Out of the Darkness

by Robert D. McKee

  When he turned the corner on Main, he could hear the piano music coming from Buck’s. It sounded as though the town revelers were having a fine time. Any other night, Micah might have joined the fun. Tonight, though, he kept walking. He wandered all the way down Main, across the tracks to the river. In the darkness, the North Platte looked like a channel filled with paint, black and viscous. He continued north along the river’s east bank. Occasionally he’d stop long enough to toss a stick into the water and watch it turn lazily, as though it was reluctant to begin its long journey to Nebraska and beyond. He’d spent many summer afternoons sitting on this bank. He would jam the butt of a fishing pole into the rocks and lay back and watch its line strain against the current.

  He continued upriver a ways, climbed the rise, and walked toward the station. His father used to say every major event for the last seventy-five years, in one way or another, had begun at a train depot. Micah expected things to continue that way forever, but now the station was as quiet as stone.

  That was when he saw them, Lottie and Fay, side by side, walking from the café toward their small house on North First Street. His inclination was to step back down the rise toward the river, but he didn’t.

  Later he tried to lie to himself. He pretended not dropping out of sight had been a conscious decision, that doing so would be childish and would merely delay the inevitable. But he knew the real reason was much simpler than that.

  Though Fay was at least fifty yards away and the night was a dark one, already Micah was too drunk to move.

  “Micah McConners, is that you over there staring at us from the darkness?” Lottie bent forward and squinted into the gloom.

  “Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Charbunneau, it is.” Micah was doing his best to keep his eyes on Lottie, but it wasn’t easy. Like metal shavings to a magnet, they were drawn to the young woman by Lottie’s side.

  “Well, I’ll swun,” Lottie said. “Jackson Clark was in to the café t’other night, and he said you was back in town.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ve been here a few days now.”

  “And you haven’t been in for some of my pie?” They were beside him now and she reached over and smacked his hand. “Shame on you, boy. Did you take on some of them strange Cheyenne ways since you’ve been gone?”

  “Now, Momma,” Fay said. There was a faint tinge of the South around the edges of her voice.

  “I tried my best not to become too strange,” Micah said. “And I did miss your pie, Mrs. Charbunneau. There’s none like it anywhere that I know of.”

  “So what’s been keeping you away, boy?”

  “I opened an office, and I’ve been fixing it up.”

  “Ah, yes, you’re an attorney-at-law now, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, good for you, Micah. Good for you.” She turned to her daughter. “I’m headed on now, girl,” she said. “I’m tired to death. Are you comin’ or are you goin’ to stay and visit?”

  Before he could catch himself, Micah said, “Please, Fay. Could you stay for a bit?” He’d been avoiding her for at least as long as he had been back in town, and if this situation were a case at bar, any lawyer worth his salt could argue that Micah had been avoiding her for the last three years; but now, when faced with watching her walk off into the night with her mother, Micah stopped her before he could even think.

  “All right, Micah,” she said. “A while.”

  “Don’t you be too long, now,” Lottie said.

  “No, Momma, I won’t.”

  “And don’t you be makin’ yourself so scarce, you hear, Micah?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Micah and Fay watched without speaking as Lottie walked off. Once her mother was out of earshot, it was Fay who broke the silence. “I missed you, Micah,” she said.

  And with that, Micah wanted to grab her. He wanted to pull her to him and crush her into his chest. He wanted to smother her with kisses, and in a torrent of words tell her how he’d spent every waking moment thinking of her, and how every sleeping moment, she had filled his dreams. He wanted to shout that for three years he had missed her too, that he ached with missing her, that there had been times when he thought the pain of missing her was going to drive him insane. Those were all the things he wanted to say. What he said was, “Yes, it has been a long time, hasn’t it?”

  But Fay would have none of it. “You are such a fraud, Micah McConners,” she said with a laugh, and she turned and flounced down the embankment to the river.

  “A fraud? What do you mean?” he asked, following along behind.

  “Exactly what I said.” She stopped at the bank’s edge and looked out over the dark water. What little moonlight there was soaked into her and made her glow.

  “I am not a fraud,” he said, but when she turned and fixed him with her smile, he had to laugh. He was laughing not at his own absurdity—although that was funny enough—but he was laughing at how this woman amazed him. He was amazed by her beauty. He was amazed by her intellect. But most of all, he was amazed by her skill at reading him. “All right, damn you, Fay. You’re right. I’m a fraud. I am the most fraudulent man I know.” And he pulled her to him and kissed her. He kissed her long and hard. And as he held her in his arms and pressed her lips into his, he felt as though he were falling into the sky.

  PART TWO: POLLY’S DECISION

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  As Chester pulled into the carriage house, he was pleased the ordeal was over. There had never been an occasion when he’d had more difficulty deciding the best thing to do. But now that it was done, he knew the choice he’d made was the right one.

  He unhitched Mary, took off the harness, and led the mare to her stall. He grabbed a brush and gave the horse a quick rub.

  “Good girl,” he said. Mary answered with a soft snort, shoved her nose into the bin, and folded her lips around some oats.

  Under the circumstances Chester had no regrets. Unpleasant and difficult as it was, it had been right to do it, and sometimes the right thing was not the easy or pleasant thing. Chester was convinced that if more people accepted that idea as true, the world would be better off for it.

  The whole thing—all of it—had been hard on Polly, and it would take time for her to get better, but at least now she would get better.

  For a while he’d considered going around Polly and Cedra to the law. Sonny Pratt deserved to be brought to task for what he had done, but finally Chester had decided against it. That would not help Polly. It might have made things worse.

  Chester hung up the harness and threw a cover over the phaeton. Before he blew out the lamp, he glanced into the corner where the moto-cycle leaned against the wall. It made him feel good to look at it. Shiny and blue. Uncle Oscar was going to make a fortune on these things. This Sunday Chester would take Micah for a ride. Maybe they’d go into the mountains. If Micah resisted, Chester would berate and humiliate him until the poor wretch gave in.

  With a smile, he told himself how nice it was to have his friend back home.

  As Chester walked up the path toward the house, he realized he was hungry. He’d had little appetite the last few days, but now he was starved. He wasn’t sure what Mrs. Eggers was cooking for supper, but whatever it was, he expected he’d be piling on double portions.

  The door from the back porch led into the kitchen, and Chester was surprised when he came in and didn’t see Mrs. Eggers at her cooking chores. It was already late. They always ate well before now.

  “Mrs. Eggers,” he called out. When there was no answer, he left the kitchen and walked into the hall. He could see a light coming from the parlor, and he headed in that direction. “Mrs. Eggers,” he called out again. Still there was no response, but when he rounded the corner into the parlor, he saw her. She was sitting in his good chair, the one he’d had Mr. Collier order from the factory in North Carolina. Her feet rested on the ottoman, and she held a snifter of brandy.

  “Well, Mrs. Eggers, taking a little rest, are w
e?” He pointed to the decanter on the table beside her chair. “That looks to be just the thing. I think I’ll join you.” He crossed to the cabinet, took down another snifter, and poured himself a drink.

  “I hope you don’t mind me helping myself to your fine liquor, Doctor,” the woman said.

  “No, not at all.” Chester knew Mrs. Eggers drank, but he’d never noticed his liquor supply diminishing, so he suspected she kept private libations in her room. It didn’t matter to him what she did. She was a terrible employee, but that wasn’t due to strong drink.

  He lifted his glass. “Cheers,” he said.

  Mrs. Eggers nodded and said, “Same to you.” She took a drink, staring at him over the rim of the glass as she did. “You’ve had a busy day, haven’t you, Doctor?”

  “Yes, very,” he said.

  Every morning after breakfast, Mrs. Eggers walked to the post office for the mail. Today’s was on the writing table in the corner. Chester thumbed through the letters as he spoke. “So what’s on the menu this evening, Mrs. Eggers? I’m famished.”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” she said.

  Chester glanced at the wall clock. “You haven’t decided?” He assumed she was making a joke—although she never joked—and he punctuated his question with a quick laugh of disbelief.

  “That’s right.” She snuggled herself down deeper into the easy chair. “For you, I’m thinking crow.”

  Chester leveled his gaze at the woman, and for a long moment their eyes held. “What are you saying, Mrs. Eggers?”

  “I’m saying you made a terrible mistake today, young doctor. You were thinking dumb old Mrs. Eggers was too dim-witted to know what you were up to, but you had better give your thinking a second thought; that’s what I say.” She took another long pull of the brandy.

  “What the devil are you talking about, woman? Put that glass down.”

  She lowered the glass and a snarl curled her lips. “Don’t you take that tone with me,” she said. Her feet came off the ottoman, and she sat forward in the chair. “You abortionist.”

  When Chester didn’t respond, Mrs. Eggers leaned back in the chair and replaced her feet on the ottoman. She took a dainty sip of the brandy and blotted her lips with a fingertip. “You scraped that little tramp’s baby out of her today, and you thought no one would be the wiser. Well, sir, there’s laws against that sort of thing. Laws with harsh penalties, too, I expect.”

  Still Chester said nothing, but he crossed to another chair and sat down.

  “I don’t reckon a fellow with your fine sensibilities would fare too well in the state penitentiary. The majority of the folks who populate that institution aren’t prone to gentlemanly behavior.” She smiled and replenished her snifter. “I doubt the warden is one to let you have all your books and little gadgets in your cell, either. Yes, sir, your manner of living is apt to go through some serious changes real soon.”

  Chester set his glass down and cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, “it sounds as though you’ve come up with some sort of plan, Mrs. Eggers, in the time you’ve spent not cooking my supper.”

  “That’s right,” she answered, “I have. Being an honest citizen, Doctor, it pains me to have heinous crimes and criminal activities taking place in the house in which I lay my head every night. I feel it’s my duty to inform the county prosecutor of your misdeeds. My guess is he would like nothing better than to get his hooks into you, you working against him the way you did in his last election and all.”

  “I imagine you’re right about that,” Chester admitted. “Earl Anderson has no fondness for me. That’s for sure.”

  “Hate for you is what I hear,” Mrs. Eggers offered with a smirk.

  “So, let me guess, you have some idea as to how we might avoid involving Mr. Anderson in all of this. Am I right?”

  “You’re a regular mind-reader, aren’t you, Doctor?”

  “No clairvoyance needed to read your mind, Mrs. Eggers. What is it you want?”

  “A sum of money would do nicely,” she said. “A sum of money, and I’ll be on my way, never to trouble you again.”

  “What sum were you thinking?”

  “Ten thousand dollars is nice and round, isn’t it?” Like a coy girl, she cast him an innocent smile.

  “Yes, it is. All those zeroes make it very round, indeed.”

  She finished off the last of her brandy, set the snifter aside, and stood. “So ten thousand is what it will be,” she said, her innocence gone. “Ten thousand dollars cash money, or I fix it so you go to prison. Those are your choices, Doctor.” She spat out his title.

  Chester slapped the palms of both hands down onto his knees and pushed himself up. “Well, Mrs. Eggers,” he said, “it appears you have me.”

  “I’ll say I do.” She waggled a finger at him. “You figured me for a fool, and that’s where you went wrong.”

  “I expect you’re right about that,” Chester agreed. He dug his right hand into his trousers’ pocket and pulled out a medium-sized wad of bills. He peeled a ten-dollar note from the outer fold, crossed the room, and handed it to her.

  Mrs. Eggers took the bill and looked at it as though she’d never seen one before. “What’s this?” she asked.

  “I’m not positive,” Chester said, “but I believe a decent room at the Glendale House goes for about three dollars a night.” He took her gently by the upper arm and led her out of the parlor, through the foyer, and to the front door. “Ten dollars should be more than enough to see you through till tomorrow. I’ll have your things packed and brought to you in the morning. I’ll also figure what salary you have coming and send that along as well, plus two weeks’ severance.” He gave her an easy nudge across the threshold onto the front porch. “Good-bye,” he said.

  The woman’s mouth was moving, but no sounds came out.

  He started to close the door but stopped himself. “By the way, Mrs. Eggers,” he added with a smile, “I’d suggest you not use me as a reference.”

  She was staring at him, her mouth agape, as he pushed the door closed.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Micah saw Fay the moment he stepped into the general store. The Bell sisters, Edith and Arlene, were at the counter paying Mr. Tucker for the goods they wished to purchase, and Fay stood back away from them waiting her turn. At first Micah thought she held only a bag of flour, but with a smile, Fay lifted a six-inch strand of red ribbon. It was a joke between them how well Micah liked her hair pulled back and tied with a red ribbon.

  When Micah came in, Mr. Tucker glanced up from his pencil-work. He always provided his customers with meticulous receipts. “Morning, Micah,” he said in his crisp New England tones. He had arrived in town three years before when Micah put the store up for sale, and Mr. Tucker, who had experience in Vermont at the storekeeping profession, bought the store and all of its inventory without any haggling at all. Micah offered it at a fair price, but he had expected at least some negotiation. It seemed Mr. Tucker was more skilled at selling than he was at buying.

  The women at the counter turned at the storekeeper’s greeting and chimed, “Good morning, Micah.”

  Micah smiled and nodded to Mr. Tucker. To the women, he took off his hat and said, “Ladies.” He turned to Fay. “Good morning, Fay,” he said. “You’re looking well.”

  “Mr. McConners,” she answered, dropping her eyes. There was always more of the South in Fay’s voice when she spoke in public than there was when they were alone. Micah couldn’t understand why she did that, and once he mentioned it to her. All she would say was, “The whites expect it.”

  Micah had come in to buy cigarettes, and he was in a hurry. Cedra Pratt was due in his office in less than fifteen minutes. They were to discuss the filing of her divorce.

  “Now are you sure you ladies can carry all that?” Mr. Tucker asked. “I’d be glad to have Jamey take it to your house.” He jerked his head toward the hired boy who was in the corner stacking shelves.

  “That won’t be necessary,”
Edith said. Edith was the more talkative of the two spinster sisters. “We have our basket.” She patted the handle of a large wicker basket she had resting on the counter. “We’ll do fine.”

  Micah stepped to the tobacco counter, picked up two packages of Cyclones, and started back. It would be more economical to buy tobacco and rolling papers, but Micah liked the convenience and the snug packing of the factory-rolled cigarettes.

  As he made his way to the front, the Bell sisters were leaving, and Mrs. Henry Thompson came in. “Why, as I live and breathe,” she said, “if it isn’t Edith and Arlene.” Mrs. Thompson was the mayor’s wife and among the elite of Probity society. “We missed the two of you at the box luncheon after church last Sunday.” She shook her finger at them. “Reverend Boyson took me aside personally and asked me wherever could the Bell sisters be.”

  “Oh, Muriel,” Edith said, “we hated to miss it, but we had to leave right after the sermon. Arlene, the poor dear, was having terrible . . .” She glanced around, leaned forward, and whispered in Mrs. Thompson’s ear. From all the way across the room, Micah could see Arlene Bell redden.

  “My, my,” said Mrs. Thompson, giving Arlene a consoling touch on the shoulder, “I do so hope you’re feeling better now.”

  “Yes,” Arlene said in a near whisper. “Thank you.”

  As the women conversed, Fay placed her flour and ribbon on the counter. Mr. Tucker hefted the bag of flour onto his scales. “All right,” he said peering over the tops of his spectacles, “that’s right at five pounds of flour.” He folded the top of the bag over and put it back on the counter. “And one piece of ribbon. Will there be anythin’ else for you, girl?” Tucker asked.

  “No, sir, that’s all.”

  Tucker was adding it up when Mrs. Thompson bade her farewells to the Bell sisters and came to the counter. “Good day, Mr. Tucker,” she said. Looking past Fay, she said, “Micah.”