In Dark Corners (11 page)

Have you been here long, Sonny
?
In this Place
?

The big window
.
Yes, forever
.
At least as long as I can remember
. But how long? I focus on the little tree wearing its summer bonnet of green. Twenty…twenty-four seasons? But I'm not sure. Five years anyhow. A long time alone.

We're interrupted by the window dresser. "Ah, good morning, you two." He chuckles. "Are you nervous? After all, today is gonna be special." He takes the top off a big box, but blocks my view by stepping between Missy and me. "You first, Sonny." He dresses me.

In a few minutes he finishes and says, "You are quite handsome, Sonny—" He brushes something off my chest, then nods. "—Yes, sir, ready for the big day." Still blocking my view, he turns to attend Missy.

Eventually the old man whistles and whispers: "Oh, my." he has moved Missy nearer my side, but out of clear focus: she's just a white blur. "Okay, you two…"

I feel a hand touch mine…Missy's!

"Perfect," the old man says, after circling us. For a second the cynical expression leaves his face. "Just right." He gathers up his boxes and things, saying: "See you lovebirds in a week."

A warm tingling runs up my arm, thawing the old ache in my chest—the yearning melts and fades away. I feel…happy! Great, except for a twinge at the back of my mind—a sliver of apprehension, a sense of something amiss. I turn away from the vague sensation, explaining to Missy that after nightfall we'll be able to see each other's reflection in the big window.

The day passes slowly, but pleasantly, with many shoppers stopping to admire us.

"Oh, Fred, look, remember?"

"Yeah, they're sharp."

"Aaah, aren't they lovely?"

"Nice."

Missy and I must look special indeed to command so much attention from the shoppers. I'm anxious for the day to pass.

***

Darkness and the mirror.

Missy and I are dressed as bride and groom. She is incredibly lovely.
You're truly beautiful, Missy
.

And you're very handsome
, she responds.

Her hand feels almost warm. I couldn't be happier. Perhaps this is love. The joy of love—?

Missy senses my strong feelings.
I'm glad I'm here, Sonny
.
Your big window is a fine place
;
so much light, so much excitement across the street
.

No, I have never felt so good.

Sonny
—? Her voice feels different.

Yes, Missy
.

I hope we stay here forever
.
I mean when I was in the storeroom, it was so lonely
.
I felt unwanted, unloved
.
But I feel different now, special
.
Almost like I'm going to burst
.
I thought there was no one for me
.
Now I have you
.
I hope it lasts forever
.

Forever—?

The vague sliver of apprehension crystallizes into an icicle and stabs my heart, as I hear the window dresser again:
See you lovebirds in a week
. One week! Missy and I have only one week. My spirit sags. I feel the old dull ache stirring in my chest…A sudden surge of anger. It isn't fair. I look at Missy's lovely reflection. I've waited so long. Even before the bridge, I must've been alone—

Sonny, are you all right
?
Your hand feels icy
.

Fine, I'm fine
. I can't tell her. Seven days. I force myself to join her.

Everything is new to Missy. She's excited by the lights and music from the BAR. The night people are active, and she watches fascinated. She blurts out each discovery.

The night passes.

A siren screams its cry of misery.

My spirit revives slowly. I remember the boy and his advice:
Don't cry anymore
.
It don't do no good, even if it hurts
. Perhaps if I'd understood that before…

Seven days and seven nights of happiness. Perhaps a lifetime quota compressed into a continuous lump. Seven days of respite from loneliness—more than I ever expected. Maybe more than I deserve. For who am I, after all?

Only a storefront mannequin…in the big window.

***

A curtain, not mist, a solid transparent veil. Pain, great pain, so intense it numbs
…
On the other side of the veil, blurred figures, white, ghostly
.
Soft whispers
:
"No, it's not unusual to have two that jumped in the same week
.
They seem to do it in bunches
.
No, they didn't know each other
.
Yes, a few survive, like her, but seven hours
—
that's unusual
…
Him
?
He's a record
…"
The voice trails off, darkness descending
…
Then a vague image on the veil. A dim face, a reflection: cornsilk hair framing a lovely face and doll-like face and China blue eyes
…

A two-story Victorian mansion was completely engulfed in flames. Just barely visible through the raging fire at an opened second-story window were three pale faces, their terrified screams piercing the quiet, moonless night
.

A man on the ground at the top of the circular, bricked driveway was gazing up at the burning structure with an enraptured expression on his sweaty face, completely ignoring the blast furnace heat of the inferno and the frantic pleas for assistance from the trapped faces
.
As the flames consumed the building and the faces, the man's entranced expression slowly turned to a look of almost childish glee. He laughed hysterically, still oblivious to the blistering heat, apparently not affected in any way by the thick, smoke-filled air now heavy with the increasing sweet/sour stench of roasting human flesh
.
Adding to the surreal nature of the scene, snowflakes began to fall, as a siren wailed in the distance
…

I find M Ward, in maximum security.

A dimly-lit corridor, painted forest green with a series of closed, lighter-green doors, each door identified by a large white number below an observation window, even numbers on the right, odd numbers on the left—a neat, orderly arrangement. At the far end of the empty corridor, a heavy-set, white-clad psych tech sits directly across from an opened door on the odd-numbered side, leaning his folding chair precariously back into the wall and reading a
Playboy
, but occasionally glancing across into the brightly-lit room, then back down to his magazine.

Aha, I have finally located the "soft room" of M Ward and Arthur. Inwardly, I smile with self-satisfaction.

As I enter the room, Arthur doesn't even notice, appearing to be awake but heavily sedated, his eyes glazed, and looking thoroughly confused by his strange surroundings.

It must be a shock, finding himself wearing wrinkled pajamas, trussed up in a smudged-white straitjacket, lying on a gray mat on the floor in an observation cell with gray-colored padded walls in a State Hospital. Normally Arthur is immaculately groomed in an elegant three-piece suit, a fresh red or white carnation in his lapel, shoes buffed to a high gloss. Oh, and a neat mind, too. He is fond of repeating:
a place for everything, everything in its place
. Indeed, Arthur is anal retentive, obsessive-compulsive, truly admiring order, detesting disorder and uncleanness.

I laugh to myself, recalling specific behavioral quirks.

He is so compulsive in his personal habits that he puts on his left sock, left shoe, right sock, right shoe, then pulls on his sharply creased pants, always in that exact order. He even washes his hands
before
and after going to the toilet.

An obsessive-compulsive dandy.

I hate Arthur Whithurst with a passion.

At that moment, a man in a lab coat with a clipboard enters the room, sits down on a folding chair beside Arthur, and flips through a couple of pages attached to the clipboard. His blue nametag reads: Dr. Radar Sterns, M.D. Interesting name.

Of course neither the doctor nor Arthur notices my presence. I'll stay and eavesdrop.

Dr. Sterns, a slightly pocked-faced, middle-aged man with watery-blue eyes, adjusts his gold-rimmed glasses, then looks down from his clipboard and fakes a thin-lipped smile, asking, "Are you feeling better now, Mr. Whithurst? More calm, perhaps?"

Arthur nods.

"Very good," the doctor says, as if rewarding a slow or recalcitrant student for a correct answer. "You have been given a drug to relax you, make you more comfortable. If you cooperate with me, answer a few questions, maybe Eugene can soon get you out of that restraint. You will find it best to cooperate with him, too."

Dr. Stern glances over his shoulder at the huge tech, who has abandoned his chair and is now standing by in the doorway with his muscular arms crossed in front of his chest, nodding his head and smiling humorlessly, exposing a gold capped front tooth. Eugene does not appear to be a man blessed with a great degree of patience. He has that don't-mess-with-me-just-do-as-you're-told look. Cooperation might be wise.

The doctor turns back and looks down at Arthur still lying on the gray mat. "Do you understand, Mr. Whithurst? Would you like to cooperate, answer a few questions?" Apparently Dr. Stern is a believer in a certain kind of verbal economy, always slipping in two questions for the price of one.

Arthur murmurs hoarsely a single response, "Yes," and mimics the doctor's fake smile.

The doctor readjusts his glasses, pushing them back up his nose with his middle finger, before thumbing through his notes on the clipboard. "Okay, very good," he says absently, carefully reading over something with frowning interest.

Eventually he taps the sheet of paper with his forefinger and says, "Hmmm…the police report here indicates that this all revolves around your deceased partner, Mr. Whithurst."

Dr. Sterns then looks directly at Arthur. "What about this partner? Tell me about—" He stops to consult his notes again. "—Mr. Cordoba?"

The name makes Arthur wince.

In a tired, barely audible voice, Arthur replies, "Tommy Cordoba was a small man, doctor, small in every imaginable way, and oh so very dirty."

"Dirty, how do you mean?" Dr. Stern asks. "His thoughts or his appearance?"

"Oh, you know, filthy, unkempt, untidy," Arthur explains, his voice gradually rising in pitch, his face more animated now.

"You see, we were in a dirty business—garbage collection. Valley Salvage Company. A good business, though, seven contracts with different municipal jurisdictions all up and down the valley. Anyhow, Tommy dispatched, handled the trucks and crews—most of
them
Mexicans or Blacks."

Arthur pauses and visibly shudders in his restraints, his voice a little thicker with obvious distaste. "None of them were allowed in my office with their filthy, greasy clothes…except for Tommy. I couldn't keep him out. Always dirtying ashtrays with his smelly cigars, smudging up papers with grimy fingers, poking into files, just generally disrupting the order of everything in my domain."

Arthur closes his eyes, clenches his teeth, and groans. "I hated him," he whispers vehemently, beads of sweat popping out on his forehead and upper lip.

The doctor writes something down on his clipboard. "Is that why you killed him?" he asks, looking back down at Arthur. "Because he was a disruptive force in your domain of the business?"

Arthur blinks, shakes his head. "No, actually it was because of my books."

"Your books? You mean the company records?"

Arthur's expression of distaste changes, as he first nods, then shakes his head with disbelief. "I don't know how, but he discovered the juggled balances on the books. I couldn't believe it, with his kind of mind. But late one night, about a week ago, he confronted me with the figures, accurate down to the very penny—"

"You mean your partner found out you were embezzling funds from the business after checking your books?" Dr. Stern says, interrupting Arthur. "Skimming money and falsifying figures to hide it?"

Arthur nods again sadly. "And he threatened to expose me, if I didn't sign over the entire company to him." His voice quickly rises with indignation. "The dirty, greasy, little blackmailer."

He sighs loudly, able to only shrug half-heartedly in the restraints.

"Of course I had no choice," Arthur continues. "I used the .38 I kept in my desk drawer, shot him in the chest…twice." He abruptly smiles, obviously relishing the memory. "Then I drug him by his feet outside and stuffed him into the back of one of his beloved garbage trucks."

The doctor checks through his notes, again tapping a spot with his finger. "But you didn't think he died? It says here that you believe he was somehow able to survive the shooting, and come back after his body was hauled in that garbage truck and dumped in the valley landfill?"

"N-not exactly, not that night," Arthur stammers, obviously fighting for emotional control.

"It was five days after I stuffed him in the truck," he continues. "I was home and walked into my study. I sensed a presence, someone there, someone watching. It gave me goosebumps. I quickly looked around, half expecting a burglar or intruder. But there was no one. Everything was in its place. So, I dismissed the odd feeling.

"But the next morning at my office I sensed the presence again. And later at my afternoon workout at The Supreme Court, opening my locker, I felt it again and shivered. Of course I knew then who was watching me. It had to be Tommy. He was everywhere."

Arthur, unable to wipe his face, is completely covered with sweat now.