Lisa Unger - Darkness My Old Friend

Maggie had been taking messages. A woman wanted to find her sister who had been missing since 1985. A man wanted his wife followed-you know, just to be sure she was faithful. There were a couple of others-someone wanted a background check on his daughter’s boyfriend. One lady’s dog had run away, and could he help? PI work was not glamorous.

“I told you you’d be surprised,” Maggie had said after he’d read through the stack.

“I’m not taking jobs like that,” he’d said.

“Jobs like what?”

“You know, following cheating spouses, checking up on boyfriends, tailing people collecting Workers’ Comp. That’s lower than I’m willing to go.”

Maggie put her hand on his face, delivered a kiss to his forehead. “Just do what moves you.”

Holding the newspaper in his hand, he thought about that sentence. What moved him? He wasn’t sure he knew. Rather, he wasn’t sure he could put it into words. He figured he’d know it when he found it.

A couple of hours later, he was in Dr. Dahl’s office running down the week’s events.

“So I guess we know what phase two is,” said the doctor. “Is private-investigative work where you want to put your energies?”

Jones picked up on something from the doctor. Was it disappointment?

“Is there something wrong with that?” he asked.

“No,” said Dr. Dahl. “Of course not. I just wondered if there was anything else you wanted to look at. You haven’t made any firm decisions. We’d talked about woodworking.”

Somehow Jones just couldn’t see himself making bookshelves for a living. It’s not like he had some drive to be a designer or any real passion for it. He had some native ability, enjoyed working with his hands. But it wasn’t something that fascinated him, not in the same way that police work had. He told the doctor as much.

“Well, good,” he said. He smoothed out his perfectly creased charcoal slacks, fixed Jones with a warm smile. “Passion is important. I just wonder if it’s not the darkness of it all that calls you, Jones.”

Jones didn’t know what to say to that. Something about it smarted, made him feel the rise of that anger.

“It’s gritty work,” the doctor said. “There’s danger. You said yourself you could have died.”

“But I didn’t,” he said. “I saved that girl. If I hadn’t freed her foot, she would have drowned. That means something to me.”

“Of course it does,” said the doctor. “Of course.”

Since the night of his near drowning, the nightmares had ceased. He hadn’t been waking up sweating, yelling, gasping for air in a full week. Maggie had moved back into the bedroom and stayed the whole night. He wouldn’t say that he’d conquered his fear of death; it was a specter that lingered. It snuck up on him when he least expected, and he’d be struck wondering, what would it be? A slip in the shower? A car accident? Murder? Maybe he would be murdered by someone like that psycho Kevin Carr. But then it would pass. It was a specter that lingered for everyone, wasn’t it?

Maybe the night terrors would come back. But maybe they wouldn’t, now that he knew what he was supposed to be doing with his life. He was meant to be helping people-and not just checking their mail and watering their plants. He knew that as surely as he knew anything. And the fact that he knew with such clarity made him think that maybe, after all, there was something larger than himself. Maybe.

“When last you were here, we talked about your father,” said Dr. Dahl. He was apparently looking to pick at some scabs. Maybe Jones seemed too happy today. The doctor was afraid he’d be out of a job. “Have you done any thinking about that?”

“Some,” Jones said. “I’ve thought about it some.”

He had thought about it some. But he wasn’t ready to talk to the doctor or anyone about it, not even Mags.

“Would you care to share your thoughts?”

Jones looked at the clock. “I think our time is up, Doc,” he said. It was up-a little over, in fact.

“Ah, yes,” said Dr. Dahl. “Next week, then.”

“Definitely.”

At the reception desk, he paid his bill. As he waited for his receipt, Jones watched some other guy about his age walk into Dr. Dahl’s office. He wondered what that guy’s problem was. He looked depressed.

Jones had promised his wife that he’d keep seeing Dr. Dahl, and he would. He knew it helped him, kept him thinking about and working on the things that he might otherwise avoid. Maggie needed that, deserved that, and so did he. And more than that, Maggie was hot for him right now. She was digging the whole PI thing. She was proud of him for staying in therapy. She was sleeping in their bedroom. She wasn’t mad at him, had stopped giving him the look . She was a smart woman, and he’d do what she wanted. If he knew what was good for him.

Out in the car, he reached over to the file he’d left on the passenger seat. He’d written the name on the protruding tag: Jefferson Cooper.

It had taken him only a couple of hours to find his father. All these years, and all he had to do was pick up a phone. He dug through some of Abigail’s old papers and found his father’s Social Security number. Jones gave Jack a call at noon, and by three that afternoon he had an address, credit and employment history. He hadn’t decided what he was going to do with that. He hadn’t allowed himself to have a memory of his father-ever. Maggie had suggested once that he try to think of three good memories he had of the time he, his father, and his mother were all together. Every time he did this, he felt that headache come on, had the urge to run for the nearest burger joint, anesthetize himself with fat and simple carbs. He’d be taking his time with this. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do.

When he got back to the house, the sun was already low in the sky. The days were getting shorter. Ricky’s car was waiting in the driveway. Ricky would be home tomorrow. They’d already made plans to go look at a new stereo for the car, something the kid wanted for Christmas. Jones knew that it would probably be their only time together. Ricky would be seeing his friends who were home for the weekend, too, including Charlene, his son’s on-again, off-again girlfriend. At the moment they were only friends. She made Jones nervous, for a lot of reasons. Too much history there, like everything in The Hollows. Everything was tangled and connected across years and families. He wanted Ricky to get away, not be tethered here to this place as he was, as Maggie was now because of Jones.

Anyway, he’d make his time with Ricky count. He’d talk, wouldn’t get all tongue-tied and silent. He’d written some things down, questions to ask about MyFace, and e-mail, texting, too. He’d ask about Rick’s music. Did he find a band? And what were his favorite classes? Had he met any girls? Maggie had helped him come up with some topics. And listen when he talks. Try not to do any lecturing, even if you don’t agree with what he says .

On the porch he stopped to look up at the mourning doves. They both sat in their perch and stared at him. One of them issued an annoyed little chirp.

“Okay, fine,” he said. “One more night.”

He went inside. There was music playing, something classical (slow and depressing), maybe Chopin? He followed the sound and found Maggie in the kitchen, cooking-a rarity since Ricky had left home. She was making lasagna, their son’s favorite.

“My last patient canceled today,” she said when he walked in. “I thought I’d do something special, since Rick is coming home tomorrow.” She’d been better about calling him that; their son didn’t like “Ricky” anymore.