A Variable Darkness: 13 Tales

by John McIlveen

  Rachel looked at Todd, his eyes red and watering, as were hers, she suspected, but her head no longer hurt. “Your headache gone?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said, turning to the car. “And so is that nasty old bastard, by the looks of it.”

  They approached the car with timid steps until they stood beside the detached seat cushion. Rachel carefully leaned in the opened door.

  No smell, no cantankerous apparitions.

  “You in there, Mr. Dickhead?” Todd called. There was no answer. He looked at Rachel. “Help me put the seat back in.”

  Rachel climbed in and sat on the rear seat. “You here, Daddy-o? Daddy asshole?” she sang as she bounced girlishly on the cushion. “How’d you know about the ring?” she asked Todd.

  “I didn’t, but you said a ghost has to be attached to something he died with, but he said your momma killed him when he was watching NASCAR. It ain’t likely he was watching NASCAR in his living room and in his car at the same time.”

  Rachel grabbed him by the shirt, yanked him onto the rear seat, and planted him a warm, wet kiss that set his mind on something else warm and wet.

  “You are a fucking genius,” Rachel said.

  “Well, I have my moments, and I’m smart enough to know I ain’t fucking.”

  “Then you best take me home so I can give you something so crazy freaky you’ll think you’re being pulled inside out,” Rachel said.

  “I have no clue what you mean by that, but I like it.”

  Todd slammed the trunk shut, climbed into the driver’s seat, and closed the door as Rachel clambered between the front seats and settled into hers. Todd started the car, pulled forward, then stopped.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Rachel.

  “Okay… so, no more fibbing, all right?”

  “All right,” she agreed.

  “Good. So, just how many were there before me?” Todd asked, his cheeks flushing.

  “Never mind that,” said Rachel, matching his hue.

  “More than five?”

  “No! Well, okay… maybe.”

  “A dozen?” Todd pulled the car forward to the parking lot exit.

  “Umm… maybe.”

  “At the same time?”

  “No!” Rachel nearly yelled, her face now a furious red. She sighed and admitted, “Uh… maybe.”

  “You film it?”

  Rachel turned and glared at him.

  Todd shrugged and pulled onto the main drag.

  “Maybe,” said Rachel.

  Henson Huddy was lifting the third case of Black Label he’d purchased from The Inebriation Station into his car when he heard a metallic clink. Something bounced off a vehicle behind him and ricocheted past his ear into the trunk. He scanned the parking lot for stone-throwing pranksters—which wouldn’t be the first time—but saw nothing. He searched the confines of the trunk, moving a large collection of debris around, looking for the projectile that sounded as if it had landed inside, but came up short.

  It aggravated him. Whatever it was—maybe the way it had rung out when it impacted the car—left him with a hell of a headache.

  Thinking about a healthy dose of Black Label to quash the headache, Henson slammed the lid, climbed into the car—and nearly gagged. Someone must have pulled a fast one on him and dumped a bag of ripe dog shit—or worse—in the car. It wouldn’t be the first time, either. He turned to check the back seat.

  The mottled green-skinned man laughed.

  NOBODY’S DAUGHTER

  Foster Square, despite its name, is triangular in shape. The plot of grass acts as a median in our small city of Riverside, Massachusetts, separating a variety of buildings—the post office, the town hall, and a five-story, nondescript business center. A tribute to a forgotten historical figure, the square is adorned only by two Revolutionary-period cannons, two benches, four large, neglected flower urns, and a statue. It is well tended and attended by humans and pigeons alike. All in all, Foster Square is nothing special…except for the statue. The statue makes it special.

  It is a life-size rendering of a young woman seated on the ground, arms held out before her, palms up as if in meditation, her legs folded beneath her to her right. Her dress, modestly draped over her knees, speaks of spring. Her fine features, full lips, hair flowing mid-back in a slight wave, offer softness to the exquisitely carved black granite. Her beauty is not that of goddesses or princesses, but of suppleness and youth: the all-American girl.

  A small commemorative plaque on the base reads “Nobody’s Daughter.”

  She arrived four years ago, on a Saturday, with no celebration but for a brief article in the weekly paper. The town accepted the anonymous gift, for she was tasteful and added beauty to the otherwise ordinary square.

  I often have lunch on Foster Square, save for inclement days. I am a loner. I overhear conversations about the origin of the statue, or as to who the young lady is. They amuse me. Most are off the mark, others painfully close, none of them fully accurate.

  For the true story, we must backtrack fourteen years to a young man named Ammar Sardell. At sixteen, Ammar was bright, adventurous, and mildly rambunctious. He walked the line, though the opportunity to veer to either side reared often for him and his friends, Chris Tremblay and Jimmy Ruiz. All three lived in the same mid-town tenements converted from abandoned mill buildings two decades earlier.

  Always open to adventure, they often searched old structures or tried to impress one another at parkour, an activity that the more daring took to an extreme, often falling—sometimes from great heights—with painful or fatal results. Fortunately, Ammar and his friends were not so foolish.

  One bitterly cold evening in November of 2003, Ammar, Chris, and Jimmy, tired of watching Comedy Central, moved to the basement of the tenement to waste time and smoke a couple joints. The boiler room door was secluded in a darkened alleyway at the rear of the building. Though locked, Jimmy could quickly manipulate the door using a switchblade. Jimmy was not only his name but also his talent; a sad portent into a future of repeat stays at Massachusetts Correctional Institute at Concord for forced entry.

  The three boys darted inside, intent on the storage room where management stored furniture, decorations, and office surplus—a comfortable place to do little. They bustled through the boiler room, weaving around pipes and rumbling machinery, but Ammar caught sight of something that made him pause and backpedal.

  Seated on a piece of cardboard beside a large water heater was a young woman, legs splayed and back to the wall. Her hands palms-up on her legs, her eyes closed as if afloat in a state of enlightenment. She wore an oversized, thick winter coat and a tattered woolen hat pulled low over her ears. Ammar stepped closer. He recognized her from somewhere or sometime.

  “Hi?” he said.

  Nothing.

  “What the hell, Sardell? Come on!” came a distant voice.

  Hesitant, Ammar watched her.

  “Just go,” she said, emotionless, no room for a response.

  Ammar went.

  Ammar returned shortly after midnight; images of the girl had hijacked his thoughts and claimed his sleep. He breached the door in reasonable time, but with less dexterity than Jimmy, and entered the heat and clamor of the boiler room. Safety lights nestled high amidst pipes and conduit dispersed conical shafts reminding him of UFO retractor beams.

  He returned to the water heater to find her still there, eyes closed, a depleted backpack as a pillow. Her stillness ignited a spark of fear within him until she hitched, shaking her body, and freeing his breath. Her thin, dirt-streaked face was pretty, freckled across the cheeks and nose, and again begged recollection.

  A discarded Taco Bell wrapper lay near her leg. He had the impression it was retrieved, not purchased, and a profound sadness swept over him. Ammar left and soon returned with two bottles of water, four slices of American cheese, an orange, and two apples. He left the offering beside her and returned home.

  She preoccupied his thoughts throughout th
e night and during the following day, making school and communication difficult. At work he stocked shelves and front-faced cans, garnering accolades from his boss for not socializing. He begged off hanging with Chris and Jimmy.

  “I feel like shit, man,” he lied, and hurried home.

  She was not there that day, nor for the next six days, but late the following Saturday evening as Ammar walked home from work, he noticed her moving purposefully down the dim alleyway. She paused at the boiler room door and then entered the building.

  Ammar followed. He triggered the door latch, and with light steps, made his way to the water heater.

  “Shit!” she said when Ammar appeared. She hastily pushed something between the wall and the water heater.

  “Hi,” Ammar said, maintaining a buffer between them so not to intimidate her, but also for escape if perchance she turned feral.

  She stared warily, her eyes seeming to cycle in and out of focus … and then a flicker.

  “Hey Amma-what-cha-face,” she said, offering a lackadaisical wave.

  “You know me?”

  “Fuck, yeah. Saint A’s. You were a skinny little shit. Taller now but still skinny. From Arabia or something.”

  Saint Augustine’s school. It seemed so long ago, another lifetime, though it had only been three years. A better place and time before the planes hit the towers and his father took off to parts unknown, foreclosing on their American dream.

  His mother had lost her job when the semiconductor industry crashed. She was never able to match her previous esteemed position and was forced to mop floors and swab toilets in office complexes, burying her self-respect deep inside to fester like a tumor. They moved to The Mills and he transferred to public schooling.

  “Afghanistan,” Ammar corrected.

  “Whatever.”

  She was drunk or high and Ammar experienced a blend of sympathy and revulsion. She freed a half-smoked cigarette and a lighter from her coat pocket and lit up. He studied her brown eyes, her freckles, and a memory of a younger, fresher, and much rounder cheeks arose. Her beautiful face, once plump with adolescence, now reduced to this drawn visage, was utterly heartbreaking.

  “Wait, you’re Selene Carras!” Ammar barked, unable to govern his surprise.

  “Shocking, huh?” Selene looked away. “Smack … it seduces you and makes you ugly.”

  “You’re not ugly, just…thinner.”

  Selene shrugged. “You bring me food the other night?”

  Ammar nodded.

  “You expect a blowjob or something?”

  Ammar had often fantasized about it, but not in this situation. “No, I just figured you were hungry.”

  “Really?” She pinned him with curious eyes and he wondered if she was insulted or grateful.

  “I’m not like that,” Ammar said.

  “You gay?”

  “No.”

  She studied him at length. “Thanks,” she said sincerely. “Now get the fuck out of here so I can ride.”

  “Do you have to?”

  “Try and stop me,” Selene said.

  Ammar returned the next day. Although Selene was gone she tormented his thoughts. At Saint A’s, she had been a year ahead of him, but very much in his field of vision. She had seemed an infectiously happy child of wealthy parents, the personification of youth and spirit with her mile-wide smile and effervescent personality. Boys liked her and girls envied her.

  Near the water heater, under the edge of the cardboard, he found a discarded orange syringe. He crushed it under his sneaker.

  What had happened to her? Where were her parents?

  Selene took the rotisserie chicken and bottled iced tea Ammar offered her. It was nearly a week later. He had sensed she’d be there, and if not, the meal would have tasted fine to him.

  “Why are you doing this? I’m not looking for sympathy.”

  Ammar shrugged and pointed to the cardboard on which she sat. “Can I?”

  “Suit yourself, hero.”

  Ammar sat.

  Selene pulled a section of skin from the chicken, put it in her mouth and chewed. She wiped her nose, looked around the room as if confused, and then started crying.

  Ammar felt useless. He wanted to hold her and comfort her but was afraid she’d think he wanted more. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “Stay a while. I don’t want to be alone.”

  Ammar obliged, a silent sentry while Selene drifted off, still there when she jerked awake, panicking, short of breath.

  “Can you lend me twenty bucks?”

  Twenty was all Ammar had left before payday and he knew what it would be spent on. He looked at the barely touched chicken, making sure she noticed.

  “What for?”

  “Woman stuff.”

  “CVS is down the street. Walk with me and I’ll buy it, or I’ll go get it for you.”

  Selene stared at him with sleepy eyes and then lay down, spouting out a melodramatic Fuck you.

  “Can I ask a personal question?” asked Ammar.

  “Do I have a choice?” Selene muttered into her cardboard bed.

  “Yes.”

  She was silent long enough that Ammar thought she’d fallen to sleep. “What?” she finally asked.

  “Have you tried getting help?”

  “For what? My life is perfect.” She huffed with derision, then conceded, “No one wants to help me.”

  “I do,” said Ammar.

  “There’s always a price.”

  He wiggled his fingers. “No strings.”

  Selene huffed again. “Right.”

  “What about your parents?

  Selene snorted. “What about them?”

  “Where are they? If I remember, they were wealthy.”

  “They’re alive and well, living out their plastic fantasy in Castle Carras.” Selene sat up and slumped against the wall, her arm draped over a metal junction box at the base of the water heater.

  “You don’t get along with them?”

  Selene’s expression emphasized how foolish his question was.

  “What went wrong? You seemed so happy at Saint A’s.”

  “Nothing went wrong that wasn’t always wrong,” she sneered. “Tricked you all, didn’t I?”

  “What happened?”

  “Long story, talking about it won’t help. Go away now, I’m tired and need my beauty sleep.” She lay down again. “Gonna change the world tomorrow.”

  “When will you be back?” Ammar asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come back tomorrow night.”

  “Why?”

  “I want you to.”

  She opened one eye. “Why?”

  “Promise you will.”

  “Go away.”

  Ammar waited until Selene was snoring lightly, her arms and legs twitching from inner energy or demons. He retrieved a throw pillow from the storage room, gently lifted Selene’s head, and slid it beneath.

  She watched him as he left the room.

  Selene returned the following night looking worse for wear, simultaneously sweating and shivering. Ammar feared she’d drop the hot soup he’d brought her and burn herself.

  “Why do you care?” Selene asked.

  “I lived in Afghanistan until I was eleven. When war and death surround you, you do anything to stay alive. I don’t understand why you do this…to yourself!” He gestured to her arm. “Life is valuable. You are valuable. You don’t deserve to live this way…or die this way.”

  “Maybe I do.” She sipped, clutched her stomach, and setting the soup down, grimaced.

  “You okay?”

  “Hardly,” she said, teeth clenched. The pain subsided and she smiled for the first time in the two weeks since he’d found her. It was sweet, heartwarming, and Ammar was relieved her addiction hadn’t progressed to where her teeth had started falling out. A glimmer of hope.

  “Have you tried going home?”

  She raised a shaking hand and pulled her hat off to reveal
greasy, stringy hair.

  “Tried once, can’t now. His majesty changed the locks.”

  “Because of you?”

  “I stole money… almost a thousand.”

  “What for?”

  Selene gave him a look that asked really? “Before that, he said I’d left the family in shambles, ruined the good Carras name, and then he slammed the door in my face.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I did. Got picked up for prostitution. Got to make a living, you know.” She shrugged it away but Ammar knew she was watching his reaction. It was a gut punch, not because he hadn’t expected it, but because the mental imagery was so painful. “I was seventeen. They caught me with a high-profile lawyer. He was an acquaintance of my father’s, but he didn’t know me…at least at the time. They never mentioned his name in the paper. I was released to the street.”

  That she talked about it so easily that it showed the depths to which her self-respect had fallen. She wiped her nose and clenched her stomach again.

  “Still care?” she challenged.

  “Yes.” He knew there was more to it. “How’d you end up on the street the first time?”

  “I ran.”

  “Why?”

  “My father slapped me across the face … hard. I thought he snapped my neck.”

  “What’d your mother do?”

  “Like always, cowered and sniveled like a dog.”

  “She didn’t protect you? What about your brother … Mark?”

  Selene’s laughed loud and sharp, a gunshot. “Ha! He’s why my father slapped me.” She tucked her chin to her chest and mimicked in a deep voice, “How dare you accuse your brother of such … rubbish?”

  Another gut punch.

  “What did he do?” Ammar asked, knowing the hideous truth.

  “Raped me,” Serene said, blasé—as if she had said he crossed the street.

  Mark Carras, everybody’s buddy. Solid-bodied with chiseled handsome features … beautiful on the surface, repugnant beneath.

  “Your fucking brother?” Disbelief and outrage contorted Ammar’s face.

  “Precisely, but he preferred blowjobs.”