Out of Darkness (Fiction - Young Adult)

by Ashley Hope Pérez

  They didn’t have long to read before raindrops began to prick the surface of the water. Wash scrambled to gather up the books. “Dang it, I don’t have my bag.” He yanked off his jacket and wrapped the books up inside.

  She took the books back from him and shook his jacket free. “It’s fine,” she called over her shoulder as she ran up the bank. “Maybe I’ll see you next week.”

  He reached down to find his pencil. When he went to follow her up the path, she was already gone. He scanned the branches of the trees along the path, thinking maybe she’d climbed a tree, but he didn’t find her.

  WASH Wash steered the twins toward a sunny spot just beyond the shade of the magnolia tree in front of his house. “Wait here,” he told them.

  As he ran up the porch steps, he could hear them whispering about the big shade trees, the cushiony grass, his mother’s tidy azalea bushes. His folks kept the place looking good. None of the built-in-a-hurry houses in the oil field camps had trees or anything like a proper yard. Against all those drab company rentals, the Fuller house probably looked like an illustration for “home sweet home.”

  Wash closed the screen door gingerly behind him. The pie baking was only about half done, but his mother was not in the kitchen. Someone was playing the piano in the parlor. It was far too graceful for Peggy to be at the keyboard. He peeked into the living room and saw that it was their neighbor Fannie. The bathroom door was closed, which meant he had only a moment before his mother would be back in the kitchen.

  He selected three pies from the cooling racks lined with newspaper. Pineapple, apple, and rum raisin. He held them in a careful stack in his right hand and then hurried back out the door.

  Wash finished his pie in four bites. He cocked an eyebrow at the twins, who nibbled at the crimped edge of the pies with a look of determined caution. “Y’all are makin’ me tired,” Wash said. “If you don’t eat ’em, I will.”

  “Amazing Grace” floated out to them through the screen door.

  “You hear Miss Fannie playing the piano? She’s the best piano player in Egypt Town, second to my mama.”

  “It’s pretty,” Beto said.

  “I like the pie,” Cari said. “Pineapple’s better than rum raisin.”

  “How do you figure?” Wash asked. “I don’t remember letting you try mine.”

  “I just know it,” she said. She licked the bright gold filling from the edge of her pie.

  “She’s blind, you know,” Wash said.

  Beto’s eyes widened. “Your mother’s blind? And she can make pies like this?”

  “Not my ma. Miss Fannie.” He told them how Fannie had gone blind when she was five but his mother had taught her to play anyway.

  Cari finished her pie and started in on Beto’s. He didn’t seem to notice; he had a troubled look.

  “It’s all right, Beto,” Wash said. “Fannie’s all right. We look out for her. Here in a minute, I’ll walk her home.”

  When Wash went into the kitchen to see about some milk, his mother came out of the parlor with her arms crossed.

  “Does Fannie need walking home?” he asked her.

  His mother shook her head. “Not yet. Now you tell me something. Are your guests paying? I’m not giving pies away here.”

  “They’re just kids, Mama.”

  “Don’t ‘Mama’ me. These pies are for selling. If I wanted to give them away, I could find plenty of hungry black folks. I got enough trouble keeping you and Peggy and Cal from eating them all up, and now you want to bring even more mouths around.”

  “Sorry, Mama,” Wash said. Sometimes the only way to get his mother out of a bad mood was to let her wind it down herself.

  “What are you doing with those white children anyway, James Washington?”

  Wash shrugged. “Their people asked could I take ’em fishing. And, hey, they helped me catch six nice trout earlier today. I’ll clean them up for you here in a minute.” He crossed to the icebox and pulled out a jar of milk.

  “You put that back, young man,” she said.

  “The kids are thirsty.”

  “There’s a water pump in the side yard.”

  Wash held on to the milk and grinned. “Nothing better than milk for growing strong bones and quenching the thirst after a famous Fuller pie. And you know old Betsy and Brenda give us more than we can drink anyhow. What about a broken pie to go with it? Maybe cherry?”

  “You see any broken pies?”

  “Sure.” He grabbed one and split it in two. “Right there.”

  “You owe Booker another nickel,” she said, wagging a finger at him.

  “That Booker, he greedy.” Wash grinned.

  “Watch your English. You sound like a field hand.”

  “Thanks for the pies.”

  “You still owe Booker,” she said again.

  “Yes, ma’am, I do.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Wash and the twins shared the last pie and the milk. Fannie was still playing when Rhoda came out onto the porch with her hands on her hips. Wash leaned over and told the twins, “She looks mean, but she isn’t. Say thank you and you might see her smile.”

  They called out, “Thank you much, Mrs. Fuller!”

  Wash studied his mother’s face and saw that she couldn’t resist their manners. “You’re welcome,” she said.

  Then her expression turned sour. Wash followed her gaze to the back garden. Half a dozen crows were pecking around her potatoes and winter vegetables.

  “Shoo!” she hollered, running toward the birds. “Go on!”

  The crows retreated to the trees at the edge of the yard, cocking their heads silently, waiting.

  She turned back and marched over to where Wash and the twins were. “Next time you all come around eating my pies up, I’m going to put you to work standing in my garden keeping the crows away, you hear? Or else build me a scarecrow, and then you can have all the pies you want!”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Cari and Beto said together. They hugged Wash good-bye and tore off down the road.

  NAOMI Even after the twins had gone, Naomi kept watching from the woods. She watched Wash carry the empty bottle of milk to the porch. She watched him pull a few weeds from the flower beds. And she watched him go into the house and come out a minute later with a pretty girl on his arm. Her glossy hair was bobbed and tied neatly with a pink ribbon that matched the dress she wore under a pretty white coat. On the way down the steps, Wash steadied her as if she were a fragile package he did not want to break. Her perfect white teeth showed when she laughed, which was often.

  Naomi stood frozen. Her mind churned. Was this what he had meant when he spoke of sweethearts? No, she hadn’t imagined everything by the river. She knew she hadn’t. But there was also the fact of the girls at Mason’s. One of them had said his name like it was all the explanation anyone needed. Was this the same girl? She hadn’t gotten a good look before.

  Wash walked the girl out of the yard and down the road away from the house. She could hear their laughter and wondered if he was telling that girl the same jokes he’d told down by the river.

  Once they were gone, Naomi tore down the path into the woods, trying to outrun the sob that was caught in her throat. And without remembering the steps in between or the light in the woods or the sound of the river, Naomi found herself at the back steps of Henry’s house. Dinner, that was what she was going to think about. In the kitchen, she hacked at a chunk of ham with a knife and brutalized an onion.

  When Beto asked her what was wrong, she told him to hush and wash his hands. And even when his eyes went wet with hurt and worry, she could not summon any kindness. The part of her charged with feeling was too bruised to give or receive such gifts.

  NOVEMBER 1936

  HENRY Henry recoiled from the sweet-sick smell. On the porch, his only thought had been to get his boots off, wash up, and toss himself into bed like he always did after an all-night shift. Now he wanted to run.

  But Naomi was already calling. “Back here!�
��

  As he walked down the hall, the stench grew stronger. He gulped air and then pushed the door to the bedroom open. The twins were curled up on the double bed on towels spread over a spare sheet. From the pile on the floor, it looked as though they’d already soiled the other bedclothes.

  Naomi wiped their faces down with a damp rag.

  Henry stepped cautiously into the room.

  “Hi, Daddy,” Cari said. Then she lurched forward and vomited. Somehow, Naomi managed to catch it in a bowl. She set the bowl on top of the dresser and then began to clean Cari again. Henry felt a gag rise in his throat.

  “I’ll ... I’ll go get Muff...” he stammered, taking a step back.

  Naomi shook her head. “She’s pregnant—can’t get her sick.”

  “A doctor, then.”

  “No need. It’s just a stomach bug. It’ll pass in a couple of days.”

  “Days?” Henry groaned.

  “Set these on the back porch?” Naomi asked. “I’ll start washing as soon as I get these two settled.” She didn’t give him time to respond, just scooped the mess of linens from the floor and shoved them into his arms.

  Some of the stink was coming from there. He flinched, sure a glob of vomit had grazed his hand. The sheets dropped to the floor. He stared down at them like they were a tangle of rattlesnakes.

  Naomi sighed. “Never mind. Maybe you could buy some crackers and ginger ale?”

  “Crackers,” he mumbled. “Ginger ale.” And he stumbled down the hall and headed for his truck.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  At Turner’s, he stood in front of a shelf of crackers, baffled by the variety. “Mr. Smith! Haven’t seen you in a while,” the pimply clerk called. Then he went back to totaling an order for a gaunt housewife.

  “So,” Mrs. Turner said, walking over. “What can I get for you? We’ve missed your business around here.”

  “Oh, you’ve still got it,” he said absently. He studied the boxes on the shelf. Nabisco. Ritz. Richmond. “You don’t happen to know what kind of crackers I should buy for stomach trouble?” He gestured at the shelf. “Kids are sick.”

  “Kids! You have been busy,” Mrs. Turner said.

  “I’m sure you’ve seen ’em here. The two younger ones are mine. The older one’s a stepdaughter. Used to live ... with some family in San Antonio.” He scratched at his chin.

  Mrs. Turner frowned. “The older girl, what’s she look like?”

  He hesitated, not sure how to put it. “Pretty. Long dark hair in a braid. Real serious.”

  A look of recognition passed over Mrs. Turner’s face, but Henry did not notice. “Kids got the grippe?” she asked.

  Henry nodded.

  “Then these—” she picked up a box of plain saltines— “are probably the best bet.”

  “Thank you,” Henry said, relieved.

  “She don’t shop here, you know,” she said.

  “Pardon?” Henry was already pulling two bottles of ginger ale from the cooler by the door.

  “The girl. I think she come in once some time back, but you know ... you know how Amos is. We didn’t realize she was kin of yours. Sorry about that. I can talk to him. If she wants to come back in, I mean.”

  Henry nodded, paid for the food, and then drove back up the road toward the Humble houses. Later he would wonder: if Naomi wasn’t shopping at Turner’s, then where was she getting the groceries? But for the moment, he was busy trying to figure out how he would get away from the house.

  He parked in front of Bud and Muff’s place to keep Naomi from hearing him pull up in the truck. He eased open the kitchen door and set the ginger ale and crackers down on the table as noiselessly as he could manage. He could hear Naomi talking to the twins in their bedroom, but he did not call out to them.

  He drove back along the highway toward the church, already laying down a bargain: if Pastor Tom’s car was there, then he would stop in and talk to him.

  He slowed alongside the white frame building and studied the emptiness in front of it carefully. No Pastor Tom. And as soon as the deal was struck, Henry knew that he had hoped all along that he wouldn’t find him.

  Rusk County was dry, so he’d have to drive over to a bar in Kilgore. He hadn’t been to Big T’s in months, but he knew the way well enough.

  NAOMI Naomi did hear the truck pull into the driveway seven hours later, the second time Henry came home. She was sitting at the kitchen table finishing up the schoolwork Tommie had brought by for her. She stiffened at the sound of his footsteps on the back porch and glanced at the clock. Nine at night.

  Henry came in. He set his hat on the table and stood waiting.

  Naomi stared at the hat. It looked like something a dog had chewed on and abandoned.

  “How are they?” he asked finally.

  Her eyes flitted to him—he was wiping his mouth with the back of one hand—and then back to the hat.

  “Fine,” she said tightly, “still sleeping.” She crossed her arms.

  “Brought something,” he said. He pulled a package out from under his arm and placed it on the table in front of her. “Go on and open it.”

  She loosened the string and unfolded the brown paper from a small radio.

  “It’s a mantle radio, see,” Henry said, “but we’ll just put it on the little table by the window. There’s still an antenna outside from the folks before us.”

  She nodded but did not say anything.

  He shifted from one foot to the other. “Maybe it’ll keep the twins occupied while they’re recovering. Make the time go faster for you, too, when you’re cooking or whatnot.” When she still didn’t answer, he picked it up and started toward the living room. “Come on,” he said over his shoulder. “Let’s give it a whirl.”

  There was a patter of footsteps from the bedroom, and then the twins were running after Henry.

  Naomi shot up from the table. “Back to bed,” she ordered.

  “Aw, let ’em,” Henry called.

  Naomi’s jaw clenched, but she swallowed her words and walked down the hall.

  Beto and Cari scurried into the living room, each wearing one of Henry’s work shirts. Henry shot a questioning look at Naomi.

  “Out of clean clothes,” she said as she came into the room.

  Beto stood a step from his father and ran his finger over the front panel of the radio. “Emerson Model 25A.” Naomi could see he was pleased.

  “Now we can all can relax and have some wholesome entertainment, see?” Henry said.

  “Pastor Tom said that listening to the radio can interfere with Bible reading,” Cari said primly.

  “Christ, Pastor don’t know everything,” Henry scowled. “Don’t you want to hear Little Orphan Annie? Or the Light Crust Doughboys? Or baseball games?”

  Now that he mentioned it, they did. They sat on the floor, ready to listen.

  Henry connected the antenna wire, plugged the radio in, and fiddled with the knobs. Nothing happened. “Well,” Henry hesitated. “Maybe it needs some tuning up.”

  The twins’ faces fell.

  “I’ll get it working, you’ll see,” Henry said. “How different can it be from fixing a rig? I just need my tools.”

  When he passed Naomi on his way to the kitchen, she thought she smelled whiskey and beer. A combination she knew he favored. She closed her eyes against the memories.

  HENRY Henry came back into the living room with his tools. The guy he’d bought the radio from said he was selling it cheap on account of him moving to an oil field in Oklahoma and not wanting more stuff to haul. Henry had been too flush with goodwill at the bar to think about needing to test that it worked.

  Now he took off the radio’s back cover, revealing a tangle of tubes and wires. He prodded them tentatively. He wasn’t going to let that sly Okie get the better of him. He worked at the radio, tested it, fiddled some more. He looked up in triumph when he got a staticky hum.

  Naomi sat with a schoolbook open on her lap, a twin asleep on either side of her. T
he boy had a hand on her braid, and in a flash Henry remembered how Naomi had sometimes slept like that against Estella.

  “Got it,” he said, grinning.

  Naomi held a finger against her lips and nodded at the sleeping twins. “Tomorrow,” she mouthed.

  Henry scowled. “I stay up late fixing this for y’all, and all you can say is ‘tomorrow’? Tonight, damn it.” He turned the tuning knob until he found music and then turned up the volume.

  He grinned at the twins when they jolted awake. “See?” he said.

  For a moment, it was just how he had dreamed it could be: Beto smiling, Cari’s eyes full of wonder. Maybe Naomi was still silent and stern, but he imagined she was happy in her own way. She looked brighter and healthier here than she had when he took them from that grimy hole in San Antonio. And Henry was at the center of it all. A provider, a good father, a man that Pastor Tom would be proud of. So what if he’d had a setback earlier. He could hold it together for his family.

  “How about that?” he called over the music. “Looks like your pa can fix more than busted pumpjacks and jammed rigs after all.”

  Naomi prodded each of them with an elbow.

  “Thank you, Daddy,” Beto said.

  “Hooray, thanks,” Cari said.

  “It’s lovely,” Naomi added, and she even smiled a little.

  Her words were hardly out—and the song had not yet finished—when there was a loud pop and a sudden silence.

  “Come on!” Henry barked. He yanked at the knob. “Darn thing went and broke on me again.” He tugged on his ear and glued his eyes to the radio as if assessing it. He didn’t want to see disappointment on the twins’ faces.

  “I bet you can fix it again,” Beto said.

  “Maybe tomorrow,” Henry said.

  Cari hopped down from the couch and muttered something in Beto’s direction.

  “What was that?” Henry asked.

  “Hush now,” Naomi said.

  Cari ignored her and walked over to Henry. “I said, what we really wanted was a cat.” She gave him a nasty smile. “Daddy.”