When Darkness Loves Us

Harry grabbed both his women and hustled them toward the car. Fern looked over her shoulder at Addie, who was staring after them; then she let herself be propelled across the lawn of the cemetery, feeling the anger from Harry, the emptiness from Martha creating a tornado in her own being, swirling dizzyingly, losing sight of reality. She felt faint.

She spent the entire next day working with Martha, trying to break through the barrier again. If she could do it once, she could do it again; maybe there was hope, maybe she could be normal; oh, God, wouldn’t that be wonderful?

She worked with her all day, talking to her, trying to teach her. “Come on, honey, relax. Let it come. Don’t push it, just let it flow in.” Fern’s level of frustration reached new heights. She thought of what might have triggered the short moment of awareness. She went over every detail of the funeral she could remember. Addie had sat across the grave from them, her eyes dry, her face hard. Maybe it was the intense emotion. Maybe it was something the preacher had said—how come she couldn’t remember much of it? How did Martha know it was Sam in that casket? Whatever it was, she didn’t seem to be able to bring it back out of Martha, and she was afraid to go back into her mind, for the fear of the fierce yellow eyes still haunted her.

Fern began to wonder if Martha was indeed blessed with a gift from God. Maybe she just couldn’t see it yet. Certainly what she said to Addie was significant. Maybe she was a healer, too. Fern’s gift didn’t blossom until she was married. Maybe . . .

Fern began to speak slowly and carefully to Martha about God, and about special gifts. She explained to the slack face how it felt when she did her healing work, how she was out of control, and something else took over. She talked to her about how nice it was to have something else come inside her and work through her, and that she must encourage that feeling if it ever came to that. Not to fight it, but to go with it. Fern told her over and over that she was special, God’s chosen child, and she must work to break out of her shell and shine her light upon the world. None of it did any good. The girl didn’t seem to hear any of it, but she listened quietly.

CHAPTER 17

Leslie was on the prowl. He ground the gears in low and cruised through Morgan slowly, eyes everywhere. Looking for some action. Something. Didn’t really matter what, as long as it would take his mind off that fuckin’ jail. Jee-sus, what a hole. At a stop sign, he hefted the quart of Bud to his mouth and took several long swallows, eyes searching up and down the cross street. Nothing. Gotta get out of this place, it’s nowhere. Yeah, he thought, but go where? He had to make his court date or Ma could lose her bail money. That meant she wouldn’t get her diamond back. She hocked it every time. He swigged again, revved the engine, and laid a nice solid strip of rubber across the street. Felt fine. Sounded good. Smelled sweet. The truck jerked as he eased off the gas and continued his cruise, slowly, shifting to second and leaving it there.

He kept going, aimlessly, until he ran out of beer and road about the same time. He pulled off to the side and cut the headlights. He could just turn onto the freeway here and make for Chicago. Or Joliet. Leave this pissant farm town forever. He caught the final drops of beer on his tongue and tossed the bottle into the weeds. He found his pack of Camels on the dashboard and lit one, inhaling deeply. What the fuck.

He jumped out and unzipped his jeans, whizzing into the weeds, looking at the stars, watching the road for traffic. He shook it clean, stuffed it back in his pants and zipped up, doing a little hop on one foot as he adjusted. He kicked the back end of the pickup as he passed. Piece of junk. Back in the driver’s seat, he started it up, then made a U-turn. Mike’s. Maybe I’ll get lucky.

Leslie pulled his rusted-out pickup into a parking spot across the street from Mike’s, scraping both tires against the curb. He sat there, finishing his cigarette, watching the door. The whole street was dark, shops closed, quiet, just the streetlights going and the light from Mike’s showing through the frosted glass. As the last drag from his cigarette burned his fingers, the door opened, and the street was momentarily flooded with noise—laughter, glasses, squeals, yells, and talk. Two people staggered out, a man and a girl in tight Levi’s, arms wrapped around each other as they made their way to one of the cars parked in front. They both got in on the driver’s side, giggling and laughing as she slid over—just barely enough for the driver to get in.

“That’s what I need,” Leslie said softly. “A tight piece of ass.” The couple drove off after a lurching start, and Leslie jumped down from the pickup, slamming the door behind him. He tucked in his T-shirt and sauntered across the street.