When Darkness Loves Us

Soon they were ripping off each other’s tight jeans, and Leslie almost came before he got inside. God, he needed this. He came twice, furiously, humping mindlessly, viciously, and when he finally collapsed on top of her, she rolled him over onto his back and sat up.

“Jesus, Leslie. Give a girl a break.” She rubbed her lower back, then fished in her purse for a Kleenex and walked a ways into the woods. Leslie looked into the trees and felt relaxed for the first time.

“Got any beer?” He looked up and saw her standing there, blond bush poking up between her legs. She was shaking out her jeans.

“In the back of the truck. It’s warm.”

“I don’t care.”

“Bring me one, too. But leave your jeans here.”

She looked at him quizzically, cocking her head. “Leave my jeans?”

“Yeah.” He sat up and grabbed them from her, wadding them up and shoving them behind his head.

“Okay.” She laughed as she picked her way back to the truck, her wrinkled blouse hanging just short of her solid little buns.

She returned with a quart for each of them. They drank in silence, listening to the sounds of the night. Priscilla sat cross-legged, Leslie absently playing with her curly blond hairs.

“So what, you going to jail?”

“Probably. That little fuck Ned.”

“Yeah.” She thought for a moment. “You really went into that house while those people were there asleep and ripped them off?”

“Yeah.”

“That takes balls. Weren’t you scared?”

“Scared? Of what?”

“I don’t know. The dark. The people. The guy might have had a shotgun or something.”

“Nah. Nothing to be scared of.”

“I could never do that.”

“Sure you could.”

“I’d faint.”

“Nah.”

They drank again, and the feeling of being in that house returned. He had been scared. It was a terrible/wonderful feeling, that rush of adrenaline. Then he remembered sitting in his truck watching that old retard’s house.

“Hey, Priscilla.”

“Hmm?”

“Seen Leon lately?”

“Nah. He’s been with Martha. Nobody’s seen him. Real mysterious. He goes into town now and then, in the mornings, then right back out there. I guess he’s moved in.”

“With the retard, right?”

“Yeah. She’s a nice lady. But Leon’s . . . I don’t know. It’s real weird.”

“Go fetch me another beer, okay? Then bring your sassy little bottom right back. I want to talk to it.”

She upended her beer and choked down the rest of it, then stood up unsteadily and made again for the truck, stopping to whiz again along the way. When she got back, Leslie was hard as a rock, stroking himself, and she dropped the beers on the blanket and lowered herself onto him.

He sat up, hugging her, rocking back and forth, and whispered in her ear. “Let’s go pay them a visit, okay?”

“Who?” Her breath was coming hard.

“Leon.”

“Leon. Oh, Leon, okay. Oh, God, Leslie.”

They came together, and Leslie pushed her off quickly and stood up. She looked at him, drunkenly, dazed. “C’mon. Get up.” He threw her jeans to her.

“What?”

“We’re going to go pay a visit to Leon.”

She giggled and popped open a beer.

CHAPTER 18

The puzzle of Martha took up most of Fern’s waking moments. She tried to fit pieces together—the incident in the barn, the closed doors in the mind, the monster, Sam’s funeral—none of it made sense. Trauma, the doctor said. Shock. How could she go in and out like that? How could she have moments where she looked and acted almost normal, when most of the time she was so . . . so . . . unfeeling? And if she could come out once, why not twice, or more often?

Fern bustled around the house, cleaning. She swept and mopped and dusted and hauled the rugs outside to be whacked and aired. She sat down often: the years had accumulated on her, turning her hair almost totally gray; her face was lined and her small frame hung with rolls of fat. As she worked, she thought of her daughter.

There’s a purpose to all of this, she thought. There’s always a purpose. A purpose for everything, good and bad. At twenty-nine years old, Martha was capable only of basic tasks—cleaning herself, doing some routine chores. She spoke one-syllable words. Most of her vocabulary consisted of grunts and hand gestures, delivered in a moronic fashion. A truce had been set up between Martha and Harry, which kept the house a tolerable place to live. Although it was a constant heartache for Fern, the two ignored each other’s existence entirely. She tried to be grateful. It could be worse.

Fern pulled potatoes out of the bin and began peeling them for the stew. Harry was out in the fields, as he was every day during the spring, summer, and fall. He lived for his work; it was all that mattered to him. Occasionally, Fern felt a twinge of guilt that Harry had spent his whole life on this farm, tied down with a retarded daughter rather than having a normal family, traveling a bit, seeing the country, playing baseball with a son—but the guilt was fleeting. Harry had made his own bed.