Out of the Darkness

by Robert D. McKee

  Before anyone could begin eating, they had to stand around the tables waiting for the dignitaries to speak—or that was the pretense. Micah suspected the truth was that no one wanted to be the first to sample whatever it was that Chester Hedstrom had concocted.

  Mayor Thompson stepped to the main table and clanked a beer pitcher with a knife. “Could I have your attention, everybody? I’m not going to take much of your time. I’m sure everyone’s real hungry and eager to, uh—” His eyes dipped down to the trays in front of him. “—dig right in. But before we do, I want to say welcome home, Micah. We all knew and respected your father for a whole lot of years, and we wish he could be here to join us in our celebration.”

  “Thanks, Mayor.”

  “I’m certain you’ll be a credit to John as well as yourself and your profession. We wish you the best. Let’s now turn everything over to Dr. Hedstrom. Doctor?”

  Chester stepped to the table carrying something three feet long under his arm. It was flat and wrapped in butcher paper.

  “What’s that in your armpit there, Doc?” someone from the crowd called out. “Not something else you’re going to try to feed us, I hope.”

  “No, no,” Chester said, smiling. “It’s a gift for my good friend.” He handed the package to Micah.

  Micah rushed to unwrap it, and what he saw once the paper was off wrenched a smile to his face. It was a sign—a shingle. Chiseled on oak in beautiful script were the words, “Micah Mc-Conners, Attorney-at-Law.”

  When he thanked Chester, his voice came out raspier than he would have liked.

  “Now,” said Chester, rubbing his hands together, “all you folks are in for a treat. In my travels back East this year I made some discoveries, great discoveries, two of which are on the tables before you.”

  He reached to one of the large bowls and extracted something small, white, and roundish. He held it up so everyone could see. “This I ran across in Saratoga Springs, New York,” he said. “It’s a white potato, sliced as thin as paper, and fried in a special way.” He bit into the thing, and Micah could hear it crunch from ten feet away.

  Chester lifted the bowl and held it out to some children standing in front of the crowd. “Here,” he said, “give ’em a try. They’re called Saratoga chips. Some folks call them potato chips.”

  With caution, one boy, a little older than the rest, reached into the bowl and picked one out. He brought the thing to his nose, smelled it, then took a tentative bite. Astonishment washed across his face. With wide eyes, he gobbled it down and reached into the bowl for more. This time he brought out a handful. When the other kids saw that, they too made a grab for the bowl.

  “Slow down,” Chester said. “Not so fast. There’s plenty for everyone.” He took another for himself and popped it into his mouth. “Yes,” he said, “tasty. Very tasty.”

  He moved down the table to one of the trays. “But this is the best of all.” Chester pointed to the back of the crowd and said, “I have to thank Max and Charlie back there for helping me with this item.” The butcher and baker both gave halting waves. Micah wondered if they weren’t standing in the back in order to make a fast getaway should the need arise. Being involved in one of Chester’s schemes could be a risky endeavor.

  With both hands Chester lifted one of the objects from the tray and held it high for everyone to see. It appeared to be a small six-inch loaf of bread, sliced down the middle. Tucked inside was some kind of meat. The strangest thing about it, though, was that the meat was long and tubular.

  “This,” said Chester, “I also discovered in New York, in New York City, where it’s all the rage.”

  There was the same pride in his voice that Columbus must have had when he reported back to Isabella.

  He shoved the end of the thing into his mouth and took a huge bite. The pleasure on his face was obvious. “It’s called,” Chester said, “a hot dog.”

  A lady behind Micah whispered to the woman next to her, “Sadie, did I hear him right? Did that young man say dog?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Chester Hedstrom had a beautiful house. It was located on North Sixth Street, the most fashionable area of Probity. At three stories high, the house was the tallest building in town. It was painted a sparkling white and boasted porches and gables and gingerbread trim.

  The library was the first room Micah saw upon entering, and despite its opulent furniture, carpeting, draperies, and row upon row of leather-bound books, the place was a pigsty.

  “Good God, Chester, how can you live like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “Look at this place.” Micah motioned toward the litter of magazines and pamphlets, handtools, and debris. There was a long table at one end of the room, and on it were piled dozens of objects in various stages of disassembly. “If your parents were still alive,” Micah said, “they’d both drop dead.”

  “It is a little cluttered with my projects,” Chester allowed.

  Micah walked to the table. It was a chaotic mess. “What is all this stuff?” he asked.

  “A few things that’ve caught my interest.”

  Micah picked up a rectangular wooden case. The thing was covered with tiny, numbered keys. He turned it over and saw that the bottom had been removed and nothing was inside. He had no idea what he held, and he gave Chester a quizzical look. “This?” he asked.

  “Why, it’s one of Mr. Burroughs’s adding machines, of course.” Chester’s tone suggested that Micah was a little slow for not knowing. This might have bothered another person, but it had been years since Micah felt self-conscious because Chester was interested in something Micah had never seen before.

  “Adding machine?” he asked. He poked one of the buttons. Even more so than with the moto-cycle, Micah had heard of this device. There were a few in Cheyenne, but he’d never actually touched one. They weren’t common in lawyers’ or judges’ offices. “So I guess you push these keys and the machine will add the figures?”

  Chester took the box from Micah, and with a shrug said, “Well, it did.” He placed it back on the table next to the jumbled pile of tiny wheels, levers, and gears that Micah assumed once made up the machine’s innards.

  The table was strewn with a dozen similar projects.

  “I see,” said Micah.

  Chester had always had a compulsion to take things apart. He was never without a pair of pliers and a screwdriver tucked into his back pocket. As a boy, he’d dismantle the household clocks to see how they worked, but always struggled to put them back together—sometimes with success, more often not.

  Once when Chester’s parents were away on a trip to Omaha, Micah watched in amazement as Chester disassembled the brand-new coal-burning cookstove his father had ordered from Chicago.

  “I don’t think you should do that,” Micah had warned. And as it turned out, Micah was right. Before they were done, it took not only Chester, but Micah, the local blacksmith, and the blacksmith’s apprentice to get the thing together again. And even with all that, for years afterward, on a windy day, the kitchen would have a thin haze of black smoke.

  Chester took Micah’s still-damp carpetbag and called to the back of the house,“Mrs. Eggers.” Then to Micah he said, “We’ll, give these things to Mrs. Eggers to wash.”

  “Eggers? What happened to Anna?” Anna had been Chester’s housekeeper, secretary, and assistant in his surgery ever since Chester had graduated from the Columbia College of Physicians and Surgeons.

  “Her son-in-law was killed in the Philippines in ’ninety-eight. As soon as she heard, she moved to Lander to be with her daughter.”

  Micah felt a twinge of guilt. He always felt he too should have gone to fight the Spaniards, but he was well into his studies when that short one-hundred-and-fifteen-day war broke out and he couldn’t give up his position with the judge. Micah’s only hope of becoming an attorney had been to study while at the same time working for Judge Pullum.

  “That’s too bad about Anna’s having to leave,” Micah
said. “She was quite a hand.”

  “She was, indeed,” agreed Chester. “I miss her. Mrs. Eggers is the third woman I’ve had work here in two years.” He added under his breath, “And I’m not sure how long she’ll be around.”

  As Micah started for the stairs, a large woman in her mid-fifties entered the room. She had huge breasts that sat upon her ample middle like melons on the back of a cart. Her face was florid and fat, with tiny, deep-set brown eyes. Her hair was a reddish blond. It was so severely pulled back in a bun that it caused the corners of her eyes to lift.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Eggers,” Chester said. He motioned to Micah, who stood at the foot of the stairway. “This young gentleman is my friend, Micah McConners. I mentioned to you a couple of days ago that he’d be staying with us until he can find a place of his own.” He handed her the carpetbag, which she held as though it were a dead animal. “Please clean his clothes, if you would. Micah here is a clumsy oaf and he dropped the whole outfit into a horse trough.”

  Micah gave him his coldest look.

  “He’ll be takin’ his meals here too?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse-sounding and wet. Hearing it made Micah want to clear his throat.

  “Of course,” Chester said. “He’s a lout and a bore and not at all bright, but, please, despite all that, do your best to make him feel at home.”

  She left the room stirring some verbal stew under her breath. It sounded as though the phrase, “Twice the damned work,” was somewhere in the mix.

  Once she was gone, Chester smiled and said, “Yep, I miss Anna more every day.”

  Micah nodded in agreement. “I can see why.”

  Chester pointed to the wide staircase. “Your room’s the second door on the right. Take off the clothes you’re wearing so she can clean those as well. I’ll bring you one of my dressing gowns.”

  Micah was glad to get upstairs and undress. His suit had dried, but it would feel good to take it off.

  Micah appreciated Chester’s putting him up like this, but he hoped his stay would be brief. Chester was as free a spirit as Micah had ever known. And even though they’d been friends for years, Micah knew living with him could be overwhelming. Chester had an all-consuming exuberance for life—particularly modern life, as Chester liked to call it—and everything he did, he did with an energy that exhausted anyone foolish enough to try to keep up.

  With the exception of the library, which Chester never allowed his housekeepers to touch, the house was immaculate. The room Chester had given to Micah was spotless. Micah crossed the thick carpet and sat on the bed, bouncing a couple of times to test the mattress. Not bad. It was much more comfortable than the cot he’d become accustomed to in his sparse rooms in Cheyenne. The outside wall of the room was banked with three large windows. They provided a view of the hills east of town. The draperies had been opened to allow in the light, and Micah could see a group of a half-dozen antelope grazing not a hundred yards from the house.

  By the time Micah undressed, there was a knock at the door. “Yes?” he said.

  “It’s me.” Chester poked his head in. “Here,” he said, tossing Micah a robe.

  “Thanks.” Micah caught the robe, pulled it on, and tied the sash around his waist. He reached up and felt the lapel’s material with his thumb and forefinger. It was thick and plush. He had always been fascinated by the luxury Chester seemed to take for granted. It wasn’t envy; it was fascination. Luxury itself was not something Micah craved, but because his own upbringing had been modest, he couldn’t help but notice when he was exposed to the finer things. Chester, who’d been surrounded by luxury all his life, seemed to pay it no mind at all.

  “When you’re ready,” Chester said, “come down to the parlor. I’ll open a bottle of Glenlivet. We’ll see if I can still drink you under the table.”

  He stepped back out and closed the door behind him. As Chester went downstairs, Micah heard him shout, “And hurry up, damn it; I am a thirsty man.”

  By the time Micah entered the parlor, the Scotch had already been poured. He took the glass that Chester extended and whiffed its contents. “It’s always been more pleasant drinking your whisky than my own,” he said. “Yours is so much better.”

  “So that explains why you were always hanging around sniffing at Pappa’s liquor cabinet.” Chester opened a heavy wooden box. “Cigar?”

  Micah shook his head and pulled a package of Cyclones from the pocket of the dressing gown. He placed one of the cigarettes in his mouth, and Chester lit it for him. Chester then snipped the end from a cigar and lit it as well.

  It had been a long day. Micah leaned back on the sofa and took a sip of the expensive whisky. He could feel the smooth liquid trail its way down his throat.

  “It’s good seeing you again, Chester,” he said. With first the adventure on the moto-cycle and afterward the picnic, they’d not had an opportunity to visit.

  Chester folded himself into a chair across from the sofa. “Same here,” he said. He was having a hard time keeping the cigar going, and he fired another match and lit it again. With his eyes on the flame and the now glowing tip of the cigar, he asked between puffs, “How’ve you been feeling?”

  Micah smiled at the casual way the question had been tossed out. Chester Hedstrom was flamboyant and blatant in every way. But Dr. Hedstrom possessed a bedside manner that was offhanded and subtle.

  “I’m feeling well,” Micah said. “I’m feeling very well.”

  Chester cocked his eyebrow and scrutinized Micah through the cloud of smoke.

  “All right,” Micah admitted, cringing a bit at the sound of his defensiveness. “The blue devils still knock at the door from time to time.”

  “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know.” Chester said this as he flicked the spent match in the direction of the ashtray. He missed by six inches. “Melancholia’s an illness like any other.”

  “Yes,” said Micah, “I know.” And he did know. He should. He’d heard it from Chester a dozen times before. “But it has gotten better,” he said, and that wasn’t a complete lie. The depression came less often than in the past. When it came, it was worse than ever, but it was coming less often. “Perhaps I’m outgrowing it.”

  Chester nodded. “I suppose that’s possible. Hell, anything’s possible. There’s plenty we don’t understand. But there’s a lot of work being done with this sort of thing in Europe these days. Particularly over in Austria.” He raised his glass. “To your health, sir,” he said, taking a sip.

  “And yours.” Micah tipped his glass in Chester’s direction and took a drink as well.

  Chester examined his cigar, which seemed to be burning nicely now. A two-inch gray ash extended from the end. Chester took another puff and the ash tumbled to his lap. Chester paid it no mind. Micah assumed it wasn’t hot, but he kept an eye on it anyway.

  “There are office spaces to let on Third Street,” Chester said after a bit. “The old Stimpson property.”

  Micah was interested. “Is that right?” He was familiar with that building. It had three rooms and was across the street from the county courthouse, which was located on the second floor above the First National Bank. That would make it convenient for any hearings he might have in front of the Justice of the Peace. When the District Court Judge came to town on his circuit ride out of Casper, court was held at Bury’s Opera House. The opera house was nicer and much roomier than the small space allotted the JP. That was a situation, Micah recalled, that had been brought to the attention of the county commissioners more than once by the Justice of the Peace, who felt he was being given short shrift. If Micah could afford the rent, this would be a fine location for a lawyer’s office. Except for First Street down by the depot, that area of Third and Main had become the busiest spot in town. “I wonder what the rent is,” Micah said.

  “It shouldn’t be too bad. Stimpson’s nephew has it now. He doesn’t drive as hard a bargain as the old man did.” Chester huffed a blue smoke ring toward the ceiling.

>   “I’ll look into that first thing tomorrow. By the way,” Micah said, “thanks again for the shingle. It’ll look good hanging beside my office door. That was a fine gift. I don’t suppose you made it yourself.”

  “Good God, no,” Chester said with a laugh. “The only time I use a saw is when I hack off someone’s leg. I hired Harvey Pecker to make it.”

  “Is that right? I haven’t thought of him in years. I heard he’d he moved to Sundance.”

  “He did, but he came back a few months ago.”

  “How’s he doing?” Micah asked.

  “Very well. He’s become a fine finish carpenter.” Chester placed his feet, boots and all, on the ottoman in front of his chair. “Damn, but we used to make his life miserable when we were boys, didn’t we? You more than any of us. You were always the worst about that sort of thing.”

  “With a name like Harvey Pecker, what should he expect?”

  Chester held up a finger as though he’d been struck with a brilliant idea. “Perhaps now that you’re a prosperous attorney you should make up for your past sins by offering to do a name change for the poor bastard free of charge.”

  “You know,” Micah said, “you’re right. I’ll do it. What do you think of the name Dick Pecker?”

  For some reason Chester found that funny. He laughed so hard he dropped his cigar to the carpet. It rolled beneath the sofa, and Micah bent and retrieved it before it burned the house down. He placed it in the heavy ashtray that sat on the cocktail table between them.

  “The truth is,” Chester said after a while, “Harvey’s become a real success. He has a well-equipped shop down on First, south of the old stage headquarters. He has all the latest equipment—very progressive.”

  “Who would’ve thought Harvey Pecker would ever be called a progressive?”

  “He is, though. You wouldn’t believe some of the modern tools he has down there. And more are coming. There’ll be a time in the not-too-distant future when electrical saws, sanders, and all sorts of devices will be available to make carpentry much easier and more exact.”