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    Those Who Sit in Darkness
    Those Who Sit in Darkness
    Those Who Sit in Darkness
    Ebook175 pages2 hours

    Those Who Sit in Darkness

    By Donald J. Richardson

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    As a boy growing up in Iowa, Missouri, Nebraska, and Kansas, I had no objective conception of evil. We were practicing Roman Catholics in our family, so our consideration of evil was focused on self: urges which could lead to sinurges which themselves constituted sin. Evil was what lay in the barely hidden recesses of our personalities. There was no objective correlative of evilthe church taught we were evil embodied.

    Thus, we never regarded others as evil or even bad. What would have happened had we ever encountered anyone who was truly evil? Surely out there were people who couldnt be justified or whose behavior couldnt be rationalized away. What would happen when we met?
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAuthorHouse
    Release dateOct 30, 2012
    ISBN9781477275061
    Those Who Sit in Darkness
    Author

    Donald J. Richardson

    Although he has long been eligible to retire, Donald J. Richardson continues to (try to) teach English Composition at Phoenix College in Arizona. He defines his life through his teaching, his singing, his volunteering, and his grandchildren.

    Read more from Donald J. Richardson

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      Book preview

      Those Who Sit in Darkness - Donald J. Richardson

      © 2013 by Donald J. Richardson. All rights reserved.

      No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

      Published by AuthorHouse 10/25/2012

      ISBN: 978-1-4772-7508-5 (sc)

      ISBN: 978-1-4772-7507-8 (hc)

      ISBN: 978-1-4772-7506-1 (e)

      Library of Congress Control Number: 2012918216

      Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

      Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

      Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

      Table of Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      Chapter Twenty-Three

      Chapter Twenty-Four

      Chapter Twenty-Five

      Chapter Twenty-Six

      Chapter Twenty-Seven

      Other Books by Donald J. Richardson

      Dust in the Wind, 2001

      Rails to Light, 2005

      Song of Fools, 2006

      Words of Truth, 2007

      The Meditation of My Heart, 2008

      The Days of Darkness, 2009

      The Dying of the Light, 2010

      Between the Darkness and the Light, 2011

      The Days of Thy Youth, 2012

      The Complete Hamlet, 2012

      For all the residents of the Ludlows

      Prologue

      It was dark. The darkness had come with the regularity of the sunset which presaged this stage of the day. As sunrise came every morning, so did darkness come every night. There was only slight amelioration of the dark in Ludlow as the meager light cast by the streetlights did little to hold it back, to make little circles of vision outside of which nothing could be seen. Stars and moon this night were not visible, and outside the penumbra of lights, was absence of light. It was expected by everyone past childhood, and there was no exaltation or fear connected with its realization. It simply was, and it was accepted. Dark was right.

      In the cosmos, in the Milky Way, on the planet Earth, in the Western Hemisphere, in North America, in the United States, in the Central time zone, in the state of Missouri, and in the town of Ludlow, there were noises in the night. These were noises which were at times predictable and at times unexpected. The predictable sounds were those of insects and animals, going about their regular pursuits, generally accepting the darkness, treating it as something to be endured and generally ignoring it as best they could.

      The human animals, conversely, made sounds, too, but their sounds were more distinctive. Their sounds were those of pain and pleasure, usually distinctively separate but at times mingled. The sounds of pain were evidence of punishment, of negation, of protest against the conditions of nature and mankind, of people refusing to accept conditions which most would change if they could.

      The sounds of pleasure were of a totally different nature. These were extensions of the people making the sounds, too, but some—unlike the sounds of pain—were offered with complete, total abandon, with no holding back whatsoever. Let who would, hear them and celebrate along with the person pleasuring or being pleasured. Some were controlled, offered perhaps in embarrassment or chagrin or apology, a meek acknowledgment that the person was glorying in being human, in taking enjoyment in some activity or sensation or cringing in embarrassment.

      Many of the sounds were those of people engaged in personal, private activity, activity which they wouldn’t want anyone except their partners to witness or to share. There was some furtiveness about their behavior which the sounds they emitted—the sounds which escaped their mouths at times despite their need for restraint—reflected, and for which they might have apologized had they been witnessed by certain other people. These sounds were to an extent indicative of pleasure, pleasure given and pleasure received, sounds made by people enjoying themselves—some with abandon, some with restraint—moans or soft cries, whines at times, names offered up in a form of supplication to their partners or perhaps to the gods that they be permitted to enjoy this activity for longer, that it not end too soon, that their lives be permitted to go on and be touched with this pleasure again—not endlessly, of course, but intermittently and occasionally enough that they might continue to savor it, to treasure it, to value it, to continue it so long as they were physically able.

      Some of the sounds were overheard. There were knowing smiles on the faces of some of those who witnessed, smiles that recognized the hidden, furtive activity revealed by the sounds, smiles that sympathized and envied at times, smiles indicative of their own pleasures and smiles of those who wanted to make those sounds themselves, to be partners complicit in their production.

      Others wondered at the sounds. Was someone being hurt? Was there pain involved? It didn’t sound like pain, however. The sounds were not sounds of pain. Something else was happening, perhaps something the hearers had never experienced or witnessed, something for which they had no preparation or experience. These listeners wondered in curiosity and silence, not wishing to disclose that they were listening, some of them listening despite their unwillingness to hear, but others wrapped in the curiosity of the uninitiated, wondering what was happening, wondering why these night sounds were never (or rarely) heard during the day. These hearers wondered if there was something illegal or illicit taking place, something that shouldn’t be happening, something that those who made the sounds didn’t want anyone else to witness.

      After a measurable time the sounds ceased. Total silence, like the black of total night, descended on Ludlow with only an occasional echo of what had given voice to the night, akin to the lonely streetlights on Main Street which resolutely shined their paltry light, making islands of sight in the midst of absence of light. Ludlow slept.

      Chapter One

      When they reached the top of the rise, Lenny Joe stopped. Oney stopped, too, but only because her forward motion was impeded. She had no way of knowing what Lenny Joe was about to do, but that had never bothered her before and it didn’t now. He turned to look back at the house, a near mile away, with the smoke curling up and being caught by the breeze, feeding on itself. Lenny Joe fancied he might could smell the wood burning. He spat unspectulatively into the dust of the road, not seeing the slight disturbance in the settled, gray-brown powder. He wasn’t much given to thinking he said often, taking a negative pride in the reverse snobbism of the tribe of river rats he had seemingly left behind when he made his way inland and took a wife, but actually allying himself with them to a far greater degree because of the distance separating them than he ever could have endured had he stayed with them on the river.

      He set down the carpet bag. Looks like she’s gonna burn real good, he ventured.

      Oney didn’t want to look back. The armload of unnaturally silent child and handful of hand of the other claimed what brain she kept available for the world. She knew that if she turned to look, she’d have to turn again when they started. Defeated by circumstances, she eventually turned and stared, not seeing, not feeling, isolated in herself, protected by her insensitive exterior and unperceptive brain.

      Lenny Joe hunkered down onto his heels. This was gonna be a durn good fire, and he didn’t want to miss it. He spat again, the spittle not clearing the stubble of his jaw entirely, dribbling and hanging, catching the sun’s rays. He brushed it off with the back of his left hand which had been clean the day he was born.

      He was not mysophobic. He had lived in, slept in, worn, and eaten dirt all of his life. Intimate friends they were of long standing. Fear of dirt wasn’t an emotion he connected with. In fact, their friendship trumped any phobias that could arise. He and dirt were united against the world.

      Cleanliness is next to godliness, John Wesley had written. Lenny Joe had been clean in his life, but the times that he was weren’t times to be recalled with joy or with congratulation. Rivers, streams, creeks, ponds, and lakes had presented themselves to him at various times, and he had chosen not to go around them. Thus, the cleanliness on those occasions was the result of obstreperousness.

      Actually, he had nothing against being clean; lots of folks were, he knew, and they seemed to be quite happy with themselves. But as for him, dirt was a natural concomitant of his life. He had been dirty all his life. What was to be gained by suddenly professing regular washing?

      The sun was half-way up to mid-sky; it was near mid-morning, and the night dew had long ago burned off. The dryness in the air belied the fact that dew could even be possible. The crickets in the grass continued with their patient, timeless, unmelodic strain, and the grasshoppers flew here and there, disturbing the dust in the burned, withered grass.

      Oney felt Nettie jerk her hand. She roused herself. What you want?

      Play, the three-year old stated, jerking her hand again.

      Oney released her first-born and watched her trudge about in the dust, her soiled diaper attesting to the family’s impoverished condition. Yet no observer would have needed to see the girl to note their poverty. Everything about the family, about Lenny Joe, about Oney, about the children said poverty and ignorance. They presented a stark picture of what was known in that area and farther South as po’ white trash. Their clothing was not even what could be called modest; it had long ago served its purpose, and now it was nothing more than an excuse to cover parts of their bodies. The dirt and grease were embedded into the weave of the fabric so that the color of the garments was lost to time and filth.

      Lenny Joe affected a peaked black hat which he regularly pulled down before his eyes. It made him look sinister. He knew only that it seemed to even the score when he had to deal with others. He had determined in his hazy, unscientific way that when people couldn’t see his eyes they went slower with him; they seemed to respect him. Maybe they were afraid of him. Since he liked this, he kept the hat pulled down. His lean, wiry body poked through the rents in the shirt and the faded corduroys. The broken-laced brogans opened slightly as he squatted on the ground. His face carried the scars of some forgotten childhood disease, the pocks framed with a triangle of chin embarrassedly trying to cover itself with day-old stubble of various sickly colors, and faded, watery blue, Western-horizon-colored eyes. He removed his hat and ran his right hand through his black, oily hair. It was hacked off unevenly around his head.

      Oney was dressed in some forgotten print of long ago, discarded by a more respectable woman with pride—too expensive for Oney or her family. The two girls in diapers—three, and less than one—were the products of their union these four years. Both children were wizened, sad-looking remnants of some prison stockade, wearing countenances and displaying behaviors of creatures far older and more experienced than they. Neither spoke unless addressed, and their response was often merely a quizzical look, as if to say, What y’all want?

      The smoke from the four-room log cabin was now easily visible. Lenny Joe cackled. Well, I reckon that’ll teach that son-of-a-bitchin’ Braeburn not to mess with Lenny Joe Snell. He, he, he laughed, savoring the revenge of the moment, a revenge bought too expensively for him to afford it, bought with the blood and sweat and innocence of his family, yet too hidden for him to understand its cost. He spat again into the dust.

      He glanced at Oney. Why’n’t you rest a spell? I ain’t for movin’ on till it’s burned up good.

      Oney shifted her burden. Well, I reckon I might, she conceded wearily. She squatted beside Lenny Joe, staring into the middle distance, trying to remember whether they had actually eaten breakfast in that burning shack or if that had been another day. It was hard to remember which day was which.

      Horses’ hooves approached from the east, gradually growing louder and louder. They stopped close enough for Lenny Joe to feel the horses’ shivering lips and their whooshing.

      Hey, y’all, get outta the road. Whata ya doing’ there anyway?

      Lenny Joe swung his gaze around to take in the two horses, the spring wagon, and the man sitting on the seat. Watchin’ a fire, he answered shortly. Yonder. He motioned in the direction of the fire which had now taken over what was once

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