When Darkness Loves Us

by Elizabeth Engstrom

  “A girl?” His face brightened. It was over, and they had a baby girl. Addie bustled back inside the bedroom, Harry following her. He was not prepared for the mess he saw. It made him sick to the stomach. He’d seen plenty of birthings—cattle, sheep, dogs and cats, but never so much blood. And this was from his wife!

  Addie cut the cord, then lifted up the baby. “Look, Harry, a baby girl!”

  They both looked, and Addie’s arms went limp. She almost dropped the child.

  “Oh my God,” she breathed quietly.

  “I knew it, I knew it. I knew it!” Harry’s voice shook with emotion, with grief.

  “Addie? Harry? Give me my baby.” Fern leaned up weakly on an elbow, looking at their faces. Something was wrong. Oh, God, something was terribly wrong. “What is it?”

  The two stood there, looking at the child crying and waving its little arms and legs. They looked at each other, then at Fern. Addie’s face was a mask of misery and pity; Harry’s had that strange grimace of distaste drawing his lips away from his teeth. “Oh, God, what’s wrong?”

  CHAPTER 7

  Doctor Withins knocked on the screen door, startling Martha out of a television-induced drowse.

  She scrambled to her feet quickly as the doctor came in, smoothed down her housedress, and patted at her hair.

  “Hello, Martha!” The doctor was a big burly man, a country doctor, with a wide-open face and big bear hugs for all his patients. Everyone in the community knew and relied on Doctor Withins; he was even known to help a horse or a cow in trouble. Martha was a regular on his list; he stopped by periodically to give her a checkup and make sure she was all right. “It’s that time again.”

  “That time,” Martha repeated, delighted. She’d always loved Doctor Withins.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Good!” Martha’s eyes lit up. “Baking bread for Mr. McRae, got television, making friends.”

  “Well! Isn’t that nice. Come sit down here, loosen the buttons on your dress.” He set his black bag on the table and withdrew a stethoscope. “Friends, huh? So you’re getting out a little more?”

  “Went shopping.”

  “That’s good. Take a deep breath. Good. Another one. Okay, now cough. Again. Again. Good. How are your feet?”

  Martha held up her swollen ankle. “Hurts.”

  “Yes, I can see that.” He sat down in a kitchen chair with the foot in his lap and probed it gently. “You twisted it?”

  Martha remembered standing up too fast, scared, startled at the snapping jaws of her mind. “Yes.”

  “Okay. I’m going to tape it up for you. He fished in his bag for an Ace bandage. “Watch how I do this now. End under your foot, wrap once around the foot to catch the edge, see? Now wrap around the ankle up to here—not too tight, just stretch it a little—then fasten with these little clips, see?”

  Martha nodded.

  “Okay, now listen, Martha, this is very important.” He spoke slowly, deliberately. “If your toes get cold or turn blue, you take this bandage off right away, rub your foot for a while, then put the bandage back on looser, okay? If your toes turn blue, you’ve put the bandage on too tight.”

  She listened carefully, then nodded.

  “Take it off when you take your bath, then put it back on again. Wear it until”—he stood up and pointed at the calendar—“here, okay?” He put a little mark on a square with his pen.

  “Next Thursday,” Martha said.

  Doctor Withins turned around slowly and looked at her expectant face. “Why, that’s right. You’re learning a lot these days, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. New friends.”

  “Well, that’s good. Now. One more thing before I go. I think you need to lose some weight. Your ankle will feel better and so will your knees. Do your knees hurt?”

  Martha nodded.

  “Lose some weight and it will be easier for you to walk into town.”

  “Lose weight.”

  “Yes. Don’t eat so much bread and potatoes. More vegetables, chicken, meat.”

  “Okay.”

  He didn’t need to repeat it. She was learning. Her mind was growing. Maybe she wasn’t as retarded as everyone thought. Maybe being cooped up here with Fern and old Harry for so long had retarded her more than was necessary. He’d stop in again soon. This was very interesting.

  They both heard the truck pull up in the drive. Doc went to the door and looked out in time to see a rusted pickup truck slide around in a cloud of dust, its headlights sweeping the field, then disappear down the long driveway, three pinprick taillights winking out around the corner.

  “Were you expecting someone?”

  “No.”

  “Must have had the wrong house.” He turned back to Martha. “I’m going to come back and visit next week, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you need anything?”

  “No.”

  “Well, good. I’ll be going, then. Take care of yourself, Martha. Remember. No more potatoes and bread.”

  “No more.” Martha stood up. She reached around his neck and gave him a big hug. He hugged her back in surprise.

  “Bye, now.”

  “Bye.”

  She stood on the front porch and watched him drive off in his van. Such a nice man.

  “Shut up, you little asshole.” The words whistled through the space where a front tooth should have been.

  “Come on, Leslie. You don’t really want to go there.”

  “Which driveway? This one?”

  “Yes.” Ned slumped down in the seat of the rattletrap pickup. He would give anything to be somewhere else. Anywhere.

  They slid around the turn, throwing rocks and gravel behind them, Leslie gunning the engine and racing up the long drive. His belly was full of beer and his eyes had dollar signs in them. He was out to get some tonight. They drove around the corner and almost ran into the bronze van parked by the front door.

  “Doctor Withins. Oh, shit, it’s Doctor Withins’ van! Let’s get out of here!”

  Leslie hit the brakes, cussing, spinning the wheel, sliding the truck around in a circle. His luck. Well, that was fine. He’d hit on her tomorrow night, and he’d leave this little wimp somewhere else. He lifted the capless quart of beer to his lips and drank deep. He looked at Ned out of the corner of his eye, cowering by the door. I should just dump that little fucker out on the turn, he thought. What a jerk. Instead, he turned toward town.

  “Let’s get some action.”

  Ned said a silent prayer of thanks.

  Leon showed up bright and early the next morning, pickup filled with lumber and paint. Martha was feeding the chickens, watching them squawk and scratch at the hard earth, pecking at the little bits of seed she threw on the ground.

  “Good morning!” he called, as he jumped out of the cab and grabbed a plank.

  “Hello.”

  “I’m going to start on the chicken coop.”

  “Okay.” He looked so smooth. He looked so young and energetic, long muscles sliding under his skin. She watched him unload, then went into the house and sat at the makeup table.

  With nervous hands she worked meticulously on her nose, looking carefully from all angles. She powdered once, then again as an immediate shine crept through the heat and the powder. The lipstick was crayoned on next, and she smiled in the mirror. Leon would like her. He was going to be here for a lot of days. They would become good friends. She wished she had some of that light blue that Priscilla put on her eyelids. Next time she went to the store, she would get some.

  Just before noon, she limped past the chicken coop where Leon was hammering and picked fresh lemons. She made a big pitcher of lemonade and a plate of tuna-fish sandwiches. Then she sat at the table, nervously picking at the hem of her dress, and waited.

  She jumped when she heard his sneaker-light step on the porch; he swung open the screen door and came in.

  His sweaty presence overpowered the room. He looked at the plate of sandwich
es and glistening pitcher and smiled.

  “Lunch. I’m starved!” He went to the kitchen sink, washed his hands, then ducked his head under the faucet. He came up dripping, grinning, and asked for a towel. She hustled to get him one, as fast as her swollen ankle could go.

  He toweled his face and hands, ran it over his hair, then sat at the table, towel still around his neck. Martha had never seen anything so beautiful before. His even white teeth flashed at her through his tan face, as big hands with large, healthy veins grabbed the pitcher and poured two glasses full of cold lemonade. She could only stare.

  He wolfed three huge sandwiches, and washed it down with three glasses of lemonade, under her fascinated gaze.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  She’d forgotten! Her little plate of tuna was in front of her, untouched, her fork in hand. She blushed, hoping the powder would cover it up, and took a little bite. Her father never ate like that, did he? Maybe he did. She couldn’t remember. She didn’t think so. She’d never seen anybody eat like that.

  He wiped his hands and mouth on the towel around his neck and sat back, leaning the chair on two legs. “That was great!”

  She smiled back at him.

  “I’ll work the rest of today and tomorrow on the chicken coop, then I’ll start on the porch roof.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Yep, I’ll paint the coop tomorrow when I’m done. Do you have any beer?”

  Martha shook her head.

  “Love a cold beer after work. Don’t worry, I’ll pick some up.” He stood, giving a mighty stretch, arms almost touching the ceiling, little hairs poking up above his cutoff jeans. “Well, back to work.” He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for lunch.”

  Then he was gone, and Martha heard him humming to himself, Skilsaw whining, hammering, and still she sat there, her tuna in front of her, wondering about the new feelings that were creeping up inside of her.

  She picked over the garden and cooked the vegetables into a light stew. When she heard Leon throwing his tools into the bed of his truck, she poured more lemonade and sat at the table to wait, but then she heard the truck start, and it drove off in a cloud of dust. Her heart sank to her toes. She turned off the heat under the stew and lay down on the couch. Sadness pressed down on her chest; a tear trickled into her ear. The dimness grew; then she heard a truck turn up her drive.

  He’s come back. She quickly went to the stove to reheat the stew. It was still pretty warm. He’s come back. Oh, he’s come back. She went to the bedroom to check her makeup and heard the kitchen door open. No time to fuss with her nose. She walked back to the kitchen, and there he was, putting beer in the refrigerator.

  “Hi,” he said, looking up, white teeth flashing in his red brown face.

  “Hi.”

  “Dinner smells great. Want a beer?”

  “Okay.”

  He popped open two beers and set them on the table, while she dished up the stew. They ate in silence, Martha concentrating on her meal, trying not to watch Leon eat. Soon he sat back, satisfied. She kept sipping her beer, not really liking it but wanting to do what he did. It was warm by the time Leon had finished off the stew. He stood.

  “Let’s see what’s on television.” He clicked it on, and the green newsman warped into view. Leon squatted in front of the set and fiddled with knobs until the newsman’s face turned bright red, then settled to a rosy pink. He looked up at her, staring at the set. “Better, huh?”

  “Yes.” She cleaned the dishes. When she was through, she sat next to him on the sofa, sipping her warm beer, as he drank three more cans. She was feeling very sleepy. Her head bobbed up and down; every time she looked at the television, somebody new was there. Finally, there was just the white crackling, and Leon was sound asleep. She fetched a blanket, covered him up, and went to bed.

  Outside, a rusted truck came slowly up the drive, and with a barely audible curse from the driver as he noted Leon’s pickup next to the house, it backed down, squealed onto the highway, and was gone.

  CHAPTER 8

  Fern’s baby was born without a nose. Addie put the squalling child into Fern’s weak arms, then tended to the birthing mess. Harry slumped to the kitchen for a shot of whiskey. Fern examined her child, head to toe. The baby looked normal, healthy. Her head was not as pinched nor as elongated as with some newborns she’d seen; in fact, the head was quite large, and square. The fingers, toes, and ears were perfect, but there was no nose.

  In the spot where a nose should have been was a thin triangular membrane, thin enough to reveal a network of tiny blue veins under it. The membrane fluttered as the baby cried, and when she took a deep breath and gave her first real scream, it shattered, spraying blood-flecked fluid all over Fern’s face. It mixed with salty tears and sweat. She wiped it all from her face, then opened her dress and put the baby to her breast. She sucked hungrily, and Fern watched the jagged edges of membrane flap in and out as the baby nursed.

  Addie was busy, cleaning up the afterbirth, seeing to Fern’s bleeding, changing sheets, doing everything she could to keep from having to face the mother. She took the soiled linen to the kitchen, handed the bundle to Harry, brewed two strong cups of tea, and without a word, returned to the bedroom, closing the door behind her. She pulled a chair to the bedside and helped Fern up to sip the tea.

  In the aftermath of the birthing activity, she noticed how the wind had picked up; she could hear it roaring against the shutters. The room was cool, drying her perspiration.

  “I’ll fetch Doc as soon as the storm breaks, Fern.”

  Fern smiled at Addie, her pale face shining with the peace of motherhood.

  “She looks strong and healthy enough,” Addie said.

  “Martha.”

  “Martha.”

  Fern watched the baby’s face; Addie looked at the floor.

  “There’s doctors, Fern, that can work miracles on things like that.”

  “She’ll be fine.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “How’s Harry?”

  “He’s getting drunk.”

  Fern closed her eyes. “Good.”

  “You sleep now. I’ll go talk to Harry. Be real careful not to get any lint in her . . . in Martha’s nose, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Addie went to the door. She took one look back at the mother and child together on the bed. Asleep. It was a beautiful scene, if one did not look too closely. Addie’s heart skipped a beat. She closed the door gently behind her.

  Addie pulled a glass from the cupboard and sat next to Harry at the kitchen table. She poured herself a healthy shot of whiskey and sipped. He looked at her with red-lined eyes.

  “They’re sleeping.”

  “Fern and the monster.”

  “Not a monster, Harry, your daughter. Martha. Listen, there’s doctors . . .”

  “Ain’t NO doctor going to fix that baby up the way it’s supposed to be. It’s supposed to be normal, have a nose like everybody else, but it doesn’t, does it? God made it that way. God. The same God that gives Fern all these . . .”—he groped for a word—“powers, makes her heal all those people, that same God, Addie, made our daughter a monster.” The tears broke. “Martha was my grandmother’s name. How can I look at that thing and call it Martha?” He took a heaving sob, poured more whiskey into his glass, and drank it down.

  “Babies are born with difficulties sometimes, Harry. You have to understand . . .”

  “I’ll tell you what I understand.” Harry glared at her, the anger sharp in his gaze. “I understand that what Fern has been doing is wrong. I told her it was wrong. I knew it was wrong, deep in my gut; I knew she shouldn’t be fiddling with what wasn’t natural. And this is how we got repaid. God looked down on this little house and saw all that meddlin’ going on, and he just said, ‘Here!’ ” Harry smashed his thumb down on the table, like he was squishing a bug. He poured more whiskey. “One sharp rap to the head, and we could tell Doc it was stillborn.”

&
nbsp; As understanding as she was, Addie was shocked by this. She looked carefully at Harry, upset, wild even, and she knew it was the liquor talking. She was thankful for the storm. She’d have to stay here until it passed enough to go get Doc, and Harry would have to take her there. He would learn. As soon as a doctor put a little nose on that baby girl, and she started to giggle and say da-da, his whole outlook would change. Fathers and daughters, that’s the way it was. He’d hold her and coo to her and rock her and love her, and he would never see the little defect the poor child was born with.

  But for now, she would get drunk with him, and they would wait until morning, hoping the storm would clear. The silence between them hung like a heavy curtain, Addie already making plans to help Fern get to a doctor who knew these new techniques, Harry making decisions about Martha and Fern and God that would carry him through the rest of his twisted, bitter life.

  CHAPTER 9

  Priscilla’s blue Pinto pulled up to the house just as Leon was showing Martha how to make an omelet for their lunch. Anger flared in her eyes as she noted that the chicken coop was half rebuilt, but no carpenter was in sight. Just Leon’s pickup sittin’ out here by itself. She slammed the car door and trotted up the porch steps.

  She didn’t bother to knock, just swung the screen door open. Martha and Leon were standing by the stove, Leon in cutoff jeans and tennis shoes, with no shirt. Martha looking frumpy as usual. What the hell was going on here?

  “Pris!” Martha’s face lit up with a big warped smile, as she stretched her arms out and went toward her. Priscilla deftly parried her move and stood with feet apart, hands on hips, facing Leon.

  “What are you doing here, Leon?”

  “Making an omelet.”

  “Don’t be smart. Are you fixing the chicken coop?”

  “Yes.”

  “And sleeping here as well?”

  “What?”

  “Well, you slept somewhere last night, because you didn’t come home.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I spent the night with Ned. At your place. And you didn’t show all night.”