When Darkness Loves Us

As far as the farm went, they’d been very successful. There was a solid bank account; Harry had new tools and a good tractor. They’d bought a car, and Fern no longer had to sew clothes for them to wear. They were probably wealthy, Fern thought, but Harry wouldn’t part with a dime that wasn’t absolutely necessary.

The furniture was in rags, none of the dishes matched, and they could certainly afford to take a little trip or buy some new things, but Harry wouldn’t even hear of it. He did bring modern plumbing to the house: toilet, bathtub and shower, a water heater for the kitchen. The rest he considered wasteful excess.

She picked up a fresh potato, one ear cocked toward the bathroom where Martha was bathing. Fern had picked up some fancy bath salts at Dave McRae’s store, and Martha sat and soaked among the bubbles until the water got cold.

The peach and apricot trees were heavy with fruit. Next weekend would be reserved for putting them up for the winter. Maybe Martha would help, watch, and understand some of it. Not a difficult process, but exacting if the fruit was to last. How will she ever get on after we’re gone? The thought sent chills all through Fern. She tried not to think about it, but the thought slipped in now and again. God takes care of his own, she thought. She’ll be just fine. The good people in town will take care of her.

Fern was on her fourth small potato when the gasp came from the bathroom. Fern’s heart froze, midbeat, as it always did when an unusual sound came from Martha. There was no other noise, but a few little splashes, so she kept on peeling.

“Mootheeeer!” A wail shrieked through the house. The knife slipped, skinning Fern’s knuckle; she dropped the potato and the knife into the sink, shoved the knuckle into her mouth and ran for the bathroom.

Martha was sitting in the tub, water around her hips. Her hand was covered with soap bubbles, and a look of delighted awe covered her face.

“Mommy. Look!” She held the bubbles up to the light. Fern knelt next to the tub, her eyes on Martha’s rapt face.

“Look!” Martha insisted.

Fern looked at the bubbles in the light, colors sliding all around them, swirling reds and blues. In each bubble was a miniature window, with little panes, just like those in the bathroom.

“Beautiful,” Martha breathed softly.

Fern looked at her daughter’s face. The lips were even, curving in a smile. Her eyes were clear and focused; she looked at the bubbles in amazement, then back to her mother. She held her hand closer to Fern’s face. “See?”

“Yes, they are beautiful.”

“I never saw that.”

“Beauty is all around us, Martha.”

Martha sat up straighter, turned in the tub to face her mother. She rinsed off her soapy hand and touched Fern’s cheek. Fern again admired Martha’s beautiful eyes. Why did she notice them only occasionally? A fingertip traced slowly, carefully, the lines of her cheek, across her cheekbone, one eyebrow.

“Pretty,” Martha said.

“You’re pretty, too.” A tear gathered strength on Fern’s lower lid.

Martha watched it with interest, and as she did so, her mouth began to slacken, one side drooping again, her eyes going vacant, retreating from her face, leaving the horrible nose the dominant feature. The little smile stayed, though.

“Martha?”

Slowly, she slid down into the water, her knees coming up, and she slid back and forth, watching the water lap at the edges of the tub.

“Martha? Talk to me.” The moment had come and gone, and Fern knew it, but she wanted it back again. Wanted it so badly she burned inside.

Martha’s head turned slowly to her, and it was plain that all semblance of intelligence had escaped. The only thing that remained was the smile, crooked as it was, and Fern wondered if maybe Martha’s eyes hadn’t finally been opened to beauty.

She kissed the top of her daughter’s head and went back to the kitchen to finish dinner, pondering the development—if it was development—that had taken place.

Harry came in as Fern was setting the table, and went directly to the shower. Martha came from her room, dressed, still smiling. It softened her face, gave her a pleasant look. She went around the table polishing the spoons on her dress, straightening the plates, rearranging the glasses, and folding the napkins as she’d seen Fern do on Sundays. Then she went outside.

“Dinner’s almost on, Martha. Stay close.”

In just a few minutes she was back, clutching flowers she’d ripped up from the garden, dirt and roots hanging below. With that same little smile on her face, she touched the velvety petals of the colored pansies, then held them up for Fern to touch. Fern smelled them first, then touched the petals gently, and the smile on Martha’s face deepened.

Oh God, she’s getting better, Fern thought. She’s responding! She put her arms around her child and hugged her close, tight, rocking her back and forth, afraid to laugh, afraid to cry, this new development seemed so tenuous, so fragile.