Where Darkness Dwells (11 page)

Betty hefted one side of a produce-laden basket while their mother lifted the other. They brought it waist high before shifting it to the wagon bed. The sun was creeping behind the trees, a lurking pumpkin ready for slumber. The wagon would be ready for their mom to take to Calder's come morning.

Before Junior's arrival, they had worked out the details of their story. Or rather, Betty listened as her mother explained how things had to play out. After letting her in on secrets only certain adults of Coal Hollow shared, they had begun preparing for Junior's return home.

Wrangling the snake back into his pocket, even as young as he was, Junior sensed something was amiss.

Betty helped their mom cover the three produce baskets with a canvas tarp against the elements. Once the chore was finished, there was no avoiding Junior.

Before he could ask what'd got their goat, their mom had blurted, "Your dad's gone. He died in his sleep. He's gone."

In that instant, like a babe opening his eyes for the first time, Junior changed. The happy, youthful energy slid from his limbs. His eyes tensed as he searched for meaning in their mom's words. With doubtful eyes, he turned to Betty, but she looked to the ground, to Junior's bare feet. The garter snake flopped free, slithering to safety without Junior noticing.

Their dad had been sick with blacklung for so long, everyone in the family assumed it would eventually take him. Junior had never known his father to be well, to be youthful, without infirmity.

"We buried him just after sunup," Betty lied, speaking her mom's words, still unable to meet Junior's gaze.

"Daddy's gone?"

"You'll go by Gerald now, son. You're the man of the house."

Junior didn't cry, at least not in front of Betty. He walked away, dismayed, as if he'd just heard that tomorrow it'd rain buckets and he'd have to spend the day inside. He took a few steps down the trail leading to Aunt Paulette's house, but backtracked quickly when he realized his dad was buried at the end of the path. Still not saying a word, he went to the barn, to the comfort of his gray foal, Iggy. He slid the door closed behind him. The horse whinnied in greeting, and then the barn was quiet. Junior didn't come out until Betty was in bed, and then, he merely slinked into his own bed. A boy changed instantly, never to return to who he was.

Her mom had been right. Junior hadn't questioned the illogic of the swift burial. He was still too young.

Noontime was sunny and their mom had yet to return from her trip to town. She'd come home with a paltry credit slip instead of real money. Her dad always prided himself on making something of that small garden plot. Betty didn't care about the credit and didn't understand his glowing pride whenever someone lauded his green thumb. Instead, she dreamed of going to those fancy shops in Peoria and picking out a new dress and bringing it to the check out girl without even looking for a price tag. But no. All of that toil and sweat in the garden would get them store credit for ice or flour or some other trivial purchase.

Betty leaned her temple against the window frame and watched Junior sitting Indian-style next to the empty grave. It was too far away for her to see the headstone, for which she was grateful. Seeing Junior's messy blond hair shifting in the breeze, his slumped shoulders and downward gaze, she felt terribly guilty for lying to him.

He'd gone out there after breakfast, still having not said much of anything. Since then, she'd kept an eye on him, worried. His only movement was to snag a fresh blade of grass to chew on before returning his hands to his lap. He was broken. Like a shattered piece of pottery. Seeing him like that made her feel fragile herself, as if she too could shatter under the weight of an uncertain world.

Junior startled Betty by standing. His blond head popped up quick as a frog jumping from a lily pad, but his expression didn't match his energy. She still hadn't seen him shed a tear, but his eyes were bloodshot. When he reached the rear of the house, he stormed up the three steps to the door, came in and swept past Betty.

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

"No." He didn't slow down. He marched right back to their bedroom.

"I can make us some sandwiches. Tomatoes and cheese."

"I said no."

His curtness made her flash with anger. She wanted to spill the secret, let him know their dad was still alive. But she didn't. He slammed the door. In a way, she was grateful for Junior's sadness. Otherwise, she might've spilled the beans. She couldn't do such a thing to her brother.

Distraction was a powerful thing. She thought about the tomato and cheese sandwich she tried to ply Junior with, and decided to make one for herself.

Gotta keep busy. Gotta get on with things. Because nothing bad really happened
.

Her daddy was nearby and alive, and by now his illness would be healed as if by magic. He would never again cough up blood, his face flushed with purple blotches from the effort. Yes, he was alive, and even if he'd never walk her down the aisle at her wedding, or bounce a grandchild on his knee, he was alive.

She sliced the tomato and bread and cheese, slapping together her sandwich. She bit into it, the tomato gushing and cold against her teeth.

If he was unharmed--better than unharmed, actually healed of his sickness--why did she feel so empty?

Her appetite disappeared. She set aside the sandwich and walked down the hall. The cellar door was off to the right, but she avoided it, ignored its very existence, instead, she pressed her ear to her bedroom door. Junior's mewling cry sounded like a smothered kitten. She imagined his head under his pillow, both seething with pain and fighting to control his emotions. She was glad he was crying. Crying meant he'd get over it and move on. All for the better. She still felt guilty.

The screen door screeched open, then slammed shut. Betty jumped away from the bedroom, embarrassed for having listened to Junior when all he wanted was to mourn in private.

"Betty, come here please." Her mom looked tired and sweaty, as if she'd just mowed the front lawn with their push mower.

"How did it go? Did you tell Hank Calder?" They'd agreed they should let the town know what had happened to Gerald Harris, doting father of two, generous and loving husband, lies and all.

"Yes, I did. I also stopped in on the doctor, and he respected our wishes for privacy. They'll help spread the word," she said. As if saying the words had taken up the last of her energy, she slumped into a chair at the kitchen table, then stared off at the floor.

"That's it?"

"We got our credit. Hank gave me too much for the lettuce, but he's a kind man underneath it all. I think he did that instead of talking to me. He understands; he's lost his wife, you know. He understands what it's like."

"But it's not the same. Not with Daddy."

"You can't let on it's not."

"It makes me sick, Momma. I don't know if I can do this."

"Someday we'll see your father again. Then it'll be worth it. Just think of that. Seeing your father again."

"I guess."

"There's something I heard in town, Betty-Mae. I'm not sure how to tell you this…"

"What?" Betty approached her mom when she saw tears in her eyes. "What is it?"

"It's George."

Sensing her bleak tone, Betty's heart thrummed forcefully in her chest. "What about George?"

"He's dead. He died last night."

Betty let out a pent-up breath. Dead? The term didn't mean much anymore, did it? She let out a sharp laugh.

"Betty, I'm serious. It's not like your dad. He was mauled. By some animal. Out in the swamps."

"George? George Banyon?"

"Yes. I'm so sorry."

Her mom stood from her chair and stepped toward Betty, her arms extended in comfort. Betty pushed by her and out the back door, the screen snapping shut.

14.

The sun was falling from its highpoint when Cooper woke. His muscles ached, but he felt rested for the first time in many weeks. He hadn't recovered from the many months on the road, but was heading in the right direction. He washed his face in the basin on the nightstand, and then changed clothes. He headed down the narrow stairwell to the dining area, letting his nose lead him. The air was infused with different aromas. Freshly baked bread and apple cider. Cinnamon sprigs. Fried chicken and mashed potatoes. The dinning room was empty. Crumbs littered the tablecloth, chairs were askew, but people weren't enjoying the food that went along with the phantom aromas.

He heard a clattering of dishes, and without thinking, he headed toward the noise, passing amateur paintings of placid Midwestern landscapes, portraits of severe-looking pioneers. A recessed curio cabinet filled a wall, so prominent it seemed as if the Calders had built the entire house around a preexisting structure. Framed family photos lined the cabinet, packed as tight as fish scales. In one photo, Henry Calder was actually smiling. He sat in a chair and held a beautiful doe-eyed baby in his arms. A woman stood beside him, her delicate hand resting on his shoulder. Thea's mom matched his seated height. Her small mouth formed a slight Mona Lisa smile. Cooper could understand Bo Tingsley's harbored feelings for her.

"What are you doing?"

Cooper nearly jumped at Thea's shrill voice. "Sorry, I was just looking." He stepped away from the curio display.

"Just looking? Without permission to come back here, you might as well be a criminal." Thea's apron was wet, as if she'd been washing dishes for hours. Even so, plates and silverware were stacked in unstable towers behind her.

"I didn't mean any harm. I came down to eat, and when I didn't see anyone… I heard a noise, so I came this way."

"You missed lunch, obviously. I could shoot you for trespassing, and no court would convict me."

"I'm sorry, Miss Calder," he said as he turned quickly. "I'll be out of your way."

"Wait a minute."

Cooper faced her as she dried her hands on her apron.

"Maybe I shouldn't be so cross, especially with you being kind enough to at least drop off your payment last night."

"I didn't think I was going to wake for breakfast--"

"I heard what happened. It was all anyone could talk about at the supper table. George Banyon used to come in to buy penny candy, he and his sister. Such a shame. What a waste of a young life."

"I know. I'd never met him and it has me shaken. We didn't get back until the sun was starting to come up."

"Technically, you signed our contract, so I should boot you for breach." In the flash, Thea's spiteful side surfaced.

"So, do you want me to leave?" Cooper wondered where he would stay if the Calders had the only housing in all of Coal Hollow. He could always hole up how he normally did. Wrapped up in his blanket, hoping the hard ground wasn't too damp.

"You know, with all that's gone on since last night, and with you just arriving, why don't we make a little compromise?"

"What did you have in mind?"

Thea stepped aside and extended a hand to the piled dirty dishes as if revealing a prize.

15.

Gerald Harris cheated death as he crawled through the numbing darkness. His time had come, had been hovering over him like a malevolent cloud since last year. He stubbornly ignored his fate when his burning cough started dredging up blood, and in recent weeks, bloody tissue. But ignore it he did. When stubbornness could no longer mask his fear, it was too late. He could do nothing to change his fate. Except, possibly, entering the Underground.

When they first entered the kitchen to take him from his family, he thought they were a bunch of coloreds bent on some kind of misguided revenge. But after a moment's hesitation, Gerald Harris recognized them for what they were. They weren't a bunch of crazed Negroes starting up a race war. Their skin was coal-blackened. Ashy dust coated their skin, clung to their curled mustaches and bushy sideburns. The melted candles at the crest of their helmets remained unlit. When they blinked, the whites of their eyes flickered like flinty moths in a dusky backdrop. They were white men stained black by their profession. His tension eased off to a steady hum.

Gerald knew about the Underground. Most of the old-timers could sift fact from fable easily enough. The three men who he had so easily followed into the hollows of the earth weren't alive, but they weren't exactly dead, either. They were the Collectors. Miners trapped years ago--long before Gerald first doffed his miner's helmet--trapped in some perpetual cycle of escape and rescue. They should've been dead, but weren't. They should have suffocated in their mining accident, should have long ago rotted and crumbled to nothing. But they hadn't.