Safe in the Darkness

The sun set earlier these days, but the impending darkness had not deterred Ike from taking this particular after dinner walk. He was full, sated from his meal of a microwavable Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes. He bought the special rib-sticking combo especially for this evening, well aware he would need something more than his usual fare of canned soup and a buttered roll to sustain him.

He walked at a moderate pace, enjoying the crisp pine scented air and the way the last amber rays of sunlight filtered through the trees before they winked once, twice, then died away. 

“Goodbye,” he murmured in a pale shadow of the gruff voice that used to cause women to flutter around him like they were his private collection of butterflies. But the passage of time and his daily fix of Jack Daniels made him sound more like the worn out 50-year-old he had become.

The toe of his boot kicked up a cloud of dirt, but the further he walked, the sooner the dirt would turn to gravel, which would then transform into a cement driveway lined with hostas and coral bells surrounding Jaguars and BMWs. Through the trees he could just make out the white roof and arched windows of the house he knew so well.  

His shoulders ached from his backpack’s leather straps, so he shrugged off the pack, easing it to the ground before sitting beside it. His back pressed against the elm that used to be home to rabbits before he flushed them out. That was years ago, when the kids were small, when he let them watch him work against their mother’s wishes. But the kids were grown now, gone from this home that used to be his too. Things had changed. It wasn’t their fault, though, not at all.

Crickets chirped to announce the arrival of nightfall. A sudden flapping of wings caused leaves to rustle as birds settled into their nests, where they would be safe in the dark until morning. Safety in Ike’s world was a luxury he could no longer afford. Living in a squalid fifth floor apartment in a six story walk-up provided him none of the amenities he had grown used to while living in that house beyond the woods. His current neighbors were crack addicts, hookers, and pushers, a far cry from the wealthy and powerful people he used to deal with daily. Fate was unkind. Eleven years gone in an instant. In his world now, the winter’s cold seemed to extend through late spring, when a stifling heat took its place until winter came around again.

It’s so cold, Theresa.

That’s not my problem.

Can’t you help me out with a few dollars?

Go before I call the police. 

Please…

The police had been a fixture in Ike’s life over the past four years. And honestly, he hadn’t minded prison too much. He didn’t have to think in there. He had his meals, such as they were. It was cool in the summer, warm in the winter. These simple amenities were provided to him by the law-abiding taxpayers of Michigan. Where were they now when he really needed them? 

His job in the prison library cataloging books kept him busy and away from the trouble that often plagued first-timers. He learned soon enough to keep his mouth shut and do what he was told. He never had a problem with the corrections officers or those inmates who smoked cigarettes and played cards and thought they were in charge. They called him Drifter, because that’s what he did, just drifted along, seemingly without a care.

In many ways, being in jail was better than being out on his own. Now he lived on partial state assistance, while working 20 hours a week at the Bellefleur Rehab Facility, emptying trash and cleaning toilets, a job procured for him by a prisoner rehabilitation group. He would never have made the effort to find it himself.

He raised his face to the sky, which was now star strewn and deep blue, and wondered why his life had become such a pathetic tale of woe. He quickly dismissed the thought, picked up his pack and, with some effort, rose to his feet, the stiffness in his knees causing him to stumble back against the elm. He ran his hand over the bark, thinking about the history he’d had with this tree, the rabbits, the children, Ariel and Dorie, who, as adults now, probably despised him. He did care about them, really, more than their father had. Ike had given them attention even when he was off the clock. That should count for something, he muttered. It should give me points toward something. Perhaps the universe was listening. Perhaps it would go easy on him this time.

Ike forced himself to continue walking. Of course he had second thoughts about what was to come. Of course. He hadn’t been just the house manager here. Theresa, Ariel and Dorie were the closest he would ever come to having a family. Steve, not so much. If anyone ruined things for all of them it was him. Ike would keep that in mind as the night progressed.

It wasn’t much farther now. His boot heels scraping gravel told him so. The familiar butter-yellow light from lamps at either end of the house illuminated the expansive driveway. Luxury cars began rolling up for Theresa’s weekly soiree. Despite the events of the past years, Ike assumed the parties continued to be a Friday night fixture. He watched from behind a tree, pulling his black jacket’s hood over his head and zipping the zipper to his neck. 

Most of the guests he knew. No surprise there. He used to bow and scrape to these people who were more impressed by financial gain than good conversation. Sliding out of the passenger seat of an Infiniti Q70L was Ted Anslow, the 60-year-old Haring Bank manager. Ike snickered low. The guy used to be slim but had now become a heart attack in waiting, judging by his ample gut and the young thing on his arm. And, hey, there’s Flora Burston, slumming it in her SUV. She owned the Hav-A-Slice Pizzeria and the Slo-n-EZ Bar and Grill, both left to her by her late husband Mack. Ike didn’t think he had never seen her smile.

Nothing had changed, except his world, and not for the better. But in certain circumstances, he thought, watching the last of the party guests enter the house, change could be good.

In the hallway, they meet by the stairs like they do each night Steve works late. Theresa wears her silver-blond hair down, the way he likes it. They lean against the banister, and she initiates a long, luxurious kiss. Their tongues meet, tips lightly touching before the kiss deepens. She smells good, like patchouli and fresh cut grass. He will remember that scent later. It will haunt him for years. For now, he simply enjoys.

Her hand is soft as she entwines her fingers through his, as they drift together up the stairs. This has been going on for months, and he has lost the ability to stop it. Like always, they step quietly, almost tiptoeing into the master bedroom. The kids are asleep and Steve is working late, he tells himself over and over as Theresa uses her foot to push the door shut. This has become his mantra. Like always, guilt squeezes his insides until he finds it hard to breathe, but as she undoes his belt, the guilt recedes to a place inside himself he rarely goes.

And then…

She screams with such ferocity, he stumbles backwards, stunned and terrified. Her white hot anger is like a physical thing, shaking the walls of the room down to its foundation. Before he can think to turn and run, her nails, needle sharp and glossy red, make deep gashes in his face and neck. He cries out as warm blood fills the gouges and the sting of the welts becomes nearly unbearable. He raises a hand to stop her from hurting him more, but an arm around his neck does the job for him, wrenching him away as it tightens around his throat in increments, causing him to struggle as black spots dance across his vision. 

"Steve, oh, thank God. Steve! He was going to rape me. Oh, my God. Get him out of this room. Call the police!"

Theresa’s cries follow him down as he retreats into the safety of the dark, leaving the confusion behind for a while.

It took Ike the majority of his prison sentence to come to terms with what Theresa did. Steve's unexpected arrival threw her into survival mode for herself, for the kids. He couldn't really blame her, but when he dug deep for forgiveness, he came up empty...

He checked his watch, giving the party five minutes more to get started in earnest. By now, he knows the drink should be flowing, while the conversation, which has not yet become slurred and caustic, was just beginning.

Now. He shrugs the pack off his back, this time opening it to retrieve a Swiss Army knife he bought off Lemmy, one of the prison cigarette smokers/card players, for a carton of Marlboro's and a Hershey bar. It was the sharpest knife Ike had ever owned and he took special care of it. How he never got caught with it in jail is a mystery he probably would never solve. Perhaps, he thought, the universe does care.

Quickly, but with a methodical determination to do the job well, he flipped open the knife and went row by row, digging a deep divot into each of the cars’ tires. He allowed himself to enjoy the short, sharp hiss of air escaping each one every time the blade hit home. It sounded like a choir of snakes singing his praises.

His breath came in short bursts, too loud in his ears, as his heart beat a furious tattoo against his ribs. He needed to stop and regroup before he got careless and failed. And if he failed tonight, he doubted he would ever have another opportunity like this again.

After taking a moment to scrape the tip of his knife across the cherry red finish of Steve’s vintage Mustang convertible, Ike returned the knife to his pack and took his place again behind the tree, willing his heartbeat to slow. He pushed back his hood, allowing the breeze to ruffle his hair and dry the sweat dotting his brow. Somewhere in the woods a night bird sang. 

Ike was ready.

Head down, he sprinted toward the side of the house, sounds of laughter and Kenny G’s “Songbird” wafted through an open window. He made it to the circuit box, further back by the in-ground pool, noting with some satisfaction that the grass here was overgrown and there were cracks in the patio floor. This would never have happened on his watch.

He set his pack down and this time removed a hammer. He smashed through the circuit box’s plastic casing with a satisfying crack. One more crash through metal and plastic was all it took to just about destroy the box itself. Sparks crackled and flew from the blackened hole in the siding, like the climax of a July 4th celebration.

And then...silence.

The windows went dark, the buttery soft light from the outside lamps was gone. Ike could sense a pause in the quiet, like a holding of breath. Slowly now, he reached into his pack one last time to remove the pistol, as the quiet was overtaken by voices, murmurs at first, before growing louder in surprise and confusion.

It was time.

He headed back toward the front of the house, leaving his pack where it was, certain he would no longer need it. When he rounded the corner, he stood frozen in place, waiting for the door to open. Steve, the hero, didn’t disappoint. He stood on the top step, flashlight in hand, scanning the driveway for who knows what, a group of power sucking aliens? Members of a terrorist cell? He would never have suspected it was Ike who had ruined their night of merriment and debauchery.

Steve turned and looked inside the house, where revelers waved their flashlights and lighters, trying in vain to make things bright again. The party was ruined now, wasn’t it? By fear. By disappointment. But those party guests didn’t know about the safety in the darkness, were not aware of what Ike knew so well. He wrapped his fingers tighter around the cool handle of the pistol, waiting for Steve to re-enter the house before following him into the black.