morning after.

  55

  XANDRA CARRICK

  What will happen if he bleeds to death here in the car? I’ve parked right outside the first building I find in a small rural community, the name of which is lost on me because I didn’t bother to look carefully at the wooden sign as I drove up the dusty path.

  “Hang on, Kyle, okay?” He’s breathing, thank God, but I don’t know for how much longer. “I’m getting help right now.”

  Wind and dissipating rain blow through the trees over the valley below. I approach the brick building ahead. Dim light and shadows flicker in the windows. On the far left, a horse nickers and blows. Harnessed to a black carriage that looks like a stripped-down pickup without an engine, it eyes me with suspicion.

  I knock on the door, but no one answers.

  Again, I knock.

  Still nothing. With my ear pressed to the door, I hear singing. Or maybe it’s shouting, or crying. Whatever it is, someone’s inside. This time I knock harder, repeatedly. “Hello! Please, we need help!”

  The door opens, and I’m greeted by a smiling fair-haired man in blue overalls. He can’t be more than a few years older than I. “Well, hello! Didn’t hear you.”

  “Sorry to intrude.” I point down to the car. The top of Kyle’s head is pressed against the window where blood from his fingers smears three macabre lines. “My friend’s been injured. We need your help.”

  The smile falls from Mr. Overalls’ face as he jogs over
to the car. “What happened?”

  Keeping in step, I state what must be obvious—or perhaps not so obvious. “He’s been shot.”

  Overalls stops momentarily, then calls back. “Ruth! Get Eli out here, right now!”

  “Is Eli a doctor?”

  “The only one in the colony.” He reaches into one of his manifold pockets and gets a cell phone. “Good Lord, why didn’t you take him to the ER?”

  “I … I’m lost. Don’t know the area.”

  “Okay, I’ll call an ambulance.”

  “No, wait.” I grab his hand. “Don’t call anyone, please.”

  A puzzled look. “Why?”

  “Please, just don’t.” How am I supposed to explain this? I’m just hoping this Eli person can help Kyle before it’s too late. Overalls gives me a probing look. There’s no deceiving him, it seems.

  A frail-looking man comes running. Eli, I gather. The heavyset woman behind him must be Ruth. Eli adjusts his wire-frame glasses and stares through the open door, where Overalls presses his ear to Kyle’s chest.

  “What’s happened, Pastor Jacob?” says Eli. “Oh!” He puts his arm around Ruth, whose eyes are as wide as they are blue. The young pastor in overalls straightens and rolls up the sleeves of his plaid shirt. “This man’s been shot.”

  Ruth gasps. “Oh, sweet Jesus.”

  Eli turns to me. “Have you called nine-one-one?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why in heaven not?”

  “We need to help him,” the pastor says.

  Eli frowns. Leans in and checks on Kyle’s pulse. “Ruth, fetch my bag from the wagon, please.”

  “Is he going to be okay?” I ask, wondering if by respecting Kyle’s wishes, I’ve condemned him to death.

  Eli lowers his glasses and peers over the rims. “This man needs to go to a hospital.”

  Pastor Jacob looks at me.

  For a moment, I’m paralyzed. Kyle clearly said not to go. If we did, there would be some great danger for him, likely for us both. But what good will any of this be if he dies right here? How can I go through life with his blood on my hands?

  Eli stamps his foot in the dirt. “Best hurry, he’s not going to get better just lying here.”

  56

  “He insisted.” I take a deep breath. “No hospitals or police.”

  Eli nods. “No time anyway.” He asks Pastor Jacob to help him lift Kyle out of the car. Ruth brings Eli’s black medical bag. I follow as they carry him back into the building.

  It’s completely lit by candles inside. A handful of people look on as Eli and Jacob bring Kyle in and place him on a table. Ruth directs several youths to clear the chairs away and bring a cot to the center of the meeting room, while Eli washes his hands and prepares himself.

  “Welcome.” A little girl in a black cape dress and a soft white cap tied under her chin hands me a towel for my hair, which is still soaked. She smiles, pushes her glasses back up her nose. “I’m Rebecca.”

  “What a sweet name. Thank you.”

  With a slight bow of her head, she pulls the kerchief tighter around her shoulder and walks back to her mother.

  Pastor Jacob comes over and gestures to the door. “Come, we’ll wait in the office.”

  “Will Eli be able to help him?”

  “In the end, life and death are in the Lord’s hands. As for Eli, he has treated a man with gunshot wounds before.”

  “Did he live?”

  “There were … complications.”

  We arrive at the office door. I stand at the threshold and hesitate. “Complications?”

  “John had lost too much blood by the time they brought him to Eli. Please, come in. Would you like some tea?”

  “No, thanks.” I take a seat on the sofa facing his desk. He pours me a cup anyway.

  “It’s jasmine, from China.”

  “Despite my appearance, I’m not Chinese.”

  “Neither am I, I just like it. I have a feeling you will too. Here.”

  The mug is warm and soothing. I take a sip. Why haven’t I tried this kind of tea before? Mom used to buy it from Ten Ren Tea House in Chinatown and brew it every weekend. “Mmm. Thank you, it is good.”

  He sits at his desk, sets his mug down, and folds his hands over his stomach. “You never told me your name.”

  “Xandra Carrick. Everything’s happened so fast, I apologize.”

  “No need. Pleased to meet you. Now, I must ask—and forgive me if it seems intrusive, but—are you and your friend in some kind of trouble with the law?”

  “You could say that.” I take another sip. “But it’s not what you might think.”

  “How do you know what I would think?”

  “I mean, it’s not what most people would think.”

  He spreads his hands and smiles. “Look around you. We’re not like most people.” His office is lit by a kerosene lamp, no lightbulbs, nothing electric. There’s a distinct absence of things you’d find in a typical office: no computer, no printer, no fax machine, no telephone …“But you’ve got a cell phone.”

  “Yes, well …” The young pastor bows his head slightly. “For emergencies only. After John died in the hunting accident, I decided against the elders’ counsel to get one. It’s still a sore issue, modern technology and all. But they’ll get used to it.”

  “So you’re Amish?”

  “Sure aren’t. We’re Old Colony Mennonites.”

  “Ah, Mennonites.” I’ve heard but know very little about them. I certainly don’t want to trumpet my ignorance. “Pastor, sorry to be so direct, but are you going to call the police?”

  “You are in trouble, aren’t you? Why won’t you just come out and say it?”

  I’m in no mood to get into a debate with him. Either he’s going to report us or not. Right? Yet, something in his eyes tells me he has no such intention. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Besides the fact that you’re avoiding the authorities,” he slides the drawer out from his desk and places a copy of USA Today before me, “it’s all over the news.”

  “Oh crap!” There’s a huge, unflattering picture of my face on the front page, taken during my arraignment. “Pardon my French.”

  “Quite all right.” His eyes narrow, but at the same time something of a smile emerges.

  The headline reads:

  Former NY Times Photographer Charged with Murder, Turns Fugitive

  “Pastor Jacob—”

  “Jake, please.”

  “You’ve got a good eye to recognize me from this picture, in my present condition.” The newspaper is trembling in my hands.

  “Would you like to tell me what happened?”

  “Aren’t you going to call the police and turn me in? I’m a murder suspect. For all you know, I’m dangerous.”

  Jake simply smiles and shakes his head. He opens a drawer and looks for something. While he does so, he continues to speak, though his eyes are involved with his search. “For all I know—and that’s not really too much, in the grand scheme—you represent a danger to our entire colony, bringing in your worldliness and all.”

  “Oh thanks.” I was shot at, beaten, and almost drowned. I’m dangerous? It takes all my self-control to bite my tongue.

  “But I do know the truth. You’re innocent.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Ah, there it goes.” He places a black notebook on the desk next to his Bible and thumbs through the pages. His eyes narrow in concentration. He stops on a page, then looks up a passage in the Bible. “Do you believe in God, Xandra?”

  “Too deep for me right now.”

  “You do or you don’t.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It will affect how you receive what I’m about to tell you.”

  “Can we check on Kyle first?”

  “Don’t worry; Eli will send for us.”

  “Fine.” For a moment, neither of us speaks. I want to give Dad a call. But then it occurs to me: someone’s trying to kill me. If I
call Dad, I’ll be dragging him into the crossfire. And though that Homeland Security agent was a fake, he had access to my credit-card activity and flight information. He’s obviously someone with impressive resources. For now, I’d best sit tight and hope that Kyle will recover, and soon. He’ll know what to do.

  Jake is still waiting for my response. I glance at the worn edges of the leather Bible on his desk. “You know, back when I was thirteen, I stepped up in a youth-group service at church and—how did they put it?—gave my life to Jesus. But it’s been so long since I’ve even thought about it. Since high school, I haven’t even gone to an Easter or Christmas service. Can’t remember the last time I prayed.”

  “But do you believe?” Something about Jake and this entire community that looks like a nineteenth-century time capsule puts me at ease.

  “I suppose I’m sitting on the fence.”

  “Interesting.”

  “I mean, part of me thinks there’s got to be more to existence than just being born, living seventy or eighty years, then dying. Of course, you try to do your part in making the world a better place before you go, but … you know? Something more.”

  Jake nods thoughtfully.

  “But then, there are things that just make you wonder how there could be a God if there’s so much evil in this world.”

  “Want to discuss that?”

  “Not really.” I set the tea down on the end table. “So, why do you ask?”

  He sits up and leans toward me. “You see, depending on what you believe, my answer to your question—how I know you’re innocent—will either make you believe in God more, or simply make you think I’m a liar with a hidden agenda.”

  “Let’s say for argument’s sake, I do believe in God.”

  “Well then, let’s just say that the Holy Spirit told me you’d be coming here, in need of help.”

  If it had been just a couple of weeks ago, I would have laughed (silently, though). But after all the visions I’ve seen, this fascinates me. I reach over to take another sip, but my cup is now empty. I place it back down on the end table. “So what exactly did the Holy Spirit say?”