Lights Out

by Douglas Clegg

  “You asked me if I ever killed anyone for him,” the American said. He drank the absinthe down. “’Not yet’ is my answer. But I would.”

  “Would you? That’s terrible,” the woman said.

  “I know. I’m lost. That’s why I tried to kill myself tonight. I want to end it. I am never going to be loved. I am not going to ever have him again. I know it. I know it.”

  “Did he ask you to kill someone?” the Italian asked.

  The American glanced at the woman, then at the Italian. “He’s out of my life.”

  “But he did ask you?”

  “Yes. But I don’t think I can.”

  “Why not?”

  “Dario!” the woman said, giggling as if she had drunk a bit too much. “Of course he wouldn’t kill anyone.”

  “I’m just asking. It sounds like a fantasy anyway. Who would have this young man sleep with an old man, or with soldiers, who loved him? Who would do that?” the Italian asked. “What kind of man? I don’t believe he exists.”

  “He does,” the American said. “And I’d do everything I did again. And then some.”

  “But not kill.”

  “I might. I might. I think everyone is capable of killing someone.”

  “I’m not,” the woman said.

  “You just haven’t met the right person who needed killing,” the American said.

  “Why do this? Why for love? What does that mean?”

  “It means I have no other choice.”

  “How are you going to kill?” the Italian asked. “If you decide to do this. Hand to hand?”

  “That’s what he wants. He told me who. He told me where and when. He wants me to use my bare hands.”

  “You don’t seem that strong,” the Italian said. “You don’t look like you could kill a man.”

  The American glared at him and slipped a cigarette between his lips.

  The Italian leaned forward with his lighter and lit up the American’s cigarette.

  The woman glanced at the two of them, as if she were capturing the moment in some mental photograph. The way the American cupped his hand around the Italian’s hand, encircling the heart of the flame as it touched the tip of his cigarette.

  “Who did he ask you to kill?” the woman asked, a slight anxiety in her voice.

  “Someone I don’t know. Someone I don’t care to know very well.”

  The Italian closed the lighter and drew back in his chair.

  He glanced out into the dark morning. “What I love about the night is that we’re all alone in it, even if we’re together. Like this.”

  The woman went silent for a bit. Then, after a minute or two she said, “You should get away from this man completely. You should leave Rome. Go to Paris. Go back home if you need to. Stop drinking. Stop taking whatever drugs you take. Go discover life. There’s more to life than love, anyway. You don't need to burn from love, or even burn from liquor. You need some rest and to get away from this person.”

  “I don’t think I can live without him,” the American said.

  The woman glanced at the Italian, who still looked out at the night. Then, at the American. Then, at her empty glass.

  The bar man came out and told them that he was closing up whether they stayed at the tables or not. “I have a sick little boy at home. I have a wife. I don’t have this endless night that you people have.”

  “All right, all right,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  “We can’t leave this young man here,” the Italian said.

  “Oh yes we can. Do you need a taxi?”

  The American stared at her but didn’t answer.

  She stood up, and reached into her purse for money. “You need sleep is all.” She said this indirectly. It could’ve been to anyone — the Italian, the American, the barman, or even herself.

  The Italian remained in his chair, but looked up at her. “We can walk down to the fountain.”

  “No,” she said. “Let’s go home. Back to my place.”

  “Let’s go to mine,” he said.

  The American stared at them both, and the woman was nearly certain that tears rolled down his cheeks. She drew a tissue from her purse and passed it to him. “It’ll be all right. Whatever it is.”

  The American took the tissue, swiping it around his eyes. “I’ve never killed anyone before.”

  “And you don’t have to. Don’t talk nonsense. Please.”

  The Italian finally rose, pushing his chair back. “You shouldn’t have been drinking the absinthe,” he said. “It’s not good.”

  “Let’s go,” the woman whispered, loudly enough for the American to hear.

  “All I’m saying,” the American said. “All I’m saying is that I am thinking of killing for him. That’s all. I don’t know why he drives me to this. I don’t know what he wants. I only know I have to do what he wants.”

  The Italian stepped back from the woman, and nodded. “Love is a cruel thing, sometimes. It needs proof. These are dangerous times in the world. We’ve met an assassin over drinks at Quested’s.”

  As she passed by the American on her way out, the woman said, “Just go home and go to sleep. It’ll seem different when you wake up.” She nearly touched him on the shoulder as a way of comforting him, but withdrew her hand at the last second.

  The woman and the Italian gentleman left Quested’s, walking out under the trees, through the park. As she stepped into the path between some thin sculptures, she shrugged off the touch of the Italian as if she were annoyed with him.

  After a minute, the American got out of his chair, as well. The lights of Quested’s shut off, and the barman went home.

  The American stepped into the park and moved through the shadows to catch up with the couple.

  Belinda in the Pool

  Sitting just in front of Michael and his daughter, the woman — white of hair and coat — lifted her card.

  “Three hundred!” the auctioneer said. “Number 17!”

  “If she’d just quit bidding,” Belinda said, under her breath.

  Michael — Number 5 — glared at the back of the annoying whiteness of Number 17. Belinda gave him a nudge. He held up his card.

  Twenty people in sweaters and coats sat on hard plastic chairs crammed into the cold, dusty little shop.

  Belinda squeezed his arm. “You can get it, Dad.”

  Nobody’s going much over 500 dollars for this, Michael thought. It wasn’t even worth three hundred to anyone in the market for antique watches with silver bands.

  In that second between his most recent bid and the auctioneer’s next mouthing, Michael tasted something bitter at the back of his throat.

  After years of searching, here we are, he thought. In a junk shop with Belinda, a twenty-minute drive door-to-door, the watch right there in front of us.

  “Your mother’s not going to be happy,” he said. “I wasn’t even supposed to go over two-fifty. Holy cow.”

  “But we’re almost there,” Belinda said. “And it’s just money. You’ll make more. You always say that.”

  His daughter — verbally expressive beyond her fourteen years, curious, inquisitive, advanced in her thinking — constantly surprised him. Belinda of the dark hair, slightly bowed shoulders, fresh-faced, the last of summer’s freckles still faint on her cheek, green pond-water eyes, unremarkable nose, barest hint of mascara, vanishing dimple at her chin, most of the baby fat gone now, at the beginning of her swan years, a little silver crescent moon on a slim chain around her neck, fog-gray wool sweater pulled over orange T-shirt above blue jeans, fake tattoo — the Eye of Horus — at the back of her hand; she of the swim team, of the annual Charlotte Russe made with the flourish of a great chef abandoning messy pans and spattered bowls in her wake, of sweet crushes on pretty male pop idols with wavy hair who posed in posters tacked up around her bedroom, of the little squeal of delight in sampling gelato at a shop on the Via di San Simone, of the amusement park obsession, of the junior debate team, of the long chess games wit
h her old man where they talked endlessly of the world and school and how things used to be and how they were now, of the trips to Spain and England and Italy, of the bruised knees made better by a father’s kiss, of the treasure hunts, of the late night movie marathons with stove-hot popcorn dripping in butter and parmesan; so much like her mother and so much unlike her, too.

  And Belinda in the pool, Michael thought, suddenly cold.

  “Dad, don’t let anyone else get it. It’s meant for you. I can feel it.”

  The woman in white raised her arm again, yellow card in hand.

  When the auction was over, Michael and his daughter remained in their chairs, waiting out rush hour traffic.

  Belinda passed him a mint from the small flat tin she kept in her pocket.

  “Sorry, Dad.”

  “Sometimes ya win, sometimes ya lose,” he said.

  “That’s what losers say.”

  “Very funny.”

  He thought he might tell her, right then, about why that watch meant so much.

  But why should she be burdened with his reasons? Belinda was still a baby in his eyes, despite her womanly form emerging, oh god, he thought, here come the breasts, her waistline narrowing as hips curved and legs lengthened; and the way her hair sparkled after she’d brushed it; the strange silences during which he imagined her a captive in some newly-minted cell of that hormonal prison called adolescence, unable — suddenly — to talk openly about private feelings.

  It came back to him as he sat there, a thud at his heart, the nightmare moment — those dreadful few seconds earlier that week when the reality hit him.

  Somehow, it made the search for the watch that much more important.

  He’d driven over to pick her up at the YMCA. Tired of waiting in the parking lot, Michael went inside. He passed through the men’s locker room, pushed the door into the swimming area. He stood by the folded bleachers.

  Belinda emerged from restless water and ascended the metal ladder at the edge of the pool. She wore a midnight blue bathing suit, her skin glistening. She’d only just drawn off her bathing cap, unleashing a cascade of thick, shiny hair that curved along her still-tanned shoulders.

  Michael became aware of the boys. All those seventeen and eighteen year olds standing by the edge of the pool, towels flung over shoulders, their tell-all Speedos, mouths agape, eyes burning with intensity, an electrical, musky charge in the chlorinated air as they watched his daughter in a way that disturbed Michael to no end.

  The kind of boy he had once been.

  Oh god, Belinda. Not yet.

  He could feel her slipping from his grasp. She’d be under the waves, carried by dangerous currents to some distant shore he’d never reach. No more gelatos with dad, no more squandering of Saturdays in junk shops, no more buttery, cheesy popcorn, no more Michael-Belinda Misadventures.

  He tried to push the moment from his mind.

  Michael looked down at his yellow card with the number 5 scrawled on it in magic marker. He passed it to her.

  “A souvenir.”

  “Yee-haw.” She folded up the card until it fit in the palm of her hand.

  “Come on, it’s been fun,” he said. “Not a bad way to spend an afternoon off.”

  Belinda slumped further down in her chair. “There’s absolutely no other watch you want in the entire world?”

  “Sounds silly when you put it like that.”

  The shopkeeper’s son began sweeping the floor around empty chairs. The boy — roughly fifteen, Michael guessed — glanced at Belinda and smiled.

  “He’s not very smart,” Belinda whispered, leaning in close. She smelled of French soap and raspberries. “Look. He’s doubling his work. You clear chairs first, then sweep.”

  “You should tell him.”

  “Like I care.”

  Belinda moved her legs to the right to avoid the broom. She didn’t look at the boy. She swiveled in her chair. Her knees brushed against her father’s. Instinctively, Michael pulled his legs away.

  “Makes me angry,” she said, after a full minute. “That lady just grabbed what’s supposed to be yours.”

  “I was outbid.”

  “No, she grabbed it. It can’t possibly mean as much to her — not like it does to you. Just look at her.”

  He turned his attention to the far right, beyond the chairs.

  The couple that ran the shop sat on one side of a long narrow table. The lucky bidders took the chair directly across, one at a time, signing checks and paperwork. Passed across the table: a 19th century painting of the mill stream with its chipped ornate frame, a little bronze art deco nude, two giant blue and green glass globes, the small cast-iron table with pink marble top, a doll with its face pushed in and dollhouse without doors that went with it, a mangy full-length mink, a small cardboard box filled with what Belinda had called “old lady jewelry,” and a few other things that Michael mostly considered crap.

  And then, the woman of white, taking a little square box from the owner.

  He couldn’t see what she did — her back was toward him — but guessed that she opened the box and drew out the watch.

  Belinda arched her back, stretching out. “You could’ve bid more.”

  “Your mother would kill me.”

  “But this was the one time we found it,” she said.

  “It’s just a watch. It doesn’t really matter.”

  “If you want it, it matters.”

  “Sometimes it’s good to want something but not get it.”

  “Yeah, except you never get what you want,” she said. “Remember Italy? All your meetings were over. You wanted to go to Florence. Mom wanted two more days in Rome. We stayed in Rome.”

  “Well, we had a good time,” Michael said. “And we can always go back.”

  “But we won’t. You only go where work sends you. You never take a vacation just for you. And you won’t ever see the Uffizi. Let’s just write that little dream off.”

  “Well, I say we’ll go again,” he said. “Someday. Florence ain’t going anywhere.”

  “You never know,” she said. “A war. A tsunami. A world cataclysm. Things happen. I’m betting a couple thousand years ago somebody put off a summer trip to Pompeii and then — well, that’s that.”

  “You’re a little too smart for your old man.”

  “It’s just that things only come around once. Sometimes.”

  Belinda crossed and uncrossed her legs. She tapped her foot against the empty chair in front, kicking it just enough that the chair moved forward.

  “I don’t know if I want to live in the same universe where that lady gets the watch and you don’t,” Belinda whispered as she glanced around. “It’s…It’s an injustice.”

  He wasn’t sure, but it looked like her eyes shone with tears.

  He reached over and hugged her. She pressed her face against his shoulder.

  “Aw, come on,” he whispered. “Sometimes the hunt’s better than the treasure.”

  Belinda drew back, a glint of tear at her cheek. She wiped it away. The Eye of Horus, now a smudge on the back of her hand.

  “I wanted you to get it,” she said.

  “Me, too.”

  “It’s not fair.”

  “Life’s never fair.” He kissed her on the forehead. “And it’s not all about me, anyway. But you’ve got to be the sweetest kid on the planet to stick up for your old man. We’ll find that watch someday.”

  “And someday you’ll see the Uffizi Gallery,” she said, with a slow drip of cynicism.

  The shopkeepers’ son began clearing chairs away. Again, the boy glanced over at his daughter.

  “See? He’s going to have to sweep all over again,” Belinda said, momentarily distracted from her mood. “If he’d done it right the first time…”

  Michael closed his eyes. Don’t think of the pool.

  “Dad, Dad — look, quick,” Belinda said, as if she were waking him up to an emergency.

  Michael opened his eyes.

&n
bsp; Belinda turned halfway and pointed toward the front window of the shop.

  The woman of whiteness stood out at the street, glancing one way and then the other, waiting for a gap in the heavy traffic. She stepped off the curb only to be chased back to the sidewalk by a car.

  “They need to put more traffic lights downtown,” Belinda said.

  The shop was on a strange corner, jutting out like a peninsula into a choppy sea of streets.

  “She won’t get across any time soon,” Belinda said. “She should walk down to State Street and then go over. Or wait it out in here. Someone should tell her.”

  Michael watched the back of the woman of white.

  “Dad, remember how you’re always saying I should take fate in my own hands?”

  “Of course. Seize the day.”

  “You can still get the watch.”

  “It’s too late,” he said.

  “She’s standing right there. You could offer her fifty bucks more.”

  Michael stood up to get a better look out the window.

  Belinda slipped outside and went to stand just behind the woman. She glanced back at her father through the shop window, motioning for him to follow.

  “Excuse me,” Michael said. “Miss?”

  The woman of white didn’t look his way at first.

  “Hello?” he asked.

  She glanced over. Younger than he’d expected, given the white hair.

  Belinda stepped up. “My dad just wants to see if he can buy that watch off you.”

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said. “You bid on it, too?”

  “We sat right behind you.” Belinda brought out the yellow card from the back pocket of her jeans, unfolding it. “See? Number 5.”

  The woman looked from Michael’s face to his daughter’s.

  “My daughter, Belinda.”

  Then, he introduced himself.

  The woman of white smiled at Belinda.

  “I’m Carolyn. What a beautiful sweater.” Then, she looked over at Michael, her smile fading. “I could never give this watch up. You could pull out five thousand dollars cash right now. I wouldn’t be able to hand it over. And I’m not rich. I could use five thousand. Couldn’t we all.”