The Darkness Knows (25 page)

“Viv,” he said. “We'd better hurry.”

“Hurry?” Charlie said.

“To the station,” Graham said.

Charlie's eyes shifted back to Vivian. “You got your job back?”

Vivian glanced toward the window, but the blind was drawn and left her nothing to focus on. So her eyes flicked to the floor, and she shrugged one shoulder. “Well, no,” she said, her voice strained. She hadn't. But now that his daughter had been arrested for murder and was stewing behind bars in the Cook County Jail, Mr. Hart would likely take a leave of absence from the station to withdraw from the scandal. Vivian knew she had a better chance of pleading her case with Mr. Langley, who would certainly take over leadership of the station. And if that didn't work, well, then she didn't know what she would do. She didn't have a Plan B yet, but she'd think of something. WCHI wasn't the only station in town.

“Just a formality,” Graham said with confidence. “We're heading in there now to talk some sense into Langley. Anyone in their right mind would see that letting Viv go would be a huge mistake.”

Vivian's eyes moved to Charlie and held his gaze briefly before she glanced away again.

“I mean it,” Graham continued, giving her shoulder another squeeze. “I'll walk if he doesn't bring Viv back on board.”

Vivian looked sharply up at Graham. He'd walk? She didn't know if that was the truth or just bluster for Charlie's benefit. Very likely bluster, she thought, but she appreciated the sentiment. She smiled at Graham, but the truth was that she wasn't as thrilled about this turn of events as she should be. Yesterday, Lorna Lafferty had meant the world to her; today, Charlie Haverman did.

She opened her mouth to explain everything to Graham—everything that had happened between her and Charlie in such a short time. Then she snapped it shut. Because she couldn't do that, could she? She needed Graham on her side to get back onto
The Darkness Knows
. Everything had happened so fast. She'd been on a date with Graham just a few days ago, a date that had ended in a kiss. She had no idea how Graham thought their relationship stood. He might truly care for her, and she couldn't afford to alienate him with the truth. Not now.

“Right. We should go,” Vivian said, standing. “You need your rest.”

“Ready, doll?” Graham asked, taking Vivian's arm in his.

“I, uh…I suppose I am,” she said.

Charlie's eyes were closed, his head sunk back onto the pillow. Maybe he'd already drifted off. Still, Vivian took a step forward and leaned down toward him, hoping she sounded as sincere as she felt. “I hope you feel better very soon,” she said quietly. It seemed inadequate, but she couldn't think of anything else to say. Actually, she could think of plenty of things to say. The problem was finding the courage to say them.

Charlie's eyes opened a crack, red-rimmed but still a lovely shade of blue green.

“I guess I'll see you around,” he said. “You have my card. Call me when you need me.”

When
she needed him, she thought. Not
if
.

Vivian smiled and nodded. Charlie understood the bind she was in, she thought. She'd make this up to him when she wasn't in such a hurry. She brushed her fingers quickly over his hand as she backed away from the bed. Then she turned, took a deep breath, and put on a brave—but properly reserved—face for the reporters lingering outside. Chicago hadn't seen this kind of front-page material in years, and Vivian was determined to make the most of it. If she didn't get her job back with
The Darkness Knows
, then at least she'd get her picture above the fold of the papers today. All the papers. And then, by God, she'd catch on somewhere. Because she was too damn determined to let things end here—not when everything was just beginning.

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1. Vivian tells Charlie that she'll do anything to succeed as an actress. Do you think that's true? Why or why not?

2. A career woman, of any kind, was a fairly unusual thing in the late 1930s. Why do you think Vivian is so focused on being a radio star? Where do you think that drive comes from?

3. Vivian claims to be an independent woman, and she is to a point, but she also lives with her wealthy mother and doesn't fully support herself. How do you think she justifies these dualities? Does she think about it at all?

4. Vivian certainly isn't a shrinking violet, yet she's mortified of her mother finding out what she's been up to with Charlie. How do you think societal pressures were different in Vivian's day? How were they the same as today?

5. Vivian and Charlie clearly come from different classes and backgrounds. How do you think this affects their relationship?

6. Compare and contrast Vivian's relationship with Imogene to her relationship with Frances. Why do you think she relates to the two women so differently?

7. Radio has famously been called the “theater of the mind.” How do you think the medium of radio drama compares to that of novels or movies? How would a story be told differently depending on the medium? How would this story be told differently as a radio play? As a movie?

8. Vivian's father died at a very impressionable time in her life (her late teens). How do you think his death affected her? How do you think it affected her relationship with men? With her mother? If you have experienced the death of either of your parents, how has it affected your life?

9. What do you think draws Vivian to Charlie? Charlie to Vivian?

10. What do you think draws Vivian to Graham? Graham to Vivian?

11. The murderer in this story turns out to be someone fairly unlikely. How do you feel about this character? Can you sympathize with the murderer in any way?

12. What traits do both Vivian and Frances share? Do you think Vivian is proud or ashamed of these? How do these two women differ?

13. Vivian has feelings for both Charlie and Graham. How do the two differ? Have you ever been in such a situation?

14. What does the author use to create realism in the story? How does she make the time period authentic? How would this story differ if it were to take place in present time?

15. What do you think is in the future for Vivian and Charlie?

December 23, 1938

Joy to the world and all that rot
, Vivian thought. She tossed a handful of tinsel on the towering spruce in the corner of the den and sighed. The last thing she wanted to do was put on a happy face for her mother's Christmas party, but that was precisely what she was expected to do this evening.

“You missed a spot.”

“Hmm?”

“Right there.” Vivian's younger brother, Everett, nodded his auburn head toward a gaping swath of green near right front center. It was the only spot on the eight-foot tree that Vivian hadn't managed to cover in gaudy silver tinsel. She dipped her hand in the box, grabbed a handful of the shiny strands, and tossed them haphazardly at the void.

Everett glanced sidelong at her, one eyebrow raised.

“Say, Mrs. Claus, who curdled your cream?”

Vivian sighed and dropped the box of tinsel to the floor.

“I don't know about you, but this party is the last thing I want to be doing tonight. Especially when Mother's invited her new…her new…” She flapped her hand as she searched her mind for an appropriate word for her mother's new companion, Oskar. Stray bits of tinsel floated lazily from her fingers to the Oriental rug.

Everett watched her with a frown. “Boyfriend?” he supplied.

Vivian wrinkled her nose.

“I know,” he said. “It's absurd.”

Vivian knew he meant both the idea and the term. Everett, five years younger than Vivian, was a sophomore at Northwestern. She didn't see him often, but Vivian was glad he was home now. He was the only one who could possibly understand how uncomfortable this situation made her. Their mother expressing romantic interest in a man other than their father was awkward, and it seemed sudden, somehow, even eight years after their father's death.

Everett shrugged, then leaned down to fit the plug into the socket. The blue, green, and red lights strung around the tree blinked to life. Everett swept his arm out in a ta-da motion. Then he stood back and eyed their handiwork with a critical air. “Well, what do you think?”

Vivian blew air out over her protruding bottom lip, ruffling her bangs.

“I think it's a garish spectacle,” she said.

“Well, you know Mother's motto—the bigger the better.”

Vivian laughed in spite of her mood. That was true. When it came to Christmas trees, their mother favored the grand. But this year's specimen was frankly ridiculous. It had been delivered that morning by two burly men who'd dragged it through the house, trailing needles everywhere. They'd had to saw off the top two feet to make it fit, and it still brushed the plaster ceiling.

She leaned forward and inhaled deeply. It did smell heavenly, though: pine, and sap, and the earthy dampness of thawing mud. That smell brought every Christmas of her childhood to the surface of her memory in an instant.

“It was Father's fault,” Everett said. “Indulging her like that with her very first tree. Set a bad precedent.”

Vivian followed her brother's eyes to their mother, who stood on the other side of the room, fussing at the refreshment table. If Vivian had wanted any indication of how she would look in twenty-odd years, she need look no further than Julia Witchell. Vivian had inherited her mother's petite stature, her strawberry-blond hair, and soft, brown eyes. It wasn't a terrible prospect, honestly. People often said they looked more like sisters than mother and daughter—much to Julia's pleasure and Vivian's chagrin. But her mother's outwardly pleasant face belied a fierceness of character and a tendency toward perfectionism that was most often aimed squarely at Vivian, though others often found themselves in the crosshairs. Vivian watched as her mother pointed an accusing finger at the tray of hors d'oeuvres. The target of her mother's displeasure at the moment appeared to be the housekeeper, Mrs. Graves.

“The Christmas Tree Ship,” Vivian said, turning back to the tree. Their father had loved to tell that story. He'd taken their mother down to the docks on the Chicago River the first year they were married to pick out their tree from the decks of the famous ship. That old-fashioned schooner had trolled the waters of Lake Michigan every fall to make its way to northern Wisconsin to fill itself to bursting with Christmas pines. According to the oft-told story, their mother had roamed the deck for a solid hour before picking a giant tree that proved almost impossible to get home to the small apartment they were renting at the time. But their father couldn't refuse her. He said he could never refuse their mother anything.

Vivian blinked away the tears that sprang suddenly to her eyes. She missed her father, never more than at this time of year. She reached out and brushed her fingers against one of the glass icicles hanging on the tip of the branch closest to her. It swayed under her fingertips, sparkling in the lights. She realized too late that her touch had been too forceful. The icicle rocked dangerously, then slid from the branch and fell to the floor with a crash. She flinched, waiting for a sharp rebuke from her mother.

None came. Vivian slowly opened her eyes and unclenched her fists. She glanced over her shoulder, but her mother was no longer fussing with the canapes. She'd left the room before the crash. Vivian and Everett looked at each other in relief.

“Don't worry about it, Viv. You know the saying: you have to break a few ornaments to make a Christmas,” Everett said.

She rolled her eyes at his lame attempt at a joke. “I believe that's eggs and omelets.”

“I'll get the broom,” he said.

“No, I'll get it. It's my mess.”

She strode across the room before Everett could dissuade her. Cleaning up would keep her mind off the party. But as she drew closer to the kitchen, she could hear her mother's voice raised in irritation. Her mother was prickly at the best of times, but preparing for her parties always brought out the worst in her. And her mother's worst was something Vivian didn't want to touch with a ten-foot pole.
Best to avoid the situation entirely
, Vivian thought. She doubled back to the front staircase and hopped up to the second floor.
I'll just grab a broom from the second-floor utility closet.
But she paused on the landing, her eyes falling on the closed door of her father's study at the top of the stairs. Her heart clenched suddenly, and before she could think too deeply about what she was doing or why, she opened the study door and stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Her father's study was dark and quiet. It smelled male, of tobacco and leather bindings. Vivian stood there for a moment, leaning against the door in the dark, intending to pause just long enough to gather her strength before the party began in earnest.

The only light in the room came from the distant streetlamp outside. It was faint, but her eyes followed it to what it illuminated: a picture frame sitting on the top of the bookcase. Her spirit lifted immediately at the sight of it, and she crossed the room to fetch the frame from the shelf. She smiled down on the contents: a tattered paper St. Nicholas ornament she'd made when she was almost five. Despite its homeliness, her father had loved it so much that he'd had it framed and placed where he could see it all year.

She touched her fingertips to the glass, remembering the day she had given him the ornament. The Christmas of 1918 when she was almost five, her father had very nearly died from the Spanish Flu, though she hadn't known that at the time. She remembered handing her father the St. Nicholas shyly, afraid of looking straight at him. She hadn't seen him since he'd fallen so ill six weeks before, and the wasted man lost in the bedclothes looked very little like the large, strapping father she'd always known. But he'd smiled weakly at that ornament, at her, and Vivian's heart broke a little recalling it even now, almost twenty years later.

She wanted this reminder of him, of what they'd shared as father and daughter, back on the Christmas tree where it belonged. She turned the frame over, removed the pins, and pulled off the backing. As she did, something flashed in the dim light and fell to the floor with a clatter. Vivian crouched and squinted into the darkness. She saw nothing with the first few sweeps of her eyes, but then there it was—just the tip sticking out from underneath the radiator. A tiny silver key.