In The Absence Of Light

by Adrienne Wilder

  I wondered how Morgan could ignore the loudmouth, until I noticed the two white strands leading from his ears to the iPod hooked to his belt.

  Morgan picked up his tub of dishes and walked past the trucker to the table behind him. His face reddened, and he turned as far around as the space between the bench and the table would allow. “You. Hey, you.” He moved to the end of the bench. “You listening to me?”

  I gritted my teeth. According to everyone who knew Morgan, he was capable of taking care of himself, but it didn’t stop my pulse from hitting the top of my skull.

  One dish after another, Morgan set them in the tub. Then he lifted a dirty glass up to the light and turned it back and forth.

  The trucker got out of the booth and shoved Morgan hard enough to make him stumble back. The glass tumbled out of his fingers and the tub of dishes slid off the edge of the table. Silverware, broken plates, and food were tossed all over the truck driver’s boots.

  “You mother fucker, you did that on purpose.” The man shook his foot in an attempt to dislodge the clumps of slaw clinging to the leather. “I oughta make you lick’em clean. You hear me? Boy?” He made a grab for Morgan.

  Head down, shoulders slumped, and as far as I could tell, he wasn’t even looking at the man, yet he swung his arm in a downward arc with the kind of precision you rarely saw outside of choreographed fights scenes in movies, and knocked the man’s hand away.

  Just as quickly, Morgan went back to standing like a ghost. The only change was his wayward hand going to his temple to toss thoughts. His usually controlled hand opened and closed over and over at his side.

  The truck driver laughed. “What the hell is this?” He imitated Morgan’s tic.

  I got up.

  “Don’t.” I didn’t even notice Jessie beside me until he put his hand on my shoulder. “He’ll handle it.”

  “Well, he’s not handling it.”

  The truck driver brayed like a mule.

  For the first time in a long time, I itched to have a gun in my hand. “Either do something, Jessie, or I will.”

  Jessie curled his bottom lip and let loose with one of those ear-splitting whistles. The truck driver looked up. “Quit antagonizing my help.”

  “Your help? You call this help? No wonder I can’t get another beer. You got retards working for you.”

  No one deserved to be talked to that way. Definitely not Morgan. I started to walk over, and Morgan raised a hand at me.

  The truck driver jerked his head at Morgan, and to me, he said, “This your girlfriend.”

  By now, all eyes were on Morgan and the trucker, but no one said anything. No one stood up to help.

  “Fuck this.” I shook free of Jessie’s hold.

  Morgan lifted his chin, and his bangs slid back. In my line of business, I’ve worked with all kinds of people and I’ve met more than my share of stone-cold killers. Not because I wanted to but because it was business.

  Only on rare occasions was I ever in their sights since most of them were there to pick up a package or accompany a large money exchange and nothing more. But once you’ve been in the presence of walking, talking violence, you’re forced to realize some monsters are real.

  In that moment, that flavor of savagery rolled up at me from the depths of Morgan’s dark brown eyes. It was only a flicker, but it was enough to stop me in my tracks.

  He knelt down and began cleaning up the broken plates.

  The truck driver scuffed his boots across the mess, slopping food and bits of porcelain across Morgan’s apron. He moved on to picking up the silverware.

  Patrons went back to staring into their glasses or watching TV. When Morgan had the last large shard tossed into the bin, he picked it up.

  I’m not sure if the truck driver was looking to pick on someone the size of one of his legs or trying to show off. I don’t think it was to impress his girlfriend; she was slumped over her mixed drink and hamburger.

  Either way, the trucker grabbed Morgan’s arm.

  “All hell,” Jessie hissed.

  Before I could get a foot off the ground, before I could shout out a threat to the son of a bitch truck driver, Morgan snatched up a shard of broken plate from the bin. The crash of broken dishes brought the room to another standstill, leaving the sad song of some lost love to serenade the trucker as he stared at the length of plate jutting out of his palm.

  Jessie waved at one of the waitresses. “Call an ambulance.”

  A high-pitched keen broke through the pause. Morgan balled up both fists close to his head. He turned like he wanted to run only to rock back. A tight grimace marred his face, and he shut his eyes so tight it made creases at the corners.

  I ran over.

  Jessie nodded at the trucker, still staring at his hand. “Make him sit before he faints.”

  I didn’t give a rat’s ass if he fainted. As far as I was concerned, someone needed to push his ass into a ditch. I did as Jessie asked.

  “He stabbed me. The little retard stabbed me.” The trucker showed me his hand. A trickle of blood cut a path down his arm and soaked the cuff of his flannel shirt.

  “Yeah, well, you deserved it.” I never claimed to have good bedside manners. I lifted his arm. “Hold it up.”

  “I’m gonna sue the little shit. I’m gonna sue this whole fucking place.”

  “And shut your piehole before I stuff the napkin dispenser down your throat.”

  “Look at me, Morgan.” Jessie made an attempt to cup Morgan’s face. “C’mon, son, look at me.”

  Morgan jerked away.

  “It wasn’t your fault.” Jessie pulled him back. “You hear me, this was not your fault.”

  Now there was more blood and drama here than on TV, the patrons inched closer.

  Jessie waved them back. “Please, go sit down.”

  And just like you’d expect drunk people to act, none of them listened.

  “Take him to the office. It’s behind the kitchen.” Jessie pushed Morgan toward me.

  I tried to guide Morgan with a hand on his back, and he twirled to the side. His chest pumped with every breath, and saliva made white flecks on his lips.

  “You’ll have to make him,” Jessie said.

  The truck driver yelled at his girlfriend to call his lawyer.

  “He won’t hurt you, Grant.” Jessie nodded at the kitchen. “Go.”

  I touched Morgan’s shoulders, and he yanked away.

  “Fine, you stay with him.” Jessie nodded at the truck driver.

  “Wait.” I waved him back. “I’ll do it.” But I had no idea why I wanted to. I got a firm hold on Morgan’s arms and pushed him. He pulled, but when I didn’t let go, he gave up and I steered him into the kitchen.

  An older black man met me just beyond the racks of pots and pans. “This way.”

  I followed.

  He turned on the light in the office. “See if you can get him to calm down, I’ll call Jenny.”

  We both jumped when Morgan barked out, “No.” He opened and closed his one fist while the other tossed thoughts in rapid succession. “Don’t, Tony… don’t call her.” His shoulder seized up for a second. “It’s late.” It did it again. “I’ll be okay.” He nodded and didn’t seem able to stop. “I’ll be okay.”

  Tony looked at me.

  “Don’t, Tony. Don’t…” Another cry ticked out from behind Morgan’s clenched teeth. He worked his jaw as if to free it from some unseen vice. “Don’t… call. Please.”

  “You know she won’t mind.”

  “No. I know. Don’t.”

  Tony nodded. “Okay, but if you change your mind…” He shut the door, sealing Morgan and me inside the office.

  I grabbed the chair sitting next to the wall. “Here, sit.”

  Morgan jerked his arms and braced his chin to his chest.

  “Please sit before you fall.” It occurred to me that maybe he couldn’t. I lowered him into the chair.

  His arms continued to jump and the cords in his neck stood
out. I took him by the wrists and forced his hands into his lap. I held them there and massaged his pulse with my thumbs. The grimace on his face eased, and the pause between each breath grew longer. With every exhale, the strength in his jerking limbs waned.

  “You okay?”

  He nodded. His wayward hand opened and closed, and his fingers tapped off against the heel of his palm.

  “You sure?”

  He shook his head.

  “You want me to tell Tony to call Jenny?”

  His face reddened with the effort to force out the word. “No.”

  I continued to rub my thumbs over his wrists, and he sank against the back of the chair. Eventually the tension left his body, but for some reason, I still didn’t let go.

  “Is he going to be okay?” Morgan raised his head but dropped it before I could catch his gaze.

  “Who? The truck driver?”

  He nodded.

  “I hope not.”

  He made a sad sound. “I can’t lose this job.”

  “Why would you? He assaulted you.”

  “Because Jessie can’t afford to get sued.” He made two fists, but it lacked the abruptness of a tic. “I can’t believe I did that.”

  “Me either.”

  Morgan winced.

  “No, I mean, that was pretty impressive. And here I thought you said Jenny made up that story about you beating up the football team?”

  “Not funny.” Yet he laughed, and I smiled.

  “You won’t lose your job.” Again he almost looked at me. And damn it, I wanted him to look at me. I cupped his face and tipped his chin up. A tear escaped down his cheek. I wiped it away with my thumb. “Did you learn to fight like that the same place you learned to count toothpicks?”

  He tried to drop his gaze, but I shook him a little because I wasn’t done staring at him yet.

  “Self-defense class.”

  “Why did you take a self-defense class?” There was a pale white scar over one of his eyes and another one across the slight dip at the bridge of his nose.

  I hadn’t seen them until now, since he kept his head down most of the time and the scars were faint. But I’d seen enough beatings in my time to know the kind of marks they left behind. Morgan either healed really well or had a damn good plastic surgeon.

  I traced the one leading from his eyebrow to his cheek. “Who hurt you?”

  “A mistake.” He pushed my hand away. I didn’t try to stop him again when he dropped his chin and averted his eyes.

  “Does that mistake have a name?”

  “Why do you care?”

  I didn’t have a clue, but there was no denying the urge to hunt the asshole down and make them bleed.

  “Well? Does he?”

  “He’s in jail so it doesn’t matter.”

  “What happened?”

  Morgan’s wayward hand returned to his temple, and his fingers fluttered. “I’m really tired so I’m gonna go home and get some rest. Can you ask Jessie to let Sheriff Parks know I’ll come to the station after I sleep for a few hours?” Just like that, he’d shut me out.

  “Sure.”

  Morgan stood, easing his weight from one foot to the next.

  “Did you hurt your ankle?”

  “No, just stepped on something sharp a few days ago.”

  White socks covered his feet and the strap connected to the sole of his flip flop made a crease between his first and second toe.

  “Getting a bit chilly to wear those.”

  I think he looked down, but it was hard to tell.

  “I’m gonna go. Marty is supposed to meet me at the corner store.” Morgan bundled up his torn earbud wires and stuffed them in his pocket. On his way out, he took off his apron and hung it on the hook next to the door.

  He hesitated for a moment with his hand on the knob, but before I could ask him if there was anything else, he was gone.

  ********

  Except for a few gawkers too drunk to drive home, the bar was empty. Cops tend to have that effect on places like Toolies. Even if there’s nothing illegal going on, people will get nervous and jump ship.

  I met Jessie in the parking lot. He leaned against the hood of a patrol car with one foot on the bumper while he talked to a blond-haired cop who was almost as wide as he was tall.

  “Grant, this is Deputy Patrick Harold.”

  We shook.

  “You saw what happened?” Deputy Harold took out his notebook.

  “Sure. The truck driver assaulted Morgan. Twice. The second time he defended himself.”

  Patrick chuckled. “I’m on your side. This is just standard.”

  I kicked at a piece of gravel. “My apologies.”

  “No problem.”

  “So what now?” Jessie said.

  Patrick put his notebook in his front pocket. “I charge your esteemed patron with assault. Convince him that it’s a wise choice not to sue, otherwise he could wind up in jail.”

  “What do you mean could wind up in jail?” I said.

  “If I book him, he’s more apt to retaliate by getting lawyers involved.”

  “And I already told you I don’t care,” Jessie said. “Let him try.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I have a really good lawyer and Morgan’s been through enough.” The way Jessie said it made me think of the scars.

  Patrick and Jessie shook hands. “Call me if you need anything.”

  “Morgan wanted me to tell you he was tired and to let the sheriff know he’d come to the station tomorrow to talk,” I said.

  “We won’t need to talk to him.” The deputy got in his cruiser. “There’s more than enough witnesses so he doesn’t need to worry himself. Tell him to rest.”

  Jessie moved off the hood, and the deputy drove off.

  A cab pulled into the parking lot, and two of the bar flies helped each other into the back.

  “How’s he doing?” Jessie said.

  “He’s says he’s okay, but honestly I think he’s shook up more than he’s letting on.”

  “He is. Morgan hates it when people see him like that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “His reaction. You saw it. He shuts down. It’s hard to watch, and he knows it.”

  “Do you think we should call someone?”

  “Tony said he offered and Morgan said no.”

  “Yeah but—”

  “Then don’t. Morgan has worked hard to be independent.”

  “This has nothing to do with independence.”

  “It doesn’t, huh?”

  “No. Not if he’s hurt.”

  “Yeah? And when’s the last time someone played nursemaid to you after a brawl?”

  Never. At least not of my own freewill.

  Jessie nodded as if he’d read my mind. “Me either.”

  A few more people wandered out of the bar. The neon sign overhead transformed them into red and black silhouettes.

  Another cab drove up and took a few more home.

  Jessie toed the gravel. “If you’re so worried about him, why don’t tell him you’re too tired to drive home and you need to crash on his sofa?”

  “After I drive him home?”

  “Haven’t you been picking him up every evening?”

  “No. He told me he’d hitch a ride with Marty.”

  “Marty Bower hasn’t worked here since June.” Jessie spit out a curse. “No wonder he’s been dragging his ass.” He started across the parking lot in the direction of the bar. “He couldn’t have gotten far, I’ll lock up and go find him.”

  “I’ll do it.” After all, this was somehow my fault.

  “You don’t—”

  “I know I don’t. I want to.” I took out my keys. “You take care of the bar.”

  Jessie nodded. “He’ll take Dent Hill Road as a cut through.” He pointed east. “It’s about two miles down, Water’s Way on the right. It’s nothing but a pig trail so you’ll have to look hard or you’ll miss it.”

  “T
hanks.”

  I did miss Dent Hill Road, twice. I was about to give up and go get Jessie when on the third pass the headlights caught the reflective paint on the only corner of the street sign not swallowed by Kudzu.

  I was surprised to see how far Morgan had gotten considering he limped with every step. As I approached, he held up his thumb and stepped into waist-high grass clogging the shoulder of the road. Just the kind of thick weeds snakes loved to hide in.

  I stopped. He opened the door and froze.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you needed a ride?”

  Morgan shut the door.

  I leaned over and rolled down the window. “Get in and I’ll take you home.” He walked, and I let the truck idle up next to him. “C’mon, Morgan. Get in.”

  The missing tic returned.

  “Morgan, get in the stupid truck.”

  He limped faster.

  I put the truck in park and got out. “Morgan.” He still didn’t stop so I blocked his path. “Get in the truck and let me take you home.”

  He pulled his hand to his side but couldn’t keep it down.

  “Please,” I said.

  Crickets chirped, and dead grass crinkled under Morgan’s constantly shifting feet. He made a half-turn like he might try and run but instead went over to the truck and got in.

  I slid in behind the steering wheel. “You should have told me you needed a ride.”

  He leaned against the door.

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  Puffs of dirt mushroomed up ahead in the headlights and gravel pinged off the undercarriage in sharp bursts.

  We reached the main road. It was longer, but it would be quicker than crawling at a snail’s pace down a pig trail. Morgan draped his hand out the window and wiggled his fingers in the wind.

  “You told me Marty was going to give you a ride. Jessie said he hasn’t worked for him since June.” The knowledge Morgan had been walking twice a day for over a week sat in my gut like sour milk.

  He laid his head on his arm.

  “If I’d known you’d have to walk, I would have given you a ride.” But Morgan didn’t tell me, because I’d made it clear how much I didn’t want to. I scrubbed a hand over my chin, then squeezed the steering wheel.

  The hum of the tires and the rumble of the engine filled the silence. Deer watched us from the side of the road with their ears cocked, and I slowed down once to keep from running over a raccoon.