Places in the Dark by Thomas H. Cook Page A

in folly. No human was truly worthy of devotion, and so I would not offer it. What one could not worship, it seemed fitting to despise. These were my true beliefs, and I didn’t in the least feel compelled to deny them. And so I said, “You were born to be disillusioned, Billy. Born to have some woman kick your heart out. Because you want something impossible.”
    He stared at me steadily. “What do
you
want from a woman, Cal?”
    “What I always get. A little pleasure, then a good night’s sleep.”
    “So it’s only sex, then? You’ve never in your life wanted more than that?”
    He was alluding to the Saturday nights I spent on the waterfront in Royston, of course. I’d never kept that aspect of my life from him. But neither had I ever expected him to bring it up in this way, as an accusation.
    “Don’t you want more from a woman than that?” he demanded. “Something … beautiful? Something that lasts forever?”
    I felt under attack, and struck back.
    “Dad did, didn’t he?” I asked hotly. “Dad wanted a lot more from our mother. Something perfect. That would last forever. Someone to share his life with, his soul with. What good did it do him? Or her, for that matter. She’ll die alone. And so will he.” I felt the air harden around me, the walls of the Bluebird Cafe squeeze in. I reached into my pocket, flung a few coins on the table. “Let’s get out of here.”
    The sun glittered on the snow as we made our way down Main Street. We walked all the way to the front door of the
Sentinel
without exchanging a single word. Then, as he was about to go inside, my brother took my arm and turned me toward him. “What I said at the cafe, I didn’t mean it, Cal. That you’re just a … whoremonger.”
    “But, I am, Billy,” I said without apology. “That’s exactly what I am. That’s my dirty little secret.” I stared at him emphatically, driving home an earlier point. “Everybody has one. Something weak about them. Something grimy.” I gave the nail a final bang. “Even this new woman of yours. Dora. This woman who ‘senses’ things.”
    Billy stared at me silently. I knew I’d reached thatplace where the next word mattered so much, it would be best not to say it.
    I glanced down at his worn overcoat and found a joke to save us. “Well, one thing’s for sure, she couldn’t be after your money.”
    He seemed relieved that I’d found a way past our harsh words, that for all our differences, we were still brothers. He grinned and clapped me on the shoulder. “I’ll give you that, Cal. Dora couldn’t be after my money.”
    He turned and headed into the building. I watched him hang his coat on the peg by the door, then stride deliberately toward his desk, rolling his sleeves up as he walked. Henry Mason was scribbling classifieds at the front counter. Wally Blankenship was setting type, his body swathed in a stained leather apron, his face half hidden beneath a green eyeshade. But it was Dora March I found myself watching. She was sitting at her metal desk in a far corner, her back to the row of wooden filing cabinets where back issues of the
Sentinel
were kept. A newspaper was spread before her on the desk. She was peering at it intently, a single finger moving back and forth along the gold band of her glasses. As I watched, she read a moment longer, then closed the paper and looked up. Her lips remained tightly sealed, but somehow in that silence, I thought I heard a scream.

Chapter Nine
    T hat was why I did it. The look on Dora’s face, along with my brother’s certainty that “something” had happened to her. I didn’t doubt that she might have suffered some loss in her past. Most people had. And for those who hadn’t, it was only a matter of time. No life went forward without bereavement. No human being had ever, in the end, outrun regret. What I feared was that this wound had scooped something from the core of Dora March, dug a pit within her, and that my brother now walked