In The Absence Of Light

by Adrienne Wilder

  I counted the mailboxes and turned onto Porter’s Creek. The headlights slid across the picket fence. Colored glass flashed to life before fading back into the dark. I stopped in the shadows just beyond the soft glow of the porch light.

  The rumble of the engine was replaced by chirping tree frogs.

  “I’m sorry.” I leaned back in my seat. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you needed to lie. No, no, that’s not quite right. I gave you no choice but to lie.” I dried my palms on my jeans. “I’m sorry, Morgan.”

  I couldn’t see his expression so I flicked on the light. “Will you at least yell at—”

  Morgan’s eyes were closed, and a sigh left his parted lips after each slow inhale.

  I shook my head. “You’re an asshole, Grant.” If only Morgan hadn’t been asleep so he could agree with me. I went around to his side. It took some maneuvering, but I was able to open the door and not have him fall out.

  He muttered and made a halfhearted flick of his hand before slumping against me. I slipped an arm under his knees and another around his ribs. By the time I got to the porch, I had to stop and catch my breath. Either I was getting weak or tenacity weighed twice as much as muscle.

  The door was unlocked. Did he even have a key? It wouldn’t have surprised me if he didn’t. Locking a door had been a foreign concept to me until I moved to Chicago.

  One of his flip-flops fell off in the doorway of his room. After I laid him down, I went back for it. The foam was mashed paper thin under the imprint of his heel and toes. The rest of the sole had been chewed up by the gravel.

  For all the protection it offered, he might as well have been barefoot. I dropped his shoe by the bed and took off the other one. There was a dark stain on the underside of his sock. I turned on the bedside lamp and checked him over. He didn’t have any cuts or injuries.

  The truck driver had been bleeding, but that wouldn’t explain how blood got on the bottom of his foot. The flip-flops had landed cockeyed, and there was a mirror image of the bloodstain on the sole of the left one.

  I peeled the sock off Morgan’s foot. Thick bandages wrapped around his foot sporting brownish red star bursts and his first three toes were black and blue. I took out my pocketknife and used it to cut away the gauze.

  The cotton strips pulled away with a sticky sound and the shadowy stain grew. When the last piece fell away, I was glad I’d missed dinner. On shredded flesh, Morgan had carried himself to and from Toolies for over a week.

  I cradled his foot in my lap. There was no sign of infection, and the only smell was copper and a little sweat. I checked his other foot, and of course, it was in the same condition.

  If he had bandages, there was a good chance he had other first aid supplies. I found a box under the sink with a montage of aspirin bottles, Band-Aids, heartburn pills, and tubes of antibiotic cream.

  Scrounging up something to clean him with was more difficult. I had to settle on a roasting pan for the warm water and dish soap.

  When I returned, he was still on his back with one arm across his stomach and the other tucked under his chin.

  I laid a towel under his feet and wet the washcloth. Morgan whimpered and tried to pull away when I pressed the wet cloth to the bottom of his foot. I held it there until the dried blood let go, then gently cleaned the cuts.

  The thick calluses on the bottoms of his feet were the only reason they weren’t raw hamburger.

  When his feet were clean, I patted them dry.

  Morgan slid his hand in my direction, and I held it. “I’m sorry…” he said.

  “This isn’t your fault.”

  He mumbled something else, and I pushed his bangs back. Sleep had no effect on his crumpled expression.

  “Dillon…” He tightened his grip. “Dillon…”

  “Shh—” I started to pull away, but he wouldn’t let go.

  “I’m sorry.” Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. “Please don’t be angry. I tried. I tried.” The plea was barely a whisper, but it still screamed with desperation.

  I put Morgan’s hand on his chest. “No one’s angry, Morgan. Everything’s all right.”

  “I’m sorry I messed up. I didn’t mean to.”

  I shushed him again.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  What could he have possibly done to make him beg so hard for forgiveness? I ran my knuckles down his cheek.

  “I’m sorry for being a freak.”

  My chest squeezed tight, and I could barely swallow around the lump in my throat. “You’re not a freak.”

  “I’ll do better. I promise… I promise.” Morgan fell still, and some of the pain left his expression. I’d thought he’d escaped whatever nightmare held him until he said, “Please, just don’t hit me anymore.”

  ********

  The scent of salty bacon and buttered toast teased my senses, and my stomach growled.

  I rolled over to get up and almost fell onto the floor. I lay there, knees dangling over the edge, one hand planted on the ground, holding me up with no idea how my bed had gotten so small. Then last night came back to me.

  My knees protested about being twisted into a position where I would fit on Morgan’s narrow couch. Then of course, my shoulders had to voice their opinion on my sleeping arrangements. A sentiment echoed by a sharp twinge in my neck.

  Soft metallic scrapes came from the kitchen. I stood, and the dull ache in my knees shot into a hot line to my back. I wound up right back on the couch.

  I massaged the offending muscle into submission before I tried again. Then I made a pit stop in the bathroom on the off chance my bladder might decide it had aged fifty years in a single night like the rest of my body.

  By the time I was done washing my hands, most of my joints had forgiven me for the inadequate sleeping arrangements.

  In the kitchen, Morgan stood in front of the stove wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. His sun-streaked hair laid in defined curls, suggesting it had air dried some time ago.

  Bits of gauze stuck up around the edge of the fresh pair of socks on his feet. A large rip in the leg of his jeans revealed the sharp lines of his ankle as it led into the firm muscle of his calves. The tear widened enough at the top when he moved, flashing the back of his knee.

  I stuck my hands in my pockets to keep from doing something stupid like walking over there and finding out how far I could reach up the leg of his jeans.

  “Do you like bacon?” Morgan said.

  “Uh… Sure.”

  The hand he held the spatula with slung droplets of grease on the stove. Morgan wiped it up with a dishrag without missing a beat between turning the bacon and stirring the eggs.

  “Go ahead and sit down. It’s almost done.”

  “I feel like I should help.”

  Another spasm bent his wrist. The spatula escaped, bounced off the counter, and landed on the floor. Again, without hesitation, he had the utensil under the tap washing it off. He returned to the stove.

  “Can I?” I said.

  “What?”

  “Help.”

  He turned his head enough for me to get a glimpse of his chin. A tiny patch of razor burn glowed at the edge of his jaw. “You can get the juice out of the fridge. I made coffee too. The pot is in the microwave. Sorry I don’t have a coffeemaker, but the teapot seems to work just as good.”

  There was apple and orange juice in the fridge. I didn’t know which one he wanted so I carried both of them to the table.

  Morgan already had the dishes in place.

  “Glasses?” I stopped right behind him.

  “You might want to back up.”

  I did and just in time to avoid a flick of grease. The glob became a dark spot among the many others on the sleeve of his shirt.

  “Over the cookie jar.”

  “Huh?”

  “You asked where the glasses were.” He pointed, but his hand was quick to retreat to its place next to his temple. He opened and closed his fingers, but the movement was slower tha
n before. After a few flicks, he picked up the pan of eggs and moved it off the burner.

  I got the glasses and put them beside the plates.

  “Sorry my sofa isn’t very comfortable.” Morgan walked into the dining room carrying a bowl of eggs. He left it on the table and went back to the kitchen. When he reappeared, he had the bacon and toast.

  “Go ahead.” He sat and fixed himself a plate.

  I lowered myself into a chair.

  “It’s nothing fancy, but it will eat.” He handed me the eggs, and I set it next to my empty glass. “My toaster has it out for me.” He scraped a blackened edge of bread with his finger. “It’s either undercooked or burnt. I’d fire it, but it’s thirty years old and will probably work for another thirty years compared to a new one that’d die after six months.”

  He passed me the plate of bacon. I laid it next to the eggs.

  Morgan corralled pieces of runaway eggs and herded them away from his bacon. Then he proceeded to break the strips into pieces that I bet you could have measured with a ruler and every one of them would have been right at two inches or dead-on.

  He made three rows and stacked them at the edge of his plate. “Do you want me to get the coffee?”

  “I’m good.”

  “I don’t normally drink it, but I’ve got milk and sugar. At least I think I have milk, it could be bad. I can’t remember when I bought it last. If it is, I can open a can of goat’s milk. Probably taste better that way.” He stood.

  “Please sit down.”

  “It’ll only take a minute for me to get—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

  He fluttered his hand. “I’ll be right back.” I tried to stop him, but he slipped by. I followed him into the kitchen.

  Morgan leaned on the sink, clutching the edge with one hand while the other maintained its standard spot next to his temple.

  Even with a shirt covering his back, the tension pulling at his shoulders was visible.

  “Maybe you should just go,” he said.

  “If that’s what you want. But will you answer my question first?”

  “You made it perfectly clear you didn’t want to give me a ride. What did you want me to do? Beg?”

  “No, but you should have told me you didn’t have a ride. Hell, you should have told anyone. For God’s sake, you walked your feet raw. You need to call a doctor and make sure you don’t wind up with an infection. I’ll even give you a ride to see him so you—”

  “Stop it, Grant.” He thumped his fist against the edge of the sink. “Just stop. I do not need your pity. I do not want your pity. I’m not handicapped. I’m not a child. I’m a grown man able to make my own decisions.”

  “Well, you made the wrong one.”

  “And you never have?” He rocked forward. I wasn’t sure if it was one of his strange movements or he was trying to take some weight off his feet.

  “I’m sorry about…” I ran a hand over my head. “About being an…”

  “I think the word you’re looking for is asshole.”

  I opened my mouth, then shut it. All I could do was nod. “You’re right. I’m sorry for being an asshole.”

  “Apology accepted. But I still think you should leave.”

  “If I do, are you going to keep walking your feet raw?”

  “Jenny said my bike should be ready today. Her parts man Will has a delivery to make, so he can drop it off on his way over there.”

  “What if I don’t want to go?”

  Morgan gripped the edge of the sink, lowered his head, and a hard whine ticked out of his throat. “It doesn’t…” His knuckles whitened, and his arms trembled. “It doesn’t matter what—” His right shoulder jerked. “You want.” Again. “This is my house and I’m—” The whine returned and then stopped. “I’m telling you to leave.”

  Any attempt at arguing would have sounded like pity. I guess it would have been pity. So not only was I an asshole, but a lying asshole. Did you get double points for that?

  I paused at the kitchen doorway. “Deputy Harold said not to worry about going to the station, and Jessie said he wants you to take the day off.”

  Morgan nodded. “If you see him around town, tell him I’ll be in by five.”

  I bit off another rising argument. “Do you need a ride?”

  “My bike will be here by then.”

  “In case, it’s not. Do you need a ride?”

  “Honestly, Grant. I’d rather walk.”

  Chapter Three

  I didn’t go to Toolies for several weeks, and I avoided the hardware store; moving from project to project, leaving them unfinished as I ran out of supplies.

  The last nail sank into the floor joist I’d spliced by attaching a fresh board to the one blackened by a leaking pipe. It was probably overkill, but I needed something to do.

  I climbed out of the opening where the kitchen sink and cabinets used to be. With the linoleum gone, I’d been able to get a good look at the aged hardwood floor. Except for a few pieces where the fridge sat, it was salvageable. But I’d have to finish it in a shade close to black to hide the water stains.

  In the long run, it was a good thing it didn’t need a drastic overhaul, otherwise I would have faced getting the new pieces of wood to match the color of the old. Even with everything being finished at once, there would be a difference since the new wood wouldn’t be aged. I was willing to bet a local carpenter might know a few tricks to keep the patch from showing.

  I wiped the sweat off my face with a dishtowel. With the days getting shorter, I’d been spared the effects of the Southern heat, but the winter would be short and I’d need to get an AC unit installed if I planned on surviving the summer.

  As a kid, we’d only had an attic fan to draw in a breeze from the open windows. But after living with the spoils of the modern age, I couldn’t fathom ever doing it again.

  I realize I had plans to live out the rest of my life on a beachfront, but there’s a big difference between baking nicely in the sun with an ocean breeze to kiss your skin and melting inside the liquid air of a farmhouse.

  I toed an empty box of PVC connectors. There was nothing left for me to do, so it was time to bite the bullet and get my ass into town. While Durstrand was small, it was unlikely I’d run into Morgan. Although I think the idea of not running into him bothered me more.

  Stopping at Toolies would solve the problem. And that had to be one of the worst ideas I’d had in a very long time. Needless to say, by the time I shored up enough courage to go to the hardware store, the sun had fled in favor of the night.

  Berry appeared from between the aisles with a broom and dustpan. “Long time no see, stranger. Where you been? And you’d better not tell me at that new chain store in Maysville.”

  “Nope.”

  He narrowed a look at me.

  I held my hands up in defense. “I swear, Berry, I am your loyal customer. I’ve just been busy is all. Now I’ve run out of everything so I came by to reload.” I took the list out of my pocket. Berry left the dustpan and broom behind the counter. I handed him the list.

  He put his glasses on and held out the piece of paper at arm’s length, then brought it back to the tip of his nose. “Wow, you did run out of everything.” He rubbed his chin. “You in a hurry?”

  “No, sir.”

  He waved at the door. “Bring your truck around back, and we’ll load her up.”

  I got my wallet out of my back pocket.

  “I’ve already shut down the register. Just pay me next time you come in.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. After all, I know where you live.”

  We loaded the small things: hardware, pipe, nails, glue, and various other items.

  During several trips back and forth to my truck, no one else came in the store. The back porch was on my to-do list this week so we moved to the lumberyard. If I cut around the pallet of cinder blocks, I could still catch a glimpse of the inside of the building through the
porthole window in the back.

  “You expecting someone?”

  “What? No, why?”

  “You keep eyeing the storefront like you’re expecting someone to come in.”

  I didn’t even try to convince him I wasn’t.

  “If you got questions, Grant, ask. If I got answers, I’ll tell 'em.”

  I dusted my hands off. “What can you tell me about Morgan?”

  A smile pulled at Berry’s lips. “What do you want to know?”

  It was a perfectly logical reply. “I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. Anything, I guess.”

  “He’s single.”

  I arched an eyebrow at him.

  “And he really likes you.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “He does.” Berry puffed out his chest like I’d insulted him.

  “How do you figure?”

  “He looks you in the eye. He only looks people in the eye if he really likes them and trusts them.”

  “I think you’re making a big deal out of nothing. Morgan only looks at me for a second or two.”

  “That’s a second or two more than most people.”

  I chuckled.

  “I’m serious.” He jabbed a thumb at his chest. “I’ve known him since he was in diapers and can count on one hand the number of times Morgan has looked me dead in the eye and still have all five fingers left over.”

  “Aw, c’mon.”

  His face turned serious.

  “You really mean it?”

  “Yeah. I do. He likes you, Grant. A whole lot.”

  “Why? He barely knows me.”

  “I guess he sees something in you no one else can. Like he seems to see things other places no one else can.”

  If Morgan could really see who I was, it made no sense why he liked me. There were things I didn’t like about me.

  The plywood was stacked in the corner.

  “Just wanted to make sure you were aware of that,” Berry said.

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  He pointed a finger at me. “Now don’t you dare downplay your interest. I saw you watching him a couple months ago when he was here.”