Journey Into Darkness

by S. J. Harris

  ***

  Steve’s room at the nursing home was quiet except for the hum of a feeding pump mainlining nutrition into his gut. His eyes were closed, his lips frozen in a snarl. Sonya touched his forehead and his eyes opened.

  On the way in, one of the nurses had told us that Steve was actually improving some. “He came off the vent almost five years ago. He can communicate with his eyes. One blink ‘yes,’ two blinks ‘no.’ Three quick ones for ‘I don’t know.’ He still has the feeding tube, but he’s getting therapy every day. They’re teaching him how to swallow. He’s been trying to talk, but so far his speech has been incomprehensible. He’s gotten some of the feeling back in his fingers and toes. The doctors say there’s hope.”

  “Do you know who I am?” Sonya asked Steve.

  One blink. Yes, he knew.

  “Are you hurting anywhere?”

  Two blinks. No pain.

  Just before we left, Steve’s face contorted and he forced a vocalization, but all that came out were some empty vowel sounds.

  “Eee ooh eee,” he said.

  Sonya kissed his forehead and told him to get some rest.

  When we got back to Lyon’s Den, Sonya asked me if I’d like to go in and have a drink, but I didn’t have time. I met Bill at The Parkside, and he drove me to the airport.

  17

  At thirty-thousand feet, with a pillow wedged against the bulkhead and an airline-issue blanket wrapped around my body, I tried to fall asleep to the soothing sound of a colicky infant in the row behind me. I’d bought the latest copies of Vogue, Cosmopolitan and Good Housekeeping at a newsstand at the airport. Since I couldn’t sleep anyway, I took the nasty-gram from my carry-on and spent the next six hours finding type from the magazines that matched up. I found a match for every character in the little piece of hate mail I’d received. This would be another good bit of evidence against Lori Barbera when I took my story to the police.

  ***

  I inherited my father’s affinity for rag tops.

  He picked me up in his lemon-yellow MG Midget, a 1973 he’d been restoring since I was a little girl. The engine noise and the dry southern California air whistling through the interior prevented us from saying much on the way home, but Daddy’s not a big talker anyway. I think that’s one reason he likes convertibles--no awkward silences. I also think that’s one reason he likes Mom.

  Mom met me at the door with a hug and a kiss. She held my hand on the way to the kitchen, where she had breakfast in progress. Bacon sizzled on an electric griddle while she rolled out dough for homemade biscuits. I didn’t inherit my mother’s domestic talents. I’m about as domestic as a tiger.

  Mom loaded my plate with scrambled eggs, biscuits and hash browns. When we all sat down I asked Daddy to please pass the bacon.

  “I’m sorry,” Mom said. “I thought you were still doing that vegetarian thing.”

  “I’ve sort of backslidden lately,” I said.

  “I’ll fry some more.”

  “No, no Mom. I just want one piece. Really, this is more food than I’ll ever be able to finish. I usually don’t even eat breakfast.”

  “Well, you should. It’s the most important meal of the day, you know. You’re too skinny. And you have dark circles under your eyes.”

  “I was on an airplane all night.”

  “You need to take better care of yourself if you expect to ever meet a nice man. There’s plenty of them out there, you know.”

  Here it came. Meet a nice man was Mom-ese for find some rich guy to marry and start making babies. I’d been home less than an hour and she was already gearing up for the better-find-yourself-someone-soon-it’s-downhill-once-you-hit-thirty-I’ve-always-looked-forward-to-grandchildren lecture.

  “Actually, I have met someone nice,” I said.

  “Is he a doctor?” Mom asked, suddenly looking hopeful.

  “Everybody doesn’t have to be a doctor,” I said. “You know, there are other worthwhile men out there. I don’t know if I’d ever consider marrying a doctor anyway. Most of those guys are such type-A workaholics and egomaniacs they wouldn’t know where to begin in a real relationship. They make good money, but most of them don’t seem very happy. Last Christmas I went to a party at an OB-GYN’s house and his kids had to show him how to turn on his stereo system. I’m glad I didn’t become a doctor. Those guys need to get a life.”

  Daddy munched on a piece of bacon. “So who is this guy?”

  I told my parents about Jim Higgins, about his work, his good looks and charm and sense of humor. I didn’t tell them I’d fallen head over heels. Baby steps, I reminded myself. Let them get used to his name, rank and serial number before I dropped any nuclear bombs. Even though I hadn’t told them I was thinking about getting seriously involved with Jim, I could see the disappointment on Mom’s face. That hurt.

  “How much longer will you be in Florida?” she asked.

  “I don’t start at Shands Jax until July tenth,” I said. “Then it’s thirteen weeks, as usual.”

  “Why did you change your assignment? I thought you were all set to go to New York.”

  I knew that question would eventually come, and I’d prepared for it. I didn’t want to tell them I was knee-deep in a murder investigation, living on the edge like some B movie amateur sleuth, sticking my nose where I was in danger of having it sliced off my face. I wanted to spare them the worry and myself more lectures. Mostly I didn’t want them to worry.

  “They offered me more money in Jacksonville,” I said.

  That was an answer they could live with, something they understood, especially Mom. I was notorious for spending it as I made it, and she was always on me to put some back for a rainy day.

  “I want you to talk to Greg Mears while you’re here,” she said. “He can set you up with a nice retirement account, good interest. He’s a nice guy, you know. And he’s still single. And he lives right here in San Diego.”

  Mom had been trying for years to set me up with Greg Mears, their CPA. Nice English accent. Cherry pipe tobacco that I didn’t mind. Too old for me, though.

  “Okay. I’ll talk to him.” I placated her. I just wanted to get through breakfast so I could unpack and maybe take a nap.

  We sat there quietly for a while and, although none of us said anything, I knew we were all aware of the vacant seat at the table. Always aware.

  I helped Mom with the dishes and then asked Dad for the keys to the MG so I could get my suitcase out of the trunk. He reminded that, on a British car, the rear storage compartment was referred to as the “boot.” Okay. The boot. Whatever it was called it was tiny and barely accommodated my luggage. Daddy followed me out the front door.

  “Go ahead and take her for a spin,” he said. “I installed a new set of Weber carbs last week. Runs like a top.”

  I climbed into the cockpit, turned the key. The engine roared to life and its rumble vibrated all the way to my hands on the wheel. I backed out to the curb and idled there for a few seconds, remembering Sha-Shu lying there in the gutter and Jenny hopelessly gone. She’d never made it past the driveway on her quest for ice cream.

  I toured the neighborhood in second gear, thinking about friends and neighbors I’d grown up with, some still there and some long gone. I drove by the Goldstein’s, thought about stopping and saying hello. Thursday morning. Ten o’clock. Mr. Goldstein would be at the law office and I knew Sara’s Mom had been ill. COPD. Too many years puffing on those nails. I drove on.

  Sara was Sara Schonberg now, happily married with two children. I thought I might give her a call later.

  I drove out to Taylor Boulevard, a four lane thoroughfare where I could open the Midget up a bit. I put the pedal to the metal and suddenly felt like I had a rocket strapped to my ass. Daddy had done a good job on the tune-up.

  I drove by the old high school, took a left and pulled into the parking lot. I cut the engine, its rumble replaced by distant drums. I climbed out of the car and walked the concrete path from the parking lot
to the football field.

  It could have been June 2000, class of ‘01 cheerleading squad and marching band practicing on one side of the field, the varsity team running plays on the other. The essence was the same. The coaches’ whistles cut fierce shrieks over the echoing drum cadences and the players sweated, grunted, battled over every precious inch of real estate. It seems to me that a football helmet, once donned, erases centuries of art, literature and mathematics. It reduces a perfectly civilized brain to its most primitive, reptilian instincts to survive, to win at all costs. Winners get the bragging rights. They get scholarships to better schools and then get better jobs. First house in the burbs. First BMW. They drink premium liquor, talk about their glory days, their moments in the sun, their moments of greatness. They charter jets, stay at the best hotels, eat at the finest restaurants. They pay their lawyers grand sums to keep them out of trouble, to make their divorce settlements as painless as possible. They spend holidays with their children and grandchildren, who talk behind their backs about how forgetful they have become. When their time’s up they are lowered into the earth, resting eternally in the Elite model casket, lowered into that last little overpriced fraction of an acre where the mounded dirt lays waiting for the weeds. Their loved ones sob, have a few drinks, eat roast beef and ham. Monday morning they commute to their cubicles and wonder if that big promotion is going through. They take their helmets off for brief periods, ponder the meaning of their existence. The helmet always goes back on, though, its weight less imposing. They go on their merry, winning ways.

  It really could have been class of ’01 out there, but it wasn’t. It was class of 2011 and I was almost twenty-eight years old. It’s a downhill slide once you hit thirty.

  I walked back to the car, thought about skipping Greta’s funeral, thought about driving up to L.A. and getting lost for a couple of days at the clubs and beaches. I saw someone had left a message on my phone while I’d been getting depressed over by the football field. The message was from Jim. He just wanted to make sure I’d had a safe trip. He said he missed me. He told me to call him later.

  Before those two dates with Jim Higgins, before talking to him on the phone for at least an hour each day for the past few days, before having this tingly feeling every time I thought about him, my direction had been clear, with one objective guiding me--find Jenny. But some difficult decisions were on the horizon now. If my relationship with Jim continued to progress, as it seemed it would, I eventually would either have to stop traveling, settle down in Kentucky and raise a family (a decision my parents would favor; once they met Jim I knew they too would love him) or keep traveling and searching for Jen and ultimately give up on marriage and children. Jim’s career as a helicopter pilot was going well in Louisville and I didn’t think he’d want to give that up and go on the road with me. It would be unfair even to ask that of him. I could get a full time job easily enough in Louisville, continue my career as a flight nurse and build a life with Jim; or, I could continue traveling and searching for my sister. To do both would be impossible.

  I can’t give up on Jenny, I told myself.

  But I couldn’t give up on Jim, either.

  The answer would come.

  Somehow.

  18

  Thursday evening my parents and I visited Wilson’s funeral home. The service was scheduled for Friday morning at ten.

  I didn’t recognize Blake Wales at first. It had been over a decade since I’d seen him, and years of playing golf and fishing in the sun had taken their toll. As had the stress of his work. I supposed the last two years of dealing with Greta’s illness had aged him more than anything, though. His hair was thin on top and white as paper. His face, though tanned, had a translucent quality, as if a massive peanut skin had been stretched over it. Tiny purple veins webbed his eye sockets. The scent of his aftershave was tainted with that of whiskey.

  “Thank you so much for flying way out here,” he said. “Are you going to be able to stay a while?”

  “Just till Saturday,” I said. “I have to start looking for an apartment in Jacksonville before my assignment starts.”

  I didn’t say so because my parents were standing beside me, but I think Blake understood that the real reason I was heading back to Florida so soon had to do with my determination to find Darla Bose’s killer. If I could clear that up, maybe a tiny bit of the guilt I carry from the day Jenny was kidnapped would evaporate. I was willing to direct my full energies toward a solution to Darla’s disappearance, for her family’s sake. I wish someone had done so much for us.

  Blake gave Mom a hug and Daddy a handshake. He had a lot of family and friends to greet and talk with, so we moved on to the parlor and the open casket.

  Mom knelt and prayed at the alter while Daddy and I viewed the deceased. Damn, I thought. Greta looked better than Blake. But who was this piece of plastic floating on satin, surrounded by flowers, posed in an eternal afternoon nap?

  She looks so peaceful.

  She looks so natural.

  She’s in a better place now.

  Bullshit. The object in the casket bore no resemblance to Greta Wales. Greta never wore much makeup, her hair always looked as though she’d just climbed out of bed, and I never saw her frown. She had a sparkling personality, did volunteer work, made generous donations to charities, made us laugh with colorful stories, raised four beautiful children, loved.

  Maybe that’s the best epitaph of all. She loved. That’s the one I hope is on my tombstone.

  ***

  When we got back home I called my old friend Sara Goldstein (Schonberg, I reminded myself), who was in the middle of giving her kids a bath and couldn’t talk.

  “Why don’t you come over,” Sara said. “The kids’ll be in bed by nine.”

  She gave me directions and Dad said I could borrow the MG. I was depressed from our trip to the funeral home and I knew if anybody could lift me out of it Sara could.

  I made it to her house a little after nine. Sara had a fairy tale life. Her husband Jerry looked like a model and was destined to become a partner in her father’s law firm. Two story brick. Jaguar. Hummer. Cruiser at the marina. Time share in the mountains. Old Sara was doing all right.

  Her boys were in their pajamas and their daddy was reading them a bedtime story. After walking with Sara on a tour of their home I asked if she felt like going for a drive. She consulted with Jerry, who said he didn’t mind. Fairy tale.

  Once in the MG and down the road a ways, we were sixteen again.

  “Remember this?” Sara said.

  On the dashboard of my dad’s MG is a little...thing. It looks something like the male connector to an earphone jack and it sticks straight up out of the dash. I think it’s a tiny antenna for the radio, actually. Sara started stroking it up and down with her thumb and forefinger, as if she was playing with the world’s smallest penis. I completed the joke, the one we’d done every time we went out in the MG as teenagers, and ejaculated washer fluid all over the windshield. Sara moaned in ecstasy.

  “Where to?” I asked, laughing.

  “I don’t know,” Sara said. “We could go to Lehr’s Greenhouse and have a cocktail like mature, grown-up women, or we could get a bottle and hang out at the trestles. Remember the trestles?”

  “Of course I do. That’s where I lost my virginity. I vote for the trestles.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  We stopped at a liquor store, bought a pint of rum and a small bag of ice and a half gallon of grapefruit juice. We drove out to the train trestles, a bridge about five-hundred feet long and a hundred feet high over a valley on the outskirts of town. It’s a remote area, perfect for highschoolers’ unwholesome activities. Sara and I cut some serious teeth there way back when.

  I parked in a graveled area at one side of the bridge. We sat on the trunk, the boot, and drank rum and grapefruit juice and gazed at the stars. We were alone.

  I found a tape in the console and popped it into the cassette deck. Beatles At The
Hollywood Bowl. My dad loves The Beatles.

  “Want to walk across?” Sara asked.

  “Oh, hell no,” I said. “I can’t believe we used to do that. It’s a wonder a train never came.”

  “I guess when you’re a teenager you think you’re immortal, that nothing can happen to you.”

  “Things do happen, though. I see it all the time.”

  “I’ll be a nervous wreck when my boys get to be that age. This place is going to be off limits to them.”

  “They’ll just find another place,” I said. “Let’s face it, teenagers will be teenagers. They’re going to drink and smoke and fuck and, hopefully, like us, never get into any serious trouble.”

  “I’m dreading dealing with all that. I guess I better enjoy them while they’re little, huh?”

  “Yep. They’re beautiful boys, Sara. They really are. How old did you say?”

  “Josh is five and Jeremy’s three. They’re a handful.”

  “You’re happy?”

  “Oh, yeah. Jerry and I get along pretty good. We enjoy each other’s company. We enjoy the boys. Jerry makes good money. I guess I’m lucky.”

  “You are lucky.”

  “So how’s your love life?” Sara asked.

  I told her about Jim Higgins. I told her all the intimate details I would never share with anyone except my best friend.

  “So you going to marry him?”

  “It’s been a whirlwind romance,” I said. “It’s really way too early to even think about that. But I have to admit, I have thought about it. He’s different. There’s something really special about him. If it does lead to marriage I’ll have to give up traveling, though. That’s my dilemma. It’s hard for me to think about giving up looking for Jen, you know?”