Good Morning, Darkness

by Ruth Francisco

  Laura liked the way Kevin seemed to care about the girl’s feelings. “It’s hard. Not hurting people.”

  “She causes problems. I thought you should know. She might call you. Once she—” Kevin broke off.

  “Once what?”

  “I was dating this really great lady from Santa Monica. Stacy showed up at her house. She had to call the police.”

  Laura’s stomach dropped. Another stalker.

  “I’m sorry,” Kevin said, his eyes soft, hopeful. “It doesn’t make me a very attractive prospect, I know.”

  Laura knew he’d warned her because he imagined them dating again. That made her tingly and warm. It was nice to have a date without the heaviness of a relationship, of feeling responsible for another person’s happiness. “I have that problem, too,” she said. She told him about Scott and the restraining order, and noticed how easy it was to talk to him, as if they were old friends.

  “Do you think it’s our fault? Something in us?” she asked.

  “No,” he said thoughtfully. “People get confused about what love is.”

  “Exactly! Why do people want to own you? That’s not love, is it?”

  So there they were, on a first date talking about love. It felt nice and natural.

  As Laura sat on the couch finishing her tea, remembering, she enjoyed the dark and the moonlight through the blinds, casting stripes across the floor. But Stacy’s shrill voice hung in the air—her neediness, her hysteria, her fury at not being in control. Laura stood and shook her body all over, trying to rid herself of that cloying, itchy, sullied feeling. The shaking seemed to loosen up her own anger.

  What was it with these people? Couldn’t they leave her alone? Scott was obsessed with her; her boss looked at her like a horny ape, calling her into his office, always touching her elbow or shoulder; and her landlord was acting like some possessive Neapolitan godfather, as if her affairs were any of his business. Who was next? She thought her self-defense instructor might be getting a crush on her. And what about that Mexican she’d caught spying? Even Vivian, wanting to know her every move. Didn’t these people have lives? And now some crazed girlfriend threatening her?

  God, it made her mad. What did they want from her? She wished sometimes that she could just disappear.

  Yes, it was time to make some changes. It occurred to her that she might like to own a cat, something furry to stroke on her lap in the evenings. She recalled her new creative-writing teacher advising them to do something every day that was different from their normal routine, and she thought that perhaps this weekend she would rent a kayak, like she saw in the channel every morning, because maybe if she conquered her fear of water, she would be less afraid of simpler things like talking to strangers or parking in underground garages or using the phone. She thought again about sending out her résumé, then realized that after a few months a new job would be just like what she had now, so what she really needed was a new sort of work altogether, not a new career, just a job, like maybe at a small boutique or a flower shop, someplace with no pressure, and maybe if she did that for awhile, she’d discover something she really wanted to do.

  No. She needed something more dramatic. Perhaps she should leave the country and start again somewhere fresh. She had enough money now. She could live the life of an expatriate in Mexico or Italy. There she would have the freedom of an outsider.

  Her body was tingling and her feet wanted to flex and point. As she stretched, she arched her back, enjoying the feel of cold air rushing down her esophagus. She felt hungry but didn’t want to bother with eating. Besides, she liked the feeling of being a little hungry. It made her more energized, more alive somehow, stronger, sexier.

  Finally, fatigue melted over her. She dragged herself to the bedroom, climbed into bed and pulled the down quilt up to her neck. As soon as her body was still and she could feel her heart beating, she longed for the ocean breeze. She got out of bed, threw open all the bedroom windows, then crawled back under the covers. The cold air chilled her face, and she kicked her feet until they warmed up. As she relaxed and watched the white chiffon curtains move gently, she thought of an Andrew Wyeth painting of a field and a girl with a breeze blowing her skirt and hair, her body poised in expectation.

  For a long time Laura lay awake, reliving her date. Maybe she would see Kevin again despite his ex-girlfriend. His conversation at first was strained and dull, but she’d let him talk and discovered he had other interests, in geology and scuba diving, and after their hug, she’d let him kiss her. The kiss felt good, as if she hadn’t been kissed in a very long time, new and a little scary, and she realized this person didn’t know anything about her, and she didn’t want him to know anything about her, thinking, too, that usually the better-looking a man was, the worse he kissed and made love, and the man she was kissing was nice and a little goofy-looking, and his arms and shoulders were wonderfully strong.

  She cleared her mind of his image and listened to the silence of the marina, a car passing, the plaintive hoot of a mourning dove. She suddenly felt fortunate to be awake while her neighbors slept, as if their sleeping gave her more room to breathe, more room for her thoughts, for her being.

  Then she heard a thud against the side of the house, footsteps on her balcony, and the glass doors in the living room sliding open. She sat up quickly, her skin all gooseflesh, a cold stab of regret shooting up her spine, for she knew immediately that he had climbed up to the second floor and was there in the dark.

  “Laura? It’s me.” His voice was light and querulous, like that of an adolescent boy, the hard leather soles of his shoes scraping across the living room floor, his palms slapping the furniture. He posed in the doorway to her bedroom, his hand sliding up the doorjamb, his body still and tense, like a dancer waiting for the curtain to rise. “There you are,” he said.

  She couldn’t see his face but saw the angle of his jaw, set like an eel that was ready to strike. “You’ve been drinking,” she said, remembering that alcohol made him petulant, but not violent. “Go away, Scott.”

  “Why’d you come home so late? I was worried about you. Wait. Don’t tell me if it was a date. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  Laura used her feet to push herself back until her hips touched the headboard. “I’m calling the police,” she said, reaching for the cell phone by her bed, though not dialing.

  “You don’t need to do that. I just want to talk. Can I turn on the light?” He walked toward her.

  “No,” she shouted. An urgent instinct to hide in the dark made her pull the cord to the bedside lamp, then scoot to the other side of the bed.

  “Jesus, Laura. I’m not going to hurt you. Why are you being like this? Can’t we just talk?”

  “Don’t come near me.” She grabbed a wooden hanger from a chair and brandished it like a weapon. “I want you to leave, Scott.”

  He walked slowly toward her, and she swiped back and forth with the hanger until he lunged and grabbed it out of her hand. “Did you think you could hurt me with that?”

  She realized she was cornered. She leaped onto the bed and across to the other side, then began dialing, knowing it was taking too long. Scott rounded the foot of the bed, grabbed her wrists, and slammed her down on the mattress. “For chrissake, Laura. Would you relax? I just want to talk to you.”

  The entire weight of his body lay on top of her, her arms pinned to the bed, his moist beer breath on her neck. She went limp. He took the phone from her, then sat back, straddling her hips. “I miss you something awful, Laura. You’re the only girl for me. Don’t you see? Weren’t we good together?”

  “Get off me,” she said firmly, trying hard not to tense her body. “Please, Scott. You’re frightening me.”

  He seemed not to hear, but leaned over and kissed her neck. “Baby, I love you.” She struggled, pushing him away, wiggling out from underneath him; he let her go. She jumped out of bed and ran into the living room to her other phone, a land line; as she lifted the recei
ver she dialed madly. The receiver slipped out of her hand. As she bent to get it, Scott came up from behind; she darted away carrying the phone with her. The telephone cord pulled tight.

  Scott yanked the cord from the wall. He advanced slowly, circling the room until his back was touching the front door.

  “Scott, please leave. We’ll talk tomorrow if you want. At a café or something.”

  “Like a date?” he said bitterly.

  “Scott, please.”

  “I want to talk now.” He inched toward her, then lunged, grabbing her hand. She turned and kicked his head, her heel landing hard on his jaw. He staggered back, shocked, and put a hand to his chin. Tasting blood, he pulled his hand away, staring at the streak of sticky warm ooze on his fingers. He looked up at Laura, who was crouched in the fighting stance she’d learned.

  “Okay, Laura. I’ll leave, if that’s what you want.”

  “Yes. That’s what I want,” she said firmly.

  He walked to the front door, holding his jaw with one hand. She approached cautiously. As he opened the front door and stepped out, he turned and wedged his body against the door frame, so she couldn’t slam the door behind him. “I love you Laura. I always will.”

  Filled with disgust, she pressed her lips together and lowered her chin. Scott plunged back through the doorway. She was ready for him. Grabbing the inside doorknob and doorjamb, she launched herself, kicking his chest with both her feet. As he stumbled back, she slammed the door shut and bolted it.

  She slumped against the door, her heart pounding wildly, sensing him on the other side. She expected him to pound the door and yell, but he didn’t. She ran to the balcony and slid closed the glass panels, and locked them, then pulled the blinds. She ran back to the front door and waited. She heard nothing but silence for nearly a minute, and she worried that he’d fallen and hit his head, that he might lie there unconscious until morning. As she contemplated opening the door to check on him, she heard his footsteps descend the wooden staircase, pause, then crunch across the gravel driveway.

  * * *

  Scott staggered down the steps, acid burning in his chest. As a cool breeze hit his face, a horror took hold of him, as if life held no more pleasure, but was a black bottomless pit crawling with snakes and insects. He caught himself on the post at the bottom of the stairs. He hung there for a moment, his body shaking uncontrollably, his eyes tearing, a deafening rage roaring in his ears so he could hardly see. He squeezed shut his eyes; burning lava shot up his spine, whipping it like a dragon’s tail.

  He parted his lips in a silent scream, forcing out air until his lungs hurt. He refused to breathe until his chest jerked in spasms and he gulped for oxygen.

  Then all was still. A light mist chilled his skin. A foghorn moaned a distant summons as if from another world.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw the sculptor’s ax driven into a stump, its red handle purple-gray in the moonlight, its sharp, wedge-shaped blade glinting, beckoning, luring him to reach out and set it free.

  PART TWO

  Lauds

  Detective Sergeant Reggie Brooks, LAPD, Pacific Division, age forty-two, Afro-American, six feet three, 220 pounds, married with two sons ages nine and twelve, part-time self-defense instructor, and recently a devout Catholic, knelt on the bare cement in the cool sanctuary of St. Ignatius. The church, undergoing a restoration, smelled of sawdust; the worn red carpet had been taken up and wouldn’t be replaced until after the scaffolds came down.

  Reggie bowed his head and buried his face in his hands, surprised by the feeling of his thick, smooth palms against his face. The sensation quickly passed, and again the guilt which ached deep in his bones, spine, and neck, flooded his being, making him feel old and bruised.

  He tried to pull himself together. He pushed himself up on the pew and looked around. He saw several other parishioners scattered among the pews waiting for Father John Ortega, mostly Mexican women, one black woman, and a few white teenagers. He wondered what these women had to confess, looking so contrite, like they’d stolen from the collection basket, and the kids, who probably made up sins, as he had when he was their age.

  It had been a long time since he’d been to confession. He had wanted to, desperately, for years, but after dealing with killers and drug dealers and liars and prostitutes and pimps day in and day out, the uneasiness he felt, the sleepiness of his soul, the knot of despair in his stomach hardly seemed worth confessing. Was it a sin to feel numb? To feel nothing, no outrage, no love, no empathy? To shrug at every humiliation, every display of hatred? To prefer the silence of unspoken lies to confrontation?

  He didn’t know. All he knew was he felt so guilty that he felt deaf, and when he looked into the eyes of his wife and sons, they seemed like strangers to him. He felt he was a sinner, but he didn’t know what to call it, a sinner in a way undefined by the church. He didn’t want to waste the priest’s time. There were so many others who needed a priest’s comfort. So he avoided the confessional.

  But now he had something real to confess.

  He wanted her. So bad he couldn’t sleep at night. He’d never wanted a white girl before. Sure he’d desired them, wanted to fuck them. But he’d never wanted one to love, to take care of, to fold into his arms and caress. Maybe if he’d had daughters instead of sons, he wouldn’t have this urgent need to protect her, to save her, but it was a craving stronger than anything he’d ever felt before. Since the day she walked into the self-defense class he taught on Saturdays at the Tae Kwon Do Studio, he’d thought of little else.

  Lots of women wandered into Reggie’s classes, some who’d just moved to the city and sought urban survival skills, some who’d been mugged or raped, some who were afraid of ex-boyfriends. All were distrustful of men. When they first stepped into his classroom, they looked frightened, their eyes wide, taking in the mirrors, the mats, and the other students stretching in silence. They looked empty, he thought, as if some part of them had been stolen. They made him think of cornstalks after harvest—dried up, brittle, still standing, but dead inside. His job, as he saw it, was to wake them up, to make them feel life again, to convince them there was something worth fighting for, that they were worth fighting for.

  Others came as well: shy adolescent boys who had no fathers, gays tired of feeling threatened, fellow police officers who wanted to subdue suspects without ending up in court. He loved the old ladies who joined up, feisty, full of jokes, wearing white sneakers and baggy sweatpants borrowed from their grandchildren. They were often amazingly strong and focused. Yet it made him sad to think that his city had become so violent that even old ladies felt compelled to learn how to kick a gun out of an assailant’s hands.

  Reggie developed his own set of exercise, mixing tai chi, self-assertiveness role-playing, karate, boxing, and self-defense moves. The women—especially the young ones accustomed to aerobic classes—did well with the warm-up exercises, but when it came to pairing off to practice punches and blocks, they lost it, deflating like balloons. Invariably, at least one woman would break down into tears.

  These women tore at Reggie’s heart, and he wondered what humiliations they’d suffered to collapse at their first defensive punch, as if knocking through a dike they’d built to protect themselves. In a moment, these women unleashed a reservoir of rage, hurt, and a fearsome need to be loved. He figured if he were a smarter man, a psychologist or a priest, he could help them, listen to their hurts, mend them. But he stuck with what he knew—that disciplining anger through exercise would bring them courage.

  When Laura first peeked into the studio, he thought she looked timid and mousy, in an oversized nylon jacket, carrying several books in front of her chest like a schoolgirl. But as soon as she saw the mirrors and the hardwood floor, a confidence took over. She put down her books, slid off her jacket, then braided her dark hair into a single plait down her back. She strode across the room as if she owned it, and when she took a place on the floor and spread her long legs to stretch, Reggie pegged
her for a dancer.

  There was something tremulous about her, like a deer alerted to the smell of a hunter, delicate but powerful, intelligent but innocent. This was his first impression of her, and it surprised him that his original sense of her never changed.

  Reggie heard footsteps and looked up.

  Father John walked in from the rectory, counted the people waiting for him, then beelined into the confessional. The black woman went in first, then the Mexican ladies, then the others. Reggie wanted to wait until last. He felt embarrassed, and unsure what to say.

  Restless, he walked to a side chapel, lit a candle, and knelt under a statue of the Virgin Mary. As he gazed up at her, he saw Laura’s image pass over the statue’s face, her eyes and mouth settling over the sculptor’s rendering like a butterfly on a flower. Anguish gripped his heart. He stood and wiped his eyes. The Virgin’s face returned to its insipid Barbie-doll blandness.

  Finally it was his turn. There was no one else.

  The confessional, made from old walnut, had probably been designed with the average-sized Mexican in mind. The antique wood was finished with linseed oil, which had collected odors over the years; it smelled of nervous sweat, soap, and something like honey. There was hardly enough room for Reggie to kneel. The dark interior and his uncomfortable crouch made his sin sting like nettles under his skin.

  The fabric over the iron grille moved faintly as Father John breathed in and out.

  “Bless me Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was . . . years ago.” Reggie listed the sins he could remember: impatience, anger, apathy, despondence. Then he mentioned the girl who had wandered into his self-defense class.

  “Have you committed adultery?”

  “No,” Reggie said too loudly, then more softly, “No, Father.”