Dark That Day, After All

Dark That Day, After All

  A story by

  Jason McIntyre

 

  Dark That Day, After All

  is excerpted from the anthology

  Black Light of Day by Jason McIntyre

 

  Published by &

  Copyright © 2011 Jason McIntyre

  Fiction titles by Jason McIntyre:

  On The Gathering Storm

  Shed

  Thalo Blue

  Black Light of Day

  Bled

  Days Gone By

  Walkout

  Learn more about the author and his work at:

  www.theFarthestReaches.com

 

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

 

  Jarvis Schloss shuffled toward the empty half of a wood and iron park bench next to another elderly man who sat and stared—either out at the green grass and the children playing or up at the partially clouded blue dome and the tree tops, Jarvis wasn’t sure which. Both of them wore those square, oversized, jet-black shades of the senior set. They wrapped around their foreheads to their temples blocking out any chance of seeing the whites of their eyes, except someone else’s that might be reflected back at them in the stark black plastic.

  Jarvis nodded to the other. “G’day,” he said. “Decent skies for watchin’.”

  “Uh-yuh. S’pose so,” the other man lazily agreed, not turning to look at Jarvis who bent down, creakily, to occupy the second half of his park bench. He leaned his copper-coloured, ergonomic cane against the iron arm rest, faded and speckled with chipped black paint.

  “Ouch. Goddamn,” said Jarvis. His ass felt a tiny, drawing stab as he sat.

  “What?” the other man grunted, turning no less than one degree in Jarvis’ direction.

  “These damn benches. They need to give ‘em a sanding in the spring. And a drop of oil. Snagged my trousers. N’ damn near pricked my prick.”

  “Say what?” the other man craned a touch, as if he’d had bad ears.

  “Caught a sliver in m’rump. Did so. Have to see when I get home if it wrecked m’new trouserpants.”

  The small stick of pain in his behind faded and Jarvis’s temper settled with the distance of a few moments in time. He took a long, thick-lunged sigh. He looked out at what the other man saw and decided he must be waiting for the same thing as everyone else. Cars were beginning to arrive and park along the street at the adjacent end of the park. Here, the bench and the two old, slope-shouldered men sat before the naturally treed portion of the park. In the meandering grasses, Jarvis saw that families were throwing down checkered blankets on the lawn and claiming the scattered wooden picnic tables. It would begin soon.

  “I’m sure your pants’ll be fine, y’old pickled mongrel,” the other man said, with a tilted smile and a slight guffaw. And Jarvis actually chuckled himself.

  “Yuh. Suppose a man at my age should feel better about things if I can even get out and about. Even a prick in the johnson wouldn’t be s’ bad. Not at my age. Won’t ever use the damn thing, anyway, ‘cept to try and squeeze a few drops of lemon juice on the juniper bushes every now and again. Even that, as they say, ain’t what she used ta be.”

  “We both have plenty to be thankful for, I’m sure,” said the other.

  “Were you ‘round these parts the last time?” Jarvis asked, cocking his head towards the other white haired old codger, both of them in nearly identical tan wind breakers and long dress slacks with slip-on loafers.

  “Uh-yuh. I Was. You?”

  “Indeed I was, ol’ feller. Indeed I was. Remember it like it was yesterday.”

  “That so? Workin’ man back then?” the other man asked. “What year was it? 1954?”

  Jarvis, as many of his age are prone to do when given even the slightest provocation, began his story in earnest. A younger man wouldn’t have heard the whole thing. This other old fellow might not hear it, either—not if his hearing aids weren’t turned up—but Jarvis knew he probably wouldn’t up and leave in the middle.

 

  For certain. 1954 it was. Late spring. And no. Like most men around here between 1953 and 1955 or so I wasn’t a working man. Had a daughter to feed and no wife. Not anymore. Died the year before with our son. Birthing problems. They say it wasn’t so common in the sixties. But it was common enough for me, thank you very much.

  She’d gone up to heaven with our boy—least, that’s what I told Gemmy—and I had been booted from my route at the delivery company. But I was always a resourceful sort—still am—and I made my way, best I could. You know what I’m talkin’ bout.

  Most men around here were laid off from either the mines or the pulp processor, both o’ them closed down in those years o’ course, but if you’re from around here, and as old as me, you prolly know that. I was fighting with them fellers to get any jobs that came up. And there weren’t many, let me tell ya. It wasn’t that they were hungrier. Just more sympathetic s’all. They’d been in the papers. Me, I’d just been a sideways casualty, one of the folks put out by industries that relied on either the pulp or the coal.

  To managers, I was in need, but not badly in need. I hated that.

  I’d been getting by with odd jobs, fix-it stuff mostly, but by spring, four hundred in savings had dried up and the rent was due. We had a place over in Medlin, little place, south of here by two hours drive. Well, two hours nowadays. Back in ‘54, prolly woulda been closer to four.

  Anyway. Medlin overlooks Lake Williton, that big mother, and in ‘54 it wasn’t yet polluted up the wazoo. I think the pulp mill poured their nasty shit into the creek that went down the other way so the Williton was still green and blue and beautiful to look at. Big as the eye could see. On a slightly hazy day at the horizon, Ol’ Willi looked like the ocean, it went so far. They had this big proper boardwalk in Medlin then, just like out in Atlantic City. This wide thing where you could walk and run and get a hot dog. The gulls, who knows where they came from, would cry and you could step right off it at points where the railing let out and right down onto the sand of the beach. It was clean then too.

  So people had started to gather in a particular good watchin’ spot. It was in front of the old hotel which is gone now, I think. Whole stretch is gone now. New hotels and a pile of them condominiums. Monthly fees eat up damn near every quarter a man gets in pension, now doesn’t it?

  Don’t answer that. I know you know what I’m talking about. Everyone nickel-and-dimin’ us these days. There’s a fee for goddamn everything.

  ‘T wasn’t quite that bad yet. In ’54. On that beautiful wooden boardwalk. I was peering between the cracks, looking for loose change and saw this bee-you-tiful gal strutting along. She was heading for the gathering spot too, all by her lonesome. Eating cotton candy. Vendors were having a heyday. The boardwalk out in Medlin was probably the best place in all the townships to do watchin’ that day.

  So. Yuh. I did notice her legs and her looks but I also noticed her purse. Big round one. And she was wearing diamond earrings. She had money. And on that day, I had none.

  I’d done some of the petty stuff. You know as well as I do what men did in those days to survive. Workman’s comp was a thing of the future and you just, well, you just did what you had to do. Things worked out. And way’s I see
it, if I took from some woman well off enough to wear those diamonds on her ears in the middle of the day, well, she could afford to lend a little.

  I was beaten. One more week, the landlord had told me that morning. One more goddamn week he’d give me. Then Gemmy and me’d be out. He was sorry, but if we didn’t come up with at least a hundred, we’d be kickin’ apples, as they say. He had his payments and mine fed his.

  Well, the sky started getting dark. Weirdest thing to see in the middle of the afternoon. And she, like everyone gathered at the watchin’ spot, held up one of those paper boxes to her eyes and started staring up at the sky, taking bites of that pink cotton candy, using her other hand to twirl the pink cloud. Her lips were the same colour as the damn cloud candy in her hand on the paper tube.

  I thought she’d be the kinda gal I’d date if I didn’t have a daughter, if I didn’t reek of the sweat of last week’s clothes I hadn’t washed because the machines in our building took coins I didn’t have.

  When the sky was at its darkest, I couldn’t wait any longer. The eclipse was on and everyone in the crowd was murmuring to their lovers, their partners, their wives.

  I went for missy’s big round bag.

  And I got it.

  But she held fast. Her reaction time was almost better than mine. How could she have seen me coming, I thought, with that big stupid box over her eyes and looking at the moon covering the sun.

  She dropped her box and the candy and suddenly gripped the leather bag with both her hands. I did the same.

  And we struggled, I went over the edge, breaking three spindles of the wooden railing. She came with me, both of us holding onto that bag. I was hungrier. I needed it more. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t just let it go. Diner’s card, birth certificate, whatever, it could all be replaced for her.

  This is when Deputy Dog—some idiot I’d never seen before—climbed into the ring. He came over the side of the boardwalk too, down the six or seven feet to the sand below. The sky was still darkening and I heard the gasps and confusion of the onlookers. I wondered if it was still dark enough to kill their eyewitness accounts later on. I counted on human nature to guarantee that most of them still had their viewing boxes over their eyes when we went over the side, too interested in the eclipse, or too disinterested in the misfortunes of their fellow man to pay us much heed.

  Deputy Dog shouted at me to let go o’ the purse. I wouldn’t. The three of us were fighting over the damned thing then. She got an elbow in the face. His or mine, I’m not sure. But she went down with a hand to her mouth. It was so dark. And, back then, the streetlights weren’t triggered by darkness like they are now. They were off because they had to be switched on by town maintenance men, every night at dusk. No one had thought to do it for an eclipse in the middle of the afternoon.

  Deputy Dog. He was a big man, bigger than me. But I wanted it more. I was hungrier, goddammit. He was just trying to help out a pretty lady, hoping she’d pay him back later on.

  I gave a good tug and finally got hold of the purse, out of his hands. Then I got ‘im square in the face. A good one. He went backwards and I gave a good stomp behind one of his knee caps with my hard shoe. Crippled him for the moment and he screamed.

  The woman, she was back on top of me now and I threw her down. I gave her a few good kicks and wondered why Deputy Dog had given up so easily. I saw him in the blackness, out on the dirty sand, one arm outstretched at me, eyes squinting and tears rolling down his cheeks. He was puffing loud—really loud, like the pain of his leg was too much. Just watching us with that one arm reaching for me, but not moving. He looked like he was just gazing at the eclipse.

  It was starting to light. Just a little bit. I heard more commotion on the boardwalk above but only saw darkened faces peering over. No one else had come to the rescue. Only one damned Deputy Dog.

  I ran. I ran with that purse and never looked back.

  There was more jewelry in that purse. Lots more. With the cash, and its value pawned across the townships, I had enough for Gemmy and me to keep steady. I found work at the end of the summer, doing harvest labour. I got back on my feet. By 1960, Gemmy and me bought a house.

 

  “I remember the eclipse of ’64 too, ol’ mongrel,” the other man finally said. The groups and families in the grass and out at the picnic tables were all looking up at the darkening sky now. They each had expensive dark wraparound sunglasses or plastic view boxes or some kind of contraption held up to their eyes. While Jarvis had told his tale of thievery from years gone by, the sky here, over the trees and the park bench had been darkening too. Today’s solar eclipse was near its peak.

  The man who’d been listening intently had interjected the odd, “oh?” and “‘s ’at so?” but didn’t add much beyond that to the other old man’s story. He could tell that Jarvis Schloss had been carrying that tale around for a good long while and either needed to unload it or wanted to brag about it.

  “Mongrel—?” Jarvis said, finally flickering away from his memories of Medlin in the spring of 1954 and how that purse had saved his and his daughter’s life by 1960.

  “Relax, ol’ timer. Just an expression. I should introduce myself.”

  Jarvis turned and put out his hand, as men of that age and gentry did nearly automatically.

  The other man turned slightly, toward Jarvis with a stiff neck—rheumatoid arthritis, maybe. He took Jarvis’s outstretched hand and said, “I’m Deputy Dog.”

 

  Jarvis’ face went stark behind his shades. They were a black bar on a white sheet.

  “You ever lovin’ rat bastard!” He put his hand on the iron arm rest of the bench and reached for his cane with the other, tipping it with a shaky set of fingers and sending its handle to the ground with a tinkle of aluminum in the grass and mixed gravel. But he couldn’t get his legs up under him. Damn knees.

  “Don’t bother going yet, ol’ mongrel,” said the other man—Deputy Dog. “Just don’t bother. I stabbed you with something that will keep most of you numb for at least forty-five minutes. Jarvis remembered the tiny, sharp prick in his trousers when he had sat down on the bench.

  “How’s Gemmy?” Deputy Dog said then, a strange smile on him.

  “Wha?” said Jarvis, his tired old mind misfiring on what exactly was going on here. “Well, she’s fine—”

  “—Good. I had a daughter too. And I had two sons before the day of the eclipse in 1954. Mert became an anesthesiologist—you can thank him for putting that tiny pinprick in your trousers—and Marty, well, he was an optometric surgeon, one of the best in the country ‘til he retired few years back. Cuts up people’s eyes, if you didn’t know what an ‘optometric surgeon’ is. By your speech, I could tell you aren’t all that educated. You damned mongrel.”

  Jarvis could not move. He felt numbness in his ass, like when he’d fallen asleep in the tub or on the john. It was seeping down his thighs now too. His hands were shaking, more than usual.

  Deputy Dog finally turned fully toward Jarvis Schloss and raised his black sunglasses in the dark. Speaking of the solar eclipse in the sky over their heads, he said, “Don’t worry about me. My eyes are already gone.” And sure enough, when Jarvis saw the other man’s eyes under the dark glasses, they were milky white with creamy yellow stains roving around on them. Two dead stars since that spring 1954.

  Deputy Dog said more: “Now shut up and listen.”

 

  I saw what you were meaning to do. Saw you in the dark eyeing that girl’s handbag out on the boardwalk at Medlin, you thieving piece of no-good trash. My eyes were good back then, sharp as an eagle’s, even in the growing dark. I gave her a shove and it must have been enough to clue her in and she grabbed tighter onto her purse.

  But, boy, you mongrel, you didn’t give up. Thought you deserved it, I guess.

  Over the two of you went and I went with you. I don’t know what I was thinking—that a dirty mongrel like you
shouldn’t be able to just take what you want because you were hard up. We all were in those days.

  What gave you the right to take someone else’s hard work?

  When you kicked me, you broke my leg and crippled my kneecap. I’ve used a cane since that day. Two, actually, for nearly a year right after.

  The eclipse was behind you as you fought with her but, judging by how bad you’d done in my leg, I needed to try and get up. I didn’t know what you were capable of doing to her. I reached and reached for you but just couldn’t. In those couple of minutes my retinas were burned. Doctors all told me there was a five per cent chance that it would fade and my eyes would heal. No surgeries back then could bring sight to me. And I didn’t have enough to pay for the kind of treatment that might restore me some. But they never healed. Partial vision gone at first. The years passed and it just got worse. All the medicines and salves in the world—ones I could afford, anyway—didn’t even touch it.

  I had to learn goddamn Braille, Mr. Schloss.

 

  “So,” he said, “I have a proposition for you, Mr. Schloss. My eldest boy, the anesthesiologist, he whipped up a concoction that has kept you stationary for the last while. In a bit you’ll get sleepy and he’ll come and get you. Do you see him over there? At the far end? By the van? Of course, I can’t but I know he’s there and he can see this—”