For The Night Is Dark

by Mynhardt, Joe

  “Sure. It might be a small one but it will keep you cool with this godawful heat.”

  Harlan thought of the girl in the river again but didn’t want to say anything just yet. He knew he should say something, especially to an adult, and if it was just momma here he would have told her the whole story as soon as he came home. But he had no connection to this smiling man sitting at the table with him, drinking sweet tea instead of beer. “The river is almost dried up,” he finally said.

  The anger on his daddy’s face was sudden but familiar. He pointed a meaty finger at Harlan as he pushed back from the table, scraping the chair across the linoleum. “Stay away from that river, got it? There’s nothing there for you.” He took two steps back and leaned against the refrigerator, looking deflated. He put on a smile even though his eyes looked fevered. “First thing tomorrow morning I’m going into town to find a job and buy you a swimming pool so we don’t have to worry about this heat or the river again. How does that sound, little man?”

  ***

  Harlan spent the next three days in his new pool. A small blue plastic cut-out with smiling octopi and grinning fish. If he got into the fetal position he could get half of his entire body underwater, one eye skimming the water line and the other underwater and watching his plastic toys floating.

  “Momma, wanna swim in my pool?” he called to her as she hung wet clothes on the line. “I’m getting bored.”

  “Go find some of your friends, Harlan. When Daddy comes home from work he said he’d have another present for you so don’t go far.”

  Daddy had gotten a job at the sawmill up the river and was working twelve hour shifts. Since his return he’d fixed the squeaking board on the porch, the back porch light, the toilet that wouldn’t stop running and the dishwasher.

  Harlan was also positive they were doing grownup things at night that he didn’t want to know about, and he put his pillow over his ears to keep the groaning noises out of his head. Even now, sitting in the warm water of the pool, he tried to think of something else, anything else . . .

  “Stay away from the river,” his momma was saying as she hung his white underwear on the line. He hated when she hung his tighty whities.

  “The river?” he asked, her words hitting him. In all the excitement of the pool and a new baseball mitt and Daddy being home and spending time with him, he’d forgotten about the river and the girl.

  “Daddy said they found a dead girl in the river near the sawmill the other day and it’s dangerous to go down there, with the drought and the muck like quicksand. Poor girl drowned in a foot of water.”

  “Was it in the paper?” Harlan asked as he jumped out of the pool, his skin immediately drying in the nearly hundred degree heat. If she were found he wanted to know who she was. Harlan felt guilty he’d already forgotten about the girl and all it took was a plastic swimming pool.

  His momma shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know about the papers, Harlan. Your daddy told me.”

  Harlan went inside without another word to get dressed. Something wasn’t right, and he wanted to check it out. The girl was nowhere near the sawmill, which was set at least four miles upriver. Daddy was lying.

  ***

  She was there like the other day, covered in mud and sunken up to her chest now. She’d moved and was now facing directly at him but hidden under the log. Harlan was sure no one from the overpass would be able to see her, even if they stopped their car, got out and hung over the safety rail.

  He wondered why his daddy had lied to him and what he had to do with this poor girl chained up and tossed in the river like garbage. Harlan began to cry and could imagine feeling her pain as she was forced here, the chains strewn across not only her body but her very soul, binding the flesh and the spirit together for all eternity in this watery grave.

  She had a small voice, she was only fifteen but worldly, a wanderer and runaway from Jacksonville, just wanted to escape the beatings from her daddy and her absent momma, the men who came to her in the night and paid her daddy lots of money she never saw, the things hurting her, all of them breaking her, ripping her apart and trying to find her soul but she wouldn’t give it to them, wouldn’t stop fighting, had to flee, had to escape and get as far away as the stolen money from Daddy’s wallet would get her, a Greyhound bus and then hitchhiking, stopping on the overpass and wanting to drink from the cool river, it looked so inviting, she was so thirsty, so very thirsty . . .

  A car overhead beeped its horn and Harlan stopped moving. He was ankle deep in muck, only ten feet from her now. Her barren eye sockets were dark, too black, especially with the sun beating down on them. The flies took flight in an angry swarm and Harlan turned and ran away, slipping and sliding in the brown slop as he moved.

  ***

  His daddy was waiting on the back porch, a brand new bicycle with a red bow on its handlebars. Momma, excited and dancing from foot to foot, squealed when Harlan came into view, covered in mud.

  Daddy’s smile dropped and he turned to his wife. “Go inside. I need to talk to Harlan first. Alone. Go.”

  She obeyed and Daddy rushed to Harlan in a run, getting in front of him. “Where have you been?”

  Harlan was scared and wanted the safety of his mother. He just wanted to take a cold shower, work the grime off of his body. He felt dirty not only physically but down to his soul. And he was mad as he looked at his daddy now, who was trying to buy his silence with bikes and pools.

  “You know where I’ve been.”

  His daddy grabbed him by the arm as he tried to pass and squeezed, fingers digging into Harlan’s skin. “I told you to stay away from the river.”

  “Why did you lie to Momma?” Harlan asked, trying in vain to get free.

  “What?” His father looked confused for a second but didn’t release his grip. “I told her that so she’d keep an eye on you and keep you away from the river.”

  “And make me think she was found?”

  His daddy’s eyes lit up. “You don’t know anything, and you’re not going to tell anyone about her. Is that understood?” He leaned into Harlan. “If you tell your momma, after all I’ve been through these last four years, I will hurt her.” Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth. “I will drown your momma in that river. Do you understand?”

  ***

  “You haven’t eaten your breakfast, Harlan,” his momma said to him. “Did you sleep well?”

  Harlan put on a fake smile as his daddy came into the kitchen and kissed his momma, glancing at Harlan and winking at him before sitting down.

  “You look tired,” his daddy said.

  “That’s what I just said to him.” A steaming cup of coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs and sausage were put before Harlan’s daddy. His momma smiled. “I’m so happy to have both my boys here again. These have been the happiest couple weeks of my life, honest to God.”

  “Mine as well. Glad to be back.” His daddy stuck a fork into his eggs and held it in front of his mouth before looking at his son. “Glad we’re one big happy family. How has your last week been, Son? Riding your bike?”

  Harlan’s last week had been hell. Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her and feel her pain. In his dreams she called him into the muck to save her but with each step he sunk deeper and deeper, clawing and scratching to reach her and release her from the chains and her prison. She’d be free and maybe then his conscience would then let him sleep, but he could never reach her. She sank deeper into the mud and with every inch he moved she got two inches farther away.

  The touch of his daddy’s hand on his shoulder made him jump.

  His momma sat down at the table with her own coffee and breakfast but frowned. “Are you sure you’re alright, Harlan?”

  Harlan stared at his daddy’s face and smiled. “I’m fine. I’m going to ride the bike today. Can you bring home a football after work today?”

  His daddy smiled and tousled his hair. “Of course I’ll bring home a football. The day boss says I’m a fa
st learner and I’ll be up for a raise soon. Might even be a foreman myself in another year. Then I’ll buy you whatever you want.”

  ***

  It had started to rain, a light mist draping gray clouds. Harlan woke from another of the nightmares and knew what needed to be done. By the time he dressed and was out the door, it had started to come down harder. Harlan hopped on his bicycle and was halfway down the driveway before the porch light came on behind him. He didn’t stop, pedaling as fast as he could.

  If it rained as hard and steady as it was right now, the river would fill and rise within an hour and she’d be gone. Back under the water, back hidden forever. What his daddy had done would be erased, all evidence washed away. Harlan should have gone to the police or told another adult what happened.

  As he stopped his bike and dismounted at the edge of the banks he could hear the noise of the river as it began moving, the rain filling in the pools and dried cracked earth.

  She was there, her head just above the water, straining to stretch her neck so Harlan could find her. She was scared, she was drowning, she needed to be unchained and dragged from the river before she was gone again, submerged and trapped in her mud prison, and she called Harlan to her.

  Harlan heard the call from his panicked father on the riverbank but it sounded so far away with the noise of the downpour as the sky opened up.

  Harlan waded to her in water over his belt, bracing against the log and lifting her head as water splashed around them.

  She smiled.

  He saw his daddy, chained to the bottom of the log as the water subsided and dried and he called to the runaway girl to save him. But it was a trap and he was freed. Four years he’d been tricked into the prison, four years to think about what his life had become and the mistakes he’d made to his wife and only son.

  Just as the girl was now freed, and she let the bubbling river carry her downstream, away from the poor little boy now trapped in the chains, and his familiar father, screaming from the riverbank.

  GOD MAY PITY ALL WEAK HEARTS

  —DANIEL I. RUSSELL—

  July 15th 1905.

  It was in the carriage that my doubts consumed me, and as the recently lit streetlamps passed by, I could not shake the horrifying images that filled my thoughts. It is said that the husband is the master of the house, and in our modern society this holds true; yet there must always be an exception to the rule, no matter how sagacious the order. Your typical man, and certainly the educated men of science I have spent my career working alongside, would label me foolish for allowing my dear Cora the power to secure our newest lodgings. However, my wife has much more the creative eye, and I raised not a single protest as she began preparations. Rather I spend many an evening in a house of character than the clerical and functional abode I surely would have orchestrated. Yet what terrors could a woman born of the music hall stage inflict on a home? I feared I would be spending my days in an abode fashioned in the style of a lady’s boudoir!

  I disembarked a little ways before my destination, choosing to enjoy the balmy summer dusk. The smog of London has lessened since our arrival eight years ago, allowing for pleasurable evening strolls. The street in this quiet suburb still held its activity against the deepening shadow: late workers hurried home for their suppers, and children busied themselves with one last game before heading home to irate mothers.

  I approached our newest place of residence, thirty-nine Hilldrop Crescent, just off Camden Road. I stood for a moment, taking in the charm of the house, of which there was very little—much to my approval. My wife had dumbfounded me, as this was no residence set within a community of artists and musicians of which I expected, nor did the walls and windows reflect her grandiose, her larger-than-life disposition. Rather, thirty-nine Hilldrop Crescent appeared a working man’s house that had neither the shine nor sparkle of a diamond, but the modesty and function of a piece of coal.

  Carrying my few personal belongings in my case (Cora had used an expensive firm to move the rest of our possessions previously) I stepped through the open wooden gate and up the neat paving stones to the front door, where I gently tapped for fear of disturbing our new neighbours. Cora is not the most attentive of minds. Without a reply I tried to rouse her again, for surely my wife would be enamoured with the idea of showing her husband the fruits of her labours from the threshold.

  Without a sound from inside, I ventured to the dark window, but even shielding my eyes from the streetlamps and pushing my face to the glass revealed nothing within the murk. Deflated and unsure that I had, indeed, arrived at the right address, I tried the door a third time to disturb Cora, whom I thought was asleep within.

  Startling me, the door swung inwards to reveal a bare hallway that contained the deepest shadows and a staircase, rickety and narrow. I am not one for fanciful stories and the silliness surrounding ghosts and devils and the like, but I will admit my trepidation. Calling for Cora, I stepped inside the house and hastily lit the first of the lamps along the wall. Secured by the golden circle that held the darkness at bay, I dared my feet to carry me to the next lamp and so forth, until the hallway was filled with a cheerful glow. It was from this haven against the shadows that I explored my new home, and sought to discover the whereabouts of my darling wife.

  July 16th, 1905.

  Regarding relationships, I believe that the mind records events like this diary holds these very words. Of course, any relationship has a beginning: the moment you set eyes on the young woman who is to be your wife, or the first time you set about your duties for a new employer. Even now, I recall with clarity my initial days at Dr. Munyon’s Pharmaceuticals, meeting with the good doctor and enduring his analysis of my character. Munyon sympathised with my annoyance and disappointment that my own qualifications, acquired with highest honours back in the United States, were not to be recognised by the College of Medicine here in England. Yet he offered me employment in the vending and distribution of patent medications. Alas, as previous entries in this diary have stated, my lasting employment with Munyon was not to be, due to the ever-increasing demands put upon my time and finances by my wife’s stage career. Yet I do not hold any ill will towards the good doctor. Some relationships prosper, others wither and die.

  My relationship with this house began on a sour note. Last night, having explored the ground floor of this exceedingly mundane abode, and determining that Cora was not to be found in the kitchen, pantry or lounge, I ascended the creaking stairs, warding off the darkness before me with a lamp.

  On the second floor, it transpired that my wife was absent, yet her touch on the house was not. While the exterior and ground floor were to my taste, basic and practical, the upper level had succumbed to Cora’s eye and hand. Thick carpet covered the hallway boards, and the walls sported a few framed news clippings of my wife’s performances, regardless of their words (mem. Truth be told to this journal alone, Cora’s vocal talents leave a lot to be desired, and this has been remarked upon in the local press). As I entered the master bedroom, my mouth fell open at the spectacle that met me. In its entirety, the room had been decorated pink!

  Shaking my head at this latest absurdity, (for a man of medicine sees not the colour of a delicate rose nor the gentle hue of a sunset, but the glow of a fever or a mix of blood and saliva) I placed my lamp on the dresser and sat on the edge of the bed, which was also adorned with pink sheets, pillows and valance.

  It was from there that I noticed the imperfection in the wall opposite. Had Cora sought the advice of a surveyor or architect before signing our names on the lease?

  I approached the wall and ran a finger along the crack that ran across the plaster like a Caesarean scar. Adding to my dismay, I saw how the flaw had been recently painted over in the ludicrous pink, only to become opened once more. Even as I continued my examination, more flakes and clumps of plaster fell away beneath my skin and drifted to the floor.

  And so with this latest disappoint, I made my toilet and readied for bed, antic
ipating the late arrival of my wife while I update these pages. It had become apparent that a change of homestead had not changed habit, for Cora must be about town with those of the Music Hall Ladies Guild, and she shall return in the early hours full of merriment and the stench of gin.

  I shall remember the damaged state of the wall for another day, upon which Cora may be of a more sober disposition to discuss such matters.

  September 2nd 1905.

  It has been just under two months since we relocated to Hilldrop Crescent, and I feel my good spirits are waning. While the faces that pass by the windows are different, as too are the street names and walls and shingles, I know that nothing has changed in the day to day business of my affairs. Gracious! How my words are steeped with indigence.

  My work at Drouef’s Institute for the Deaf remains challenging, helping those less fortunate than myself, and I return home on an evening tired yet satisfied, for the aid of others is good for the soul. I also appreciate my time with dear Ethel Le Neve, a young girl who has recently been appointed the post of my assistant. Ethel is quite the English rose among her more brazen species, and attends her duties with efficiency and a silent determination. The young lady has become a dear, dear friend.

  Of my wife, I record a diminishing relationship, as I spend less time with Cora and more so that of her stage persona, Belle. Her laughter and joking fills these rooms, and her voluptuous frame dances and sings through the halls and the gardens. I adore the light she brings to this place.

  However, supporting the career of a star of the music hall is a burden on the finances, and for one on such a meagre wage as Drouef pays, I have found myself advertising for lodgers to supplement our income.

  And as for my other problem, the poor workmanship regarding the wall of our bedroom, I feel the mystery deserves a little more space in my journal to document its intricacies!

  I will recall a few nights previous, upon which Cora had retired early to bed following a performance that same afternoon. After concluding some business for the Institute and ensuring the house was in order, I too ventured up the stairs and into our bedroom. I found my wife already fast asleep, lying on her back and snoring quite stridently. I placed my lamp upon the table by my bedside and readied for the night, eventually climbing between the sheets and extinguishing the flame.