In Dark Corners (4 page)

Directly across the water from where Ian stood, two shops ran side-by-side along a wharf; between the buildings a pair of gigantic cranes rested, resembling skeletal sculptures of two prehistoric monsters. No riggers moved around the cranes or nearby shops; in fact from his vantage point, Ian couldn't see anyone working on the Yard, as if it were Sunday or a holiday. He shuddered, the complete lack of activity creating a feeling of abandonment, adding to a lingering sense of unease that had plagued him since the big layoff in December.

The sun began to dip behind the shops, setting fairly early this time of year, rays extending between the two buildings and cranes, making a golden reflection across the dark water. For a moment Ian felt he could just walk right across the metallic pathway and down to Shop Eleven; then he blinked, and he realized that not only the path but the strait itself was an illusion, that the distance for him to the Yard was greater than the Pacific Ocean, because he might never cross again to work on any shift as a flange turner. He shook his head with a forced sense of resignation.

Flange turner: an elite specialty on the Yard—proud, highly-skilled, well-respected. But very specialized, a trade required to craft steel to the exacting tolerances needed in nuclear submarines. A handful of men, their unique skills utilized only at Mare Island now that Hunter's Point was completely shut down. No, Ian knew that it was unlikely he'd ever again use a furnace, torch, or hydraulic hammer to bend, straighten, or shape a plate, shaft, or tube.

Despite his vow about not feeling sorry for himself, Ian let out a long, sad sigh. He'd left much more than his tools over there across the narrow dark waters.

Abruptly he turned and made his way back into Tug's, up to the bar next to his friend.

Rucker, a flange turner who'd retired from Shop Eleven last summer, was working on a fresh Bud. "Hey, Sully, you okay?" he asked, a concerned expression on his face.

Ian nodded, slipped back on his stool and signaled for another shot of Jack, then tipped up his bottle and took a long pull on the beer.

"Thought you looked kinda pale there for a minute," Rucker said over the sound of the jukebox, the group Lynyrd Skynyrd singing "Sweet Home Alabama."

"I'm fine," Ian responded, forcing a smile.

"Well, the times are tough on everyone," Rucker said. "All the layoffs during the last couple of years. Now, the recession and the rumors of the Clinton administration completely closing down the Yard. Man, where's it gonna end?"

Ian drained the shot of whiskey, nodding absently. Yeah, the last round of RIFs had been a shock to him. He really hadn't believed any of this would affect him. But here he was, drinking instead of going to work, and the way it looked, there would never be a Yard to go back to. He cleared his throat, remembering the vow he'd made to himself. At least Sadie, his wife, still had her secretary position with the law firm downtown. But even that didn't look too secure. And with Dana down at UC Santa Barbara and Liam out at Solano J.C., the old financial picture wasn't real rosy.

Rucker leaned over and bumped his arm. "I asked how'd the interview go up in Napa at the pipe plant?"

"Okay, I guess," Ian lied, knowing it hadn't gone well at all. They'd been looking for experienced pipe fabricators, and the personnel guy had even said: You are, ah, fifty, Mr. Sullivan? Ian had squirmed in his seat and nodded, feeling like confirming his age was admitting to having AIDS. But he wasn't about to tell his friend all that. Rucker kept harping about Ian taking advantage of the Yard's counseling and retraining program for those riffed. Dammit, he was a flange turner, period. He didn't want to be retrained as a machinist or a welder or a lathe operator. Now that he'd gone beyond technical skills, developing an intuitive, almost artistic sense in his craft, he wasn't sure he could be retrained at something else. Down deep Ian had to admit that despite all the signs he was really counting on the Yard not closing. He just knew he'd be called back. And if his friend couldn't understand his feelings, how could any retraining counselor at the Yard or this president for that matter.

Rucker was still rambling on, "...Hey, man, you better lighten up on the hard stuff, that Jack Daniels'll put you under, you know what I'm saying—"

Ian had enough lecturing and stood up suddenly, feeling a little shaky, his legs rubbery, and said, "I'm out of here, man." He glanced at his friend and hesitated for a moment, leaning against the bar for added support. Something looked funny.

In the gathering darkness that was creeping into the bar through the big window facing the Yard, Denny Rucker looked kind of fuzzylike...shimmering for a moment, like a distant car looked through heat waves rising off a highway. Then, his image sharpened, outlined by a thin neon-blue line.

As Ian continued to stare dumbfounded, his friend's voice grew in intensity for a second or two then suddenly faded away, lost in the noise of the background; and simultaneously the neon outline flared up, like a light bulb before it blew, then grew dimmer, as Denny Rucker's features faded away into the gloom—

Jesus, Ian swore silently, feeling a sense of growing panic. Abruptly, he turned away and stumbled clumsily through the crowd of unemployed shipyard workers, rubbing his eyes. What the fuck is going on? he asked himself, blinking repeatedly.

At the door to the place he stopped, still not feeling too steady on his feet; and even though he knew there was something wrong with him, he couldn't resist a quick look back at the bar.

The two stools where he and his friend had sat were empty now…

"Ah, I'm just drunk," Ian finally whispered unconvincingly, forcing himself to leave, not giving in to the impulse to check the bathroom or the rest of the crowded room for his friend. "Too much Jack Daniels."

***

Later that evening at home, Sadie asked Ian to go upstairs and tell Liam it was time for dinner.

He trudged up the stairs, his legs still weak, feeling twice his age. He'd had a couple more drinks after getting home and listening to Sadie bitch about money—the lack of it, and he knew he was indeed three quarters in the bag. He would quit going down to Tug's during the day, Ian promised himself, as he reached his son's door. Yeah, time to ease up on the hard stuff. His friend Rucker was probably right. He pushed open the bedroom door and looked around, saying, "Hey, Bud." The room was empty, but the reading light at the desk was still on.

Ian stepped over the clothes and junk on the floor, thinking Liam must be in the bathroom. At the desk, before turning off the light he glanced down at the closed book, wondering what his son was studying. Ian didn't think Liam really did any studying…at least his grades at the J.C. didn't reflect it. But it was a library book from the college: "Lord Jim." Ian recalled reading the book by Joseph Conrad, remembered that it'd been difficult going, wading through dense sentence construction; but he'd really enjoyed the story. He'd even taken Sadie to see the movie. Peter O'Toole had been great as Jim.

As he lifted up the book it fell open, marked by a small hand mirror and some other stuff. That's strange junk to mark your place with, Ian thought, putting the book down carefully and staring at a razor blade and straw. He closed the book and flipped off the light.

In the dark it hit him.

"Hey, Pop, what are you doing sneaking around my room?" the voice asked from a figure highlighted in the doorway. It was Liam.

Surprised, Ian stammered defensively, "I-I-I..."

Liam remained in the doorway, hands on hips, his face shadowed.

Finally Ian managed to explain in a heavily-slurred voice, "I just came in to get you for dinner."

"Okay, let's go then."

"No," Ian said, not moving, "we gotta talk."

"Now?"

Ian nodded, then gestured weakly at the book by Conrad. "I found your stuff. You know, the drug paraphernalia."

"Ah, Pop," Liam began in a dismissive tone. "That straw and stuff?" he asked rhetorically. "Not mine," he added with a humorless chuckle. "I found them in that book, you know."

It had been a long time, but Ian was getting really angry with his son. "Hey, look, Buddy. What do you think I am, huh? Just fell off a potato truck from Idaho?"

They stood in silence for a long time, then the boy seemed to kind of straighten, growing taller in the doorway of light, as if gathering strength. "Naw, I don't think you're stupid, Pop. But this really isn't a big deal, you know."

"Not a big deal?" Ian said stiffly. "You're snorting some kind of crap isn't a big deal. What the fuck is the matter with you, Liam? You're becoming a drug addict, a bum, a—"

"Hey, what do you mean," the boy responded, a suggestion of irony in his tone, "coming off with that kinda shit? Look at you right now. You're about ready to fall down, man. You're drunk. In fact, that's about all you're good for any more, feeling sorry for yourself and sucking up the sauce. So, where you coming from, calling me names?"

Ian was stunned.

Feeling sorry for himself?

A drunk?

He just stood there next to the desk, not really hearing the words as his son continued tearing him apart…

Then the dark figure in the doorway suddenly became fuzzy, its shimmering outline gradually compressing to a pencil-thin, neon-blue edge—and abruptly, the outline flared briefly as the voice increased in volume then everything began to fade away.

Before his son completely disappeared, Ian squeezed his eyes shut, as if to magically halt the weird process.

Jesus, he was drunk on his ass.

He blinked, refocused, but Liam had gone—and by the time Ian shuffled through the litter on the floor, the boy must have gone down the stairs. "Liam, wait," he whispered in vain.

Then, stumbling quickly down the stairs in pursuit, he shouted frantically, "Liam?" At the foot of the staircase he listened, but heard no car pulling away. "Liam," he repeated hoarsely.

From the kitchen, he heard his wife explain, "It's okay, Ian, he's going over to Tom's. He'll eat there."

***

After pushing his dinner around on his plate and ignoring Sadie, Ian remained in the kitchen by himself. He'd considered another drink of whiskey, but thinking about what Liam had said, he settled for a can of Bud.

He wasn't really a drunk. No way. He could quit or at least cut back any time he wanted. Sipping the beer, he decided he'd better have his vision checked though, maybe even a complete physical. Something strange was going on here with him, with people shimmering and then disappearing from sight. He'd known this welder at the Yard who developed seizures, apparently triggered by the arcing of his torch. The guy would fade out in the middle of a conversation for just a second or two, then come right back, but confused by what he'd missed. Ian wondered if it was possible that maybe he was experiencing some kind of petit mal seizures, too. A neurological problem brought on by the lay-off, the strange vision episodes triggered by any additional stress, like Denny's yapping about his drinking or Liam calling him a drunk—

Brring!

The phone interrupted his thoughts. Ian stood and picked up the receiver. "Hello."

"Daddy, it's Dana," his daughter announced, excitement evident in her tone.

"Hiya, Babe," Ian responded.

"Got some news, Dad," she said, her voice a little more measured. "Are you sitting down?"

"I am, now," he answered, finding his chair and can of beer.

"I'm getting married next Saturday."

"What—?" Ian asked, almost choking on the sip of Bud he'd taken to fortify himself against the impending news.

"It's not a regular marriage, Daddy, not like you think," Dana explained, laughing. "This guy in my apartment complex, he was a student, but got some bum grades and dropped out. Anyhow, he needs to get married to stay in this country, because they're jerking his student visa. Are you following me?"

Ian took a long pull on the Bud, then said, "Sorta." Keeping the receiver on his shoulder, he stood and poured himself a shot of Jack as his daughter continued.

"He's really a great guy, and this will just be a ceremony of convenience, you understand?"

Ian nodded dumbly.

"He's from Uganda—"

"Uganda?" Ian repeated as if he'd never heard of the country. "That's in Africa?"

"You're right, Daddy," Dana said, laughing again. "Robert is an African. You know, like black."

"Ah, isn't Uganda the country with a major AIDS problem, Babe?" asked Ian, unable to keep the slurred words apart or hide the concern in his tone.

"Daddy have you been drinking again?" Dana said, more of a condemnation than a question. "You promised that all that..."

Ian squeezed his eyes closed as her voice suddenly flared in intensity then began to gradually fade away, finally replaced by a hum—the dial tone.

He sat there at the table for a few moments until he got tired of listening to the humming phone.

Jesus, I'm really fucked up, he thought. But he wasn't sure what to do about it. Then he dug Sadie's address book out of the junk drawer under the phone, found Dana's phone number and dialed. The line rang four times, then his daughter's voice came on: "Hi, we're out of the apartment now—If it's Mom or Dad, we're at the library studying. Ha, ha, ha. Anyhow, leave your name and number and we'll get back."

It was only her recording machine.

This wasn't his eyes this time. And he didn't think it was a seizure either. It was something else.

Had he imagined the call?

He didn't think so.

Maybe he was just going nuts, the booze finally getting to him? Again he recalled Denny Rucker's lecture about the hard stuff.

Jesus, what was going on?

His chest felt tight, like he was about to have a heart attack. He had to talk to someone. But who—?

Sadie!