Love In Darkness

by E. M. Tippetts

  “It isn’t anything illegal,” she says. “It’s just something I’d rather do than go to college, and John’s all about how I have to go to college. He won’t listen to me.”

  “He’d kill me if I helped you hide something from him.”

  “Which is why I need to point out again that you owe me, okay? Because you do. You can’t just freeze me out. We’ve meant too much to each other to just let it all go, and I’m not begging, okay? I’m not. I’m telling you, get in my van and come spend time with me and help me out. It’s the least you can do.”

  Now, this should be an easy “no.” There’s no logical reason for me to go along with her plan except that she’s right, I more than owe her, and she’s beyond gorgeous right now. I always loved the way she gets when she’s laying down the law and telling me how it is. More than once I annoyed her on purpose to make it happen. I’m like the kid who tugs a girl’s pigtails to make her chase him. In fact, I’m at about that maturity level in a lot of ways. “I shouldn’t,” I say. But what if this secret of hers changes things somehow? I can’t imagine how that’s possible, but not knowing gives my imagination all kinds of fodder.

  “Go tell Hiroko where you’re going. I’ll wait.” Madison folds her arms.

  “Fine.” I do exactly what she says and minutes later I exit out the front door and follow her up the steps to the driveway, where John’s van is parked. The last few nights have been rough for me, sleep-wise, so I feel a little ragged around the edges. It’s hard to think straight, and I have the sense that I’m not even really awake. This all feels like a dream, or like something I’m watching from a long ways off. I try to shake the feeling as I climb up into the van. Siraj’s sisters sit in the second row of seats, and I notice that the rest of the seats have been taken out.

  “Hello,” I say to the twins, whose names I don’t recall.

  “This is Lalitha and Mahati,” says Madison, right on cue, as she climbs into the driver’s seat. “Guys, this is Alex.”

  “We know,” the twins chime in unison. I will never be able to tell them apart at this rate. They don’t dress alike, but their faces are indistinguishable and I still haven’t heard which one belongs to which name.

  While Madison’s not a particularly small person, behind the wheel of this vehicle, she looks tiny. I grip the handle in the ceiling with more force than necessary as she backs the van down my driveway and out into the street, but wonder of wonders, she steers with no trouble. It’s obvious that she’s driven this thing before. “Lalitha and Mahati are my excuse for having the van today. My car only seats two.”

  “The sports car is yours?” I say, remembering the little rustbucket I saw parked by her house.

  “That really old, corroded one, yeah. I got it for free.” She rakes her hair back from her face as we pull away from my house and head off down the road towards Main Street.

  The weather is glorious with blue skies from the redwood forest treetops to the ocean horizon. It’s no surprise to find traffic on Main Street as people, driving up the Pacific Coast Highway, stop for gas and to get coffee and breakfast at the various little cafes in town. The beat up old van looks like a battle scarred behemoth next to everyone’s little sports cars and convertibles, but Madison guides it through with a practiced hand.

  Lalitha and Mahati chatter away in a language that sounds mostly like burbles, and it feels good to be near other humans, to hear them talk and laugh. I look over at Madison who wears a determined frown. She’s stressed, but that doesn’t make her any less beautiful. A wisp of hair sticks lightly to her cheek.

  I’m completely mystified about this errand we’re on.

  Madison glances at me and says, “I’m expanding my home business. You remember my accounting business?”

  “Yeah.” That started with her keeping the books for her mom’s pottery business, but her mom was the worst client ever. Madison started to work for other people who actually say “thank you” and do thinks like pay.

  “I’ve got seventy-eight clients now.”

  “You’ve done this since your mission?”

  “No, I started before my mission and Logan and his wife moved out to manage things while I was on my mission. Okay, so fine, he brought in five of the clients.” Logan’s another older brother of hers.

  “The thing is,” she goes on, “I’ve had six clients quit their day jobs since I got home. They’re making enough money from their art and they say it’s thanks to me.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “That’s a big deal. In this economy?”

  But she just snorts at that. “People keep saying it’s a bad economy, but whatever. There are a ton of rich people who live and vacation around here. The economy doesn’t affect them, not when it comes to decorating their houses and stuff. You just have to know who to ask and where to market.”

  If she says so. It seems like everyone’s hurting these days. I happen to know most of the businesses in Pelican Bluffs are in their fourth straight year of decline. Fortunately, they operated with high enough profit margins in the past, they can endure this, but she’s got six out of seventy-eight clients in expansion? That’s just under ten percent. I think... Math was never my forte.

  “So does John help out?”

  “Not that part, no. He still photographs people’s wares for online sales, but that’s pretty expensive. I need to find a way to make that more affordable. And that’s something else I’ve got plans for. But this morning, I’m going to show you what I want to be doing for the next four years of my life, and it isn’t college, okay? Nothing to do with you. Just how my life is. Pretend to care.”

  “I do care. I never meant to imply that I don’t.”

  “So if you’re worried that I’d quit college over you, I won’t.”

  “I… okay. I wasn’t thinking that specifically.”

  She turns that blue-eyed gaze to me again. “You just weren’t thinking about me and my life at all?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  She looks me up and down, then back out at the road.

  Our first stop is a home in Sequoia Ridge, and it occurs to me to wonder if there’s a zoning issue with someone operating a glassworks in their garage, because that appears to be what this guy’s doing. The client is an older man with white hair, a beard, and a pot belly that makes him look like Santa Claus. He even has a pipe clenched in his teeth, which he promptly empties and puts in his pocket when we pull up.

  Madison shuts off the engine and looks at me. “There’s a hand truck in the back of the van and you put his crates onto the wheelchair lift to load them up.”

  “Okay.”

  She hops out of the van into the cool morning air that sweeps its way in through the open door, and greets the man with a wave and a smile. I can see that she’s nervous, but I doubt he can. Her smile’s bright, her back straight, her stride confident. Only I know her well enough to know that her smile has several brightness settings beyond the one she’s using now and that there’s just the slightest hesitation in her carriage. I get out, but keep my distance, waiting for her signal.

  “Madison Lukas,” the man greets her. “I really appreciate you doing this. Any thoughts about whether or not you’ll make it a regular thing?”

  “Hey, Will. Still figuring all that out. When would you need your next shipment to go out?”

  “I deliver stuff bi-weekly.”

  “Okay, noted. I need you to sign a form here that releases me from liability for accidental damage or damage caused by the way your goods are packed. Essentially, your goods are free on board, which means-”

  “I’m liable until they’re delivered, yep. I used to be a truck driver.” He winks at her.

  If I were to guess, he’s the former owner of a trucking company or a truck driver who came into an inheritance. This house isn’t the sort of place you can buy on a truck driver’s salary. She holds out a tablet computer and he signs the screen with a stylus. Now that’s smart, to get signatures that way.

&nb
sp; The client then motions for us to follow him around the side of his ranch style home to the garage, which stands open, a giant furnace of some kind in the back, which is hot enough to feel before we even step inside. I can even see the air warping and shimmering from the heat inside, which is spooky, like I’m gazing into the netherworld.

  The man goes to a beat up old filing cabinet set against the wall and hauls open a drawer. With his tongue between his teeth, he starts pulling out folders. “I also prepped a packing list for the gallery. Make sure they get it. And I’ve got this month’s receipts.”

  “Okay,” says Madison. “I’ve got a form here that says I received your goods.” Her voice fades in and out a little. Man, I really am tired.

  He nods as she scrawls her signature on the form and passes it over

  “I just put this in its own folder?” he asks.

  “Put it with your inventory log.”

  “Ah, right. Gotcha. You the brawn in this operation?” He waves me over to a crate, padded with straw.

  It takes me a second to realize he’s talking to me, but once I do, I nod and get to work. The wheelchair lift works like a charm, but I know nothing about how to secure the crate inside the van. Fortunately, Will comes to my rescue and uses straps like seatbelts to anchor it against one wall. He moves expertly, as he’s clearly done this before. Which would make sense, if he knows the trucking business.

  “I can do that,” Madison offers.

  “All done.” He jumps down from the back of the van and holds out a hand to her. “Thank you, my dear.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Here’s your payment.” He pulls a check out of his back pocket and hands it to her.

  The two shake hands and then she and I climb back into the van. The whole visit is over in less than ten minutes.

  Siraj’s sisters remain in the back seat, chattering away.

  Madison gets in the drivers seat, flips her hair back from her face, and takes a deep, bracing breath. She starts the van again, then hands me her tablet. “Read me the next place on the list? I think I remember, but let’s make sure.”

  I tab through the various open applications until I find a document titled: “Delivery Route,” followed by a list of names. “Diana’s Woolworks,” I read.

  “Yep, okay.”

  Siraj’s sisters giggle.

  “Are you guys just along for the ride?” I ask them.

  “We like art,” says one of them.

  Lalitha, Madison mouths to me.

  “And we brought food,” says Mahati.

  “Lots of food.” Madison steers the van down a side street and pulls up to another house, this one a sprawling mansion with white walls, a red tile roof, and an ornamental, iron gate that stands open.

  We get out of the car to talk to a young lady whom I assume is the daughter of the owner of the house. Perhaps the granddaughter. She’s got the aloof air of a hobbyist but the inventory of a professional, in terms of volume at least. We load up two crates packed full of woolen goods. Madison is more relaxed this time and even smiles a natural smile.

  Our third stop is a studio in a little cluster of homes that I didn’t even know existed, tucked into a cleft in the bluffs. Broad views of the ocean and the rugged cliffs make it look like it’s straight off a postcard. This studio is shared by five of her clients.

  On our fourth stop, we go quite a ways inland to a little town built around a lone gas station and diner, perpetually shrouded in the half-light that penetrates through the redwood forest. Madison pulls around to the back of a warehouse that I assume is a multi-use crafts center of some kind. Seven more people wait for us here, and the van is packed to bursting.

  Then comes our lunch break, which we take at a picnic table at a campsite that feels like it’s deep in the wilds of the redwood forest, but which is probably about two miles from the coast and all its traffic. The light is muted, but the air is nice and warm and scented with pine sap and dried needles that crunch under our feet.

  Lalitha and Mahati lug a cooler over to the table and break it open, and this is when I find out these two can produce fare that would put a gourmet restaurant to shame. They pull out Tupperware after Tupperware of curries, roast potatoes, flatbreads, and lentil soup – two kinds. Everything is still warm from the oven, and while we unpack plates and cups, they return to the van for a second cooler full of chilled items, including a big pitcher of lassi, a sour yogurt drink.

  “I dunno if there’s enough for you, Alex,” Madison deadpans.

  “I can see that.”

  There is a set of four plates, cups, and utensils and we each take one. Madison slides into the seat directly across from me and when we do make eye contact, she drops her gaze, glances at me through her lashes, and looks away.

  My heart gives a lurch.

  Lalitha and Mahati start serving and I get the distinct impression that they plan on acting like waitresses. Just as I stir to put a stop to this, Madison speaks up. “Guys, eat. We’re fine serving ourselves. Don’t let your own food get cold.”

  They wear identical looks of befuddlement as they sink slowly into their seats and look at the table full of food like it’s some sort of forbidden banquet they aren’t allowed to touch. Even their body language is the same, bushy eyebrows drawn together, frown lines in their full cheeks. They’re quite a bit darker in their complexions than Siraj, and their bodies are stocky where his is willowy, but the family resemblance is still there. They have the same kind, brown eyes and ready smile.

  Madison pushes a Tupperware full of rice towards them, and after a moment’s hesitation, they dig in.

  Too often, my gaze returns to Madison. I can’t help it. Her looks in return are shy, the sort of smiles she used to give me before we began to date. Once we were dating, she’d just grin at me, openly and shamelessly. She’d walk right up to me on the street and tug the front of my shirt, or even lean up to kiss me in public. She liked people knowing we were together and wore my dad’s army jacket everywhere.

  “So what do you think?” she asks.

  “Hmm?”

  “About my business.”

  “Oh.” I try to think of a response.

  “This is what I love. Why go to college when I can start earning money, right?”

  I pick at my rice as I compose an answer. “Don’t rule college out. I mean, you have the rest of your life to work.”

  “Seriously? You’re siding with John?”

  A fight is the last thing I want right now. I rub my face with both hands.

  “You’re bleeding,” she says.

  A peek at her reveals that she’s looking at my fingertips. I lower my hands and see I’ve picked at the skin around my nails enough to draw blood a few places. “It’s a stress thing,” I tell her.

  Madison watches me, then turns away. “Are you guys having fun?” she asks the twins.

  They nod, but the gesture is hesitant.

  “We’re supposed to go home Monday,” says Lalitha.

  “Long flight,” I say.

  The twins exchange another look.

  “We don’t want to go,” says Mahati.

  “Siraj is nice to us. He smiles when he sees us. He doesn’t get after us to clean his house and cook his meals.” Lalitha rests her hands on the table and leans in for emphasis, as if we’re arguing with her and she needs to be heard.

  “-and he promised us we could go to school. He already paid our school fees once, but our other brother never booked us into a course,” adds Mahati.

  “If we go home, we just go back to being servants. Here, Siraj says he’d buy us a sewing machine and we could have a crafts room.”

  “So, has Siraj suggested you stay?” I ask.

  “We asked him last night,” says Mahati. “He said he’d think about it.”

  This has got to be rough for Siraj. I’m no expert on US immigration law, but I’m guessing it’d be difficult to keep these two in the country, legally at least.

  So now I’ve g
ot two awkward conversations to choose between. If only Madison would stop staring like she wants me to take her hand.

  I focus on eating.

  “He’s an idiot,” says a disembodied voice.

  No, I really don’t want to hear this.

  “She doesn’t even like him, really.”

  “Only a total fool would like him.”

  “But he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know anything.”

  “Alex?” Madison says.

  “Hmm?”

  “Look at her,” whispers a voice. “Pathetic.”

  Madison doesn’t say anything more and I eat a few more bites of food before it occurs to me to look up and see why she said my name.

  Those blue eyes gaze at me with concern.

  I try to smile reassuringly.

  One of the twins pushes a Tupperware across the table and the sound of plastic sliding across wood augments the voices. “Total failure. He should just tell her she’s being desperate.

  I rub my face, focus on eating, and try to block those voices out. At least I still know that I’m not supposed to hear them.

  After lunch we finish off the day by delivering all the art that Madison collected to shops and galleries up and down the coast. Every single one recognizes Madison and thanks her for dropping the items by, and I get the business model now. On top of doing people’s paperwork, Madison can manage their inventory and can charge her clients a fee for this. She can also go to new sales outlets with a large portfolio of items and try to get new accounts for her clients. By being one person who represents a large number of artists of different kinds, she’s making herself the go-to person for handcrafts in the area.

  It looks like a sound business idea, and what’s more, Madison seems to enjoy it immensely, though she’s not exactly the happy, confident girl she was as a teenager. Gone is the spring in her step, the light in her eyes, and the stunning smile that could make my heart race from a hundred feet away.

  But I keep this observation to myself as she drops the twins off at Siraj’s, then drives me home. Once we’re parked in my driveway, the van silences with a turn of the key and Madison yanks the parking brake, which means she isn’t going to just drop me off and leave. I turn, not knowing what to expect.