Norman Partridge - Slippin' into Darkness

“You just listen to me. You’re gonna hear every word I have to say. And then you’re gonna do exactly what I tell you-”

“I’m hanging up, Doug.”

“Goddammit! You listen to me!”

“One dial tone, coming right up, hold the mayo and macho bullshit.”

“Okay! We need to speed things up, anyway. Go to the bedroom. Pull out the bottom right-hand dresser drawer…”

Doug Douglas heard bells. “Hey, what’s that sound?”

“It’s why I’ve got to go, Doug; it’s the doorbell.” Amy hung up.

She realized that she was completely alone. Again, the doorbell chimed.

And she found herself missing the oddly reassuring sound of Doug Douglas’s voice.

Amy moved to the door, tugging the top button of her silk blouse. The white material was heavy with sweat and clung to her skin in a way she didn’t like. She released the button and the silk found her breasts with the practiced ease of a lover’s eager hand, revealing firm, large nipples that she hated because they made her perfectly average breasts look small.

A quick glance at her watch told her it was 3:07 A.M. She was in April Destino’s trailer, and she had no legal reason to be here.

And someone was going to catch her. The doorbell chimed again. She took a deep breath. Okay. It was plain that she was here. Her car was parked outside, and the lights were on inside.

No running out. Face up to it. Whatever it is, deal with it. The front door was dark plastic with painted black cracks that were supposed to make it resemble aged walnut. Like the door of some Bavarian beer hall, she thought, smoothing her hair automatically.

She swept the bangs across her forehead, wet her lips, and reached for the doorknob. But the knob moved before her hand found it-twisting back and forth, making staccato clicking sounds as it fought the lock.

The door was locked, but someone was testing it.

Amy pulled away from the knob as if she’d nearly burned her hand. Just as quickly, she reached out again. Don’t be an idiot, she told herself. Maybe it’s nothing. Someone with a wrong address. A nosy neighbor. A drunk coming home to the wrong trailer The damn things all look the same, anyway-

A key ratcheted into the lock. The sound was distinct and unmistakable. The knob twisted, made a slight metallic pop, and extended a fraction of an inch toward Amy.

The door swung open. An old man squinted at Amy from behind thick lenses that were crosshatched with little scratches. He rested a protective hand over his heart and said, “Oh, lordy lordy.”

He was starring directly at Amy’s nipples, and he wasn’t blinking.

“Jesus H. Christ, you scared me.” The little old man laughed, sinking deeper into the ratty couch in April’s living room. “I thought I seen a ghost. Coulda sworn you were Ms. Destino…until I seen your hair, that is.”

The old man wasn’t looking at Amy’s hair, though. His eyes were still aimed with sharpshooter precision at her large nipples. “Yep, Ms. Destino had long, pretty hair. Not that your hair ain’t pretty understand. It’s just different, is all. But otherwise, you and Ms. Destino are pretty much twins. Or you were pretty much twins, I guess.”

Amy attempted a smile, and when she couldn’t quite bring it off she crossed her legs instead. That redirected the old man’s gaze, but Amy could almost hear him thinking. Those silver dollars might give April’s a run for their money, but the titties themselves ain’t gonna knock no man silly…

The lot manager squinted at the business card Amy had given him. She figured that he might have been able to make it out if his arms had been a foot or two longer. She was lucky that they weren’t. “I guess you got a reason to be here,” he said. “Wish you would have called me first, though.”

“You’re right.” The manager rose and Amy steered him toward the door. “Next time I’ll be sure to let you know when I’m coming by.” She opened the plastic door and thought of a surefire way to improve the manager’s opinion of her. “I don’t think it will take long to settle the estate. You be sure to send me a bill for any rent incurred while we’re in process.”

“Thanks. Y’know, I thought managing this place was going to be a nice, relaxing retirement job, but you wouldn’t believe what goes on around here. I spend half my time talking to cops. Especially this week. First the sheriff’s boys and the ambulance. Then the sheriff himself.”

“Well, I certainly don’t want to bother you further. And if I need to make another visit, I promise that I’ll give you full warning.”

The manager went on as if he hadn’t heard a word. “First the sheriff. Tonight you. Tomorrow another cop.”

Amy raised an eyebrow. “Another cop?”

“Yeah…can’t quite remember what arm of the law this one was hanging off of. Had a flashy ID card, though. Fancy little leather wallet for it and everything.” He shook his head. “Anyway, what a character. Threatened to come back with a fine-tooth comb. Said I’d have to give up Ms. Destino’s cleaning deposit to the government, ’cause that fine-tooth comb does a crackerjack job.”

Amy tried to laugh, but the gasping exhalation that escaped her was a match for her failed smile.

“Yeah, a card all right, that one. Say, you aren’t gonna take any of April’s stuff with you, are you?”

“No. I’m just doing an inventory, Mr. Davis.”

The old man like the Mr. Davis part. Amy could tell, because he straightened up so that the top of his head actually came even with her shoulders. “Good enough then,” he said. “I’ll be seein’ ya.”

Mr. Davis stepped through the doorway and started down the stairs, waving as he went. Amy thought of the cop who was such a card, and more than anything else she wanted to snatch away the little card that she’d given to the lot manager.

But there it was, grasped tightly between his gnarled fingers, waving at her in the darkness, stiff as a lottery ticket that only a clever cop could cash.

Amy smiled. She couldn’t help wondering how quickly Mr. Davis would call his optometrist after he extended his arms to full-length and read the words WENDY WONG, DIVORCE amp; FAMILY LAW printed on a card handed him by a blonde with nipples the size of silver dollars.

Darkness waited in April’s bedroom, a room choked with musty smells that Amy didn’t want to put names to.

She flicked the light switch. The closet door stood open, revealing a treasure-trove of what kids these days called “vintage clothing.” Bell-bottom pants patched with bits from red handkerchiefs hung next to long dresses of equal vintage, and hot pants and tube tops were heaped on the shelf above. Wigs on Styrofoam heads stared down from the same shelf-a frosted Farrah Fawcett flip, a blazing red Charro number, a short black do that somehow spoke of B amp;D routines. Shoes beyond number lay in a jumble on the closet floor along with a tampon box that naturally held a stash of marijuana and cheap jewelry-cubic zirconia rings, awful silver bracelets inlaid with pale turquoise, ear cuffs sprouting faded feathers, even an old mood ring that shone oily black as its permanent color.

On April’s night stand, a company of sex toys waited like elite commandos ready for the most desperate missions. A half-used tube of lubricant lay open next to the toys; a clear tear that had spilled onto the shelf the last time April used the stuff was now hard and rubbery.

And there was the dresser. Amy knelt in front of the drawer Doug had mentioned. Her blouse was soaked through, sticking to her like a second skin. Reflexively, she pulled the material away from her perfectly average breasts.