Fireflies Glow Only in the Dark

by Ruth Morse

  “It’s my lucky day then.”

  Max looked at me with his eyes slightly narrowed, as if he was an adult talking patiently with a child who had little attention. I could have asked him to take me more seriously if his big, kind smile hadn’t made me feel so inspired. He lifted me up somehow, and I couldn’t stop looking into his eyes trying to guess what was really going on behind this quizzical yet attractive stare.

  “You know what?” I said.

  Max raised an eyebrow.

  “Let’s get out of here. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been sitting on this bench forever; it’ll be nice to take a walk. I even know a place. It’s safe from wind and rain. You’ll like it.”

  “How do I know you’re not a maniac or something?” Max’s voice was serious, but a hidden smile twitched at the corner of his lips.

  I laughed. “Seriously?”

  He shrugged. “Saw a movie last night, a girl met her victims just the way we met. Then she lured them to her house and killed them. It was brutal. And now I’m concerned.” He chuckled. “You kinda look like her.”

  “That scary, huh?” I smiled.

  “No, she wasn’t scary at all. She was attractive. That’s how she got so many victims.”

  I paused. “I’ll consider that a very strange compliment,” I said rather hurriedly, and added, “But seriously, it’s an outside place. Not even my basement.”

  I looked up at the sky. The sun had climbed higher above the horizon and shone much brighter now, washing out the gray of the early morning. What time is it anyway?

  Max followed my gaze. “Are you sure your parents won’t kill you?” he asked.

  The second he finished his sentence, I was already on my feet. “Let’s go… if you’re not afraid of attractive maniacs.” I laughed.

  Max shook his head. “Even if you are a maniac, I have your word that you won’t kill me,” he said with a smile, rising to stand next to me.

  CHAPTER THREE

  We passed through sleepy wet streets. I jumped over the puddles while Max walked around them. He applauded every time I conquered the most impressive puddles; they seemed to be impenetrably black, like a miniature abyss you’d risk drowning in with one wrong step.

  A red pickup drove past, spraying us with mud. I tried to jump away but stumbled. Just as I was ready to fall to the ground, Max grabbed me by the arm.

  My cheeks grew hot at my clumsiness. “Thanks,” I muttered to his quick sympathetic smile.

  We came to the narrow path. A smile of anticipation slipped onto my lips as wet sand replaced the wet grass. The lake was calm. The fog prevented me from seeing the opposite bank, only the crowns of distant trees indicated where the lake ended.

  The silence here differed from the silence in town, where you could discern the smallest sounds, unimportant and therefore inaudible unless you really listened. No, this was different. Unnatural and almost disturbing. I held my breath. When I heard the rustling trees behind my back, I sighed with relief.

  Max managed to walk a few steps away from me. I grabbed him by his jacket sleeve, not wanting to get lost or stay alone in the silence.

  Ahead of us were two giant trees that had been struck by lightning and fallen together on the sand. They were so huge that, as they stretched across the narrow shore, their leaves drowned in the water. We came closer to the trees. The upper tree’s trunk had a curved shape which made it a good shelter for two people to sit under it.

  Max slipped off his jacket and laid it over my shoulders, leaving him in only a black turtleneck sweater. It emphasized the paleness of his skin and made him look even more masculine. “It’s so quiet,” he said. “How did you even find this place?”

  “I didn’t. Mel did. We used to come here a lot. Back when my parents banned me from seeing her,” I said, getting comfortable under the trees and gathering my wet hair up into a ponytail.

  “Why would they do that?”

  I gave Max a meaningful glance. “Because we were fifteen and she smoked pot with her girlfriend. She still smokes, she’s still gay, and I’m still her friend. Consider it my little victory.”

  Max snorted. “You don’t really get along with them, do you?”

  “With my parents?”

  He nodded.

  “It’s complicated,” I murmured.

  “Tell me your story and I’ll decide whether it’s complicated or not.”

  “Oh, I don’t have a story. It’s just… sometimes it hurts. But I think they’re hurt more, because of me.”

  “Why?”

  I paused. I’d never told this to anyone. Even Mel knew not to discuss my parents with me. I glanced into Max’s eyes. In the dim lighting they were dark green. The deep, unusual sparkle of emerald made his gaze impenetrable and allowed him to hide his true thoughts and feelings without any effort.

  Looking at that indifferent black ocean, I wasn’t afraid of vanishing in their depths. His smile was my guidance. I could tell he cared by the way he tilted his head to one side. I saw it in his relaxed pose, in the supportive manner with which he gave me a barely noticeable nod. He didn’t push me to answer and yet was ready to hear me out. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The words came out of my mouth with surprising ease.

  “My parents always wanted a son. I remember the look on their faces when they first got the big news. I’d never seen them so happy. Then there were two of us, big sis and cute li’l brother, and we lived like this for six years. Then it was only me again.” I shook my head. “I guess it sucks loving someone who reminds you of your unfulfilled happiness.”

  “I’m sorry,” Max said.

  “No, it’s okay. Now it’s your turn.”

  “What do you want to hear?”

  I paused. “What’s your favorite color?” I said.

  “Really?” He laughed.

  “We have to start from somewhere, right?”

  “Then it’s going to be a long conversation,” he said with a smile. After a little reflection, he added, “Pink.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “Why are you so surprised?” Max asked.

  “You just don’t look like a pink lover,” I said.

  Max shrugged. “I like something that’s related to the color rather than pink itself,” he said. He pulled his legs to his chest and shifted his gaze from me to the lake. His right hand slowly stroked the bark of the tree above us. “It reminds me of my mother,” he continued in a low voice. “She had this beautiful pink pearl shawl. When I was a kid, she used to come to my room and sit on the bed next to me. I’d hold her shawl in my hands while she told me stories. Not those stupid stories from kids’ books. She’d tell me about herself, about her own life. Every time she came to say goodnight, I slept without nightmares. So, there it is. Pink. The color of my peace.” He lowered his hand and gripped his knee.

  “You say it as if…”

  “Yeah, she’s gone. For a long time now,” he said, finishing my thought for me.

  “Max, I’m—”

  He waved his hand. “Don’t be. I needed some time to understand tragedy isn’t unique, nor is happiness or any other feeling. I know, somewhere in this world, there’s a man who suffers much more than I do, and that I shouldn’t complain.”

  “Are you saying that if someone else feels bad, you have to feel better?”

  “Not exactly. I’m saying if I’m feeling bad, it doesn’t mean that somebody isn’t feeling worse.”

  “Which means you actually care about others?”

  He gave me a knowing smile. “As much as I need to justify my misfortune.”

  “Justify to who?”

  “To myself, of course.”

  “That’s selfish,” I said.

  “That’s honest. Being honest with yourself is the only way to be happy.”

  “And are you happy?” I asked.

  “I think so.”

  “You aren’t sure?”

  Max tilted his head. “In my thoughts I’m happy, but if that’s
what they call happiness, I don’t really get what the big deal is,” he said.

  He stretched out his legs and leaned back against the tree, closing his eyes.

  “Max, let me tell you something. You’re weird,” I said after a long look at his serene, indifferent face.

  He laughed. “You want to be weird too, don’t you?”

  “There’s a huge difference between being weird and being different.”

  Max winked at me. “Those who say they’re different are trying to be so. Weirdos simply are who they are.”

  I nodded. I didn’t have a clue of how much time passed, but there was one thing I knew for certain: my parents had to be awake for work by now.

  “What’s wrong?” Max asked, studying my face thoughtfully.

  “I guess I should go home now,” I murmured.

  The smile vanished from his face. “How bad will it be when you get home?” he asked.

  “Not bad. I’ll sneak into my room and no one will even notice me.”

  Max got up first and stretched out his hand to help me to my feet. The touch of his fingers made my skin prickle. He was freezing. Only now did I realize that my hands were cold too, and my feet squelched in my wet sneakers. Despite the developing tickle in my throat, I was glad I snuck out of my house that rainy morning. I was cold and completely exhausted, and yet I was smiling.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  The moment my foot touched the windowsill, Dad slammed open the door of my room. I halted, half of my body already inside and the other half remaining outside the window, shivering in the cold. Dad’s piercing, dark blue eyes were black as he stared at me. His gaze followed my every move as I landed with a bang on the floor and shook off my dusty hands. Trickles of water dripped from my hair onto the carpet. He blinked, the edge of his lips twitching in a grimace of disgust.

  “Didn’t I tell you you’re grounded?” Dad broke the prolonged silence, his voice dangerously calm now.

  I nodded.

  “Then what is this all about?” He swept his arm out across his body, as if pointing at the dirt on my hands, at my wet hair, and the stains on the windowsill from my sneakers.

  “I didn’t feel well. Went out for fresh air,” I murmured.

  A few large steps and Dad was standing in front of me. He grabbed my shoulders in a firm grip. “Look at me,” he said, giving me a slight shake and staring into my eyes. “Did you smoke pot?”

  “What? No, of course not!” I forgot that he was so sure of me being a stoner, so I wasn’t scared or embarrassed. More like amused, in an ingenuous way. I didn’t even try to hide the cheerful notes in my voice.

  Dad raised an eyebrow. “You’re lucky I’m late for work, young lady.” He let go of my shoulders. “I really don’t have time for this.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, trying to hide the relief in my voice once his hands were no longer weighing down my shoulders. “I didn’t smoke pot, I promise.”

  “Am I supposed to believe that after you came in through the window?” he grumbled with a frown, but his tone now lacked its former irritation. The moral lesson was over, so he could wear the indifferent look once again; his lips pressed into their usual tight line and his gaze died like a burned-out match. He stopped at the doors and looked over his shoulder. “Don’t forget to clean this mess.” Then he gave me one last meaningful glance, shook his head, and left.

  I threw my sneakers under the bed and got rid of my wet clothes. Once my body warmed up in my favorite oversized gray sweater, I approached the desk and grabbed my phone. No new messages yet. Weird. Max said he’d text me, so I’d have his number. Remembering his hunched figure sitting alone under the rain, I felt cold again. Who was this guy anyway? I knew nothing about him and yet I’d already told him so much about me. The morning was so surreal I started to doubt my own memories of it. But I hoped he’d text me anyway. He wouldn’t forget… Would he?

  I was exhausted and yet I couldn’t stop my racing thoughts. Music was the only cure. I grabbed my music player and climbed into bed, tossing and turning, scattering the pillows and crumpling the blanket, until my breathing slowed and I entered a relaxed state. I fluffed the pillows one last time and finally fell into a choppy, dreamless sleep.

  ***

  The wooden clock, varnished at one time but now terribly scratched, struck noon, throwing my guts into life once again. Disoriented after my sleep was cut short, I didn’t even curse its rattling, screeching bells. The muscles in my legs ached, reminding me that my early morning adventure had been real.

  I walked down the stairs and peered at the clock that dominated the living room, towering above the TV and sofa. The clock stood in the corner surrounded by its loyal minions—Mom’s flowers nestled in vases in front of it, making it impossible to approach the clock and smash it with something heavy. I leaned forward and looked at the sign under the clock face; it was almost erased by time but still legible. It wasn’t even in English. I snorted. Who cares if the clock is a rare Swedish model if it doesn’t tell time right or sound the least bit bearable, let alone pleasant?

  “It’s an antique and we’ll treat it with respect,” Mom had said, handing her money to a vendor. She should tell that to the clock who knew nothing about compassion, torturing my ears every day. How Dad managed to ignore it himself, I’m not sure.

  I made a cup of ginger tea and settled down in the armchair with a book. Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky. Many years ago, I found it thrown in the street near a dumpster. I remember the first time Mel saw that homely book with the pictureless, dark red cover. She took it, read a few lines, and then gave it back to me with a look on her face that said “What have I just read?”

  The story fascinated me. Soon enough there wasn’t anything left except black printed words and white spaces between them. I was no longer in the armchair in my living room. I wasn’t even in America. A city that I’d never seen came to life in front of my eyes, so bright and so real that I had to hold my breath not to smell the booze and filth of its so-called ryumochnaya, which translated to ‘a tiny basement vodka glass place’. I had to hunch my head into my shoulders so I wouldn’t hit it on the low doors. Gosh, his writing was beautiful. I wish I could write with at least a tiny piece of Dostoevsky’s intelligence… Okay, I went too far. I couldn’t even squeeze out a word from my mind, but there I was, sitting in the comfortable chair, dreaming about creating something beautiful. I bit my lip and put the book aside.

  My phone beeped, saving me from further drowning in the swamp of misery and self-blame. I rushed to it, surprised by my own rapid reaction. One new message from Mel. A sigh escaped my chest. I tried to convince myself that it was exactly what I was expecting, and the chill that ran through me was only because the sound was so sudden.

  What’s up, Foxy?

  I smiled. Mel just loved calling me Foxy. Every time I wondered why, she’d simply answer, “Because you look like one.” Whatever that meant.

  The moment I started to type my reply, the sound of screeching wheels came from the street. A car stopped in front of the lawn and its engine died. Someone got out of the car, slamming the door closed behind them. Curses and angry shouts filled the air, coming closer and closer to the house. Dad’s voice.

  I was halfway to the stairs when Dad came in with giant packages in both his hands and the phone pinned between his shoulder and ear. Behind his stout figure in the doorway was Mom; she had just come out of the car and was crossing the front lawn, her gait measured and unhurried, her always well-manicured hands in her jacket pockets.

  “Now, forget about Johnson! That son of a bitch has no idea who the hell he’s stealing from—” Dad looked up at me and shook his head, gesturing to the packages. I approached him and took them from his hands.

  Mom entered the house and gave me a quick, casual hug. The smell of her perfume hit my nose. She spent five minutes every day applying her one and only Ralph Lauren Big Pony 9—no surprise the fragrance was
insane. She worked in a tiny office where the workers were trapped between boxes of the cosmetics they tried to sell. Those poor people had to be just thrilled every time they smelled the dizzying sweet cherry perfume announcing Mom’s presence. But she was the boss, so they couldn’t complain.

  My parents were home for lunch. Dad settled in the kitchen with the phone clasped in his hand; his curses were still promising bad things to that Johnson guy, but now they were audible only to Mom and me. Dad was typing something on his phone, jabbing his fingers at the screen as if he wanted to pierce right through it. His left hand was poking at a hole in the tabletop—a little reminder of my brother’s last birthday party; the clown Mom hired snuck out for a smoke. Somehow he couldn’t find a better place to put out his cigarette than on our dining table. Mom was furious when she found out.

  “Are you hungry?” Mom asked, raising her voice to shout over the running water. The knife in her hand continued to chop tomatoes, its blade tapping on the wooden board in a steady rhythm.

  “Sure.” I nodded. “Do you need any help?”

  “Just make your Dad some coffee,” Mom replied, putting spaghetti in a pot with boiling water. The water splashed in different directions, evaporating from the stovetop with hisses.

  I put the kettle on and tried to stay out of the chaos.

  “Lana, sit down please,” Dad said when I put the cup of coffee on the table. I did what he said silently. He glanced at me and his lips stretched into an absent-minded smile. He’s still with that Dodger Johnson, I thought, folding my arms on my chest, prepared to spend the next ten to fifteen minutes on listening about my bad behavior.

  “So…” Dad stopped messing with the hole and switched to the roasted tomato spaghetti now on a plate in front of him. “I’ve talked with your Mom about today’s incident—”

  Mom approached Dad with a bowl of salad. She put a hefty portion of chopped tomatoes and arugula on his plate and was met with Dad’s grateful nod. Then she gave me a meaningful glance and sat on her chair, banging the bowl on the table. I was jammed between my parents; Dad on my left and Mom on my right. I pulled my coffee closer to my side and, leaning over the cup, took a small sip.