Lyrical Darkness: 11 dark fiction stories inspired by the music that rocks your soul

by Terri Reid

  At the dinner table that night, Ben’s mother announced he’d been seen leaving the Weidermans’ property. Ben stared down at his plate. “If you go over there again we’ll take your bike away,” she said. “I’ve warned you not to go over there.”

  “I was just playing in the trees,” he said. “It’s fun. “

  “That’s not the point,” his father said. “We don’t want you on their property.”

  “Why?” he said. “I didn’t see any bobcat.”

  His older sister Rebecca, who rarely bothered to join the dinner table conversation, spoke up: “It’s because crazy Mrs. Weiderman might grab you.”

  “That’s not nice, Rebecca,” Mrs. Putnam said. “Mrs. Weiderman isn’t crazy, she’s … got a nervous illness. I doubt if she’s even at home.”

  “She is,” Rebecca said. “I saw her getting out of a long black car. Two men in scrubs helped her into the house.”

  “I feel sorry for Mr. Weiderman,” Ben’s father said, “a sick wife and three daughters to raise.”

  “The Weidermans can afford plenty of help,” Ben’s mother said in a disapproving tone.

  “But they can’t keep their help,” Rebecca said. “I was talking to the lady who runs Cafe Le Mer, downtown. She used to cook for the Weidermans. She said the cleaning ladies didn’t last a month because of Margaret Mae. She was always doing weird things, like burning black candles and chanting in her room.”

  “It’s not nice to gossip about one’s neighbors” Mrs. Putnam said. “I’m sure young Margaret is going through an adolescent phase.” Ben’s mother, a senior clerk at the city hall records department, had a proprietary view of the town’s residents.

  “Burning candles in her dorm room was one thing,” Rebecca said. “Sleeping with the rowing coach got her expelled from school.”

  “That’s enough, Rebecca,” Mrs. Putnam said, glancing at Ben.

  “Was he a local man?” Mr. Putnam asked.

  “Let’s just drop the subject,” Mrs. Putnam said.

  “Fine,” Rebecca said, “but I doubt the Weidermans care. Living high on that hill, they barely know we exist.”

  “I still think it’s a shame the way Mr. Weiderman let those trees go to ruin,” Mr. Putnam said. “The orchard was his old man’s pride and joy. It was a paradise when I was a kid.”

  “Apparently the family has little respect for ancestry,” Mrs. Putnam said with a note of satisfaction.

  Nothing more was said about the Weidermans, yet it had been enough to fire Ben’s curiosity. He was particularly keen about the teenage Margaret Mae “sleeping” with the rowing coach. Ben had learned the facts of life from health class: how a sperm fertilizes an egg, leading to the development of a baby. Yet when he thought of Margaret Mae and the rowing coach, he didn’t associate their behavior with his textbook. Instead he pictured the pair on a narrow cot in a dark, shuttered boathouse. Outside would be a tangle of overgrown trees and vines, much like the Weidermans’ property. Ben remembered Margaret Mae’s firm thighs glimpsed through the branches of the apple trees. His face burned.

  *

  At age fourteen, Benjamin finally met Margaret Mae Weiderman. Three days a week he worked after school at Save ’n Rave. The supermarket was medium-sized, its customers mostly elderly shoppers who lived downtown. They trudged the aisles, slumped over their shopping carriages as if the effort of standing upright was too burdensome.

  Ben became friendly with Evan, another part time employee his age. During breaks, Evan smoked cigarettes behind the dumpster. He adopted a world-weary attitude, referring to Save ’n Rave as “the boneyard.”

  One afternoon, as Ben knelt on the floor stocking cans of vegetables, he felt a prickling along the back of his neck. He glanced at the entrance where Margaret Mae Weiderman, in a long, dark cape, strode into the store. Without hesitating, she headed straight for Ben.

  He clamored to his feet, tripping on his long white apron, watching her move up the aisle, her cape swaying. The bright autumn light was at her back, throwing her face in shadow. Her question surprised him: “I’ve been looking everywhere for persimmons, Benjamin,” she said. “Where can I find them?”

  “Persimmons,” Ben repeated, his mind in a whirl. He had no idea what a persimmon looked like and he doubted Save ’n Rave carried them. “Um, let me go and ask the manager, okay?”

  With great effort he managed to not break into a run as he headed to the fruit section. He couldn’t believe Margaret Mae knew his name. If that wasn’t enough, she was waiting for him in aisle five.

  Mr. Zagrobski, the store manager, snorted upon hearing Ben’s inquiry. “We don’t even carry canned persimmons,” he said. “No call for them. Tell the customer to use cranberries.”

  Ben raced back, slowing as he reached his aisle. Margaret Mae stood waiting. Before he could speak, she said, “Cranberries? I’m afraid that won’t do.” Ben wondered how she knew about Mr. Zagrobski’s suggestion. Their conversation had taken place on the other side of the store. Seeing his confusion, she laughed. “You’re wondering about me, aren’t you, Benjamin? For instance, how do I know you work here?”

  Ben nodded, his cheeks flushed. He couldn’t believe he was having a conversation, however one-sided, with Margaret Mae Weiderman.

  She leaned down so they were at eye level. “It’s because you and I have unfinished business,” she said quietly. “Are you aware of that?”

  Once again Ben nodded. He had a glimmer of understanding, and he involuntarily stepped back.

  She winked and turned, moving across the floor tiles with long strides. When she swept out of the store, Evan joined Ben. “Do you know her?”

  “Who?” Ben said, not wanting to share the moment.

  “Maggie Mae Weiderman, dummy. She was talking to you.”

  “She’s a neighbor,” Ben said with a shrug.

  “If she were my neighbor, I’d be at the window with binoculars. She’s beautiful,” Evan said. “I mean, for an old person.”

  “She’s not that old—maybe ten years older,” Ben said, although it was a lifetime to him. “How do you know her?”

  “She went out with my brother Spencer years ago.”

  Ben felt a hot stab of jealousy. “Yeah?”

  “He worked at the gas station downtown. Spencer was captain of the football team. He had no trouble getting chicks. Maggie drove up in her old man’s Town Car and he asked her out. Eventually he learned she was only fifteen years old. She didn’t even have a driver’s license. Didn’t bother her a bit. My brother said she’s crazy.”

  “He probably said that because she dumped him.”

  Evan laughed. “You got that right. Spencer admitted he was out of her league.”

  *

  In case Margaret Mae visited Save ’n Rave again, Ben kept a roll of breath mints in his pocket. Mornings he dabbed on his dad’s aftershave lotion. When she didn’t appear in the store, he tried putting her out of his mind. It was a stupid crush, he admitted. She was just teasing him.

  Getting over Margaret Mae became easier after Ben got to know Alyssa from his computer class. She sat in front of Ben, her long blond braid hanging down her back. One day she turned and asked how he’d done on a test. Ben confessed he was barely passing the class. “English is my best subject,” he said.

  Alyssa claimed she had the opposite problem. “I’m a geek, yet I can’t put two paragraphs together.” They agreed to help each other. During the next few months, their friendship grew stronger. Ben liked Alyssa’s friendly, open manner. She said Ben made her laugh.

  *

  In March, spring showed no sign of arriving. Residents of Bridal Path Lane had barely gotten shoveled out from the last storm when a blizzard dropped another six inches of snow. Mr. Putnam came home early from his job in the city. He put on his woolen hat and fur lined gloves and grabbed a shovel from the garage. Ben helped his dad clear the driveway.

  As they got underway, Mrs. Putnam beckoned to them from the side door. Pulling her sweat
er close, she said excitedly: “Helen from the police dispatcher’s office just called. Mrs. Weiderman was found this morning in the apple orchard, frozen stiff in her nightgown.” She continued: “She’d just been discharged from the hospital. No one heard her sneak out of the house. The nurse who was supposed to be watching her had fallen asleep.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Mr. Putnam said, “as I was walking to the train this morning, I saw a couple of cruisers heading for their house. I figured it was bad news.”

  “We’ll have to attend the funeral,” Mrs. Putnam said, “to show neighborly support.”

  “I can’t take more time from work,” Mr. Putnam said. “You go with Ben.”

  Ben nodded and looked up at the Weiderman house, surrounded by tall evergreens. He would have attended the funeral even if it meant sneaking into church. He wanted to see Margaret Mae again.

  *

  The obituary for Charlotte Collier Weiderman appeared in the local newspaper. The accompanying photo showed her as a young woman with thick dark hair and luminous eyes. According to the write-up, she’d attended Wellesley College and had been wardrobe curator at Boston’s Museum of Art before her marriage to Horace Weiderman.

  The day of the funeral was sunny and cold. Ben yanked at the sleeves of his wool blazer; they were an inch too short. His mother, in a long tweed coat, took his arm as they approached St. Rupert’s Church. A row of long black cars lined the street. As they climbed the concrete stairs to the church entrance, a black limo stopped behind them. The driver hopped out and opened the back door. Ben spotted the Weiderman sisters inside.

  “Don’t stare,” his mother hissed, tugging his arm.

  Inside the chapel, Ben looked around. Outside of a few neighbors, he didn’t recognize any of the well-dressed mourners. “New York people,” his mother whispered, scanning the rows. “Old money.” The church was lit with more candles than Ben had ever seen. Likewise, masses of flowers covered the altar and the steps leading to it.

  Before long the double doors opened and the choir, wearing maroon velvet robes, moved down the center aisle singing. They were followed by a gleaming casket carried by dark-suited pall bearers. The Weiderman family walked behind them. The recently-married Nora held the arm of a balding man. Margaret Mae and Tessa flanked their father. Gray-faced, he walked unsteadily forward.

  After the congregation was settled, Reverend Mumford, resplendent in robes of gold and white said: “In the midst of life we are in death.” At this, Ben’s mother pulled a tissue from her pocket and sobbed. Ben leaned forward, attempting to get a glimpse of Margaret Mae through the tangle of bodies surrounding him.

  It was not until they stood to sing “Morning has Broken” that he was rewarded. Margaret Mae, taller than everyone in her row, slipped off her coat, letting it fall behind her. She wore a bright scarlet dress that hugged the contours of her long body. Amid the rows of dark suits and coats, the dress was a brilliant flame. Ben sucked in his breath. The sight made him dizzy and he clutched the back of the bench.

  The service ended with the choir singing “How Great Thou Art” as they moved down the aisle. The Weidermans rose. Margaret Mae and Tessa assisted their father from his seat. The family followed, accompanied by the choir’s majestic singing. Ben’s mother sobbed anew while at the same time studying the procession. As the Weidermans passed, Margaret Mae turned. Looking directly at Ben, she smiled.

  “You see that?” Mrs. Putnam said, stuffing tissues into her pocket. “She appreciates us being here.”

  *

  During the next two years Benjamin had glimpses of the Weidermans coming and going from their house. Tessa Weiderman, he heard his parents say, was now married and living in Connecticut. Margaret Mae, still single, was in Boston. “Louisburg Square, don’t you know,” his mother said. “She comes home now and then to see her father, the poor man.”

  Mr. Weiderman, according to the neighborhood grapevine, had developed congestive heart. Home health aides arrived in shifts. Periodically the quiet of Bridal Path Lane was broken by the wail of an ambulance. “He can’t keep that up for long,” Ben’s mother said, watching from a window.

  Ben still experienced a thrill whenever Margaret Mae’s name was mentioned. However, he was no longer consumed with curiosity about the Weidermans. He was involved in high school school activities, particularly theater. He’d written a two-act play for the drama society. When he wasn’t working at Save ’n Rave, he was with Alyssa. The two marveled at how much they had in common. Ben felt comfortable visiting Alyssa’s house. Her parents approved of his respectful attitude and work ethic.

  Additionally, once a week he took driving lessons. He secretly hoped he and Alyssa might experience a deeper intimacy once he got his license and they could be alone. At the same time, he feared his lack of experience would prove humiliating. At night, he furtively scanned sex sites on the Internet, looking at the free “teasers.” There was plenty of activity, but no step-by-step instructions for novices. Watching the couplings, however exciting, made Ben feel inadequate. He never mentioned his yearnings to Alyssa. Although she appeared to enjoy the clandestine kissing and fondling sessions on the family couch, she set firm boundaries.

  One December weekend, Mr. and Mrs. Putnam made plans to stay overnight in Rhode Island. Ben’s sister Rebecca had an apartment in Providence. She’d encouraged her parents to visit.

  On Saturday morning, their departure day, Ben’s mother watched the weather channel for news of an upcoming snow storm. “Why don’t we go next weekend?” she again asked her husband. “I don’t want to leave Ben alone.”

  Mr. Putnam had come into the house after loading the suitcases into the Subaru. “Don’t be silly,” he told her. “Rebecca made reservations at a restaurant she wants to try. Besides, next weekend I’m helping at the church blood drive.”

  Mrs. Putnam slipped into her coat. “You’ll call if anything goes wrong, won’t you, Ben?”

  Before he could respond, Mr. Putnam said, “Ben’s fine. Let’s get moving. If we leave now, we’ll be there before the first flakes.”

  Ben walked his parents to the car. After hurried last minute instructions, they drove away. Ben turned back to the house, glancing at the leaden sky. The air had the metallic smell of snow. He went inside, happy to be alone and free. He wished Alyssa could come over, but she was babysitting.

  He made popcorn in the microwave and carried it into the den where he stretched out in his dad’s recliner. He clicked the TV remote and settled in to watch a Celtics game. Before long his eyelids drooped; the room was warm. He contemplated turning down the thermostat. Before he could rise, his eyes closed and he slept.

  Ben woke to the shrill ring of the kitchen phone. Darkness had fallen while he’d been asleep. In the dim light he stumbled to the sound. He figured it was his mother calling, anxious about her son’s welfare. Thus he was shocked when the caller spoke: “Benjamin, it’s Maggie Mae Weiderman. Our handyman had to leave early and the snow’s piling up. I wonder if you’d help shovel us out.”

  Ben pulled the curtain away from the window. The snow had fallen fast. It covered the salt marsh behind his house. A winter wonderland, Alyssa would have said of the freshly fallen snow.

  “Sure, I can come over,” he said. “Let me get my boots on.”

  “You’re an angel of mercy, Benjamin.”

  He sat to pull on his boots, aware that he was breathing fast. Calm down, he told himself. You’re just helping out a neighbor. She probably wants the snow cleared in case the old man has to go to the hospital. Before leaving the house he brushed his teeth, rinsing with mouthwash.

  Ben opened the garage and grabbed a shovel with a wide, shallow scoop. Carrying it over his shoulder, he began to climb the Weiderman’s hill.

  A light was on over the side door. Ben glanced through a window in the garage that had once been a stable. Now a long black car and a gleaming BMW convertible were parked inside. He had spotted Margaret Mae driving the BMW, roaring out of the lon
g driveway with barely a glance at the street traffic.

  He turned and faced the side door, aware that he was stalling. At that moment Margaret Mae appeared. She wore black pajamas of a silky material that reflected the light. Her dark hair was loose, falling to her shoulders. Her feet were bare. “Do you want a shovel from the garage?” she called.

  “I brought my own,” he said. “Do you want me to do the area outside the garage and then a path to the door?”

  ‘That would be wonderful.” She looked up at the sky. “We’re not supposed to get much more.” Before closing the door she said, “Let me know when you’re through.”

  Although Ben had been tired earlier, he felt a renewed energy. The snow was light and he made good progress. From time to time he stole glances at the big house, watching for movement at the windows. Finally he was finished. A wide, neat path led to the side entrance while the garage area was cleared. He looked around, pleased with his work. As he debated knocking on the door, it opened. “Come in Ben,” Margaret Mae said, beckoning to him. “I’ve got a check for you.”

  “That’s okay, Ms. Weiderman. I’m glad to help a neighbor.”

  She laughed. “I insist. I made hot apple cider to warm you.”

  Ben stuck the shovel in the snow and headed to the house, feeling a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. Inside, Margaret Mae chatted casually about the storm as she ushered him to a room at the rear of the house. A huge fireplace made of rough granite blocks occupied one wall. Facing it was a long sofa with fat cushions. On either side were overstuffed chairs covered in worn leather. Colorful woven rugs lay scattered on the old wood floor.

  “This is nice,” Ben said, looking around.

  “Get comfortable while I pour the cider.” She knelt before the fireplace, her back straight, and lit a match. Immediately the neat pile of logs and kindling burst into flames.

  “Wow,” Ben said. It was like a movie setting. He lowered himself onto the sofa.

  She pointed to his boots. “Better take those off. Put them on the rug to dry.”