Drawn Into Darkness

by Nancy Springer

“Okay,” I lied, feeling a dark cloud sail into my personal sunny day. I did care that I was tired and hungry. I cared quite a bit.

  And I cared about getting Justin back to his parents whether that was what he thought he wanted or not. I cared enormously.

  But I’d deal with that once we got, quite literally, out of the woods.

  If we got out. If Stoat didn’t find us first.

  • • •

  “Oliver,” said Ned Bradley to his dog, “dip me in cream and throw me to the kittens. I’ll be licked.”

  He had been saying this, or variations of it, and walking around his apartment in circles ever since he had received the phone call from his son telling him that he was ditching work and driving up to Birmingham to see him. This had never happened before. In fact, he hadn’t actually laid eyes on Chad in years.

  “Laid eyes on.” Odd expression. As if seeing were like touching, like the laying on of hands. Like a blessing.

  Which was what Chad needed, the way Ned figured. He intuited that Chad was badly upset to be coming anywhere near him. He guessed he was Chad’s last hope of—of something. An anchor. A family.

  “What have we got to eat?” Ned crouched to confer with his dog nose to nose. “Or drink? Jeez, I wish I could offer him a beer.” But Ned didn’t have any beer in the fridge or whiskey in the cupboard. There was still time for him to run out and get some, but Chad would never believe Ned didn’t keep it around all the time, that it was just for his visit.

  Ned stood up to stare at his Tree of Life tapestry, telling himself that his son had every right to suspect the worst of him. It was up to him to prove to Chad that he was really, truly no longer drinking.

  Snacks, then. What could he put together for snacks?

  He was just about to head for the kitchen when the doorbell rang.

  Heart thumping, Ned strode over and pressed the intercom. “Yes?”

  “Dad.” Ned thought this sounded curiously monotone, even for a single syllable.

  “I’ll be down.” Chad had never been to the apartment and might have some difficulty finding it, so rather than just buzz him in, Ned headed for the elevator and pressed G for ground floor.

  When the elevator doors opened, he got his first glimpse of his son standing behind a plate glass door. One look, and he could tell Chad was an emergency on feet. He wore his Dixieland Trucking uniform with his oval name patch on the shirt; he really had been driving to work when suddenly he couldn’t go on. When Ned opened the door, Chad walked in without offering to hug or even shake hands. His face looked as hard and flat as his voice, saying, “Which way?”

  “Tenth floor.” Ned didn’t try to make small talk in the elevator, even though the silence felt thick enough to choke him. Chad didn’t speak until he got into the apartment and Oliver, fuzzy ears flapping, ran to meet them.

  “Hey, dog!” Chad dropped to one knee to greet Oliver with both hands. “What’s his name?”

  “Oliver. Because he always wants more.”

  “I know how that is.” Chad sounded morose again. “Where’s your bathroom?”

  Ned pointed the way. “Have a seat,” he offered after Chad had returned. “Iced tea?”

  Chad slumped on the sofa. “No, thanks.”

  “Something to eat?”

  Chad shook his head.

  “Winning Lotto tickets? Five thousand bucks a day for life?”

  Although Chad didn’t smile, he did focus on his father in a guarded way. Ned sat down on the chair closest to his son and said as neutrally as he could, “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s nothing, Dad!”

  His tone kept Ned at a distance but not Oliver. He sat his furry butt in front of Chad, peering up at him with liquid-eyed canine concern. Chad glanced at the dog and quickly looked away again.

  Ned coaxed, “Come on, son. You don’t drive three hours for nothing. Why are you here?”

  Chad puffed his lips in exasperation before saying, “I felt like, if I went to work, I’d punch somebody.”

  “Angry at the whole world, huh?” Ned let sympathy into his voice, but not too much. Chad wouldn’t have liked too much. “What about if you went home to Amy?”

  “She doesn’t deserve to have me always pissed at her.”

  “But you are.”

  “Yes, goddamn it! If she’d just let go about Justin—”

  Chad broke off, looking awkward.

  Ned coaxed, “Go on. If Amy would just let go about Justin, then what?”

  “Then—damn it, I don’t know! But she won’t, and I’m thinking about divorce, and it’s your fault.”

  Chad had become loud enough to make Oliver change his mind about sitting in front of him. The dog retreated.

  “Aahhh,” said Ned to fill the moment it took him to process what Chad had said. “I understand.” This was true. “You’ve brought your anger to me—”

  “Well, if you hadn’t left Mom and me, none of this would have happened!”

  Ned accepted this absurd accusation without blinking. “You never had a chance to tell me off, did you?”

  “No, and I don’t want to.”

  “Yes, you do.” Ned stood up. “You want to hit me.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do, Picklepuss.” As a little boy, Chad had always hated to be called Picklepuss when he was having a snit fit. “Come on, snootface.” He’d always hated that too. Ned picked up a sofa pillow by the corner and swung it at Chad’s head.

  That was all it took. Instantly the boy—no, a strong man now—was on his feet charging him like a bull with fists. Sidestepping, Ned grabbed a big square cushion from the sofa and deployed it like a shield. Chad’s fist thudded into it.

  “Ow,” Ned said, more in acknowledgment than in mockery.

  “Shut up!”

  Ned did not shut up. “Ow,” he repeated, “ow, ow, ow,” as Chad punched the sofa cushion again and again. Ned noticed that Oliver was nowhere to be seen; most likely he was hiding under the bed. Sensible dog. Chad kept punching, harder and harder, but always at Ned’s protective shield rather than at Ned himself. Watching his son closely, Ned saw trickles of sweat on his flushed forehead. Then, panting, Chad bent over with his hands on his knees.

  Ned allowed him only a short rest. “More,” he coached. “This time for the bastard who stole Justin.”

  “Fucking hell!” Chad slammed his fist into the cushion-cum-punching-bag, shouting profanities as he hammered, attacked, assaulted, hitting even harder than before. “Goddamn everything!” Once again he wore himself out and stopped, panting for breath.

  “Any for Amy?” Ned asked, hoping he already knew the answer.

  Chad shook his head hard and turned away. His anger at Amy didn’t run very deep, then. Good. Ned put the cushion back on the sofa where it belonged. With his back turned, it took him a moment to realize that his son’s labored breathing had turned to sobs.

  “Hey! Chad, it’s okay.” Hurrying to him, Ned tried to put his arms around him.

  Chad pulled away.

  “Goddamn,” Ned complained, “let me be a good father for once in my life, would you?” He hugged his son, and this time Chad let his head rest on his father’s shoulder, let Ned rub his quaking back with his dry old hands. “It’ll be okay.”

  “I don’t see how.” Chad straightened and stood back.

  Ned handed him a box of Kleenex, then headed to the kitchen and came back with two tall glasses of iced tea that might as well have been an energy drink, there was so much sugar in it. Good and proper Alabama sweet tea. He handed Chad his, and they both sat down. They sipped. Chad wasn’t looking at him. Ned gave him some time to regroup.

  After the minutes had passed, he started making small talk. How old were the twins now, how were they doing in school, what did they like to do outside of school? Pretty soon he had Chad facing him, telling him Kyle was building a skateboard ramp in the backyard and Kayla liked to dr
aw those big-eyed pointy-faced Japanese cartoon pictures. He described Kayla as popular but running with the right kind of kids and Kyle as more individualistic, having a few good friends. Ned watched Chad’s face become more relaxed, sometimes even smiling, as he talked. He was careful not to mention Amy, not yet. After a while he turned on the TV, and under pretense of watching tennis, he and Chad both napped, Ned in the recliner with Oliver on his lap, Chad on the sofa. Ned saw Chad nodding off, and smiled to himself; good. Chad had to be feeling less angry, less tense, if he could sleep. Ned allowed himself to doze from sheer weariness; he had worked the night before.

  After they had snoozed the afternoon away, they went out for supper at a steak house. Ned encouraged Chad to have a beer, asked him about his job, talked baseball with him, and tried not to show quite how much Chad’s presence meant to him. He knew what he had to do, and he wasn’t looking forward to it.

  He waited until they were back in the apartment and had found Chad the stuff he needed in order to spend the night on the sofa. He waited until they sat down again and were talking some more.

  He started small. “Is Amy still working at that nursing home?”

  “No.” Chad’s tone turned curt, and watching his face, Ned thought of shutters closing over a window. “No, she doesn’t have time for anything except trying to find our son.”

  “That one time I met Amy, she seemed like a good woman,” Ned ventured.

  “Good? She’s so damn good I can’t begin to keep up with her. She’s dedicated her life to finding our son, and I—” Chad turned his face away, and his voice rasped. “Sometimes I hate myself, but I have got the shits of the whole thing.”

  “Nothing wrong with that. However you feel is how you feel.”

  “That’s Zen, Dad,” said Chad sarcastically.

  “Whatever. Are you and Amy getting along together at all?”

  “No.”

  “Sleeping together?”

  “No.”

  “Are you and she equally pissed at each other?”

  “I—actually, no, I don’t think she’s really pissed, but she won’t cut me a break either.”

  “When’s the last time you had some fun?”

  “Fun?”

  “Good time. Joy in life.”

  “With Justin gone?”

  “You want to move on, right? When’s the last time you had a vacation?”

  “Vacation? What’s that?”

  Ned ignored the sarcasm. “When’s the last time you went someplace?”

  “Back before—back when we still had Justin, we took the kids to Disney World.”

  Ned refrained from snorting like a horse. “That’s not what I mean. When’s the last time you and Amy went someplace together? Just the two of you?”

  Chad actually turned his head to look at him, a bit wide-eyed. “I don’t recall ever doing that since the kids were born.”

  “Well, it’s high time you did.”

  “We can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “We’re broke. We can’t afford it.”

  Ned said, “You can’t afford not to.”

  “Dad, get real.”

  “I am real. A trip to get you two started working things out would be a heck of a lot cheaper than a divorce.”

  “I can’t just take off work.”

  “Why not? You already did. You’re here, aren’t you?”

  “Well, I can’t tear Amy away from her self-appointed job looking for Justin.”

  “Have you asked her nicely?”

  Chad rolled his eyes. “What does it matter? We can’t just leave the kids.”

  “Sure you can. Their grandpa will take care of them.” Then, as Chad gawked at him without apparent comprehension, Ned added, “Me.”

  TWELVE

  For me the day became a haze of hurry hurry hurry, trapped on a narrow serpentine of road in a jungle of dusky trees and things, whether animal, vegetable, or mineral, that bit. With my innards cramped by hunger, my skin in a mess of itchy lumps and bloody scratches, and Stoat a dark and evil goat-demon looming ever larger in my mind, I walked as fast as I could. Justin lagged a bit behind me. Given his longer legs and more resilient youth, this made no sense except in terms of ambivalence. He wasn’t nearly as ready for his future, or as anxious to have one, as I was.

  But there was nothing I could do about him except keep hustling and hoping for any kind of sanctuary or assistance. I had thought it would be simple to flag somebody down, but not a single vehicle had come our way since the dust-coated monstrosity of a pickup I had failed to alert. We had walked for several miles, yet I had not seen any human habitation, not even a trailer.

  Sunlight slanted low through the moss and mistletoe of the treetops. If Stoat was not already on the hunt for us, he had come home from work by now and would be soon.

  “Hey,” Justin said, breaking a long silence, “what do you think’s back here? I mean, besides mosquitoes?”

  I lifted my despairing stare from the ground and looked. By “back here” he referred to a very overgrown track heading off the dirt road. No sandy ruts, just wildflowers. Okay, weeds.

  “I have no idea, but we’re going to find out,” I said, immediately wading into the knee-high jungle. “Anything to get out of plain sight. Ow,” I added as I encountered a bull thistle. “Put your socks on.”

  He did so and followed me. The grass and weeds, I noticed, looked bent or flattened where we had swished through them or stepped on them. I went back and whacked the verdure with my catalpa branch until I’d achieved a sort of parity, either flattening everything or making some of it spring back up. Justin picked a path forward while I walked backward, flailing away.

  He started to laugh. “You look insane!”

  “What makes you think I’m not?”

  “Gimme the branch.” Interesting that he had managed to lose his own. “I’ll do it.”

  “Why? You want to look insane?” I had to smile as I handed him the catalpa branch.

  “Just trying to lend a hand,” he said in a manly tone. Back turned, swinging his new weapon as I led the way, Justin called, “Watch for snakes, Miss Lee Anna.”

  The “Miss,” I knew by now, was a Southern honorific, usually affectionate but sometimes patronizing.

  “Just call me Lee,” I responded.

  Typical of myself, I had chosen the oddest moment to decide that I did not want to be Liana the clinging vine ever again. Miss Lee of the Jungle, I stalked along, watching for snakes.

  And seeing them. They sure grew big down here, all different kinds and colors, their thick coils pressing down the springy grass. Big and lazy, reluctant to relinquish the sun after too much chilling rain, they generally slipped away like water down a drain when I got close enough to really look at them. But a few played possum. One of these, a large but harmless gray and white oak snake, I grasped firmly around the middle, lifting it and taking possession of it.

  I did this on impulse. When I was a little girl, I had often captured turtles, frogs, caterpillars, praying mantises, and, yes, snakes, to keep for a few hours, just long enough to get acquainted with them before I put them back where I had found them. My mother approved; she had helped me look up the various species in her twelve-volume nature encyclopedia. But my ex-husband, who didn’t seem to like anything about nature, went postal if I so much as touched a hoppy-toad, vehemently insisting that I wash my hands at once, as if I were plotting to poison him with critter cooties. So I had been away from my truer self for a long time.

  The oak snake came with me so docilely it felt almost as if he or she were welcoming me back. It tucked its head into the comforting cave of my shorts pocket, while the rest of it wrapped around my waist.

  I walked on, and the next snake I saw, as if to restore antithesis to my life’s dialectic, was a cottonmouth as thick as my arm, a snake only God the mother of us all could love. It reared its mud-colored head and gaped the puffy white lining of its mouth at me, threatening to use its fangs even
though I stood a good ten feet away.

  I called, “Justin, bring the stick, would you?”

  He did, and by repeatedly swooshing the moccasin with its leafy end, he discomfited it enough so that it departed to find a more peaceful place. “Better stand still awhile till we’re sure it’s not coming at us,” he said.

  We did stand still, and the late afternoon light cast long shadows, and I noticed that the grassy way through the swamp we had been following, the opening between trees barely worthy to be called a lane, had broadened into a wider clearing. Was it ending? If so, why?

  Before I had realized what I should start looking for, Justin spotted it. “Hey! There’s a little fishing cabin under the live oaks!”

  “Where?” I saw nothing at first. When he pointed it out, I understood why. I would not have called it a cabin, or even a shack; it was barely a shanty. Its gray and splintered never-painted planks blended into the swamp woods and the shade of the live oaks that stooped over it. Judging by the weeds everywhere, no one lived here or had been here for some time. Although a rickety gray outhouse stood by, the place seemed barely habitable overnight. Very likely we would find rats in there, and mice, and maybe snakes. But for me, and I thought I could speak for Justin too, only one thing mattered: was there by any chance some food?

  • • •

  Maypop County sheriff’s deputy Bernardo “Bernie” Morales caught the call regarding a suspicious stench at a rental property on the state road north. Maypop PD took calls only in town; the Sheriff’s Office took care of the county, and what the Staters did, Bernie often wondered.

  Bernie had responded to many such calls, and usually they involved dead fish left under the front steps as a prank. Without hurry, he drove to the address in his much-abused old cruiser, which in his birthplace—Chile, South America—would have been called by an insulting name insinuating that it was a latrine on wheels. Although he was the only Latino cop in Maypop County, Bernie did not think of himself as Hispanic, but rather as a Chileno citizen of the U.S.A. Like many of his friends in the Chilean army, after discharge Bernie had gone on a work visa to Orlando, Florida, kingdom of a cartoon mouse and many good jobs. His plan had been to save his money, go home to Chile, buy a taxi, and be rich. Instead, too many beautiful gringas had spent his money for him, until he had fallen in love with Tammy Lou Steverson.