Into the Darkness (12 page)

Once I had begun working in our store and because of how busy it became during the summer months, I rarely spent a whole day enjoying the weather like this anyway, I told myself when I started to feel sorry for myself for spending my day alone. We had to stay open seven days a week during June, July, and August and half of September. The quaintness of the town, the nearby streams that invited fishermen, and its location along one of the more scenic routes for anyone exploring the Northwest made it a lucrative little stopover community. Dad’s specialized jewelry creations had built us a reputation that was spreading because of our Web site. Demand for some of his pieces kept him working longer and harder than he had ever imagined but also permitted him to raise prices. I couldn’t help but be as proud of him as Mom was.

What did I have to do to make my life, and therefore theirs, happier? Should I simply overcome my inhibitions, put aside whatever high goals I had set for myself, let go, and be more like the girls who were popular? Who set the height of the bar for misbehavior, anyway? I often overheard my parents’ friends, parents of my classmates, laughingly admit to their own indiscretions, remarking on how it was a miracle they hadn’t gotten in serious trouble for this or that. How often I had heard one of them say, “I hope my kids never do half of what I did.”

What did you do?
I wanted to ask.
How did you get away with it? How do you live with it now? How could you condemn your children for doing things that weren’t quite as bad then?
Was the whole world a sponge, constantly absorbing hypocrisy and growing fatter and fatter on lies and deceit? We weren’t a very religious family,
but I couldn’t help but wonder about the scale that was used at the door of heaven, the one that weighed all your good deeds against your bad ones, all your charity against your selfishness, all your kindness against your meanness, and all your love against all your hate. How rare it must be for the good side to outweigh the bad, I thought. Maybe heaven was still populated only with angels.

I really wasn’t worrying about getting into heaven. That wasn’t my problem. What was my problem, then? If I asked myself that one more time, I would probably have the record for repeating the same words. I returned to my book, but the words seemed to float off the page, and my eyes flicked from side to side to bring them back.

“Still feeling sorry for yourself?” I heard, and spun around to see Brayden standing behind me on the patio.

“You really enjoy sneaking up on people, don’t you?”

He smiled and came forward. “Did you ever notice that when someone thinks no one is around, he or she can’t help but be honest?”

“What? I don’t understand. Honest to whom if there’s no one around?”

“To themselves. They can’t help but reveal their thoughts, the truth inside them. As soon as we confront someone, the old defenses go up, the walls rise, the lies get dressed to come onstage, and before long, you’re talking to someone else, a costume, an empty suit of armor.”

“No, I didn’t notice all that,” I said dryly. “But I haven’t traveled all over the world and met all these sophisticated people, either. Most of all, I don’t have the power to read people’s minds.”

He laughed. “Sure you do.”

“Is that right? How come you know more about me than I know about myself?”

“You know it. You haven’t admitted it or faced up to it all yet, but you will.”

“Don’t you get tired of being a prophet?”

“To be honest . . . yes,” he said unexpectedly. “Mind?” He sat at the edge of my chaise.

This time, I couldn’t help it. I had to ask. “Don’t you have more than one shirt to wear? Besides, it’s warmer today.”

“Oh, it’s a fresh shirt. I have about a dozen of these.”

“You like dressing the same way every day?”

“Remember Thoreau’s warning: ‘Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.’”

“Just dressing differently from day to day isn’t a new enterprise.”

He widened that impish smile. “I do make slight changes. Today, I left the top two buttons undone. Yesterday, it was only one.”

“Very funny.”

“Day off?”

“Yes. I don’t take them often during the summer, but my parents are employing someone part-time who needs a little financial help, and they didn’t need me, too.”

“That’s quite considerate. I guess they’re very nice people.”

“You can find out by meeting them.”

“I can find out through you. What’s that old saying, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree?”

“So, your parents wear the same things every day and sneak around?”

He laughed again and then just looked at me.

“What?” I said.

“I wish we had moved here last year and I had met you then.”

“Why?”

“I would have insisted on staying. In fact, I would have chained myself to the door.”

I smiled, shook my head, and looked away, because I felt something happening inside me that I had never felt as strongly, a stirring not only in my breasts but deeper, in my heart, a warmth that trickled down my body, into my legs, softening me and in the process waking every cell in my body, giving me the feeling that I was starting to glow inside. I was embarrassed, fearful that he would see it quickly. For some reason, there was also a part of me that wanted to keep this feeling secret for as long as possible. I suppose it was like showing your hand too early and doing what he had described, dropping your defenses and opening yourself up completely. Something always told me that was a dangerous thing to do too soon.

But there was also another feeling here, something I didn’t understand. Some sort of an alarm was sounding, but it was a different kind of warning. I wasn’t being warned against doing something sexual, or simply revealing too many of the secrets that every girl wants kept sacrosanct. It was a shriller sound, a sound coming from someplace I rarely touched inside myself. It was as if my very life force trembled.

I looked at him. How could he be dangerous to me in any way? He had such a gentle face and spoke so softly. The most aggressive thing he had done so far was reach
for my hand in the darkness when we walked. If anything, he looked alone and lost and far more vulnerable than I imagined I was.

“Now you’re here. Chain yourself to the door. It’s not too late, is it?”

“I don’t think about it anymore,” he said. “I feel . . .”

“What?” I asked, holding my breath. I could sense that he was going to let down his defenses and finally tell me something really important about himself.

“I feel like things are no longer under my control.”

He looked out at the woods. I didn’t move, didn’t utter a sound, and kept holding my breath. Was he really going to start telling me something significant about himself, stop holding back?

“I used to be so confident about myself,” he continued, “but it’s as if I were vulnerable to any devilish wind. I feel like I’m a sort of surprised victim all the time, a child of circumstance. My choice is either stand still and be pushed or dragged along, or move a little faster than events but not change direction. Can’t do that.”

“I can understand that,” I said.

“Can you?” He turned to me. “Why? What makes you so wise all of a sudden?” He didn’t sound offended, just curious.

“Well, look at your life. I mean, you’re taking care of your sick mother, and your father, from the way you describe him, seems oblivious to everything. It’s as if you have no choices for yourself anymore. All of the responsibilities have fallen on you, and you’re too young for that to have happened. Despite how wise you pretend to be,” I added.

“Very good analysis,” he said, sounding like a teacher again. There was no emotion, no appreciation, just a factual reaction. I felt my neck stiffen.

“I’m glad you approve. I expect an A plus.”

He laughed. “I can see why most boys would have a hard time with you.”

“Oh, really. Why is that?” Now I was really curious. Could he answer the question I kept asking myself?

“Your pride. Did you ever notice how easily most of the girls you know are manipulated? They’ll change their clothes, their hairstyles, give up friends, and finally give up whatever morals they once cherished if it all meant having Mr. Perfect. But not Amber Taylor. You don’t compromise; you don’t make concessions. You’re one of those take-me-or-leave-me girls. Rare, I admit, but they’re out there. And here,” he added, nodding at my house.

“Really,” I said dryly. “You ought to be writing a young-romance love column.”

“I would, but I fear I would waste my time. Remember, none are so blind as those who will not see.”

“You’re a walking book of wisdom.”

“It’s a terrible burden,” he said. He didn’t smile. Then he looked at the woods again. I thought that the silence that had fallen between us was as solid as a stone wall and that he’d just get up and retreat as usual, but he surprised me. “You have a pretty neat stream about a half mile in.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“First I heard it and then went looking for it. I mean, that’s clear, cool water. I think of rivers and streams as
being like veins and arteries keeping the earth healthy and alive. So much is getting polluted, so when you see one like the one back here, you can’t help but enjoy it. Do you go there often?”

“Hardly ever. My father occasionally fished in it, but he hasn’t for some time.”

“You want to take a walk now?”

I looked toward his house. “You can get away?”

“Yes, she’s asleep. She’ll sleep for hours. It’s the medication. That’s why she’s up so much at night.”

“It can’t go on like this forever, can it?”

“No. And it won’t,” he said. Then he smiled and stood up. “So, what do you say?”

“I should change.”

“Just wrap your towel around yourself,” he suggested. “It’s not cold, even in the woods.”

I nodded and stood up, and we started slowly toward the woods.

“How could you hear that stream from your house? I can’t hear it from mine.”

“I was just exploring our backyard and went farther and farther until I did hear it. When I found it, there was a beautiful blacktail deer drinking out of it. He looked up at me, flicked his ears, and then finished drinking before sauntering off with total indifference. Maybe we’ll see another.”

Just as he did the night we went to the lake, he led the way, finding a path through the woods as if he had been living here for years.

“Hear the stream?” he asked after we had walked for about five minutes.

We stopped, and I listened. I did hear it. “Yes.”

“Nice sound, isn’t it? It’s like the sound of . . . life, rich, healthy life, uncluttered, undistorted, pure.”

“You sure you’re from this planet?”

He laughed. “I was never sure about that.”

He walked on. I followed slowly. No one I knew my age or even somewhat older talked the way he did, sounded so wise and
settled
. I think that was the word, the feeling he gave me. It was as if despite the chaos in his life, he had found a comfortable, safe place, a place where he could live without fear and without pain and be as contented as an elderly man rocking on his front porch and reliving the happier memories of his life.

“Were you always into nature like this?” I asked.

“Thoreau and nature? I grew into it, yes. Where else could a loner like me go? Did you ever notice how many animals are really alone? I mean, they’re together with their mother for a while, and then, if their mother has done a proper job, they can go off and survive without her, right?” He laughed again.

“What?” I asked.

“My father says that’s a major difference between us and lower animals. Our offspring, especially in today’s world, cling harder and longer to the nest. We’re raising a generation of weaklings, he says.” He turned to look at me and my reaction. “What do you think?”

“I don’t mean to disagree with your brilliant father, but I don’t think you can generalize like that,” I offered. “My father clung to his nest and made it bigger and more successful.”

“Very good. Oops, sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like a teacher again.”

“Something tells me you can’t help yourself,” I said, and he really laughed.

“You’ve got me pegged right.”

“The question is, can I change you?”

He paused and glanced at me. “I wish you could,” he said. “I’d like that very much.”

“Well, don’t hold your breath. I’m no miracle worker.”

He had another burst of laughter and then looked up at a tall tree and reached for my hand as if he had eyes in the back of his head. He took my fingers softly and pulled me gently up to him. “Check this out,” he whispered, still looking up.

“What?”

“Concentrate. See the nest. Just keep your eyes on it.”

I did, and then I thought I saw what looked like a tiny snowball peer over the nest and down at us. “What is it?”

“Bald eagles. Probably a few weeks old. They usually nest near water, feed on fish.”

“Oh. I’ve never seen a bald eagle.”

He looked skeptical.

“I mean, maybe I have, but I didn’t know it.”

“They’re still endangered, but up here you should see a few.”

“It’s really more and more like you’re the one who’s lived here for years and I’ve just arrived,” I said.

“Some of us just take longer to find home.”

“Thanks a lot. Now I’m a slow learner.”

“Hardly,” he said.

We kept walking until we reached the stream. It looked wider and ran faster than it had the few other times I had been there with my father.

“Don’t move,” he said as I started a little forward. I froze. “Watch that heavy brush about fifty feet down.”

“Why?”

“Just watch,” he whispered again, and a few moments later, a small blacktail deer stepped out and up to the stream to drink.

“Oh, how beautiful,” I said.

“You live in quite a little wonderland.”

“How did you know she would be there?”

“I saw the movement in the brush.”

The deer heard us and looked our way. It just stood there for a while and then turned and went back into the woods. Brayden lowered himself to a large boulder and looked up at me. I sat beside him.