In The Absence Of Light (3 page)

“Porter’s Creek is about five miles from there on Water Way.”

“You bike ten miles into town?”

“If I had a car, I wouldn’t be on a bike.”

No wonder his ass looked so good. I cursed myself and started the truck.

Fall painted the dense forest edging the road in shades of gold and red. Every so often, a fat leaf would flutter down and get caught on the windshield. Soon the limbs would be bare. It had been a long time since I’d seen so many trees, and having grown up in Alabama, I’d never experienced this kind of color.

Bits of sunlight broke through the canopy, scattering into nameless shapes on the road. The fragments of light slid across the hood of the truck and trickled into the cab.

Morgan held his hand out over the dash and wiggled his fingers through the luminous patches.

His mouth tilted into a soft smile, and for some reason, the combination left me with the strangest feeling of ignorance.

I thrummed my fingers on the steering wheel and kept an eye out for Water Way. After a few more miles of eerie silence, where Morgan chased the light through the air, the sign appeared on the right.

“Five miles?” I glance at him. He held his hands closer to the windshield. The light shifted direction, pulling it back to the edge of the dash. “Morgan?”

He tilted his head and continued to dance his fingers. The expression on his face didn’t have a name, but it was peaceful.

I squeezed the steering wheel. What was I supposed to do to get his attention? Jessie had whistled so I decided it was worth a try.

Morgan blinked a few times. “Yes?”

“Five miles?” It was a fight to keep my eyes on the road with him looking at me. Somehow I knew it was a rare moment that wouldn’t last.

“Five miles, eighteen mail boxes, not counting the airmail box.”

“Airmail box?”

“You’ll know it when you see it.” He put his hands in his lap. “So what do you do?”

After the lengthy silence, my brain seemed to have trouble deciphering his words. “I’m retired. Sorta.”

“Retired? You don’t look old enough to retire.” He tapped his fingers in an odd rhythm on the dash. It took me a moment to realize he was matching the beat of the wheels as they hit the streaks of tar filling the cracks in the asphalt.

“I got lucky.”

“So you must be rich?”

He had no idea, and neither did that two-faced son of a bitch FBI agent.  Living in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere was a small price to pay to keep it that way.  “Not really.”

Morgan stopped tapping the dash. “Airmail.” He pointed up. Ahead of us a mailbox had been fastened to a post no less than twenty feet tall.

Airmail. I snorted.

“Do you think they use a ladder or just shimmy up the pole?” Morgan tilted his head, following the airmail box as we passed it. I started to laugh but stopped because I wasn’t sure if he was serious. I mean there was no telling what he understood.

Morgan graced me with a momentary view of his dark gaze. His smile cocked to the side. “I was joking.”

“I knew that.”

“No, you didn’t.” He knocked on the windshield. “Three more then turn left. Dead tree on the right, watch for the squirrels because they’ll run out in front of you.”

“I know the truck is old, but I’m pretty sure it will hold together if we hit a squirrel.”

“It’s not the truck I’m worried about.”

I slowed down as we approached the remnants of a massive oak on the shoulder of the road. Splinters of wood jabbed at the sky. A couple of squirrels sparred with each other at the split in the base. They disappeared in a flash of brown fur as we passed.

I took a left onto Porter’s Creek. Before I could ask where to next, Morgan said, “White house on the right. Picket fence with lots of bottles.”

Bottles?

I had my answer as soon as I turned up the drive. An assortment of bottles lined the narrow cross beams of the picket fence surrounding the front yard of the farmhouse. Top and bottom, the colored glass was twice as bright against the white wash. They’d been organized by hue ascending from light to dark. Size and shape didn’t seem to matter.

There were no cars in the driveway. It wasn’t uncommon for people in a town like Durstrand to be too poor for a car, but no one came to the door. I pulled to a stop next to a pile of firewood waiting to be split. An ax stuck in the center of one of the stumps.

“Your parents home?”

“Parents?”

There was a fresh cord of wood on the porch next to the porch swing. It was gray like the shutters. All the paint on the house was so perfect it couldn’t be more than a couple months old.

Morgan hopped out of the truck. “Why don’t you come in and I’ll fix you a glass of tea.”

I got out to help him with the bike.

“I’ve got coffee if you prefer that?”

“I appreciate the offer, but I can’t.” I started to get the bike.

“Leave it.” He picked up his bag of supplies. “I’ll take it to Jenny’s when you give me a ride back into town.”

“Wait…”

But he’d already cleared the porch and walked inside.

What the hell did I do now?

His voice floated out the screen door. “Tea or coffee?”

“I can’t stay.”

“What?” The hazy image of his silhouette was swallowed by the shadows.

Against my better judgment, I followed him inside. The living room furniture was rustic and neatly arrange around a large wood stove. There was no wall between the living and dining room. The kitchen was in the back. All the appliances were well kept but products from generation that preceded my parents.

“I’m in here.” Morgan’s voice came from behind the half-closed door on the side of a small nook to my left. The sight of his bare ass stopped me in my tracks. “Tea’s in the fridge, coffee’s in the cabinet over the stove.” He turned around, and I stumbled back.  The tight confines didn’t offer much of a retreat, and I wound up knocking my hip into the dining room table.

Morgan came out of the room dressed in a clean pair of jeans with holes in the knees. He held a T-shirt in his hand.

“Can’t find the coffee?”

He rolled a shoulder and stared at the floor. “Or did you want something else?” His dark eyes glittered from behind a curtain of blond curls. Morgan closed the space between us, and my lungs squeezed tight. “Problem, Grant?” He fondled the sleeve of my shirt and trailed his fingers across my chest, stopping over one of my nipples.

He tipped his chin up. This close the full weight of his gaze hit me with the force of a punch to the ribs. He flicked his tongue over his plump bottom lip leaving the pink flesh glistening.

More than anything, I wanted to press my mouth to his and drown in his taste.

“What are you thinking?” Morgan drew a line with his thumb from my chin to the front of my jeans. He palmed the growing bulge and squeezed. “Whatever it is must be pretty interesting.” His exhale warmed my ear. “So is it, fucking me or sucking my cock?”

I couldn’t have told him if I wanted to because the rush of jumbled thoughts made no sense.

Morgan’s bangs brushed my cheek. “Hmmm?” He popped the button on my jeans. “How about I make this easy and start for you?” His free hand fluttered next to his temple.

The disjointed behavior kicked me in the balls, and I pushed his hands away from my crotch. “Is there someone I can call to let them know you’re here?”

He raised an eyebrow, but his stare remained focused near my shoulder. “Call?”

“Yeah, whoever it is that takes care of you.”

Morgan stepped back. “Care of me?”

I felt around for my phone but couldn’t find it. Damn thing was always falling out of my pocket in the truck. “You mentioned someone named Jenny.”

“My aunt.”

“What’s her number?”

“Why?”

“So I can let her know you’re all right.”

Morgan jerked away and raised his fist. I fully expected him to hit me, but it hovered near his temple. The tendons stood out on his wrists and his knuckles were white. A tic jumped along Morgan’s jaw accompanied by that high keening sound I’d heard before. He stepped back.

“Look, I’m sorry people have taken advantage of you.”

His nostrils flared.

“I don’t mind helping you, but you don’t have to do… that. I’m sure your family… aunt… whoever wouldn’t want you to…”

“What? Have sex?”

“I don’t expect you to understand.”

He took another step back. “Because it’s hard to understand.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

He spun on his heel and went into the kitchen. The rattle of condiments in a refrigerator was followed by cabinet doors slapping against wooden frames.

I followed him. “I’m sorry if I offended you.”

He set the pitcher he held on the counter hard enough to make tea slosh over the top. The tension in his shoulders fell away and he dropped his head.

“It’s okay.” His voice was so soft I almost missed what he said.  “It’s just hard, you know.” Morgan wiped his face with the back of his hand.  His inhale was more of a sniffle than a breath.

“I’d be a liar if I said I did.” But it could only be hard. If I’d trusted myself, I would have put an arm around him and held him while he cried.

“Are you sure you don’t mind giving me a ride into town?”

“I’m sure.”

“And you won’t expect me to… you know.”

“Of course not.”

“I appreciate that. The nurse who takes care of me doesn’t like it when I ask for a ride.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged.

“There has to be a reason.” And whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good enough.

“She says…”  A shudder ran down his back, and his sob was almost a choking sound. “She says she does enough. You know, with the cleaning, and the cooking, and other things. She says driving me around…” He flexed his grip on the counter. “It isn’t in the job description. So I ride the bike and it’s
so
hard.”

“Isn’t there anyone who can give you a ride?”

“No.”  He sobbed again.

“Please don’t cry.”

“I just wish I wasn’t so useless.”

“You’re not.”

“I am too. I can’t do anything.”

“You wash dishes for Jessie.”

“So?”

“That’s doing something.”

“But anyone can wash dishes. I wish I were smart like everyone else. Maybe I could even drive. I’d love to drive, but I’m too stupid.”

Goddamn it. I walked over and pulled him into a hug. “It’s okay.” He shook his head. “Yeah, it is. I bet there are a lot of things you can do other people can’t.”

“There isn’t.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Another sniffle. “Sometimes I can count toothpicks.”

“Toothpicks?”

“You know in that movie, that guy, he’s special like me. He counted the toothpicks.”

“Okay, that’s pretty impressive.”

“Nah, everyone like me can do it.”

“Well, it’s impressive to me.”

“Really?” The broken tone of his voice was replaced by an almost childlike excitement.

“Yeah, really.” My smile was wasted on the top of his head.

He pulled away and wiped his nose on his arm. The waves of Morgan’s hair kept me from seeing his tears. I didn’t want to see them. I hated myself enough as it was.

“Can I show you?”

“Sure.”

He opened one of the drawers. “I won a whole dollar once from Jessie. He didn’t think I could.”  Morgan laid a screwdriver on the counter, then a pair of pliers. “I know I have some.” He opened a different drawer. “Here they are.” The box filled both of his hands. “Sometimes I forget where I put things. You know, being like I am.”

“I forget things too so don’t worry about it.”

“Take this.” He held out the box. “See, it hasn’t been opened. So you get to open it.”

I turned it around and broke the tape seal with my thumbnail. “Okay, now what?”

“Take out some toothpicks. Any number and don’t let me see them. Then dump the rest on the floor.”

“The whole box?”

“Yeah, all of them. Then I’ll count them really fast.”

“There’s like a thousand in here.”

“One thousand and five hundred.” He pointed to the box. “But I can count them, promise. Now take some out.” He covered his eyes. “I won’t peek, but make sure you don’t let me see.”

“I won’t. Promise.”

I kept the flap raised and counted out a dozen or so. Even if he got the number wrong, he’d never know it. Nope. I couldn’t stand the idea of breaking his fragile ego.

I slipped the toothpicks into my pocket and dumped the rest on the floor.

“Okay, you can uncover your eyes.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You dumped all of them out?”