Somewhere in the Dark

by R. J. Jacobs

  My head felt empty the way it does when I don’t eat. When was the last time? I couldn’t remember. A granola bar or some Pop-Tarts in my car that morning?

  There was a flash at the far end of the stage. I reached behind for the knife, stopped. Just someone testing a lighting kit. But my heart was still pounding. Some part of me knew that a bad thing might happen. My … the word for knowing instinctively … intuition. When you look back on situations, the way you should have acted is much clearer than it is when life is happening. Maybe I wanted to get caught, I wondered later. I knew I had pushed everything too far. I knew security would catch up with me eventually.

  The knife blade scraped against my skin as I leaned back. I let out my breath. Around me, seats were filling up. The warm-up music got louder. I could feel little vibrations in my chest and in the chair beneath my legs. Fatigue from travel and hypervigilance must have caught up with me, because I didn’t notice the guard as he approached. He almost touched my shoulder before I flinched.

  “Miss, I need you to come with me,” he said. I didn’t respond and hurried out the other side of the row, then down the aisle. I knew what this meant—I’d been identified by security. It hurt knowing I would miss the last show, but it was time to get out. I looked over my shoulder and saw him speaking into a radio.

  I had to run, but security guards blocked the exits behind me. The only way away from them was down—closer to the stage. Maybe I could lose them once the lights went out. I bounded down a flight of stairs, jumped a barrier, and ran along the back of another group moving onto the arena floor. I kept looking over my shoulder, watching for the security guard who was watching for me.

  Shapes moved fast toward the stage, a rush. People touched my shoulders and back. It was accidental, I knew, but it still made my skin burn. I had to get out, but it was like I was painting myself into a corner and couldn’t stop.

  Then all the lights went out. People started screaming. Phone screens lit up like eyes of animals all around me. There was a burst of light from the stage so bright I saw green-and-red floaters and the river-like outlines of blood vessels inside my eyes.

  I tried to remember the word for when a person goes crazy.

  Shelly appeared on stage, waving, the crowd surging toward her. I pushed ahead, knocking someone out of my way who fell down and looked at me and I had no words to say sorry. My skin felt like it was on fire from all the touching.

  Then someone shoved me hard from behind. I turned to see a guy in his mid-twenties, scowling at me because I’d stepped in front of him. He gripped my shoulder.

  I pulled my knife. I wasn’t thinking. Finding it was reflex. I had been so, so tired for so long. I had no thoughts. I tried to scream, but my voice would never let me scream. I felt the rubber grip of my knife slipping as I held it toward him and watched the scowl drop from his face.

  I was shaking my head, no, no, no. I’m sorry. I’m just scared.

  Had I cut him?

  It was dark, but I could see him holding his upper arm.

  Around me, people were screaming. People started running, gripping each others’ shirts, pulling others away from me. Was someone behind me? Someone I didn’t see?

  But the someone was me. I’d done something terrible. I couldn’t breathe. A hand gripped my neck. Another hand gripped my arm, jerking my hand. I caught a glimpse of a face—not a uniformed security guard but an actual police officer.

  I would learn later that this was Detective Marion, working overtime as added security detail for the Nashville show. He would appear at my hearing to testify, where he would tell the story matter-of-factly and conclude by saying, “I hope she gets every bit of the help she needs.” I knew that under his suit, his left forearm probably still had a bandage from where my knife had cut him as he took it from me.

  Flashes popped—one from a photograph that appears on websites around the world any time my name is googled, but also in results for “crazed fan” and “stalker.”

  I heard my knife clatter across the ground. I felt my jaw crack against the cold cement floor. Pain shot through the front of my face as I felt one of my teeth break apart—pain so sharp it felt white. I felt a weight on my back that made it hard to breathe as my arms were twisted and my wrists were cuffed.

  Then I stopped feeling my body and my mind fell into a deep hole.

  There was no trial—my attorney encouraged me to plead guilty to reckless endangerment, trespassing, and simple assault. The state dropped an aggravated assault charge. I had a sentencing hearing where a judge heard from Detective Marion, and my caseworker from the state, and Robert Holloway, who testified that Shelly, Owen, and the crew were aware I’d followed the Jameses’ tour across the country. My lawyer told me this was to establish that I hadn’t acted impulsively on the night I was arrested. He said the state wanted to make it look like I’d been planning an attack at a concert for weeks, and Robert agreed that it seemed I had. He reviewed safety measures the crew had taken to identify me and described the flyers picturing my face that the crew had all seen. Shelly and Owen had seen my picture too, he said. They were aware that I had trespassed into a dressing-room area and agreed I posed a threat. Each venue’s security, of course, was responsible for keeping me from entering the building in the first place.

  When it was time for the man I’d stabbed to testify, my eyes dropped to the floor and stayed there. A force stronger than gravity pushed them down, keeping me from looking at him while he spoke. He said he was angry, and confused. He didn’t know if he could ever feel safe at a concert again because of what I did. His voice shook a little as he talked about his ambulance ride to Vanderbilt, the stitches he got, the cut on his upper arm.

  I hated myself.

  Then I was taken to jail—where I spent a year.

  I lost track of the James family after that, along with the rest of the world. I had to think about me—which was a good thing, in that way, I guess. Every now and then, there was some information about Owen and Shelly I couldn’t escape. They were famous after all. Their pictures popped up online, on magazine covers, everywhere.

  Everyone knew the Jameses’ faces.

  And apparently, the Jameses knew mine.

  * * *

  After my break, I head back to the Petersons’ house, where I pick up a tray and pass through the kitchen to the outside area. Ken and Andre are tending to the food. I know I have to keep my distance from the Jameses and Robert, which shouldn’t be hard to do for a while—there is plenty of work to tend to elsewhere.

  By now, I half expect to see Detective Marion too. Since the concert where I was arrested, he’s worked as a special consultant and security guard for Owen and Shelly. But, no, I tell myself, he wouldn’t come here, with them, would he?

  The backyard has filled with guests— mostly teenagers. There is a peculiar stillness to the dusk, a gentle bracing. There is little breeze now to make the strings of lights sway, just the sorrowful calls of suburban birds, and music through outdoor speakers so soft it seems subliminal. I hear a word in the air—boyfriend—followed by hoots of laughter.

  Do they mean Sean?

  I wonder what it is like to have a boyfriend. A boy who wants to see you, who waits for you. Who texts you, remembers your birthday, speaks to your family. A boy who occasionally leads you into darkness because he wants to put his hands on you.

  A boy you want to follow into the dark.

  I see how Finch faces Sean. The way she tilts her head when he talks. That is what Finch wants him to be—her boyfriend.

  But watching him, I can’t tell if he is. His body is angled away. She laughs when he talks, but he looks over her shoulder.

  I do all the things I had planned to do, keeping as far away from the deck as possible, and to my relief, my tactic seems to work. The more time goes by, the more people begin to filter out. I just might make it out of this party, I think hopefully, even as my heart is still beating like a jackrabbit’s.

  For more than half an h
our I manage to keep away from the part of the house where the living room meets the deck, until Ken asks me directly to check the status of the glassware in the kitchen. I nod, having no excuse that won’t raise suspicion, and tell myself I’ll be okay. I’ll stay dim, I’ll slip inside the side door Lane propped open. Checking and rearranging the glasses will take less than a minute tops, if I’m quick. A timer starts inside my head as I walk through the door. My chest feels like I’m holding my breath.

  But the second I step into the hallway, I’m frozen by the sound of Owen’s voice. “… don’t need to drink any more tonight. What’s with you? I’m starting to get …”

  My eyes search the shadows around me for something to focus on and find a family portrait: Lane, Brian, and Sean Peterson all wearing white button-down shirts and khaki shorts on a beach somewhere, the sky behind them pink and blue from the perfectly angled sunlight.

  “No, I am worried,” Owen is saying. “You’re a mess. Talk to me. It’s me.”

  It’s like there’s some sort of force drawing me back toward Owen and Shelly despite my best efforts to keep my distance. I lean into the shadow of a pantry and listen. I can’t not listen.

  Shelly replies in a tangle of sobs. “I’m ruining tonight, I know. Take me home, will you? … Didn’t want to be here in the first place.”

  “But these are our friends. Shell? Will you please tell me what’s going on with you?” Shelly says something I can’t hear, to which Owen half laughs. “Okay, fair, maybe he’s not our friend, but everyone else is. And this is about Finch tonight. Let me get you some more water. There’s just a week or two before Sean leaves, and …”

  “I’m asking you, please.” Shelly’s urgency is breathtaking. I’m not hearing two people perform, I realize, suddenly—I’m listening in on an intimate conversation between a married couple. Earlier—last year, even last week—I might have found the idea thrilling. But now Shelly’s tearfulness and Owen’s tender humor cause my stomach to sink, guiltily. I don’t feel included like I have in the past. Suddenly, I feel like an intruder.

  I think of the words Robert used during my sentencing. He said everyone agreed that I posed a threat. I want to run back outside, but I’m afraid any movement will make a sound.

  In the stillness, I hear Owen sigh. “You’ve started taking them again. Don’t deny it.”

  Shelly answers by staying quiet.

  Them, I wonder? Taking them?

  I suspect he means whatever is putting the slur in her voice and making it so that she can’t walk in a straight line.

  “I know you,” he whispers. “What I don’t know is how to help. Let’s talk … when we get home. Okay?”

  Another pause.

  “Shelly?” he asks, before concluding, “I’ll go tell Finch it’s time. Just stay here. We can all walk out together, okay?”

  I hear Shelly’s muffled agreement, then the scuffing of Owen’s boots on the hardwood, headed into the interior of the house.

  I’m still partly holding my breath, I realize, drawing in tiny puffs to keep from passing out, my chest burning. Shelly is just a few feet away from me, I know, on the other side of the wall from where I stand. I need to move—to leave as quickly as I came—but silently, because I know any move I make can be heard from where she is.

  I see the shape of someone passing up the driveway toward the street and recognize my chance, hoping my footsteps will be masked by the noise they’re making. But as I spin into the hallway to go back out the door, Shelly does too.

  And just like that, we are facing each other. I can’t move.

  Her eyes are glassy as she takes me in, and then widen as she raises her hand to her mouth.

  My heart hammers, my pulse whooshing in my ears. The dark driveway behind me, I know half my face is lit by the iPad panel beside the door.

  “You’re …” Shelly begins, her voice at once trembling and slurred.

  On the iPad, the icons are arranged in tidy rows, like glasses set out for a party. They’re a mixture of symbols and letters that would take hours to understand how to operate, I’m sure. But from the corner of my eye, I see two icons I clearly understand:

  ALL LIGHTS ON.

  ALL LIGHTS OFF.

  I push the bottom one as Shelly begins to scream.

  Then everything goes black.

  6

  A chorus of screams follows Shelly’s as I feel my way to the driveway and close the hallway door behind me. I nearly trip over the planter where Lane said the spare key was kept and hurry toward the front of the house, where I can hear voices from inside, some laughing at the unexpected thrill. Then comes Lane’s voice, somehow both commanding and sweet, calling out, “Everything is okay. Someone probably just bumped the light panel.”

  A moment later, the lights all come back—this time, all on at once, including floodlights bleaching the lush front lawn I cut across on my way to the van. How could I have been so stupid? Why did I take such a risk? Maybe Ms. Parsons was right after all—I don’t understand risk I think, balling my hands into fists. I feel like knocking them against my own head. Not just because of the stupid risk I just took, but because the conversation I’ve just overheard made me feel like I trespassed. Shelly’s crying and Owen’s pleading with her to get help made something click inside me. It made them both real somehow.

  Now I feel like a fool—one whose realization came a moment too late and now will be headed to jail, most likely. I climb in the van’s passenger seat and close the door, panting like I’ve just run for my life.

  I don’t know what good hiding will do, but as I watch people begin to filter out of the house, I bend forward in my seat, doubling over like there is an actual pain in my stomach. It seems like the momentary darkness I created inside the house somehow signals an end to the party, or at last quickened the pace of everyone who was already on their way out the door. I watch as people wave their goodbyes under the floodlights—Lane, I realize, must have pressed the iPad icon ALL LIGHTS ON,—because from where I sit, everyone is clear as day.

  Maybe ten minutes pass, and then I see them: Owen, Shelly, and Finch James—as they walk along the brick-paved path from the front door. Owen is looking straight ahead with the steady expression he has on stage, but Shelly stumbles, her arm linked through his. Even from this distance, I can tell she’s been crying, and she gestures with her hands like she’s trying to explain something to Owen, who winks at her and calmly shakes his head. Finch trails slowly behind them both, typing something into her phone. They make their way to Shelly’s white Mercedes SUV parked along the edge of the lawn. Owen helps Shelly into the passenger seat before he and Finch climb in and they drive away.

  There is obviously a lot happening in their lives, but I know at least a part of Shelly’s crying relates to me having scared her—a thought I feel awful about.

  I’m thinking about what else I could have done, how else I could have gotten away, when the van’s rear doors fly open and the interior dome light pops on above me. I turn, nearly jumping out of my skin. It’s just Malik, a tray in his hands. “Whoa, hey. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m just putting away some of this stuff. How long have you been out here?”

  I run my hands through my hair and force myself to draw in a deep breath. “Just a minute,” I lie.

  Malik’s smile is caring but unknowing. I wish I could tell him the truth. “You probably got nervous and came out here when the lights went out, right? I get it. Want to come back inside? Ken was wondering if I’d seen you.”

  “Sure,” I say, and follow him back toward the house. I know it isn’t safe to go back inside—especially since I haven’t seen Robert Holloway leave—but I can’t think of a good excuse to stay sitting in the van, alone.

  I follow Malik around back and begin straightening up. I turn off the chafers and circle the outdoor sofas, picking up the cups and plates left behind. The plates I pick up clink together in my hands, their edges both sticky and slick. The night seems to have gotten even war
mer somehow, and I feel my cotton shirt clinging to my skin as I move around. The evening breeze is only a slight relief when it touches my neck. I scan for Robert, but there is no sign of him, and I hope he left out the front door after the Jameses did.

  We work steadily for another hour, me taking as many trips to the van as possible and lingering there to stay out of the way. I hesitate to let my guard down, but everything seems to be going as normally as possible for the moment—no police have arrived to arrest me for breaking the order of protection, and no one from the Peterson family has accused me of being where I don’t belong. A small part of me wonders if I just might actually leave quietly and sleep in my own bed tonight.

  When the van is finally loaded, Ken, Andre, Malik, and I climb back in and start the drive back to the company kitchen. The neighborhood is much darker now—the long lawns sloping and shadowy. My breathing has slowed down, and while I still feel terrible about having startled Shelly, my insides relax a little. I start hoping the story of this night has ended, and that I’ll look back on my close call with a little more wisdom and perspective. I’ve learned I can’t “idealize” the Jameses, to borrow a word I’ve heard Ms. Parsons use. I even wonder if I might start to get rid of some of the memorabilia I collected. Maybe I could donate it, or sell it and donate the money—that might make a nice end to my involvement with that time in my life.

  The radio crackles as Ken drives. I’m not paying attention to what music is playing, but I look up immediately when Ken switches it off as we turn into the kitchen’s parking lot. When we come to a stop, he cuts the engine and the slight vibration I feel through the floor and the cooler I’m sitting on goes still. When Andre opens the door, Ken says, “Guys, hang on a second.” Andre closes it again, halfway, the dome light above him shining its pink-orange light down on all of us.