The Stories We Whisper at Night

by Sky Corgan

  I'm about fifteen minutes short of leaving when Marcy's car finally pulls up into the parking lot. She notices me right away and steps out of her vehicle with an ear-to-ear grin on her face. “Hey, stranger,” she says with an alluring smile as she sashays over to me. The happiness melts away from her expression when she catches the look in my eyes. “What's wrong?”

  “Delilah is dead.” The words feel like a punch to the gut coming from my mouth. It's hard to say them.

  Her lips form a shocked O. She obviously hasn't heard the news yet. In a matter of seconds, her perfect poise disappears, and she's sobbing in my arms, repeating the word “No” over and over again. She collapses against me in grief, and I end up having to help keep her standing.

  “We need to go inside.” I glance around the complex to make sure no one is watching us. Not that it matters.

  “What happened?” she asks between sobs, leaning against me as we walk towards the stairs.

  “What do you think happened?” I can't even look at her as we make our way to the door of their apartment, which I suppose is just her apartment now. I've never dealt with crying women well.

  “That man.” Hatred seethes from her voice.

  “I'm pretty sure it was him.” I take the key from her and slide it into the lock, twisting the handle and letting us in.

  Marcy walks over to the couch, dropping herself heavily on it and cradling her face in her hands. “I begged her not to go to him again. I told her it was a bad idea.”

  “No one called and told you about this?” Why would they? All that bastard cares about is making his money. Why should one dead call girl stop the rest of his business?

  “No.” She shakes her head, looking up at me with tear-stained eyes.

  “My mom said they caught the guy who did it. You're probably going to be questioned.” It only makes sense, since Marcy is Delilah's roommate.

  Panic sets in as Marcy realizes the possibility of getting arrested for prostitution. “What am I supposed to do? I don't know anything about this.”

  “You know plenty,” I growl. “You'll say what you have to to put this guy behind bars. To put Edward behind bars.”

  “I won't.” She shakes her head frantically. “I won't go to jail for this. It wasn't my fault.”

  “You introduced her to this lifestyle.” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. She cowers as if I just slapped her. “I'm sorry, Marcy. These guys can't get away with it. You don't have to tell the police that you're a call girl. Just tell them that Delilah talked to you about these things. About the john and Edward and what she was doing. Offer anything you can to nail them without getting in trouble.”

  “If I testify against Edward, he'll tell them I'm one of his girls,” Marcy insists.

  “If he admits it at all. And he better admit it, because if he doesn't go down for this, what I have planned for him is far worse than anything that could happen to him in jail.” My right eye twitches. It feels like all the blood has rushed to my head. I need Marcy to back me on this. She might be my only hope in taking down the whole business, though I can understand why she wouldn't want to. If Edward gets arrested, then she's out of a job. “Please, Marcy.” I sit down next to her, trying to temper my tone. “My sister is dead because of that man. Your friend. He needs to pay for this.”

  She sniffles, refusing to look at me. The trembling is so bad that I wrap an arm around her for comfort, even though I don't want to. It's pissing me off that she's being difficult. This isn't the time to be heartless though. She has a lot at stake. I have to understand that.

  “Okay,” she says finally. “All right. I'll tell the police what I know.”

  “Thank you.” I grab her hand and draw it up to my lips to kiss it. “Thank you.”

  We sit there in silence for several moments. A thousand questions are going through my head. What happens now? Will Marcy really be okay? Will Edward send someone after her if she confesses?

  As if on cue, she says, “Knox, I'm afraid.”

  “Don't worry. I'll protect you. You'll stay with me until all of this is settled.” I couldn't protect my sister, but I can damn sure protect Marcy. “You're not going back to work.”

  “No.” She shakes her head in agreement. “I'm not going back. Not after this.”

  “Good.” If only Delilah had had half as much sense. She was stubborn though, and this is what it got her.

  I wait in the living room while Marcy packs her things. Luckily, she doesn't have much. Only two suitcases full of clothing and shoes. I put them in the bed of my truck and drive her back to my apartment. When we get there, I carry her suitcases upstairs and set them down on the floor in my bedroom. She's quit crying, but she still looks distraught. She stands in the doorway with her arms wrapped around herself, staring at the bed.

  I step up to her and put my hands on her shoulders, rubbing them gently. “I need to go to my mom's now. You'll be safe here.”

  Her eyes shoot up to meet mine with worry behind them. “You're going to leave me?”

  “I have to. I told her I'd come over after I took care of some business.” I let my hands fall.

  “Can I come with you?” It's a timid question. She's worried that I won't want to introduce my mother to a call girl. Worried that I won't want to be seen by her side. That's not the case though. Marcy's no different than my sister. Just because she's a call girl doesn't mean she's a bad person.

  “She's probably going to be hysterical,” I say gently. “It's not the best time for an introduction.”

  “I don't want to be alone, Knox.” Marcy shakes her head, pressing her eyes tightly together as if pain just ripped through her.

  “All right. If it will make you feel better, you can come. Just don't talk about what you know. Let her grieve and get everything out.” I brush a strand of hair away from Marcy's face.

  “I'll keep my mouth shut.”

  “Be friendly. Be sympathetic.”

  “I can do that.” She opens her eyes and nods at me.

  We leave the apartment and climb back into my truck, making the short drive to my mother's place. Even though my mother only lives five minutes away, I hardly ever see her. She works too much, and she doesn't call to let me know when she has time off. If I've seen her more than twice a year since I've moved out of the house, it's been a rarity.

  As we pull up in front of the house, I fight to keep a scowl off my face. The place is rundown. Every year it gets worse. With my father not around to make repairs, the house has been falling apart. My brother doesn't give a crap about it. Maybe I should take more initiative to come help out. The wood on the front porch is gray and rotting. There are a few soft spots you have to be careful not to walk on. And there's even one place where the wood has caved in. It's not safe.

  The white paint on the sides of the house is chipped in places. Most of it is cracked. One of the shutters is hanging on by a nail. And the roof is missing several shingles. Having said all that, it doesn't really look much worse than the other houses around it. This is a poor neighborhood, where people don't give a shit as long as they have a roof over their head, even if that roof leaks.

  We get out of my truck and walk through knee-high grass and weeds to get to the front door. I like the way that Marcy doesn't look at the place with judgmental eyes. She seems out of it though, lost inside her head, wondering what happens next. I think we're both wondering that. How will this all play out in the end? Will Edward and the john go free? Will Marcy be safe? There are too many questions. Not enough answers, and no way to get them. All we can do is wait.

  I knock on the door twice, and my mom comes to answer. Her eyes are red and puffy. She's wearing her work uniform, a starched white blouse with a red skirt. She must have gotten the news either right before she was about to go to work or in the middle of her shift.

  “Why didn't you come sooner?” She doesn't even notice Marcy standing behind me.

  “I had business to take care of.” It's a bad ex
cuse. Family should come first, but making sure that Marcy was all right was my priority. Part of me feels guilty for not rushing over to console my mom. I can't turn back time though, so there's no point in dwelling on it.

  “I'm glad you're here.” Her eyes water as she looks up at my face. Then they move over my shoulder to where Marcy is standing. She offers a weak smile before sniffling back the tears. “Who is your friend?”

  “This is Marcy. She was Delilah's roommate.”

  “Oh. A friend of Delilah's.” She steps away from the door. “It's cold out here. You should both come in.”

  We walk inside, and I take in the scent of coffee. Mom seems to always have a cup in her hand, whether it's morning or night. She loves coffee. Always has since I was a kid. I imagine that with her working so much, it's the only thing that keeps her going most of the time.

  She leads us toward the kitchen. I follow, but Marcy takes her time, looking around the house. You'd think we were a close-knit family by all the pictures on the walls and tables. That's what my mom has in place of art, for the most part. The one painting hung above the fireplace mantel is a landscape that my grandmother painted before she died. It's not very good, but Mom insisted on always having it displayed. It's one of the few things of her mom's that she still has. One of the few things she didn't pawn or sell to help support us.

  Marcy detours to the living room to stand in front of a picture of Delilah and I as kids. She glances at me with a soft smile. “I think I'm going to hang out here for a while, if that's all right?”

  I nod and continue to the kitchen with my mom, sitting across from her at the old dining room table, which was too small for all five of us growing up. When we were little, she used to put Delilah and I side by side in our high chairs. And when we got older, she just let us eat wherever we wanted to.

  For a few minutes, we stare at each other in silence, our expressions becoming more solemn by the second. I can see the pain in her eyes. It must be hard losing a child. Delilah was my sister, but I can't even imagine how my mother feels.

  “I don't understand what happened, Knox.” Mom shakes her head and looks down at her hands, which are folded on top of the table.

  “I don't either, Mom.” It's a lie. I know exactly what happened. Delilah got herself into a bad situation, and then she got greedy. Greedy and hopeful that this would be the last time. It was the last time, in a very final way.

  “The police said that she was a…” Mom’s eyes narrow as she processes the word, not allowing it to leave her lips. It's too filthy to her. Too vile.

  “She was involved in some unsavory business.”

  “You knew?” Mom glances up at me, surprised.

  I take a deep breath, wondering if I should confess. She'll be pissed that I didn't do anything about it, but what could I do? I was powerless, like everyone else. This decision was all on Delilah. “She talked to me about it briefly.”

  “Why didn't you tell me?” Mom’s voice cracks in anger.

  “What would you have done? She was a grown woman. If I couldn't talk her out of it, what makes you think you could have?”

  Mom looks flustered. Her eyes dart around the tabletop, as if searching for something. Then she grabs the handle of her coffee mug, gripping it tightly, as if it will save her from falling into a pit of despair. “I would have talked to her. I would have been there for her. I would have helped her get through whatever made her feel that she had to choose this path. I would have been her mother.” Her hand is shaking. Luckily, the coffee cup is almost drained, so there's no chance that it will spill.

  “Mom, this wasn't your fault. There's nothing any of us could do about it. Delilah was going to do what Delilah was going to do, and that's it.” I do my best to console her, but it's not working.

  “I could have done something,” Mom insists. I want to say more, but I don't. I simply allow her to internalize the what-ifs. We all go through it, thinking we might have been able to change the course of fate. In the end, it's all pointless. What happened, happened. Thinking about it, wishing you would have done things differently, doesn't change that.

  “Are you going to be all right?” I ask, knowing the answer. None of us will be all right for a while.

  “I'll manage. We've got so much to do. Planning the funeral. I talked to your brother and sister, and they'll be flying in soon. They offered to help with the expense.” Mom clears her mind of depression, focusing on business. This has to be stressful for her.

  “That's good. I don't have much money, but I'll give you what I can. And let me know if I can do anything, make phone calls or what not. I work at night, so my days are pretty free,” I offer.

  She reaches across the table and places her hand on top of mine, squeezing gently. “Thank you, Knox. I don't know what I'd do without you kids. Now I have one less.” Her eyes water.

  “Hey. We're going to be here for you the best we can.” I pull my chair around the table so I can give her a hug. She hooks her hand around my arm and rests her head against me, letting the tears silently fall and snowball into sobs, though she keeps it quiet, knowing we have other company. I don't know why she's being so considerate. She has every right to cry and curse the heavens. “I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you too.”

  We embrace for a few more minutes before she finally pulls away and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. Her eyeliner smears across her face. She gets up and walks to the kitchen counter for a paper towel to blot the makeup off. Instead of returning to me, she leans against the counter for support.

  I stand. “Well, I should be going. Call me if you need anything.”

  “I will.” She flanks my side, slipping her arm through mine as we walk towards the door.

  Marcy meets us in the living room, giving my mother a sympathetic smile. “I'm sorry we couldn't have met under better circumstances.”

  “I'm sorry I wasn't more hospitable.” My mom lets out a strained laugh.

  “Don't worry about it. I understand.”

  To my surprise, the two women embrace. It's like they've known each other forever. I guess grief brings people together like that. Whatever the case, I'm glad they got along.

  I give my mom another hug, and then Marcy and I walk out the front door and head back to my truck. My stomach is growling, but I don't feel like cooking. The day has been too long and emotionally draining.

  “Want to grab something to eat?” It's not really a question.

  Marcy nods.

  We drive to a nearby diner. Not the same one I met Delilah at. I couldn't stand to be in that place now. That's where everything might have changed if I had just said the right words.

  We make idle conversation while we wait for our food to arrive, avoiding the topic of what happened to Delilah. Instead, Marcy asks me about all the pictures on the walls of my mother's house and about my past. I have nothing better to do than open up to her. Besides, talking about the past keeps my mind off the present, which is much more painful for the time being.

  “Your mother is a lovely woman,” Marcy comments as she turns her glass of soda in her hands.

  “You think so?” I cock an eyebrow. Lovely is not a word I would use to describe my mother. Sweet and homely, yes, but not lovely. A hard life has aged her beyond her years. She keeps her long curly brown hair up with too much hairspray. Her face is drawn with deep frown lines. She's thin and frail-looking, though far stronger than she seems, both mentally and physically. She had to be to raise us.

  “Yes. She cares a lot about you guys. You can tell.”

  “All those pictures.” I think about them. It's amazing that there are so many of them with as little time as she was able to spend with us.

  “All those kids. I don't see how she did it.”

  “Neither do I, to be honest.” My childhood is a blur of memories that lacks much parenting. Somehow though, my mom managed to keep us all in line and together.

  “Do any of your other siblings have kids?”


  “Two of them do.” I think about my brother and sister, happily married and living normal lives.

  “And what about you? Do you want kids someday?”

  The question catches me off-guard. It's not something I've ever seriously considered, seeing how I haven't been in a real relationship.

  “It's not something I think about,” I admit.

  “It's something that everyone thinks about at some point.” Marcy lifts the glass to her lips and takes a long sip.

  “Maybe it's something that women think about.” I smirk at her.

  “No. I'm pretty sure everyone thinks about it,” she insists.

  “So I'm guessing that you've thought about it.” I'm not really interested in the answer. Of course she wants kids. Most women do.

  “I have.” She nods. “I don't think I ever want children.” Her eyes fall to the glass as she lowers it to the table.

  “That's not what I was expecting.” I try not to sound too surprised. “Why don't you want kids?”

  “This world is too ugly.” Her brow knits together as she continues to stare at the condensation on her glass. “It's no place for children.”

  “It's no place for anyone.” I lean back, sighing as I think about Delilah.

  “No, it's not.” Marcy swipes a finger up the side of her glass, looking at the trail it leaves behind.

  “Now that you mention it, I don't think I want kids either,” I decide.

  “What a pair we make then.” Her voice is wrought with sarcasm and amusement.

  “What a pair.” I laugh, gazing at her.

  ***

  It's another night of restless sleep. Marcy's crying keeps me up for half the night, and any time I manage to close my eyes for more than a few seconds, I see Delilah's face. Every time I wake up, Marcy is looking at me. Her eyes are glassy. She reaches out a hand to smooth down my hair. It's strangely soothing. I'm glad she's here with me to share my pain, even if she has a part to play in it. I want to hate her for introducing my sister to the call girl business, but I can't. She couldn't have predicted this would happen. It's not her fault. I'm just looking for someone to blame. Anyone.