In Shadows Both Their Skins Are Dark

Sunday evening. The shadows close in on the old picket fence-guarded property on all sides, sinking their fingers into sodden haystacks and discarded chicken bones with the marrow sucked out. An orange sun capitulates to a jaundiced three-quarter moon. Handfuls of blinking eyes overtake the southern sky, the rest veiled in pink cloud trenches. In hours these will dissipate to reveal the vast army of stars and their full power over evening lands. Crabgrass whispers to prairie wheat the secrets of horse hooves and roaring automobiles.

In the barn he stands with an apple core ready to be tossed against the barn door, his arm poised in throwing motion. The core clings to his fingers, the lingering juices trickling down his bare arm and turning to sticky cream in the day's fading warmth. He stands an ivory tower in the reining moonlight and swallows the last bite as he gazes down at a white-gold pile of hay and the body that lays there wrapped up in its own arms. He wears white, she wears next to nothing. Looks like they'd torn the clothes half off her before doing it. He wonders if they'd used the rafters of his barn for the deed, but can't find the rope that should have hung like a rope swing from the faded red roof beams.

What he can see of her face is pretty but swollen and purple. He can't tell if lipstick or blood tints her lips. He cannot lift her; blood is a quandary when it comes to stain removal, impossible to get of these white robes, and he's often wondered why they chose such a stainable color. These things should be done neatly, not like this, not near his property that stands just close enough to the woodland borders that make it easy, if one gets away, to run and hide.

He stoops over her body and makes up his mind. Carefully removing the robe he turns her over and pulls what's left of her clothes over her body like a sheet, gently. Her eyes flutter in the moonlight and open, doe brown, and look up into his face. Her eyes bulge. Her mouth opens. Maybe she recognizes his face; maybe they met in town last week. He feels both relief and horror that she cannot force a scream from her swollen lips. He lifts her in his arms and carries her the back way to the house, hoping none of the Brothers drive this way to return to their homes after the deed they failed.

Carrying her up the stairs proves a struggle. She won't stop pitching about in his arms, trying to get away. He squeezes her closer and pins her arms against his chest. She bites his shoulder, draws blood. Her throat rasps with an attempted scream. He dumps her on his bed and stands over her as she stares up at him with dread in her eyes. The room is windowless because he doesn't like the sun to rouse him before he's ready, and now it proves a fortunate advantage. He strides from the room and locks the door. He sleeps on the couch by the fire and his dogs. They bark outside the bedroom door in the morning.

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Wednesday afternoon. Sunlight dapples the walls of the house from the foyer to the kitchen, trickling up the staircase toward the bedroom door where its light cuts short. The scent of hash browns and sausage omelets with melted Swiss cheese lingers from a late morning breakfast as the dogs gnaw at discarded remnants of last evening's supper. Shadows abound in corners, biting down into spaces beneath the old oak furniture and the panels that arch away from aging off-white walls. Floorboards creak and moan with age even before feet press down upon them. In every room the floors sag beneath the weight of furnishings that haven't been moved since the forty-odd years ago when he first came into the world screaming for his mother's breast.

He brings her one of his wife's old sundresses because the day is warm. The dress is yellow and while the shade never looked right on his wife's pale skin he feels sure it will warm her brown. He folds the dress with his calloused hands and sticks it on the breakfast tray he once used to serve his wife in this bed. He brings her the same Texas toast and poached eggs he brought her that morning. She refused to eat then. Nothing goes to waste. He regrets burning the eggs while re-warming them. He picks away the charred black edges while climbing the stairs and kicks the dogs that crowd his feet.

He has to set the tray down to unlock the door. He hears her moving against a wall as he works the lock, wonders if she'll pounce at him again. He regrets hitting her this morning; he brings a cool washcloth to set on her eye and wonders if her lip still bleeds. The door opens and she stands wrapped in a sheet in the corner. He kicks the tray into the room with one foot, holds the dogs at bay with the other. Closing the door behind him, he lifts the tray and carries it to the bedside table, sets it down, and unfolds the sun dress, holds it up for her to see. He tries to picture a smile crossing her face and her voice, like Norah's, saying, Oh, Hank, it's beautiful. She says nothing, and stares only at his face.

Once you eat you can go, he tells her gently, again, and closes the door behind him when he leaves the room where both their skins are dark.

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Monday evening. Tiny moths swim around the humming porch light as somewhere across the field one of the dogs howls at a slowly emerging moon. The water of the old lake swirls, concentric silver rings appearing, dancing, and disappearing across the surface. The grass freezes in the cool of evening, light rains long distant over the stretching plains having reigned during the afternoon. A train whistle howls along the far-off graying horizon, carrying black and sooty cargo. Fireflies skip the chilly sky and beckon forth fiery gas globes in the heavens.

In the growing moonlight her skin becomes glistening copper. Her feet swim in an old pair of work boots he gives her. He points off towards the woods stretching beyond the farmhouse; her footsteps scraunch on the gravelly path leading to the piney border. She peers back only twice towards the silhouetted figure in the glowing doorway. His shadow stretches across the ground and swallows hers until she escapes the light and disappears among the trees. He hugs his arms across his chest, watching his once favored denim jacket become a ghost to the shadowy night. He wonders what the Brothers would think of the past twenty-four hours. He plans on driving into town in the morning to pick up two new tired for his truck. He wonders if he'll run into her, recognize her face, ask for Norah's dress back.

Atop a hill in the distance, shadows seem to dance around the vibrant image of a burning cross. The dark black shadows that rise against the night sky betray the white robes the Brothers wear. He silences the dogs with a sharp command as he turns his back to the flames and goes inside the lonely house with its creaky floorboards and desolate halls. His shoulder aches where her teeth bit in. The dogs follow him to the closet where he stows the white robe and stifling hood, extra lighters, Norah's old cigarettes, and spare rope. The ceremony of adorning himself in this gown feels tainted. From somewhere near the back of the closet the scent of Norah's perfume mingles with the fragrance of fresh blood. Skeleton thoughts rattle beyond the walls, whispering, Traitor. They are silenced by the memory of the few words she spoke to him before shuffling off across the grass, and the way she said Thank you, like the priest on Sunday might say Te absolve, in the name of the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit. Amen.