Darkansas

by Jarret Middleton

  Jordan followed Malcolm through thick brush at the end of the yard until they passed into the trees. The woods at night were interwoven with the fabric of silence. Malcolm looked at his watch with the flashlight, two minutes to three thirty in the morning. The waxing curve of the moon cast silver through a lattice of trees onto the earthen floor.

  Malcolm spotted a familiar series of mounds and called for his brother to stop. Jordan circled back as Malcolm trained his light on a moldered, overgrown hill. “That’s the entrance to the old mine,” he said. “It was one of three entrances to the Legot system. The tunnels go all the way out to Harrison and Yellville.”

  “Think there’s any way in?” he asked, circling the mound.

  “It collapsed,” said Malcolm.

  They trekked on, timber hushed in twilight. Unknown to them, Cob concealed himself, keeping track of the brothers from behind a tree. They walked until the sky grew wide beyond the last stand of trees and opened onto an overgrown clearing. Jordan and Malcolm crossed into the expanse. With no tree cover, the field was far brighter than the forest, glowing in a mercurial haze. They came to a stop in the middle of the grove and Malcolm saw the bewilderment on his brother’s face. They walked as far as the lone elm hung ancient over the edge of a small pond.

  “I forgot this even existed,” said Jordan. “Thank you.”

  Malcolm crouched at the water’s edge, submerging his palm in the dark pool. “You and everyone else, apparently.”

  Jordan watched Malcolm wash his hand back and forth in the water.

  “Did I ever tell you, I used to have this dream. Had it years ago when I was locked up, been having it again.”

  Malcolm stretched his vision into the dark as Jordan pointed toward the other end of the field.

  “I come out of those trees over there. In front me there is this pervasive light, and shadows move across the stand of trees. Rows have been carved out of the vegetation and from the tree line I can see that they are connected to a maze of narrow pathways. I see a shadow move again, but this time I realize that it’s not a shadow, it’s a figure in a long black dress, harvesting the field. There are more of them, hunched over, their faces covered, using these big scythes to hack back the vegetation. Before I know it, I’m walking in the middle of the field and these women with the scythes begin to surround me. They shuffle up the rows single file with their scythes raised. I run back into the woods, trying to catch my breath.”

  Malcolm was rapt. “So, you get away?”

  “I run all the way to the entrance of the mine, except it’s not covered, it’s wide open, so I go inside. The tunnel is pitch black, I walk with my hands out in front of me. The air grows cold, the shaft begins to descend. I’m scared that I’ve gone too far down the tunnel and I won’t be able to find my way out, so I turn back. When I’m almost to the exit, I hear the women with the scythes coming toward me in the dark. I run back down the mineshaft and fall into a trench. I grab at the soil, but it pulls away in handfuls and I keep sliding. When I stop, I feel around and keep my hand against a dirt wall until it leads to the edge of a set of stairs. These stairs, they go down forever, and I descend into darkness without end.”

  Beneath the low-hanging boughs of the elm, Malcolm stared at their reflections wavering on the surface of the pond. “So, what happens then?”

  “I wake up.”

  TEN

  THE DIM SHAPES OF cars and trucks sulked through the early morning as Malcolm jogged past an auto body shop and dealer of hearths and sheds, both closed. Only the gas station on the corner flurried with workers for whom dawn was the norm.

  He crossed into a wealthy neighborhood where big, nearly identical houses lined both sides of the street. A young woman loaded children into a Volvo wagon. A Rottweiler clawed the dirt along the worn pickets of a fence, his bark pleading for Malcolm’s recognition. He sank in the solace of headphones, trotting through sprawling streets of homes with dozens of decorative rooms, vaulted atriums of glass, vibrant, manicured lawns, and the occasional pool glistening behind a private gate. Only the barely rich would cover entire houses in lavender and lime, neon monstrosities that protested the pallid pallet of an Ozark morning.

  A gold SUV slowed beside Malcolm and lowered the passenger window. “Hey there, stranger.” A dark-haired man craned to get a good look at Malcolm as they crept up the road. “Malcolm,” he said. “It’s Ben Ringgold.”

  Malcolm was slow to recognize his old boss. He removed his earbuds and leaned on the window.

  “Sorry. Took me a minute,” Malcolm said with an artificial inflection.

  “Happens to me all the time,” Ben said. “How the hell are you? Back in the old neighborhood, I see.”

  “So it seems. Actually, I’m getting married.”

  “Get out,” he yelled. “Maybe I knew that. Martha handles the mail, she must have the invitation somewhere.”

  Malcolm stretched as he stood in place, bending back each of his legs at the knee. “Yeah, I don’t know. I’m like you, that’s Elizabeth’s department.”

  “I live just up the hill. I’m sure you don’t want to jog all that way,” he said, popping the automatic lock. “What do you say? We’ll get you some lemonade, a chance to catch up.”

  Morning glowed through the portico of the Ringgold house. Malcolm tracked in sand and pine needles on the heels of his running shoes, and no matter how lightly he stepped, his rubber soles squeaked on the polished tile. He sat on the soft gold couch at the center of a vast living room. Ben told him to make himself comfortable then hurried toward him in a panic, pushing Malcolm’s back that was soaked with sweat, cautioning him not to lean against the delicate fabric. He went in the front room and returned with a bottle of Evian and a towel. Malcolm dried himself and sat forward in an awkward position.

  The fat skin on Ringgold’s cheeks turned an embarrassing red as though a secret of his had been exposed. Malcolm did his best to appear at ease, even though he sat bewildered by the bizarre occurrence of their chance meeting. Ringgold’s incessant talking was interrupted by the television’s constant flow and the echoing pangs of the big, bright room. He recounted the years since they had last seen each other and it became clear they had nothing in common besides the two years Malcolm worked for Ben out of high school. Malcolm was indifferent, but as they continued to talk, he was overcome by a subtle, creeping sense of shame, unable to escape the notion that this would be his life in the not-too-distant future. Without ever noticing, Malcolm’s life had gradually grown devoid of any activity not centered on money. All his time and interests were accounted for and he had not considered how nominal and one-dimensional any of it was until he came face to face with the ephemera of his future prison. He did not like what he saw.

  The door from the garage cracked shut and Ben’s wife came in with two armfuls of bags. Dyed blonde hair pulled back, she scampered in pink yoga pants across the tiled floor onto the carpet in the living room. Her bony frame slid in loose-fitting skin.

  “Ben, dear,” she crowed. “You didn’t tell me we had a guest.”

  “He’s derelict, honey. I picked him up off the street.” Ben winked. “Please, take pity on the boy.”

  Malcolm put out his hand and Martha Ringgold examined him with a sidelong stare.

  “If it’s not little Malcolm Bayne,” she exclaimed. “My God, sugar, look at you all grown up.” She stepped back before rushing up and pressing her chest against him.

  The phone rang and Ben stepped out to take the call in his home office, sliding the oak door closed behind him. Martha returned from the kitchen with two fogged glasses of Myers’s and lemonade. She handed Malcolm his and let her manicured fingers fall inside his thigh. She grazed her hand in a small circle and pursed her waxy lips. “You were just the freshest little thing when you worked for us all them years ago. I wanted so bad to taste that juice when it was still young and sweet. Suppose you think that’s silly.”

  “You know I am back here to get married,” he said. />
  “Who cares about a thing like that? I’ll let you in on a little secret,” she whispered. “It just makes it even better.”

  Martha’s eyes went white with pleasure. She took the contour of Malcolm’s crotch in her grip. Malcolm tossed her hand aside and shot to his feet, flustered. Beneath her illicit, ill-timed advance lurked a deep loneliness that pulled anything it could toward it. A sickness hit Malcolm like an aftershock. This chance visit with his old boss and his wife was on the verge of disgrace, catalyzing in the one sip of lemonade and rum burning at the top of Malcolm’s stomach. He found his coat in the foyer and flew out the front door.

  Jordan’s truck cut through traffic until buildings and cars lessened between mile markers and swatches of pine on the way to Mountain Home, where his Uncle Jacob lived, twenty minutes outside of town. He made a right onto a dirt road that snaked midway up a bluff. As he watched the numbers on rusted mailboxes tick upward, the subtle gnaw of nervousness crept over him. He had worked it over in his head the whole drive and was worried Jake would refuse to speak to him, suspecting an ulterior motive. What was there to say to an uncle he had not seen for half his life?

  Tires snapped to a stop on the gravel in front of a small white house with blue shutters. Jordan killed the engine and stared at the front door, almost not realizing he had arrived until he saw Jacob slumped in the narrow doorway.

  He stood taller than Walker, his black hair combed back, falling behind one ear. His heavy eyes and grim mouth consternated at the sight of the unexpected visitor as he hoofed down the concrete steps and stood in front of the truck. Jacob relaxed his posture when he recognized Jordan. He went back inside and Jordan followed.

  “Wouldn’t mind skippin’ the niceties, if it’s all the same to you,” Jacob said.

  Jordan sat in a chair and let out some nervous air, afraid the opportunity to talk was already dwindling. “I suppose you are wondering why—”

  “Why you’re sinking into my leather?” Jacob cut him off. “As a matter of fact, I am a bit curious.”

  “I been gone a while, Jake, and I ain’t seen you in twice as long. I came home for Malcolm’s wedding,” Jordan said.

  “Your brother’s getting married?” he asked. “The time does go.”

  Jordan agreed. “Anyway, I’ve been noticing things, learning about our family. There is a lot I was never aware of, and, you know, I been thinking—”

  “Get on with it,” Jacob insisted.

  “Why don’t you and my father talk anymore?”

  Jake snickered and sat up straight on the edge of his chair, rubbing the flats of his palms together, gathering a notion. “He never told you?”

  Jordan shook his head.

  “Maybe you should ask him, then. Last I want to do is dig up what’s long been dead.”

  The massive head of a trophy buck jutted from the wall behind Jacob, its face still frozen between the terror of Jacob’s bullet and the resignation of death.

  “We were hunting,” Jacob started. “Me, your dad, and your grandfather, Maurel. We were in a valley on the southeastern edge of the Boston Mountains. I hit one the first night, we dressed her there in the field and and then threw her on the fire for dinner. We was all sipping off rye—that was your grandpa’s drink. He was first to turn in. I tamped the fire and remember your father talking about the constellation Orion. That’s you, he told me, the hunter. I went off to sleep while your father gathered garbage from around the campsite and stored it in a sack with the trimmings from the deer. Next I know, our father’s screaming in his tent. When I got to him, the tent was torn to shreds. I crawled inside and found him soaking in a bag of his own blood. He had been mauled by a brown bear. Your dad ran up, panicked. We cleaned Maurel’s wounds with whiskey and river water, then bandaged him up. He had lost so much blood and we were hours from a hospital. I fashioned a gurney from one of the tents and we carried him on it a few miles until we got back to my truck. Before we left, I saw the bag of garbage ripped open back at the site. Your dad left it out. That’s what drew the bear into our camp.” Jacob bared his teeth, blinking as though there was something wrong with his eyes. “I was furious. We drove for over an hour before dad started to seize. There was nothing to be done, so Walker climbed into the back seat and put him out of his misery. We brought his body back to your house,” he said coldly.

  “We tried for a while after to pretend that none of it happened the way it did, but I couldn’t even look him in the eye. Pa’s death opened an abyss between us that neither of us could face, so we went our separate ways. No matter how much your father apologized, no matter what remorse or recompense he gave, I just thought it would never be enough, considering what he had taken from me.” Jacob fell silent, considering his words before he continued on. “I am a man of faith, Jordan, so I am confident a man such as Maurel Bayne got to where he was supposed to be going. There are some things, though, that cannot be forgiven, no matter how hard we try. Pray to God you never find out what they are.”

  Jordan used to play music in Springfield, just over the Missouri border. It was a small college city with a rich musical history. He had played a lot of the bars in town, but his favorite was a spot called Tim’s, and that’s exactly where he was headed. He called Leah on the drive, but she didn’t pick up. So he called Georgia, an ex-girlfriend from Springfield, who agreed to meet him at Tim’s at eight o’clock that night.

  Georgia was a small, fiery brunette. In the years Jordan had seen her, they proved to be exceedingly dangerous for each other, a match tossed in a pool of gasoline. When they drank to excess, which was always, they laid a trail of wreckage from bar to bar that followed the same pattern of beer, whiskey, weed, and pills, landing them in a cheap motel room. Then the real drinking began, the kind functioning human beings don’t know exists, solely the trade of the violent, depressed, and insane. A hatch would open inside of Jordan and a black hose would snake straight out of his gut, ravenous for something to drink, someone to hate, ready to devour. This went on for years, undisturbed.

  Jordan had thrown Georgia out with the bathwater, while she went on her own way. Now they sat across from each other, watching people stroll past the window at Tim’s. Vodka softened Georgia’s voice as she filled Jordan in about an abusive boyfriend and their disastrous move to Orlando. That stretch of misery lasted for two irrevocable years before she split in the forty-eight hours that Salvador, that was his name, sat in lockup for hocking hydrocodone to despondent teenagers and dopesick mothers. She moved back to Springfield and began bartending, a gig she didn’t mind so much compared to the horror show that was her life in Florida. She said the Ozarks were easy to leave and even easier to come back to, which Jordan seconded. When Georgia’s mother died, she got the house. “The only gift she ever gave me,” she said, rolling her midnight eyes.

  “Except life,” Jordan said. “She did give you that.”

  “Oh, beautiful boy,” she said. “How I missed you.”

  On the cab ride back to her house, Georgia put her thick cotton lips on Jordan’s and they enveloped each other with unthinking force. She pulled a bottle from the bottom cabinet in her kitchen, poured a bourbon over ice and handed it to him, then knelt and undid his belt. Georgia searched for Jordan’s hands, which she drew up behind her ruminating head. She interlocked her fingers with his, then shoved her mouth down on his length. His bones shattered with relief. He continued with the force she had introduced and grabbed her by a handful of hair and led her to the couch. Georgia knelt on all fours and pushed her eyes closed in the cushions. Jordan tore his shirt from overhead and saw himself, an opaque animal reflected in the window, where he watched Georgia’s eyes go blank and mouth contort as he spread her flesh to each side and slid.

  He woke later, tangled in skin and blankets, too late to return home and far too late to meet Leah, if she’d come after all. He kept going over the story Jacob had told him about the bear. There was something essential that he felt he was approaching, but it was still so
far away. The truth had been broken into so many pieces that no single picture might ever emerge. Jordan got up and splashed more whiskey in his watered glass, then stood at the window, watching the lights of the city glow in twilit slumber.

  ELEVEN

  1907—THE HOLY SPIRIT

  The devout congregation of Divine Light Ministries heaved a tent pole under a flapping canvas that they cranked into place and roped to the ground. The men and their sons wore straw hats and rolled their striped sleeves while women of every age focused on the sanctimony of their task with uniformly grim consternation, their flowery dresses billowed by the wind.

  Not long after he crossed the dried river delta and caught the ferryboat to Mississippi, Zuriel Bayne witnessed the transmutation of divine spirits and the rapture of human bodies pulled straight into the air and back down again by a cause none other than the holy word of God. From then on his mind, body, and soul burned with the fire of Pentecost. Zuriel left sharecropping the family farm and dedicated his efforts to the revival of Charles Parham, a dashing dark-haired preacher who had made a name for himself on the backs of snakes and song. Zuriel joined other followers who, like him, had left all they knew in order to spread the Word wherever it could be heard, mostly in the empty lots and railroad stops of southern towns.

  Zuriel’s wife Eleanora began receiving grainy postcards of their tent staked in some rural field, the notes on the back written in her husband’s telling scrawl. Zuriel missed her something awful, lying on his cot finished with the day’s work, only scripture, he told her, able to rid him of the lovesick pain that speared his heart. Even the good book did not always work as intended. As time wore on, elaborate letters replaced those forlorn notes and any mention of her was relegated to Eleanora, you must witness the spectacle I have helped to create, or, These people are sick and their contagion is fear. They are plagued by nothing more than their own impermanence! How do they not see that they live forever in Christ? Demons have their sights set on the righteous. Many have already earned their way into the purest of hearts. He disparaged every aspect of modern life in long, unbroken tracts—lust and vice, drink, tobacco, false idols, and religions. He sent one letter that was entirely about electricity. We are opening ourselves up to attack, he warned her. They are coming through the wires. The irrational turned irate, his anger devolved to hatred. Eleanora watched as the same inert force that caused the fragile to go insane consumed her husband until she dropped his last letter in disgust, unable to recognize the man who was speaking.