A Variable Darkness: 13 Tales

by John McIlveen

  “Oh God!” Ammar said, choking out a sob. He turned and fled without another word.

  Ammar entered the Greek Orthodox Church unnoticed, sat in the last row, and counted seventeen heads in attendance including himself. Selene’s casket, a beautiful exhibition of craftsmanship, was a light-colored hardwood, maybe hickory, and polished to splendor. A spray of pink and white roses covered most of the lid. Its opulence was obscene to Ammar and he hoped Selene couldn’t see such an insult. Mark Carras was seated in the front row, as broad-shouldered and handsome as Ammar remembered. Alexei and Dorinda Carras sat to Mark’s right. The man was solid, a fireplug with granite hair and an emotionless face that appeared to be carved of the same. Dorinda Carras, also emotionless, looked dead inside, a petite husk of a human devoid of life. To Mark’s left sat a woman with lustrous hair and an enviable figure, even in black dress. His wife? Ammar wondered.

  At the conclusion of the service came the next insult, when Mark lined up as a pallbearer.

  Ammar followed the procession along a side road on the outskirts of Riverside, to a cemetery he never knew existed. He stood back during the ceremony, standing last in the short line of people offering condolences to Selene’s remaining family. Ammar stepped before Alexei Carras who met his eyes and offered his hand. Ammar didn’t shake.

  “Hello,” Alexei greeted in his businessman’s voice. “Did you know Selene?”

  “Better than you did, it seems,” Ammar said.

  The man’s brow furrowed and his hand fell to his side, all professional composure. “Excuse me?”

  “She was your daughter,” Ammar said.

  “Yes.”

  “No, she was your daughter!” Ammar repeated, louder, tears forming at the unfairness of it all.

  Dorinda and Mark Carras looked at Ammar. Alexei stood straighter, pulling his shoulders back, but Ammar wasn’t intimidated.

  “How does this concern you?” asked Alexei, civility gone.

  “Why didn’t it concern you?” asked Ammar, his voice rising. He pointed at Dorinda Carras. “You knew! You both knew what your son was doing to her, but you hid it and let it continue! All to protect your image!”

  “You’d best leave!” said Mark Carras.

  “Why? So no one finds out? She was your sister!” Ammar sputtered. “Your SISTER!”

  The beautiful woman in black looked at Mark and then at Ammar. Ammar saw Mark Carras’ punch coming, and ducked from most of it, though he’d probably have a sizable bruise on his cheek.

  Dorinda Carras burst into tears. She moved from her husband, striking at his hands as he tried to hold her at his side. Ammar wondered if maybe she didn’t know.

  “Who the hell are you?” Alexei Carras roared.

  “Who the hell are you?” Ammar responded. “Nobody. You are nobody!”

  Ammar turned and left the cemetery.

  There is a statue downtown on Foster Square, a tribute to a young woman who deserved better. It faces southwest, toward the offices of Carras Financial. I saved a long time to buy it; it wasn’t cheap. It’s made of polished black granite, meticulously sculptured. Its resemblance to a young Selene Carras is striking. The artist used a photo in my freshman yearbook from when Selene was a sophomore.

  I often wait on the park bench until Nobody leaves work. He could leave by the back door, but he never does. Sometimes he pauses to look at the statue, other times he walks by, averting his gaze. I’ve never seen him walk past without looking at some point. Some days he looks at me…some days not.

  I heard that Nobody’s wife left him. Now he’s an empty, lifeless shell.

  Selene’s autopsy showed signs of previous use but no opioids were found in her system.

  She was clean. How’s that for a kick in the ass?

  There is a statue on Foster Square

  A tribute to Nobody’s Daughter…

  Who deserved so much better.

  THE MAKING OF MONSTERS

  PART I

  “Beauty and folly are old companions”

  -- Benjamin Franklin

  Poor Richard 1734

  What were the chances? Chet wondered.

  Not by the standards of the day, but by what he called “The Chet Farner Barometer.” Chet felt the majority of world’s population had lost its self-respect and honor. All one had to do was search the internet to see that anything was possible. Name your perversion and you’ll likely find it, from college orgies to farm animals…and so much worse. Chet was fine with these, and even browsed them once in a while, but in no way would he want to be associated with them. He kept his kinks well below the radar. He had always thrived to appear the benchmark for thoughtfulness and respect; he had always prided himself as being seen as one of the “Good ol’ Boys.” Chet felt he was the epitome of self-respect and honor. Unfortunately, they had no connection to moral decency.

  By modern norms, Chet felt his crime was trivial. Married to a beautiful, elegant, and socially accessible woman for years, few would have expected it, but it had happened. Chet Farner had fallen for another woman.

  Sure he had several clandestine trysts with anonymous women, but those were simply for relieving tension. His job was stressful. They meant nothing.

  But Anna was different. More than just another woman; she was sensuality in a Venus wrap … a hedonistic vision of pleasure. He was smitten. Another woman could never make such an impression on him.

  For Chet, modern perceptions of beauty seemed characterized by physical and facial anonymity, portrayed so well in the magazines and tabloids that congested most checkout counters. He found the sameness of the silicone, scalpel, and digitally honed cover girls discouraging at best, and could not understand why women would endure such extremes to be a replica of nearly every other tight-skinned fashion model or starlet, sporting gravity-defying breasts and pouty, knockwurst-thick lips. His assessment of beauty lay principally on individuality, in which Anna flourished. He had never seen desirability and uniqueness presented so well.

  Anna dressed in trendy styles—aesthetic skirts and blouses that, even when loose fitting, appeared to be a part of her, emphasizing and delicately conforming to her alluring curves. Hers was not a hard body like those common to beaches and health clubs, but the feminine softness of her figure demanded attention and promised nirvana. She had more curves than a box of macaroni.

  Karla, Chet’s previous personal assistant, in her eighth month of pregnancy chose to pursue the domestic arts. Despite his loyalty for the ever-affable Karla, hiring Anna was akin to trading a pencil for a computer. She modernized Karla’s old-school system, making most aspects of it paper-free and accessible with a few finger-taps on her keyboard.

  Another significant change since Anna had enhanced the lobby outside of Chet’s office was the increase in male traffic. Through the sidelight window to his door, he would see men strut comically by with arms flexed and chests extended. Anna would ignore them or dismiss them with a roll of the eyes.

  The kicker was, she appeared to be interested in Chet…only Chet, though she kept it low-key. At first, he had dismissed it, figuring she was little more than a gold-digger…wishful thinking on her part. Why else would a twenty-eight-year-old Aphrodite who could get practically any younger, more athletic, and single man be interested in a forty-two-year-old married man? But as Anna’s attentiveness increased, so did his interest; he cycled from humored, to flattered, and ultimately to infatuated.

  He knew he could not act on it since she worked for him; it would jeopardize his position and his marriage. Both were seen as idyllic by many.

  The simple remedy would be to have Anna transferred to another department or site altogether, but she excelled at her job to where his reasoning might be, “I fantasize about my personal assistant?”

  Plus, he didn’t want her to go and…

  And what?

  …and he liked the flattery, the fantasy, and he was…

  Admit it, Chet.

  …Hopeful.

  Ironically
, his wife, Marilyn, had encouraged him to interview Anna Paxton. She had met Anna at her hairdresser and, as she explained it, idle chatter segued into Anna’s gut-spilling account of a corrupt and abusive relationship with “Mr. Perfect” that had rendered her jobless and alone. Anna had decided the best way to rise above it was to pack her possessions and resentments and return to her native roots in New Hampshire with an understanding that life was unpredictable and time was irreversible regardless of setting.

  Aware Karla was leaving, Marilyn suggested Anna apply at Essential Analytics, since she appeared more than qualified to fill Karla’s shoes. Chet wasn’t thrilled by the prospect of interviewing or ultimately hiring a friend or acquaintance of his wife, but there were many things that Marilyn excelled at, including persistence and persuasion. He agreed, but made no promises.

  Chet nearly flipped in his chair when Anna flowed confidently into his office, meeting his stare with bold and intelligent ice-blue eyes.

  “Anna Paxton?” Chet asked, and motioned to a chair.

  “For now,” she said with a mild accent. She poured into her seat and brushed back chestnut hair that churned halfway down her back. “Anna Buccheri, soon.”

  “Ah, getting married?”

  “No. The other direction.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not,” she assured him.

  “Is Buccheri Italian?”

  “Sicilian,” Anna said with a slow smile that seemed to mask a million secrets.

  Chet wasn’t sure if “Sicilian” was a confirmation or a correction. Sicilians are Italian, right? he wondered and then thought, Please God, let her know how to type.

  She could type … and possessed a bounty of additional skills. Chet had explained to her that more applicants were scheduled to be interviewed, but promised to review her references and reply to her regardless of the outcome. Despite his words, he had already decided. He hired Anna three days later, so as not to appear anxious.

  Later that same evening, Chet humoredly asked Marilyn if she were testing him by sending him someone as young and beautiful as Anna.

  “Don’t flatter yourself, old man,” she replied. “Don’t kid yourself, either.”

  He figured this as true… at least at first. Then Anna started in with flirtations that were furtive, yet too direct to ignore. Is she being playful, or is she really coming on to me? he wondered.

  Karla and Chet would occasionally go to lunch together. There were no rumors and nobody appeared to think much about it. In her fifth week at EA, Chet invited Anna to lunch and she quickly accepted. The rumors were instant and widespread. Chet was hesitant about taking Anna to lunch again, fearful that Marilyn might somehow catch wind of the envious yarns.

  The novelty of Anna eased with the company men as the ensuing weeks passed, but her subtle flirtations toward Chet increased, escalating from stares and smiles to physical contact. Whenever proximity allowed, but always clear of the public eye, she would nonchalantly stroke a hand over his back, or brush a hip against him. During dictation, she would sit cross-legged, her skirt raised enough to divulge a liberal amount of flesh, yet concealing enough to make Chet yearn to dive over his desk. He managed to keep himself under control … barely.

  On the Wednesday of Anna’s eighth week, Chet saw that her desk was still unoccupied at 7:30 a.m. Anna’s day started at eight, but she was consistently first in the office. When she arrived just minutes before eight, he was surprised by the relief he felt.

  “Sorry I’m late.” Anna placed her purse under her desk.

  “You’re not late. Is everything all right?”

  “Just my car. It wouldn’t start. Had to call the garage and arrange a pick-up.”

  “How’d you get here?” he asked, absorbed by Anna’s shapely bottom as she bent over to insert a K-cup. The urge to run his hand over the rising landscape of her hip was intense, but held back. She started the coffee maker.

  “Cab,” she answered. The machine dispensed a stream of brew, saturating the office with its aroma.

  “Why didn’t you call me? I could have given you a ride.”

  “You would have?”

  She passed Chet his coffee, her fingers lingering on his hand.

  Was that intentional? Should I react? He had never wavered when coming on to women who attracted him but there was something different about Anna.

  “I would have liked a ride from you.”

  For the first time in recent memory, Chet wished there wasn’t a Marilyn Farner.

  Shortly before 4 p.m. there was a gentle knock on Chet’s office door.

  “Do you need anything before I go for the day?” Anna asked.

  “How about a backrub?” Chet stretched, stifling a yawn. With a seductive smile, Anna started closing the door.

  “Kidding,” Chet said.

  Anna pouted, twirled, and gave a provocative peek over her shoulder before leaving his office. The gesture radiated innocence, but her sparkling eyes and mischievous grin set Chet’s nerves abuzz.

  Is she looking for a father figure? Chet smiled at the irony, if that were the case. He and Marilyn had never had children. Early in their relationship Marilyn had explained that she suffered infertility due to endometriosis, hoping it would never become a problem. It never had, and at forty-two, it never would. Chet had no particular desire for children…his own, or those of others. If Marilyn regretted not being able to have children, she never brought it up. Besides, her schedule was always full, practically day and night; she never had time for him, never mind children.

  What if he had consented to the backrub, or if he had advanced her? Would she have consented? Would she sexually devour him if given the opportunity?

  Then the sobering thoughts worked their way into his fantasy. Anna had been very cautious with her flirting. If he reciprocated and she screamed sexual harassment, he would have no defense. It would create anarchy. His could become the next job opening at EA. Marilyn wouldn’t take well to the humiliation it would cause her. It would smear her shining veneer amongst her trendsetting peers. The divorce would be quick and brutal; tear down the damaged marital structure and rebuild, new and improved—and single—in the blink of an eye. Marilyn could and would take everything he owned to assure she could maintain her socialite ways; she was that driven. Chet would naturally sit and watch it all transpire; he was that passive.

  But Anna resided inside his head. I must be crazy, he thought. He had so much at stake: a top-level job, a marriage others envied, and a home he had busted his hump to get and keep. Besides, Marilyn hadn’t exactly slithered out from beneath a rock. She was only thirty-six and reliably turned heads. After sixteen years together—eleven married—she could still arouse him, not that she often made any effort. Would he throw it all away for another woman? For Anna? For a stab at some hot little honey who might end up being merely lukewarm…or even cold?

  For all Chet knew, Anna could have peculiar quirks or hang-ups…or maybe hang upside-down to sleep. She could be into BDSM or pain, neither of which appealed to him. She could be horrendous in the sack and maybe think an orgasm is something cultured in a petri dish.

  He shut down his computer, rose, put on his blazer, and drifted out of his office. Anna was picking up her purse, on way out.

  “Going my way?” she inquired.

  “If that’s out the front door, I guess so.”

  They walked to the front lobby together, past Beth—the company’s receptionist and premier scandalmonger—and out the front entrance. A taxicab was idling near the curb.

  “Does she remind you of Miss Piggy?” Chet asked.

  “Beth? Now that you mention it,“ Anna chuckled.

  “You need a ride?” Chet asked, and instantly thought, don’t do it, you fool.

  “Already called,” she said, motioning to the cab.

  “Forget the cab. You’ll need the money for your repair bill,“ he persisted, his words continuing to defy him.

  “You sure?”

&
nbsp; “Come on.”

  As they ambled past the battered cab, Chet nodded a greeting to the driver who returned a feeble salute. They rounded the corner of the building and stopped beside Chet’s car. Anna eyed the blue Lexus LC 500 with open appreciation.

  Chet opened the passenger-side door for her. As Anna slid into her seat, he tried to recall the last time he had done the same for Marilyn.

  “So posh,” Anna said.

  “Why does everyone say that? There are nicer cars here,” Chet said, knowing it wasn’t true.

  “Where?” she asked. “Must be nice to have a car you can rely on.”

  Chet disregarded her remark as he saw Mark Houseman from engineering exit a side door. Mark grinned knowingly and offered a thumbs-up. He was one of those people who talked too loudly, laughed too loudly—especially at their own jokes—and seemed to thrive on making people uncomfortable. One morning he covertly whispered to Chet, “You plank her yet?” This was not good.

  “Shit,” muttered Chet.

  “Fuck him,“ Anna said.

  Mark Houseman climbed into his Hummer, started it with a roar, and rumbled past them with a piercing blast of tractor-trailer air-horns.

  “Big SUV, giant tires, loud horns…I wonder what he’s compensating for?” said Anna.

  “Fuck him,“ Chet said, latching his seatbelt and shifting into reverse.

  A few minutes and about four miles later, Chet maneuvered his car into Ken’s Service Station, stopping in front of a bay door. Anna’s neglected blue Subaru waited alongside a brilliant, candy-apple red ’57 T-Bird.

  “Nice,“ Anna said.

  “Very.”

  “Ken has a jaded sense of humor, parking my car near that,“ Anna said. “How about a drink?”

  “They serve them here?” Chet asked, trying to screen his anxiety.

  “I live there.“ She pointed to a sizable red colonial across the street and three buildings away.