Out of Darkness (Fiction - Young Adult)

by Ashley Hope Pérez

  We were still at Big T’s on Monday night when the evening newspaper came with word of the investigator’s report. Graham Salter stood on a chair and read it out. The men watched, listened. So did we.

  “According to the investigators of this tremendous tragedy, no one individual was solely responsible for the New London school explosion. It was the collective failure of ordinary people caught up in the common practices of their community and ignorant or indifferent to the need for precautionary measures. The report concluded that even criminal negligence does not apply because lack of knowledge prevented school officials from anticipating the hazard caused by their actions. ‘What we should take from these terrible events,’ the lead investigator suggested, ‘is the urgent need to impose strict and enforceable safety standards on each and every building in which children spend their days.’”

  “What in your Aunt Pussy’s name does ‘criminal negligence does not apply’ mean?” one man shouted.

  “Nobody’s to blame, that’s what it means,” came a second voice.

  This news did not go over well. Because without blame, how would there be punishment? Who would pay? The men began to murmur.

  We could feel it. An idea beginning to form.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  We knew a thing or two about how an idea spreads, having spread a few in our time. Before the gas filled the halls of our ruined school, we regularly filled that space with another kind of combustible, invisible poison. Gossip that could travel slow or fast, nearly silent at first. And we knew that when an idea was quietly everywhere, had been whispered far and wide, all that was needed was the right person to blow it sky-high.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  We felt the idea spreading at Big T’s. At first, it carried Superintendent Crane’s name to everyone’s lips. But he had lost his son. And a nephew.

  Then someone asked, “What about Gibbler and them other school board cronies? They had to know, too, the greedy bastards.”

  Dalton Tatum slammed his palm down on the bar. “Gibbler! That’s the one to talk to. Didn’t lose nobody in the blast. Cain’t nobody say we tried to break a broken man.”

  Another twenty minutes of debate followed, and then the men headed to their trucks. We were among the last out, so we saw the bartender—the only sober man in the place—pick up a phone and make a call.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  By the time the caravan of mud-splattered pickups turned up the long winding drive to Zane Gibbler’s house, there were four mounted Texas Rangers posted in front of his porch.

  “You boys go on home,” one of the Rangers told our fathers and their friends. “You’re not makin’ any trouble here. Turn around and go back.”

  We watched as Dalton climbed out of his truck. “We want to talk to Gibbler,” he called. “We got a right to some answers.”

  A roughneck in coveralls stepped out of the crowd and faced the house. “Come out of there, Mr. Gibbler! You can’t hide forever in your big house, not answering us. I buried my baby girl yesterday. Nine years old, dammit! I got—” Before he finished speaking, Mr. Gibbler came out, banging the screen door and scowling.

  One of the Rangers trotted closer to the porch. “Best to stay inside, sir.”

  Mr. Gibbler ignored the warning. “What y’all want?” he growled. His voice carried easily in the still twilight. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked straight at Dalton. “Suppertime’s over. It’s late to come calling.”

  Dalton cut to the chase. “Did you know about the school switchin’ to raw gas?”

  The idea was heading in a certain direction.

  “Cut the bullshit. Don’t be getting high and mighty about the school tapping into a bleed-off line. Y’all use the same gas to heat your houses. You think of yourself as a criminal for that? One look at that heating bill from December, and you would’ve done the same thing. You hear me?” Gibbler pointed a finger and swept it across the line of trucks. “Y’all would’ve done the same damn thing in Crane’s place, every one of you.”

  We looked around, saw the men knowing the truth of it. There was a faltering. The idea was in danger of fizzling before it could explode.

  “We want answers!” Dalton hollered.

  “I know something more.” The voice was high and thin and nearly swallowed up by the night, but it took us only a moment to place it.

  Miranda stepped out on the porch in a nightgown and wrapper. Her forehead was still bandaged, and her face was bruised and scratched. But knowing her, we figured that what had pained her most was being alone. No one to echo her every petty remark, round out her laughter. Her followers were mostly buried now. Miranda was not one to bear the pain of going unheard.

  “You ought to be in bed, Emmie,” Mr. Gibbler said, turning to her.

  “I know something,” Miranda repeated, this time more loudly, sensing the size of her audience. “He was there when they did it, when they tapped the line.”

  “Who?” Dalton called.

  “That black boy. The one Mr. Crane always has working at the school.”

  “So what?” Tad asked.

  “And he was there when it happened. He didn’t like us having such a nice school. Daddy, you heard what he said that one time. When he came to see Mr. Crane with his father. About some books.”

  Something like gratitude crossed Mr. Gibbler’s face. “That boy...”

  “An explosion,” Miranda whispered hoarsely. Then she spoke more loudly. “When he walked away after sassing Mr. Crane and my daddy, he said it’d take an explosion to make us see.”

  Boom.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  We looked back from the beds of the pickups and watched Miranda sit on the porch swing next to her father. They swayed gently in the silence. Maybe she knew what her words would do. Maybe not.

  The Rangers’ horses pawed at the ground. There would be no one to stop our daddies in Egypt Town. We were sure about that.

  NAOMI Naomi came into the kitchen at the sound of arguing next door. A screen door slammed, and a voice shouted, “I’ll remember this, Bud. You watch your job, you coward!”

  There was a hard knock at the back door. Through the screen Naomi saw Mr. Turner and four men behind him. She tried to think of him as a father who’d buried a child, but she couldn’t forget how he’d shamed her in his store. She did not move.

  Henry came into the kitchen. “I’ll get it,” he said and opened the door.

  “Listen, Henry,” Turner said, “we’ve got business to see to.”

  Out on the porch, the men talked in urgent, hushed tones. She couldn’t make out their words. When Henry came back in, he reached for his hat.

  “Bring your boy,” someone called after him. “Wally’s with me and keen on the fixing.”

  Beto hovered in the hall. Naomi thought she saw his eyes brighten a bit. Out of the house, maybe he would stop thinking of Cari for five minutes. Maybe.

  “Robbie, get your coat,” Henry said. “You can come help.”

  Beto nodded and hurried to get his jacket from its hook.

  “Don’t wait up,” Henry said. He didn’t look at Naomi.

  She kissed Beto on the forehead. “Be careful and listen to Daddy,” she said. Already her mind was on to what she needed to do while they were gone. Pack. See what money she could find in Henry’s things. Check the tree for instructions.

  She did not consider what kind of fixing the men were fixed on. She pictured some broken piece of machinery. Beto perched on the hood of the Ford, drinking a Coca-Cola someone had brought along in a cooler.

  She should have wondered at the toolbox Henry had left sitting in the corner of the kitchen. She should have questioned his sudden renewed interest in father-son bonding. She should have kept Beto home.

  But she had other plans on her mind. Tasks to complete. Work, like always, was a certain kind of relief.

  She emptied the guitar case and got out a drawstring bag. She rolled their clothes into tight bundles and packed them in. She took her mother�
�s dress and the small treasures, but she left the shoes behind. If only she’d thought to bury them with Cari. She gathered a bar of soap, their toothbrushes, and two washcloths. She scoured the house for money, sweeping her hand to the backs of drawers and under cushions and into the pockets of Henry’s pants and overalls and shirts. She said a prayer of gratitude for his carelessness and added four wadded dollars and a handful of change to her sock; it was something. She found Beto’s notebook under his pillow and slid it into the bag. She brought Cari’s ribbons. After that, there was only the food to pack. She wrapped cheese and biscuits in wax paper and took the last of the oranges.

  Everything went back under the bed. Naomi shrugged on a sweater, rebraided her hair, and walked out into the moonless night.

  WASH Wash spent the day pulling off his plan to buy the train tickets in Tyler. No room for sadness, only scheming. He slipped into the living room early in the morning to get what he needed from the tin of Booker money. When he went out after breakfast, he wore his work boots and said he was going to help pack down graves. He headed toward Pleasant Hill Cemetery, then cut through the woods toward the road to Tyler. He walked far off the shoulder, only hitching a ride when he saw a truck he was sure was from out of town and so would not have any stories to carry back to his folks.

  Now he had three train tickets to San Antonio and a world of details he needed to explain to Naomi about how they’d get to Tyler in the morning, early, early.

  But she wasn’t at the tree. She wasn’t by the river. And for all his planning, he’d left his notepad and pencil inside yesterday’s pants. He could not leave her a message.

  He had to, though, which meant he needed to go back to the house.

  On his way home, he made sure his boots and hands were caked with a day’s worth of cemetery dirt.

  He shouldn’t have bothered. His mother and father were blazing at each other when he came into the house. A pile of suitcases sat by the back door.

  “We’re not going,” his father said. He sat in his favorite chair, a rocker by the lamp. He made a show of reading an old copy of the Chicago Defender. “It’s just gossip. And anyway, let’s say a couple of rednecks do come looking to ransack my property. Would you like to come back and find your piano smashed to bits?”

  Peggy looked ill. She was folding linens, which their mother jammed into a sack.

  “Have you lost your mind, Jim?” Rhoda asked. “Can you hear yourself? The house, the piano? We’re talking about our lives.”

  “Crane will talk sense into them. He knows we had nothing to do with what happened.” Jim turned deliberately back to his newspaper.

  Rhoda crossed the room and pulled the paper out of his hands. “Mr. Crane is too busy mourning his dead to protect us. And they’re blaming him, too. The talk going around about the school switching to green gas—and Wash out there when the explosion happened—it doesn’t look good.”

  His father frowned. “You must be exaggerating.”

  “Look at me.” Rhoda leaned close and turned his face toward hers. “Have you ever known me to be the panicky type?”

  “No, but—”

  “I talked to Whit Mason. His wife works for the Crims, and she’s heard things. He said it’s serious. These men have lost their children. They want blood. They’re not going to let this go.”

  “We’re not running. If anything, that’ll make them more likely to think we were involved.”

  “Jim!” Rhoda cried. Wash shivered. Desperation was breaking through her anger. “This is no time to be proud. We can come back. Or we can start again. We have the money.”

  “That money is for the children’s college.” Now Jim was the one to raise his voice.

  Wash’s heart pounded as his mother crossed the room to the cabinet where they kept the Booker money. She opened the door and pulled out the family Bible. She reached for the tin of money they kept behind it.

  He wiped his hands on his pants. “Mama,” he began. “Mama—”

  “Go clean up, Washington,” she said. “Change those clothes. We’re going to Aunt Jennie’s in Tyler.”

  Wash swallowed and nodded.

  “We’re not going anywhere,” Jim called as Wash hurried into his bedroom for a change of clothes.

  In the bathroom he scrubbed the mud from his hands, washed his face, and put on the blue shirt Naomi had made for him. He tried to think. If his mother was right, then his family needed to be gone an hour ago. He could go along and still meet Naomi and Beto at the station in the morning. But he had to give the tickets to Naomi and tell her where to go and how to get there. He double-checked that he had the tickets and pencil and paper, then he went back into the living room to face his parents.

  Rhoda stood with her arms crossed, her lips set in a tight line. His father sat with the box of Booker money on the desk in front of him, the bills laid out and counted. His face was livid.

  “How dare you remove money from this household!”

  “This is not the time, Jim,” Wash’s mother interrupted with a nervous smile. “Now, Wash, where did you put it? Just show me so we can finish packing.”

  “I can explain,” Wash said. He did not meet her eyes. There was only one reason he could give for why he needed to leave the house now.

  “James Washington?” his mother asked. Her voice trembled.

  Wash didn’t answer.

  “Spent...?” His mother’s eyes were begging him to tell her it wasn’t true.

  “I was going to repay it. I can get it back now,” Wash said. “I can explain—”

  “Don’t explain. Just listen.” Jim’s voice was deadly calm. “You go get the money. Be fast but not careless, and then—”

  Rhoda cut in, pulling at Jim’s arm. “Listen to me. There’s no time. Forget the rest of the money. Get these bags out to the car. And then we’ll go.”

  Wash glanced over at his father, who raised his eyebrows at him. “Did I stutter, son?”

  “Oh, Lord,” Peggy moaned softly from the sofa.

  Wash pulled his boots back on and laced them with trembling fingers. He ran out on his mother’s entreaties, calling over his shoulder, “Ten minutes, Ma!” as he pushed open the screen door.

  As he ran through the yard, he could hear her shouting, “What are you thinking, Jim? It’ll take too long!”

  He jogged up the road. He thought about heading straight into the trees, but the night was so dark, it would be faster to take the road and then cut into the woods farther down. Naomi might be there now, just maybe. If not, he would leave the tickets and a message. He pumped his arms harder.

  He was about to turn off into the woods when the first truck sped toward him, tossing up a cloud of red dust and catching him in its headlights. There was no time to hide.

  A deep voice drawled at him from a face he could not see. “Don’t think about runnin’ no more, boy. You’re caught. They’s three shotguns pointed at you right now. So turn on around and start walking back to your house so’s we can sort this out nice and civilized, see. Stay there right in front of our truck where we can see you.”

  As Wash walked slowly back up the road, his heart pounding, the pickup inched along behind him. The men didn’t bother lowering their voices as they talked. From the different voices he heard, he guessed that there were six or seven men in the truck, although he couldn’t be sure.

  “You sure that’s the right one? Niggers all look the same to me.”

  “You know they’re guilty if they’re tryin’ to run, see?”

  “It’s him all right. I seen him skulkin’ around the school the day of the explosion. Didn’t have no business there, disrespectin’ the dead.”

  “A lesson’s coming for him, ain’t it now?”

  “Where the hell are the rest of the coons in this coon town?” one of the men asked. His words slipped over one another, slurred by booze.

  Someone laughed. “They’re like animals. They smell trouble and hide. After we get done with this boy, we can go nigger k
nockin’. Stir ’em up.”

  All the houses along the street were dark now, their curtains closed. Wash thought he saw a hand disappear behind a window shade when they passed Fannie’s place. Only his family’s house at the end of the road still had lights on. Wash prayed, though, that his family had gone out the back door. That they were crossing through yards in the opposite direction at this very moment. He moved slowly. He wanted to give them as much time as possible.

  BETO Beto pressed his fingers into his armpits and bit his lip. Hard. Harder. His guts knotted as the truck swung around a curve and then flew down another country road. He wanted to be in the cab with his daddy, but instead he was in the back with five men he did not know and Wally, who was in the grade above him and mean. The men stared into the dark woods and passed a bottle between them. Their faces were shadowed, their mouths silent. From other trucks, though, he heard wild sounds. Whoops and laughter. The black of night had never seemed blacker. He did not want to be here.

  They turned onto an oil-top road and passed Mason’s general store. When they got to the end of it, Beto knew where they were going.

  The yard was crisscrossed with tire ruts. Headlights knifed through the darkness, all turned toward the Fullers’ porch.

  Henry pulled into a narrow space between two trucks and got out. “Black as a nigger’s nipple!” someone shouted, laughing. “Y’all leave the lights on.”

  “Let’s make this quick,” Henry said as the other men climbed out of the back.

  Beto sat rooted, his face pressed to the truck’s back window. Through the windshield, he followed the path of the headlights. He took in the smashed birdbath, the toppled stones around the edge of the flower bed, the flattened heads of jonquils and pansies.

  And then he saw Wash’s work boots. And Wash in them.

  Beto wanted to be invisible. He wanted Wash. Cari. Naomi. He wanted the bright sun shining through the magnolia tree. Those days eating fried pies. He closed his eyes tight.