Good Morning, Darkness

by Ruth Francisco

  “I’ll accept it, but I want to know why first.” Even as he said this, Scott knew it wasn’t true. If she told him, he could change, and then she’d take him back. Hadn’t she even told him that she wished for a more romantic era, when men won the hearts of women through gallantry and brave deeds? He wasn’t going to accept it: He was going to fight for her.

  “You’re gonna make yourself crazy.” Peter started tearing his napkin as if Scott was making him crazy.

  “I think she’s testing me.”

  “Testing you? How?”

  “She wants me to prove how much I love her.”

  “By annoying her?”

  “Goddammit!” Scott slapped his hands hard against the table, his voice outraged, his body tense, ready to spring. “I’m not annoying her. I love her. Why are you taking her side?”

  The bartender looked at them, slipping his hand under the bar.

  Peter sighed. He waited for the vein on Scott’s neck to stop pulsing and for him to slump back into his chair. “Scott, if she doesn’t want to be with you, why in hell do you want to be with her? It’s over.”

  Scott chugged back his tequila, wadded up his napkin, and threw it across the table. It wasn’t over, not by a long shot. He had to know the real reason she dumped him. It was like a pimple; he had to squeeze out the pus, even if everyone told him to leave it alone. He needed the satisfaction of the pain, the ugly truth, the thing she saw in him that made him detestable.

  He had to know.

  It was all he could think about.

  * * *

  Laura’s boss, Mr. Johnson, called her into his office. Was there a problem? Something he could help her with? he asked, his doughy face squeezed into a lecherous smirk. Her personal telephone calls were distracting the other employees. As were the flowers she refused and threw in the trash. The receptionist was upset, threatening to quit. The poor girl even had to call security once last week when Laura’s friend showed up demanding to see her. As floor supervisor, Mr. Johnson didn’t want to lose Laura, but her work was suffering. Did she want to take some time off? Or perhaps she should talk to someone in human resources who could refer her to an agency? There were laws in California now, stalker laws. She could get legal protection.

  Laura thanked her boss for his concern but assured him she could handle it. She got the feeling he enjoyed watching her squirm. He obviously got a prurient thrill out of asking personal questions. He gave her the creeps.

  As she walked back to her desk, she avoided the curious glances of her fellow workers, who now fell silent when she joined them in the lunchroom, as if she were suspected of stealing office supplies or worse.

  How long could it go on? Surely Scott would give up sooner or later. Find another girl. Go away on a vacation and forget about her.

  It started with nonstop phone calls, followed by flowers and presents. When she didn’t return his calls and refused his gifts, he showed up at her house or at work, each time a little more desperate. She didn’t think Scott would hurt her, but there was something wild in his eyes. A craziness. When he grabbed her wrist in the parking lot at Powerhouse Gym, she felt afraid. Her knees weakened, her arms went limp. She knew that was the wrong response.

  “Is it because I didn’t ask you to marry me earlier? That’s it, isn’t it? But I was going to, don’t you see? The very day you dumped me.”

  “We’ve been over this, Scott. It’s not that at all.”

  “I know I get selfish in bed sometimes. Is that it? I’ll slow down, but you gotta tell me what you like.”

  “Scott, you’re a good lover. You know that has nothing to do with it.”

  “I know I’m kind of a slob, but when we get married, we’ll get a maid. You won’t have to pick up after me.”

  “We’re not getting married, Scott.”

  “Why not? What did I do? I thought we were such a perfect couple. Everyone said so. Hell, my mother even likes you and she’s hated all my girlfriends.”

  “Scott, I can’t take much more of this. It has nothing to do with you or your mother or your friends. It’s over. That’s all.”

  “Is it because I never said, ‘I love you?’ I do, more than anything. I’ll say it over and over again, ten times a day. I love you I love you I love you.”

  “I love you too, Scott.”

  “But not that way,” his tone turning sarcastic, nasty. “You fell out of love with me. Is that it?”

  “Stop badgering me. It’s over, that’s all. Please accept it.”

  “Because of a fucking dream?”

  “I know you don’t understand, but I can’t be with you.”

  “It isn’t fair. I can match a rival, I can change my habits, I can read sex manuals, but I can’t compete with a dream. I know you’ve got that Rules book that tells you to play hard to get, but this is ridiculous.”

  “I’m not playing hard to get, Scott. It’s simply over.”

  “But why?”

  Sometimes she wondered if she had been unfair to Scott, parsimonious in her explanation. Part of her saw what she’d done as abrupt and heartless, almost vindictive. Scott was, after all, intelligent and perceptive; he claimed to love her; perhaps he would understand. But how could she explain something she didn’t fully understand herself? She had no words adequate to describe the painful terror of her revelation, a darkness as piercing as the sun, a reverberating emptiness that left her aimless and depressed. Her dream made her fear Scott, but it was more than that. She began to doubt not only the ideas of marriage and of male/female relationships but also the very possibility of connecting with another human being. Her dream, and Scott as actor in the dream, robbed her of any desire to reach out to people. It stripped her of some essential humanity. And this frightened her.

  It was better, she decided, to be ruthless, to cut him off cleanly, irrevocably, to catapult him from her orbit like an unwanted satellite. She felt she needed to do this to save herself.

  Laura read in a pamphlet that one of her friends gave her that she should alter her routine to be less predictable, less vulnerable. So she drove a different way to work, shopped at a different supermarket, used different ATMs, came home at different hours.

  A week later, her boss cornered her in the kitchen. He sneaked up behind her while she was rinsing out her coffee cup. “I could take care of that boyfriend for you,” he said. She stepped away quickly—“I was just leaving, Mr. Johnson. I’ll see you in the morning”—as if she hadn’t heard him, hadn’t felt his sweaty hands on her hips, his breath on her neck. She practically ran to her desk to get her purse, feeling dirty and revolted, furious at herself for being such a coward. Johnson had a reputation and she’d always been careful around him; but now he swooped down on her as if she were an injured bird, easy prey.

  She hated that instinct in her to cower, to flee, to be a victim. She was tired of feeling vulnerable.

  She signed up for a class in self-defense. She disliked it at first, the punching and thrusting. It seemed so mean. During the first class, she cried, feeling horribly embarrassed, until the instructor said it happened to lots of women. They weren’t used to striking out, he explained. She skipped the second session. It took her two weeks to gather the courage to go back.

  One night when Scott was at her door demanding that she open up, his frenzied pleas escalating, her landlord chased him off with a golf club.

  She knew she would have to do something soon.

  * * *

  Scott was sure she was seeing someone else. After all, that was the most reasonable explanation for why she’d broken up with him, wasn’t it? But why didn’t she simply tell him? He could handle it. He couldn’t imagine her liking anyone more than him, but if there was a rival, at least there’d be someone to hate.

  So he followed her, first in his BMW, then borrowing the beat-up Datsun owned by his younger sister, Pat, who was spending a semester in Europe. It was twenty years old, green, and rusty. He knew Laura would never dream he’d drive such a thing. />
  He couldn’t figure out why she was driving all the way into Venice to go shopping, or to Culver City to use the bank, or to the Powerhouse Gym that was almost in Westwood. Was that where she met her new boyfriend?

  On Wednesday nights she drove to a studio on Washington Boulevard and got out of her car with a sketchbook. Since when was she into art? She was a dancer. Dancers don’t have talent, not creative talent like that. He became convinced that was where she met her lover.

  He watched closely as she came out of the studio, but she didn’t talk to anyone. None of the guys who came out looked her type. In fact, the class was almost all middle-aged women, a couple of real old guys who probably got off on seeing naked models, and some punk kids he figured were digital animators. It had to be the teacher, then.

  So he waited.

  The teacher came out of the studio fifteen minutes after the last student. As soon as the man leaned over to lock the door, Scott knew it was him, the mystery lover. So she was fucking an artist. Not even an artist, an art teacher, which meant he didn’t have enough talent to make it as an artist. He was tall and thin with long blond hair. He wore black jeans, a black leather jacket, and cowboy boots. When he got on a motorcycle, Scott snorted in disgust. It figured she’d fall for someone like that.

  Scott followed him down Venice Boulevard and left on Fairfax. The artist drove a few blocks, then parked his bike in front of an Indian fast-food restaurant. He came out five minutes later with a large paper bag, which he strapped to the back of his bike. So he was bringing her Indian food, a late-night snack at his place before they fucked.

  A nasty, itchy rage ripped across Scott’s chest like a brush fire. He followed the bike up Fairfax—he couldn’t help himself—then to Crescent Heights, across Sunset up into the Hollywood Hills. He had to follow more closely than he wanted because the narrow road twisted as it climbed, but the artist didn’t seem to notice him. The bike turned in to the driveway of a Frank Lloyd Wright knockoff at the top of the hill.

  So she wanted a house. That must be the attraction. He cursed himself. Of course that was why she’d dumped him. Every woman wants a house. Dammit! He was a fucking Realtor. He could’ve gotten her a house without even trying.

  The artist parked his bike underneath an overhang by the garage. Scott pulled up to the curb, leaving the engine running, and unfastened his seat belt. He watched and waited. As the artist pulled off his helmet, Scott leaped out of the car, charged across the driveway, and slugged him on the side of the head. The artist fell backward into some ferns, his eyes wide with terror, covering his head with his arms as Scott kicked his thighs, chest, and stomach. “You leave my girlfriend alone. She’s mine you fucking faggot!”

  The front door swung open. A middle-aged man, muscular and clean-shaven with close-cropped hair, stepped out. “Hey, what’s going on here?” he asked, his voice high-pitched and strained. “Tommy, are you all right?”

  In an instant, Scott realized his mistake. He staggered back, aghast at the blood on his hand, the crumpled figure on the ground, the sweat dripping in rivulets under his jacket, the rank smell of fear seeping from his body.

  He turned and ran back to his car.

  “There are laws against gay bashing, you fucking Nazi!” the artist’s lover yelled.

  Scott’s car was screeching down the hill.

  * * *

  Something was changing in Laura, and she liked it. By altering her routines, she realized how stuck she’d become. She’d forgotten how to see, how to be alive to her surroundings. Now she was developing a new life, trying new activities, finding new friends. She had more energy. Life seemed filled with opportunities. She dashed across parking lots, afraid yet exhilarated, and she thought it must have shown in her face, because people noticed her, regarding her with interest, as if this chance meeting with her might suddenly catapult their lives into a new direction.

  She enjoyed her drawing class so much she signed up for creative writing. She threw herself into it as if making up for lost time. There was a whole world out there of things to do and learn. Just waiting for her.

  She thought about getting a new job, something more challenging, more creative. A woman in her drawing class worked in the marketing department at one of the major movie studios and offered to arrange an interview for her.

  Despite this new feeling of empowerment, she sensed sometimes that she was being watched, a tingling, chilling feeling, as if a light fog surrounded her. It was scary and exciting at the same time. She thought maybe Scott was following her, but she never saw him.

  During her self-defense classes, she continued to break down into tears. She could see that Reggie Brooks, her instructor, was concerned. He worked with her; he didn’t let her stop when she began to cry, his deep voice encouraging her, gently demanding compliance. So, with tears blurring her vision, she kicked and punched until the ache in her muscles usurped her concentration. Fueled by emotion, disciplined by exercise, she learned to let her body instruct her mind.

  One day after class, Reggie asked if there was anything he could do to help. He explained that during the week he was a detective with the LAPD. He was a powerfully built black man; his gravity, bulk, and patience made her feel safe. He seemed very sympathetic. Over ginger tea at a juice bar next door, she told him her story. He offered to give Scott a call, to warn him off. Later, he helped Laura with filing the paperwork for a restraining order.

  That seemed to take care of things, or so she thought.

  Still, she seemed to sense Scott’s presence. Maybe it was only the memory of him, a threat lingering in the imagination, like fear of the ocean after seeing a movie filled with terrifying shark attacks.

  Maybe she missed him.

  * * *

  Many times after work, Scott drove by her house to see if her light was on. If she wasn’t home yet, he parked in the alley and waited.

  As he sat drinking a beer, watching, he remembered that when they first started spending nights together, she wouldn’t sleep in the bed with him; after sex, she would pull a quilt out of the closet and go to sleep on the couch in the living room. She said she couldn’t fall asleep in the same bed with anybody, but after a few months, she began dozing off beside him, and he remembered how warm and happy that made him feel.

  All it took was time and patience, he told himself. He fingered the ring box in the pocket of his jacket, the old leather soft as suede. He’d carried the box with him ever since the dinner at Geoffrey’s, because he knew, when the time was right, she would agree to wear it.

  This was a Friday night; he knew she didn’t have a class. The front house was dark and he figured the sculptor must be out. It got to be ten-thirty, and she still hadn’t shown up. She must be on a date, he guessed, and the more he thought about it, the angrier he got. She’d be sorry if she brought anyone home. The bruises he gave that faggot art teacher were just a warm-up.

  As it got to be around half past eleven, he became worried. He finished his third beer, his last, and wished he had another even though it didn’t taste good to him anymore. Maybe she was already there in the house, injured. Maybe she’d fainted and hit her head, or maybe she’d taken too many sleeping pills and suffocated in her pillow. All at once he felt incredibly anxious, as if crabs were trying to scratch their way out of his stomach.

  Fuck the restraining order. He was going in.

  Just as he was about to flip open the car door, he saw her headlights turn up the alley.

  * * *

  She closed the front door to her apartment, but instead of turning on the lights, she opened the blinds to let in the moonlight. She wanted to savor the magic of the evening, that slightly tipsy feeling after a first date: aroused, knowing he’d been interested, but not yet hot with lust; she was intoxicated with the possibility of desire. It was her first date since she’d broken up with Scott, a blind date set up by a friend from work. At first glance she’d thought she could never be interested in him, but by the end of the evening, aft
er an extended hug which neither of them seemed to be able to break, she was surprised by a powerful attraction.

  She pulled off her clothes, leaving them in a pile on the living room floor, then slid open the glass door to the balcony. The cool ocean breeze played over her naked breasts, neck, and shoulders. It felt both soothing and exciting. Soon she was cold; she walked into the bedroom to get a white T-shirt from under her pillow.

  In the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of iced tea from the refrigerator. She looked out the windows as she sipped her drink, watching the moon glisten on the channel water. She loved the stillness, the ripples, the slow creep of moonlight; it completed her like her mate, as if it were all she needed, this solitude.

  When she walked back into the living room, she noticed the light on her answering machine flashing red. Scott hadn’t called in a while, but she still dreaded listening to her messages. It might be her friend Vivian in New York; Laura had called her earlier about her blind date, and Vivian probably wanted the latest. Laura braced herself, then pressed the play button.

  “This is Stacy”—Laura didn’t know a Stacy—“I’m Kevin’s girlfriend. I want you to know that Kevin and I plan to get married, so you better keep your hands off him. Don’t even think about dating him again, or you’ll be sorry. Find your own fucking boyfriend.”

  Laura shook her head and pressed rewind. A chill passed over her; her heart beat rapidly. The woman’s angry voice shattered her tranquil mood, reverberating in the still night. She felt violated as if she’d been splashed by an SUV racing through a dirty puddle.

  Laura had been warned. Halfway through her date, when they began to realize they liked each other, Kevin mentioned his ex-girlfriend.

  “I tried to let her down easy, but she won’t listen.” He told Laura how Stacy came into the camera store where he worked. “She kind of latched onto me. She’s young and sort of sweet, but she has some real problems. She demanded so much attention. It was too much, you know. I’m not a psychologist or a social worker. She was draining me. So I broke up with her. Does that make me sound terrible?”