The Darkhouse

by Barbara Radecki

  I sit there for a long, long time. I eat my donut and drink my coffee as slowly as it’s possible for a human to do — taking the tiniest bites and sipping only every five minutes. I add more and more packets of sugar to the coffee to make time go faster and the coffee taste better.

  Pretty soon the sugar starts to go to my head and sitting still becomes harder and harder. I long for a chance to race around outside, to explore the ugly buildings full of mysterious goods. But I can’t lose track of what I’m here to do. I force all my unspent energy into my leg, where it jiggles and jiggles with longing — frantic enough to make me want to break it off.

  So many cars and trucks come and go. But none from the States, or if they are, not westbound, or if they are, not trucks with a bed I can climb into. I use the ladies’ room a couple of times and also wash my face and check my reflection.

  My face looks tired and sad. And even though I keep washing it, it still looks dirty. I decide I’ll have to work on that before I get to the house in Beachport. I don’t want to arrive looking like a sad, dirty gutter-punk.

  After sitting there for two hours, I become embarrassed to go back to my seat by the window, and so decide to wait outside for a bit. It’s warm and dry, and I figure from outside I can still check the trucks and listen for kindness in people’s voices. I spend another hour or so behind the coffee shop, walking lines and throwing stones and even singing quietly under my breath, all while checking every car and truck that comes or goes.

  And then the perfect vehicle drives up.

  Something about it makes me freeze and push myself back against the brick wall. I don’t recognize it right away because it’s so strange to see it where it doesn’t belong.

  The van door opens and Jonah climbs out.

  A shock that turns me into a storm. If my heart ever pounded hard before, it’s nothing compared to how much harder and louder it’s pounding now. I run behind the shop and bend over a bush, sickened enough to puke but forcing my body to hold it in.

  I creep back along the side of the building to check on him. Through the glass doors of the coffee shop, I can see the girl who served me handing Jonah a cup, then turning back to the counter to package a sandwich. Jonah waits like a rock. When she hands him the bag, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out Marlie’s phone. I’m confused. Then I realize he’s showing the girl a photo on Marlie’s phone: a picture of me that Marlie took just a few days ago.

  The girl nods at him and points to the seat I sat in for two hours, then she points out the door and kind of waggles her fingers. Jonah puts a friendly smile on his face and seems to thank her. I can’t move, not sure if I should flee or hide.

  If Jonah is three hours away from the mainland dock and all the way here in Saint John, if he’s looking for me, then he must have read my letter. He knows I’m trying to get back to my family, and even if he doesn’t know exactly how I’m going to manage it, he wants to stop me badly enough to come all this way.

  A picture of enraged Jonah eclipses my vision, and I see myself underneath his smashing, bloodied hands.

  But a remarkable thought occurs to me: if Jonah is going to end up in Beachport to stop me from getting to my family, then I could end up in Beachport as well. Without even trying, I could end up right at the front door of the only house I want to see.

  Jonah takes his sandwich and coffee and eats and drinks without sitting, like a predator surveying the land through the front window. My eyes never leave his scheming face as the prospect of going with him takes terrible, inevitable shape.

  Just like Chisel predicted, before Jonah continues on his way, he goes to the men’s room to take a leak. Two seconds after he disappears through the door, I’m creeping into the parking lot and between parked cars all the way to the back of his van. Acting completely sure and innocent, I unlatch the back doors like I’ve done a million times before and let myself into the junk-filled storage space.

  Suffocated by the dust and dampness of the back of the van, I want to scream with rage and fear. A picture of a baby twin blinds me. Paralyzes every muscle in my body. What’s the worst that Jonah has done? What’s the worst he can do? But if I’m to get to Beachport, only Jonah is guaranteed to get me there.

  There are cardboard boxes piled in the back, and I quickly empty a 5-cube of its coils of ropes and plastic tarps. I set those among the heaped piles of engine parts, towels, oil-covered tools, and bits and pieces left over from so many tasks either long ago finished or never started. I arrange the box close enough to the front that I have some kind of sightline through the windshield, but where Jonah can’t see me through the rearview mirror. Survival rates are higher if the prey has a vantage point to its predator.

  I step inside the box. Then I pull my knapsack from my back and set it under me like a cushion. I angle one of the greasy towels over the box, pull the flaps closed over me, and maneuver the towel over the break in the flaps. This way I can breathe, I can be hidden, and — if I peer carefully through the break in the flaps and under the slightly lifted edge of the towel — I have a view of the driver’s seat and the road ahead.

  I’ve barely finished settling myself when I hear the rattle of the driver’s door swinging open. I don’t dare look out, but huddle in the dark cubby of the box and hold my breath. The van heaves and rocks with the weight of Jonah climbing into the seat. He starts up the van and I feel it steer back and forth until it slowly navigates out of the parking lot and onto the road. That’s when I let the smallest breath in. And that’s how I breathe for so many minutes: tiny sips of breath in and tiny bubbles of breath out.

  Words from Jonah’s experiment journals flash into my mind. Scribbled notes that I couldn’t help reading when I was in the light-house cavern, descriptions of how he brought two babies from Beachport and drove them to Canada sixteen years ago.

  Under cardboard boxes. The words repeat as I jostle in the van amid the cramped, silent mess of Jonah’s stuff. Boxes punctured with holes for air.

  Imove my knees about until I find a position that’s somewhat comfortable and allows me to change shapes every now and then so my legs don’t fall asleep. After Saint John, the road becomes straight and smooth and Jonah is able to drive fast all the way to St. Stephen.

  He doesn’t drive directly to the border, but parks the van in the small town near it and gets out. I stretch my head right out of the box so I can follow his movements, him checking up and down the sidewalk then walking into a chocolate shop. Through the window, I see him showing the workers Marlie’s phone. The workers shake their heads and say a few words that make Jonah nod.

  He goes in and out of stores all along the street, obviously to no avail. When he’s checked with each one, he looks for a long time at the line of cars waiting to cross the border. He seems to come to a decision because he heads back to the van, and I quickly arrange myself so he won’t see me.

  He climbs back inside, panting softly like he’s arrived after a long run. He rifles through the glove box and pulls out a small black booklet. A Canadian passport. Illegally acquired. A new name. He starts the engine, then drives out of the parking spot and to the line at the border. As he slows and brakes and waits for the cars ahead of him to go through, I can feel him trying to compose himself. He takes deep breaths and shakes his shoulders. He opens the passport and checks it intently. I hear him whisper, “Easy. Easy.”

  I don’t know anything about what to expect when you cross a border, except what people sometimes say about the long waits and not being allowed to bring citrus fruit. The cars ahead of us go through one by one until it’s Jonah’s turn. He coasts to the small building and rolls down his window.

  I can’t see the border guard, but I can hear his voice. It’s not friendly. “Citizenship?”

  Jonah hands the man his passport. “Canadian.” He sounds nervous. “From Founder’s Island. Small place up in New Brunswick. On the northeast side. An hour or so from Moncton. Possible you haven’t heard of it, but then again ––” he
tries a jolly laugh, but the guard interrupts him.

  “What’s the purpose of your trip?”

  “Oh, well, that’s an interesting story. I operate a ferry — the Founder’s Spirit — from mainland New Brunswick to the island, and she broke down yesterday. It’s been a disaster, really, the whole area depending on us the way they do. And we’ve had just the darnedest time ––”

  “The point of your trip, Mr. Hubb?”

  “Fuel lines. Couldn’t get them in Canada. Picking them up in Portland. Coming back tomorrow.”

  “You bringing anything in?”

  “Just myself and my gear.”

  There’s a long silence. Jonah coughs and massages the back of his neck.

  “Okay, sir, is the back unlocked?”

  I catch my breath. Jonah answers obediently, “Yes, sir.”

  “Please wait here while I take a look.”

  “Certainly.”

  I huddle into the smallest ball I can, pulling myself away from the sides of the box so not even a thread or hair will rub against the cardboard. I hear the man come around to the back and pull open the doors. I imagine him looking at everything, seeing the greasy tools and parts, the cardboard boxes that hold unimportant things.

  Jonah gives an artificial laugh. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s a mess, I know. I didn’t plan on this emergency run. Didn’t think to leave that stuff at the docks.”

  It’s silent as the man inspects. I don’t breathe. Then he says in a voice grave with disapproval, “I suggest the next time you cross, sir, anything unnecessary to your trip is cleared out.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  The doors slam closed. I wait, sipping breath, until I hear the man say from the front again, “Thank you.” Jonah doesn’t say anything but rolls the van slowly forward. As he gains speed, I feel him relax. It should be clear sailing all the way to Beachport.

  The road winds through woods, through small towns, past ocean views — familiar enough to make me believe I might fit in one day.

  Jonah doesn’t put on music, doesn’t speak to himself, doesn’t hum an unnatural tune. The persistent silence forces a hand over my mouth, tight enough to almost suffocate me.

  The minutes beat like a finger tapping my wrist: you’re not there yet, you’re not there.

  I’m tired enough to sleep but know I can’t lose myself to it. Thirsty and hungry with no food or drink. My bladder is full.

  Just as I think I’m about to burst, Jonah slows down and pulls the van into a parking lot. He steps out and slams the door, and I watch him go inside a small restaurant. There are no windows facing the lot, so when I count enough minutes to confirm he must be eating dinner inside, I take a chance and sneak out of the van and run to the treed lot behind the restaurant to pee.

  On my way back to the van, I notice an overflowing garbage can and, balanced on top, a plastic bottle half full of water. I quickly steal it and run with it back to the van. I settle myself inside the box and am able to drink my thirst away. I don’t think about germs or dirtiness, but just gulp the warm water down and feel a bit better.

  We travel on and on, and I have to fight seasickness as I crouch in the dark, sometimes resting my head on my hands, sometimes poking it up to look out the front. Fixing my gaze ahead helps with the queasiness, and eventually that’s all I can do not to throw up.

  We’re driving through a thick pine forest with nothing around for miles when I see a man walking backwards on the side of the road. He jabs out his thumb and hails Jonah with a begging smile. He looks a bit like a bear with his long beard, grinning teeth, and tall, stout shape. But Jonah keeps driving, and the man switches his thumb for his middle finger.

  A minute later, there’s a terrific crack and the floor bounces and slumps under me. I feel the slam of the brakes as Jonah slows down and coasts to a stop. He hits the steering wheel with his hand. Then hits it again and again. I wonder if his eyes have gone black, if he’ll keep smashing his hand until he draws blood.

  He opens the door and jumps out, slamming the door behind him with enough force to jar me. Next I feel the saw and sway of the back of the van getting roughed up, and I realize he’s taking the spare tire off its rack on the rear door. I secure myself inside the box, knowing what will happen next. Jonah must open the back to get the necessary tools to change the tire. I’m a hidden gravestone when he does. Granite and moss.

  He pushes junk around the back and quickly finds what he needs. I can hear the metallic thump of the chosen items. Soon, I feel a mechanical grinding as Jonah jacks the car and removes the flat. Then the side of the van closest to me thumps very loudly and thumps again. Jonah punching the panel. He growls and groans and swears without words. Anger rising and spilling.

  The same anger simmers in me. I want to scream at him to hurry. Already it feels too long, too slow. Unreasonable worries ping in: we’re going to miss them, my mother, my father, they’ve decided to leave, they’re moving away right now, I’m missing them by moments as they lock up their house and drive away ahead of us, never to return, never to look back or wonder.

  A deep voice startles me: “Need a hand, bud?”

  My body jerks reflexively. I feel an instant impulse to dart out. Like a trapped animal, running could be my only option.

  Jonah’s voice. “Thanks, I’m good.”

  “Broken axle?”

  “No. Leaf springs. U-bolt is shot. Thanks, I’ve got it covered.” The sound and movement of Jonah getting back to work.

  Because Jonah left the back doors open, I take a chance and very slowly rotate my body inside the box so I can sneak a look.

  It’s Bear Man.

  He watches Jonah, who’s working on the rear passenger wheel out of my field of vision. He stares hard at Jonah like he’s making calculations. Black long-sleeved T-shirt, black baggy pants, long black hair and beard, yeasty skin. Everything scruffy and soiled. Not much different from my friends in Moncton, except for everything about him.

  “If you’re gonna call for a tow,” he says, “mind if I bum a ride?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not calling for a tow.”

  My anger at Jonah flurries back. He’s going to tinker until he solves it.

  Jonah says, “Have a nice day.” Curt. Indifferent.

  Bear Man shakes himself and seems to puff up — his thick arms spreading out as if they no longer fit his body. Agonistic behavior. When an animal displays to compete for something it wants.

  If this is what it is — a competition — then the Bear will surely win.

  Maybe everything ends right here. Maybe the Bear rips Jonah to shreds and leaves him on the side of the road. Food for the turkey vultures. I’m ashamed at how badly I want it.

  Jonah appears suddenly at the back of the van, and I suppress a gasp. But he doesn’t look my way, only rifles among his millions of gadgets and parts, checking and tossing pieces. I shrink down until he finds what he needs and moves away again.

  “I see what you’re doing,” Bear says. “Jerry-rigging the bolt. Clever. But you can’t install it yourself. That jack isn’t strong enough. You’re gonna kill yourself.”

  Jonah grunts and maneuvers and jostles the van.

  Now Bear leans in and peers into the back of the van, and again I crouch down until I hear him turn away and speak. When I look up, he’s holding a crowbar over Jonah. Wielding it like a weapon.

  I take my wish back. I don’t want it to end like this.

  “You wanna use the weight of the vehicle,” Bear says, “to push the springs into place. When it’s compressed, I can wedge this in and hold it while you get the bolt on.”

  Still Jonah grunts and toils. As Bear watches him, he starts to smile. A slow, calculating smile. A grin. “It’s the only way, bud,” Bear says.

  Grunting, toiling, then quiet. Jonah says, “All right. Appreciate it.”

  Bear lowers the crowbar as if to hand it to Jonah, then jerks it back into the air. “But you gotta give me a ride.” His grin is a slash on hi
s face.

  Jonah doesn’t answer right away. I don’t know if he’s scared of Bear Man or if he’s not interested in getting help from anyone. He doesn’t sigh, but I hear it in his voice. “All right.”

  And they work for ages getting the bolt into place and the spare tire on. I pretend I can’t feel impatient tears press at my eyes.

  Bear Man is close enough in front of me that I could reach out my hand and touch him. His hair hangs dirty and matted over the back of the passenger seat. Beside him, Jonah’s shoulders and neck betray his fury. His face — what I can see of it — is set in stone.

  “Yeah, I’m on my way to see my woman down in Portland,” Bear says. “That’s why the rush. Can’t walk the whole way, man. You hear me? Not when you’ve got the love of your life to get to.”

  “I’m not going as far as Portland.” Jonah’s teeth are gritted.

  “That’s okay. Whatever you got on offer, I’ll take. Where you headed?”

  “Beachport.” It surprises me that Jonah tells him the truth.

  “Beachport … Beachport…. Oh, right. Little town on the coast. Yeah, I heard of it. You have family there?”

  “I grew up there, yes.”

  “Lotta money in those parts.”

  “My father was a tug operator. Might still be. I don’t know.”

  “So, the other side of the tracks. Gotcha.” Bear chuckles. It’s not a joyful sound.

  “He was a good, salt-of-the-earth kind of fellow.”

  “A good, salt-of-the-earth kind of fellow?” He makes fun of it. “I get it. I had one of those. His idea of justice was a fist across the face. Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you going back to take your revenge?”