By Dark

by T Thorn Coyle

  But Shekinah felt it in her bones. Unlike the True Presence, who was both Nothing and Something at the same time, this thing with Tish?

  It wasn’t nothing at all.

  3

  Alejandro

  Alejandro dropped his keys in the bowl on the nice side table in his condo’s entryway. Much as he loved Raquel and Brenda’s classic old Portland houses, he appreciated his low-maintenance condo even more. As he walked through to the living room, he thumbed his phone open. Pressed a few buttons. The sound system began to softly play Apocalyptica’s second album. The walls were white, hung with Michoacán weavings, a couple of wooden masks and, over the gas fireplace, a flat screen television. Centered around the fireplace, a dark brown leather couch was grouped with a wood coffee table and two squared-off, white–linen-covered chairs.

  As the rock cello hummed through the space, he walked past the wood dining table—another sleek, mid-twentieth-century piece—toward the tidy kitchen space. This was all sea-green glass subway tiles, white countertops, and chrome. Opening one of the navy-blue cabinets, his hand hovered in front of a small array of bottles of high-end liquor. Tequila? Or whisky? His fingers landed on a bottle of very good scotch. Oban. One of his favorites. So, whisky it was.

  He poured two fingers into a heavy, squat tumbler and went back to the living room, to a corner nook flanked by two tall bookcases filled with curios, a Christmas photo of his sister, Catarina, and his nephews, dark hair covered by silly Santa hats, one of him and Shekinah at the ocean, and a larger portrait from his parent’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. And, of course, books. Set into the corner nook were his favorite mid-century pieces: a canted wooden chair slung with leather and a matching ottoman, with a sculptural sweep of steel suspending a lamp directly over the chair. Perfect for reading.

  Or brooding.

  He flicked on the lamp and swung into the chair, shifting the ottoman with his feet until it was just right.

  He and Shekinah had talked about getting a place together, around six months after they started dating. But he had weaseled out of it, not wanting to move. He asked if she’d ever want to move into his condo.

  “Look at this place, Alejandro. There’s no room for anyone other than you here.”

  The condo had plenty of space for two people, but she was right. It was his place, through and through. There was no room for anyone here but him. And now, in the middle of his stupid crisis, the place felt sterile. Cold. It had always felt warm and welcoming to him before. But now? He could see the ways in which his earlier insistence on ambition and autonomy had crowded out everything else.

  He’d bought this place after his last long-term relationship ended. Ten years of love and effort, and they still broke one another's hearts. They had tried polyamory and it just didn’t work for Roger. Alejandro had always been poly. He’d tried monogamy on for Roger’s sake, but couldn’t quite manage it. They were at an impasse. An impasse that ended in tears. The fact that they still deeply loved each other almost made the heartbreak worse.

  Roger had found a nice man who wanted to live a happily coupled life. They invited Alejandro to dinner once in a blue moon.

  After the breakup, Alejandro had needed to retreat. Throw himself into his work. Study magic. Escape into his books and scotch on the days the pain came rushing back. He’d shaved his head to be more intimidating to the corporate masters he worked with, and, he finally admitted a few months ago, to get some distance from Roger, to shave off his old life.

  Thank the Gods and Goddesses for his family. They had kept him connected to his heart all those years.

  And then Shekinah had come along, like a cleansing wind. He would never forget the first time he saw her. She was sitting outside his favorite sushi place in northeast Portland, laughing with that wide mouth of hers at something her friend had said. She was blond, with an interesting face, and that laugh just killed him.

  When he approached her table, she looked up at him and smiled. That was all it took.

  She blew through his condo and his life. Shaking things up with her laughter, fresh fruit smoothies, and her yoga. That was five years ago, and they still lived apart. On one hand, that suited both of them. They were at one another’s places four or more times a week, but had space and time to date other people, and have what they fondly called their “bachelor nights.” The nights they spent alone in their underwear or pajamas, watching movies or reading books, and eating popcorn for dinner if they didn’t feel like cooking.

  Shekinah had a girlfriend she saw once a week, and he dated around, though hadn’t settled on a steady anything other than Shekinah. And lately? He hadn’t even dated. His flagging libido was another sign something was wrong. Shekinah thought it was just stress, but it worried him. She also gently suggested that at forty-five, it wasn’t unusual for hormones to change and…

  But he wasn’t ready to hear that, either.

  A few months ago, she also tried to reopen the “getting a place together” conversation.

  “Why mess with perfection?” he had replied. There’d been a flicker of pain in her eyes, but she’d moved the conversation on. He’d never told her that after Roger, he was too afraid to take that risk.

  Now he wondered if he’d fucked up.

  He sipped at his whisky, letting the smoky, peaty scotch roll around his tongue before swallowing. The fumes were strong, almost medicinal. But Alejandro didn’t think they’d cure whatever the hell was wrong with him.

  Here he sat, in his expensive condo up on Broadway, within walking distance to fifty restaurants and bars, an easy commute to downtown, with a partner and family who loved him, but knowing he was a privileged fucker didn’t make him feel any better.

  I have no purpose anymore, he thought.

  ::Then get up off your ass and find one, mijo. And where’s our ofrenda? Hmm?::

  Alejandro shot up in his chair, steadying the whisky glass before it spilled. What in Goddess’s name?

  ::That’s what you get for ignoring us. We’ll come and bite your ass, mijo. You better believe it. You should have taken the sobrinos to see the altars at El Mercado by now, hmmm?

  Damn. His fucking ancestors. He set his whisky down on one of the bookshelves and ran both his hands across his skull. Earlier, Henry and Joey had ended up requesting hamburgers instead of tacos. He figured they’d go to the Mercado to see the ofrendas some other time.

  ::Some other time? When? Dia de los Muertos is almost upon us! And where. Is. Our. Ofrenda?”::

  Damn again. They were right. He’d barely registered the coven talking about Samhain, and even though Joey y Henry had made some noise about Halloween, he hadn’t really registered how late in the month it already was. Samhain was in five days. Dia de Los Muertos was two days after that, so, one week.

  Lo siento, he thought.

  “My apologies,” he said to the empty apartment. Hoisting himself up out of the chair, he thumbed the music louder, went to the hallway closet, and took down a cardboard banker’s box. He thunked it down on the wooden coffee table, grabbed his whisky from the bookshelf and sat down on the brown leather couch.

  Lifting the lid from the box, he stared down.

  And saw their faces staring back up at him. Lifting out the photos, some loose, some in heavy frames. They gazed out in shades of sepia and black. Grandparents. Great-grandparents. Indigenous. Spanish. Mexican. Vaqueros. Rancheros. Businessmen. Pie bakers. Tortilla makers. Weavers.

  People with real work. Honest jobs. Not whatever the heck he’d been doing the past twenty years. Goddess. He really needed a new job. Or at least a new direction.

  These people were his blood. His roots. His past. A family, for good or ill. Fighting. Loving. Enduring. A thing some people never had.

  Running a hand over his face, he found that it was wet.

  “I will build you an ofrenda. The most beautiful ofrenda.”

  ::Yes. You will.::

  4

  Shekinah

  The morning
had dawned bright and clear, though more rain was forecast for the rest of the week. She’d have to get out today, take advantage of the sun.

  Shekinah was in the small office next to her bedroom, trying to get through her usual morning practices. The office was one of her favorite places. She spent hours there, listening to music, working on designs. Like the rest of the old Victorian, it had its original wood floors that glowed in the sun. White-painted wainscoting went halfway up the walls, visible where they weren’t covered by low bookshelves or tendrils from the riot of green plants her housemate, Patrick, had taught her how to tend. A rolling kneeling chair was tucked beneath an adjustable light table, next to a long, narrow desk.

  She sat on a cushion atop a yoga mat in the narrow rectangle in the center of the floor, staring out the window as the sky pinked in the east. She breathed in, first through her left nostril, then the right. Calling up the powers of moon and sun, to calm and invigorate her. The practices, though strange at first, had become her compass rose. The thing that steadied and guided her. But this morning, despite the breathing practice that was supposed to rebalance her in body, mind, and soul, the mind part of her couldn’t stop wandering.

  Her phone buzzed on her desk. Insistent. A call coming in. She ignored it, and tried to sink more deeply into her breath. Allowing her lungs to expand from her belly upward. Allowing the breath itself to make minor adjustments to her spine. Filling up. Exhaling out. Trying to let her ego go enough to just be present in the moment, the way she longed to be.

  There was more to Yogi Basu’s request than simple teacher training. Though he hadn’t mentioned it the night before, in bringing it up again, he was also asking her a deeper question. A question he’d only voiced out loud to her once, during their initial conversation on the topic four months ago. He said that he felt she was ready to become, not just a practitioner and instructor, but a person who linked with the lineage of the school all the way back to the original teachers. A person who might, someday, pass on that light and energy herself. She was intrigued, but again, white person here. Also, she wasn’t sure she could or wanted to abide by all of the restrictions. She already didn’t drink alcohol, so that wasn’t an issue, and had been mostly vegetarian her entire adult life, eating kosher or halal meat only on occasion.

  And frankly? She hadn’t yet confessed to her teacher that she wasn’t just partnered with Alejandro but had a steady girlfriend as well. Yeah. A polyamorous kundalini teacher? That sounded like some New Age joke. And she was serious about her practice. She wasn’t one of those people who took a little from here, and a little from there, and made their own American soup from stolen or borrowed ingredients. Yoga practice meant something to her. It meant everything to her.

  Practice had changed her life.

  Her phone buzzed again. Another call. She ignored it. She was almost done, and anyone who mattered knew when she practiced. Anyone else? Didn’t matter enough to answer for.

  She adjusted her posture on the cushion and began the Sat Kriya practice. Twining her fingers together, she inhaled sharply, tightening the belly, then relaxing once again.

  Sharp inhale. “Sat!” Soft exhale. “Nam!”

  As she breathed and chanted the Everlasting Name, her body, mind, and spirit were one with the practice that fit her like a second skin. The sun was golden in the sky now and she could hear Patrick, rattling around with coffee in the kitchen downstairs. Soon it would be time to finish up. Water her plants. Get to work.

  But for now? She pulled her journal from a shelf and began to write. Morning pages. Three pages to clear whatever was on her mind and heart. Get it out so it wasn’t rattling around all day, tugging at her as she went about her work. She found that this practice, though one she’d borrowed from writer Julia Cameron rather than from her teacher, helped her equanimity. And lately, she needed all the help with that as she could get.

  Things with Alejandro were…strained. He was in a funk and barely talking to her about it. They barely had sex once a month now, whereas they used to make love at least two times a week. And that wasn’t just a long-term relationship slump. It had come on suddenly. Something in Alejandro had changed, even before the big stink with his former client polluting the Willamette River had made him finally put a temporary hold on his business. Thank goodness he had a ton of money squirreled away. He’d made more as a consultant in one month than she did in half a year with her graphic design business.

  The pen scratched out her thoughts onto blank white paper. If she found a way to get past her reservations about becoming a yoga teacher, did she have enough money to take the time out and get trained? She did, just barely. And of course, Alejandro would help. They were partners. If he hadn’t just up and quit everything, she would have just asked. But it felt awkward now.

  Just as it was starting to feel awkward not to share a home after all this time. At first, the arrangement had suited them both. Two homes. No worries about whether or not they could bring other lovers by. The made sure to get plenty of time together, but Shekinah had been wanting more. They’d even talked about it once, before Alejandro’s breakdown or whatever it was.

  She wondered if he hadn’t only put his business on hold, but their relationship. And his life.

  A desperate knocking sounded from the front door. She slid her pen into her journal and set them both back on the shelf. She heard Patrick moving down the hallway. Then the front door opening. And then Patrick’s voice shouting up the stairs. “Shekinah? You’d better come down here!”

  Heart pounding, she quickly bowed to the small statues of Parvati, Ganesh, and Lord Shiva on her altar, and then to the small photo of Yogi Basu. Then she grabbed her phone and yanked open her office door. Bare feet slapping on the wood stairs, hand barely touching the painted black bannister she ran toward the sound of Patrick, speaking low. Rounding the corner of the stairs, she saw Tish, red coat buttoned wrong, hair sticking out in small tufts as if she’d been rubbing her hands over it, repeatedly.

  “Tish?”

  Her friend stood, just inside the door. “I called, but…”

  Her eyes were red and she shook so hard in her red coat, she practically swayed.

  Patrick stepped back, out of the way, as Shekinah rushed forward and wrapped her friend in her arms. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  Shekinah felt Tish shaking in her arms as if she were a dam, holding back a mighty swell of water that threatened to sweep away everything in its wake.

  5

  Alejandro

  He hadn’t started the ofrenda, despite the ancestor’s prodding. Instead, he had sat, drank his whisky, and looked through photo after photo, image after image, seeking out the stories of the past. He’d read the few letters his madre had passed along before her untimely death at age seventy.

  He’d slept badly after that, weird dreams traipsing through his head. Flashes of old scenes from his childhood. His padre y madre, young and happy. His grandfather cooking puerquo on the fancy new grill he was so proud of, the smell of the roasting pork making his mouth water. Abuelita in her garden.

  And then the phantasms. The leering faces. The jeering voices, telling him to wake up, grow a spine, do something! The voices shouted so loudly in his ears, he thought they were actually in his bedroom. That had happened three times, until finally, just before dawn, he’d crawled out of bed, belted a robe around his waist, and shuffled to the kitchen to make coffee.

  Here he sat, most of the pot gone, looking at the pictures he’d stared at late into the night. They looked different this morning. Less somber and weighty. More like people who had just been trying to live their lives. Pay bills. Raise children. Have a little fun.

  Alejandro picked up his mother’s picture in its heavy, silver frame. It was a portrait taken around the time she’d retired from nursing, just seven years before she died. She’d had two good years before the rounds of chemo started. Before the sickness took ahold of her body and wouldn’t let go. He had tried to convince her to re
tire long before that.

  “I want to feel useful, mijo,” she would always say, then smile her refusal.

  “You were supposed to live forever,” he murmured to her photo. Cancer had other plans, it seemed. And his padre? He had died when Alejandro was still young. A car accident that left him in a coma for two weeks and then…nothing. A flatlined heart and a spirit escaping on one long breath, forming a ghost above the hospital bed.

  At least, that was how Alejandro had imagined it, in his seven-year-old mind.

  He had brought the photos to the breakfast bar and was considering where to build the ofrenda this year. He wanted it to be special. Larger than he’d ever built it before. Maybe today, he could go hunting in some vintage stores for just the right table.

  “You always want to spend money,” he said to himself, as he poured the cold dregs of his coffee into the sink.

  If it was going to make him feel better, Alejandro wasn’t going to argue with himself. He’d indulged that side of himself as soon as the money had started rolling in. As soon as he figured out that not everyone was as good at IT as he was, and that his brain worked, not only in code, but in encompassing massive systems. That was what people paid him for. His intuition told him where the glitches were, and what was costing the company. His intuition, coupled with his skill and charm, helped him convince people that he was just what they needed.

  But hard as he worked, he realized, he never felt as if he was really working. Not like the people in the box. The rancheros and the weavers. Those people worked hard, and at the end of the day—and the end of their lifetimes—their bodies showed it. Successful as he was, and as much as his madre was proud of him, he always felt a little bit lazy. A little bit spoiled. As if life had said, “Here, you can have it easy, while others toil.”