When Darkness Loves Us

He crawled back to the mattress, each loud ringing sound reverberating around the inside of his cranium. Why are jails so goddamned loud? He put his hands over his ears and faced the wall. Bright, too. No consideration, no respect.

He drifted off.

He awoke to the clanging of his cell door, and two guards handcuffed him and took him to see the judge. That didn’t take long. Drunk and disorderly, one count. Armed robbery, one count. Not guilty, your honor. Bail, five hundred dollars. An attorney will be appointed. Back to the cell.

He was alone and miserable. Armed robbery, what the hell were they talking about? Then the memory of the night before rose through the murky depths of his drugged consciousness. Shootin’ his mouth off again in Mike’s. Goddamn that Ned. Squealer. Musta been him. Who else was sittin’ at their table? Priscilla. Cunt. What’s Ned see in her? Somebody else was there, somebody with big tits and a nice tight ass. Oh, Lord, he couldn’t even remember her name. Anyway, somebody ratted on him.

He remembered the job, all right. What a score. They were asking for it, in that big fancy house on the hill. What the hell did they expect? Easy, too. Just walked right in. Kitchen door was unlocked. He got no cash, didn’t want to go upstairs, but he scored a great hunting knife, lots of silver stuff that he sold for a good price over in Joliet. Good price. Shit. That jack ripped him blind. Always did.

So he shot off his mouth and the cops searched his truck and got the knife and the gun. Sonofabitch. That Ned. Gonna kill that kid.

No, not Ned, he was just a stupid kid. Cops breathe hard on him and he’d spill. No, it was her

fault. Her and Leon. Him sleeping over there night after night. Two weeks now they been at it. What the hell do they do besides screw?

Leslie rubbed the stubble on his chin. He stood up and yelled through the bars. “Gimme a cigarette! Somebody gimme a cigarette!” The calls that came back reverberated throughout the cold, hard place. “Shut up.” “Get your own.” “Fuck off.” But one cigarette and a matchbook with a lone match in it landed by his feet. He lit up and collapsed back on his bunk. Mouth tastes like shit.

He remembered those nights, just sitting out there, in his truck, radio on low, drinking quarts of Bud, watching the house. He could tell by the lights what they were doing. Dinner, television on, television off, bedroom lights on, lights out. He ought to just go in there and catch them by surprise. In the act. Boy, that would bust Leon up, wouldn’t it? He wouldn’t, though. He knew he wouldn’t. Leon was a lot bigger and stronger, and probably sober, and he’d probably get the crap beat out of him. So he just sat there, fondling his cock, thinking about Leon gettin’ into that old retard, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. It made him crazy.

And Leon was always there. He went to the store in the mornings. Other than that, he never left the house. Moved right in, old Leon, moved right in with the old woman.

That’s why he hit the house on the hill. He’d counted on that wad of bills from the retard to help fix his truck, but on accounta Leon, it never came through. Leon. That prick. He’ll get his, that’s a fact.

He dragged on his cigarette until the smoke was hot, then flicked the butt into the corner. He’ll get his, and so will she. The familiar fantasy came up to him, the curly-gray-haired retard with her face in his crotch and his gun at her head. Oh, Jesus. He turned over and shoved his hand down the front of his jeans.

CHAPTER 12

Harry met Fern and the baby at the train when they returned from Chicago. They kissed briefly, then loaded the suitcase into the buckboard. People stopped on the street as they passed, waving, calling to her. Hiram McRae and his son Dave came out of the store to welcome them home. Fern smiled lovingly at all of them. Even though her trip to Chicago would forever remain an intense memory of magic and misery, she had missed Morgan during her absence.

She had stayed in Martha’s room and prayed the whole day while Martha was in surgery. When she knew the operation had been a success, she walked off nervous energy in the halls of the hospital, meeting people, talking to them, laying on her hands. Many were helped, but Fern learned a disturbing thing while she was there. It was like her fondest fantasy come true, of healing all those within a hospital, but it couldn’t be. There were those who would not be healed. She had denied it at first, fought it, wrestled with the bodies and illnesses of some of those people. But it was true, and she began to discern those people as she passed them, barely stopping to speak.

She worked, of course, on Martha, and the healing was rapid. Dr. Goldman insisted they stay the full three weeks, though, not understanding the assistance the baby was being given. He was worried about the grafts taking, and while Fern assured him she was fine, they stayed. And Fern worked with those who would have her.

And now they were home again.