When Darkness Loves Us

Martha nodded again. Suddenly the flow of tears burst forth and Fern sobbed, her head on her arms, shaking uncontrollably. She cried for all the lost good times of their lives, for the retirement she had hoped to have. She cried for the shattered dreams they had once shared, of selling the farm and moving away, of having a houseful of children, of being a close family, full of joy and laughter and fun. And she cried for Harry, a worn-out man, unhappy with himself, bitter and mean in his way, so afraid, so afraid.

The tears ebbed; she caught her breath, blew her nose on the tissue Martha brought. She looked at their daughter and thought to cry again, but she’d chosen her path in life, with Harry and Martha, and there was no room for self-pity here. Not now. There was too much to do.

She sniffed, regaining control, smiling weakly. “I have to call Mr. Simmons.”

She dialed the black phone and counted the rings. Mr. Simmons answered.

“Fern Mannes, Mr. Simmons. Harry has died.”

She listened.

“That will be fine. Thank you.” She hung up and turned around. Martha was gone.

Fern walked into the bedroom, and found Martha sitting on the edge of the bed, just as she had moments ago. She was touching his face, his eyes, his nose, his lips. Fern just watched, leaning against the doorway. Is this the first time she’s ever touched him? This little girl who now had gray in her hair and wrinkles on her face? The tears pushed again, but she held them back.

“He’s quiet,” Martha said.

“Yes.”

Fern rode into town with Mr. Simmons and his aide, with Harry in the back and a metal box of papers on her lap. The black car paused at the curb outside the bank, and Fern got out, said a few words to Mr. Simmons. Then he drove off and she went inside. An hour and a half later, she came out and walked across the street to Dave McRae’s store, then to the post office, and the dress shop, and each store in turn. The more places she went, the faster she began to walk, the more intense was her mission. As she walked out of the last shop in Morgan, she was exhausted. She stood on the curb, perspiring, breathing heavily with the exertion of the emotional work she’d been doing.

She stood there for a moment, leaning against a street-lamp, looking down the street with its parking meters and cars, with the neon signs and fancy mannequins in the windows, and remembered how it was that one hot and dusty day forty-nine years ago when she walked through this street as Harry’s bride. She could feel the heat, smell the dust as it caked inside her clothes, in her throat. She was small then, thin, and carried two heavy black bags, and she was so in love with her man. What had happened to that love? Nothing, really, love was love.

Fern turned down the street and began the trek home. Her feet ached. A car pulled up next to her and Dave McRae looked out at her. “Give you a lift, Fern?”

“No thanks, Dave. I need to walk a little more.”

“Pretty hot day.”

“I’m all right.”

“Okay. Take it easy.” He drove off, leaving Fern standing there, sweltering in the heat, drowning in her memories.

She began walking again, mentally making a list of all the things she needed to teach Martha. With Harry gone, the reaper wouldn’t be wasting any time coming for her. Martha would be in good hands in Morgan, as long as she was meticulous as she laid all the groundwork.

Just as she turned down the drive, a pain erupted in her chest. It reached out her arm to the fingers, dragging with it a bale of barbed wire. She didn’t know whether to bring her hand to her chest or fling it away; it was just a foreign appendage, and it hurt like bloody hell. It was a terrible thing, the pain, and it brought not so much panic and fear as sorrow and a more urgent prayer that her time not be up yet. She clutched at her breast, then sat down heavily in the middle of the road, rubbing her hand, her arm, tears flowing silently, freely down her face. Not yet, please God, not yet. I have to take care of Martha first.

She lay down gently in the road. The pain subsided slowly. When it was gone, she got up and walked carefully to the house.

CHAPTER 21

Leon finished loading the truck with trash for the dump, then went into the kitchen to wash his hands. “I’m leaving now, Martha. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

Her voice came from close behind, startling him. “I’m going with you.”

He looked her up and down. She looked terrific. Her gray hair was brushed up and held with a pin in the back. She had some makeup on, powder, lipstick, and what looked to be a new dress, belted in at the waist. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

They got settled in the truck, and Leon drove slowly toward town. “Where do you want to go?”

“The bank. The store.”

“Okay.” Uneasiness filled him. This was The New Martha’s first venture to town. No telling what the townsfolk would say. “Want me to come with you?”

She looked directly at him. “You’re going to the dump.”

“I can always go to the dump.”

“No. I think I’ll go alone.”

“Okay.”