Darker Than Night (10 page)

Hiram, Missouri, 1989.

“He's sixteen,” Milford Sand said, “of an age when he can damn well work and pull his own weight around here. Hell, I was—”

“I know,” his wife Cara said, “you were working in the mine when you were fourteen. This boy, Luther, is the only survivor of a house fire that killed his foster family in Missouri; then he somehow survived almost a year of life on the streets in Kansas City.”

“So he's no innocent,” Milford said.

“So he needs time to heal body and soul, Milford. Please show him some compassion.”

Milford snorted and jammed his arms into his suit coat almost hard enough to split the seams. “He can heal his soul while he's working with his body.”

Milford Sand was fifty-three, almost twenty years older than his wife, but he looked as if he could be in his late sixties. His narrow back was bent from sitting hunched over at his desk at the Hiram Lead Mine, where he kept the company books, and his face was pale and pinched. His cheap drugstore spectacles, which were too small, gave him a slightly cross-eyed appearance. Milford monitored the household money the way he tracked expenses at the mine, and there was no point in spending for prescription glasses when the ones on the revolving rack at Drexel's Pharmacy would do just as well.

He studied his thinning brown hair, strained blue eyes, and puckered mouth as he adjusted his tie knot in the dresser mirror. He'd once overheard somebody at the mine say his natural expression was that of a man about to spit. Milford wasn't insulted; the comment hadn't been far off the mark. “The agency said this boy—Luther—has had some experience as a housepainter. I'll talk to Tom Wilde about taking him on as an apprentice.”

“I don't know—”

“That's true,” Milford interrupted in a weary, tolerant tone. “You
don't
know, and there's no need for you to worry about that part of it. You just try and make the lad feel at home; I'll take care of his employment this summer so he can earn his keep.”

“Maybe he should go to summer school. He's already two grades behind.”

“Maybe he's simply unable to do the work and needs to learn a trade.”

“Milford—”

“I have to get to the office.” He snatched up his heavy brown leather briefcase from the floor alongside the dresser, an adroit and powerful motion for such a frail-looking man, and headed for the door. Then he paused. “What time's the agency bringing the boy?”

“One this afternoon. Try and get home if it's at all possible.”

“I'll speak to them at the mine.” He forced a lemony smile and hurried from the room.

A few seconds later Cara heard the screen door slam downstairs, the hollow thumping of his footfalls on the wooden porch, then after a minute or so the grinding of his car starting in the garage and the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway. Morning sounds. It was how Cara started each long day, listening to Milford leave for the mine.

The mine. All he thought about was the mine, his job, numbers, and lead. Profit and loss, this column or that. Cara thought the lead in the air was probably poisoning the whole town.

It was certainly poisoning their marriage.

 

Luther was surprised by the house that Saturday afternoon. He'd expected something smaller. This was a cream-colored frame monster with gray trim, a gallery porch, and a steep, tiled roof with lots of dormers. It looked like the house Luther had seen in Hansel and Gretel drawings—only much, much larger. There were a few other houses something like it on the wide, tree-lined street, but this one was the biggest and in the best condition even though it was old like the rest of them. The yard around it was wide and level, with a low stone wall in front and with lots of trees and shrubs. There was a long gravel drive that ran to a garage in back that looked newer than the house.

It was warm when he and the woman from the state agency got out of the air-conditioned car. There was plenty of shade in the yard, and twenty or thirty industrious sparrows pecking away busily on the green lawn. The sparrows all took flight when Luther slammed the car door. He hefted his lumpy duffel bag and walked around the car toward the wide wooden porch steps.

The porch was shady and had viney potted plants and a glider and rocking chair on it. “Looks like Norman fuckin' Rockwell lives here,” Luther heard the agency woman mutter under her breath. She was slender, with lustrous blond hair, and was better-looking than most of the state employees. Luther knew she would have been pissed off if she was aware of how he'd been studying her.

Their footsteps made noise on the plank floor, and the front door opened before the agency woman pushed the doorbell button.

Inside, the woman introduced herself to Mr. and Mrs. Sand as Helen Simpson, which was a good thing because Luther had forgotten her name somewhere on Interstate 40. He watched and listened as she went through the routine that was so familiar to her, complete with smiles and pats on Luther's shoulder at proper intervals; then she left the house and walked down the drive to her dusty white agency car. Business finished.

And there sat sixteen-year-old Luther Lunt with his new foster parents. The three of them listened to gravel crunch as Helen Simpson backed her car out of the drive. Then it was quiet in the big three-story Victorian house that Milford Sand and his wife had restored.

Luther would be the only charge here, which he liked. And he liked the wife, Cara, right away. She was kinda old—maybe even in her thirties—but still pretty, with her curly dark hair and brown eyes. She had an oval face that looked like it belonged in one of those heart-shaped lockets you opened up to see the photograph. And she smiled at Luther as if she meant it.

On the other hand, the husband, Luther's new temporary father, acted like he had a stick up his ass. While working the streets as a male prostitute in Kansas City, Luther had seen his kind of little weasel before. He thought he might need the wife to protect him from Mr. Sand. He was sure, just by looking, that she wasn't like Mrs. Black.

Cara—Mrs. Sand—was smiling at him. “Would you care for a glass of lemonade, Luther?”

Time for the act.
“I sure would, Mrs. Sand.”

She stood up from the sofa, where she'd been seated next to her husband. For a moment she looked as if she might cry. “I wouldn't expect you to call me mother, Luther, but Cara would do fine.”

Milford stood up also. He bent over and brushed imaginary lint or dust from his pants. “I'd like to stay, but I need to get to the mine.”

“Mine?” Luther asked.

“The Hiram Lead Mine, where I'm head of accounting.”

“Sounds neat,” Luther said.

Milford nodded solemnly. “It is neat.” He pecked Cara on the cheek. “I'll be back in time for dinner, dear. Bye, Luther.”

“Bye,” Luther said to his retreating back.

Cara went into the kitchen, then returned with two glasses of lemonade. She handed one to Luther, then sat down again on the sofa across from the wing chair where he sat.

“He works so hard,” she said of her husband. “Even sometimes on weekends. When they're behind at the mine.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Luther sipped lemonade and glanced around. “You sure got a beautiful house, all the room and nice furniture.”

“Why, thank you, Luther. Mr. Sand and I spent months restoring it. The first two floors are done, and we'll get around to the third-floor bedrooms someday.” She took a sip from her tall, frosted glass and crossed her legs, tugging down her flowered skirt demurely to cover her knees. “We sanded the floors, brought the kitchen up to date…. It's such a job, keeping up with an old house. It never stops.”

“Maybe I can help,” Luther said.

“Why, thank you.” She smiled. “Maybe you can.”

“I know you and Mr. Sand are putting yourselves out for me.”

“Not at all. We volunteered because we like to help children—young men—like yourself. And if it'll make you feel any better, Mr. Sand's going to speak to someone about helping you learn a trade. A housepainter. You've done some of that, haven't you, where you came from?”

“I can paint some,” Luther said. His voice was tight, remembering the fire spreading over spilled paint, gaining glowing life, burning in a widening circle and filling the house with fumes. He'd thought the other kids were gone and the house was empty except for the scumbag Norbert, and Dara, who didn't care. They were supposed to be all by themselves, fucking in the upstairs bedroom, not paying attention while the fire spread. It was when the screaming started that Luther—

“More lemonade?”

“No thanks,” Luther said, grinning shyly at Cara. “I best be getting unpacked, if that's okay.”

Cara placed her glass on a coaster and stood up. “Of course it's okay. I'll show you your room. I hope you'll like it.”

“I will,” Luther said, following her.

 

The next Monday, after a breakfast of pancakes and eggs prepared by Cara, Milford drove Luther into town to introduce him to Tom Wilde.

Wilde's Painting Company was a green-and-yellow flat-roofed building that looked as if it had once been a corner service station. A rusty and dented Ford pickup truck and a newer-looking white van were parked outside. The van was lettered with the company name and phone number and had racks on top and three paint-splattered aluminum extension ladders lashed to them. One of the pair of overhead doors was open to reveal a shadowed interior of shelves lined with paint cans and folded canvas drop cloths. Nearby were several stepladders, a pair of wooden sawhorses, and stacks of white plastic five-gallon paint buckets.

Milford parked his blue Ford Fairlane sedan at the curb, diligently setting the emergency brake even though they were on level ground. He said nothing as he and Luther got out of the car and walked toward the building.

Luther thought the old pickup truck looked interesting and wondered if he'd be driving it. Driving Norbert Black's pickup was the only thing he'd found enjoyable about working for Norbert. Of course Luther didn't have a driver's license, which never bothered Norbert but might be of concern to Tom Wilde.

As they got closer to the building, Luther detected the familiar scent of paint thinner. Then he saw in the dim interior of the building a stocky figure in white overalls, standing at a workbench with his fists on his hips. Drifting from what had obviously once been a service bay for cars came the thumping and vibrating rhythm of an electric paint mixer violently shaking a gallon can of paint.

The man at the workbench sensed he wasn't alone and turned. He was between thirty and forty, with kindly, handsome features arranged in a permanent, squinting smile. He had bushy brown hair and a somewhat oversize, lumpy nose threaded with red veins. His was the sort of face that made you like him at once, or at least trust him. Luther saw now that his white overalls were splattered with a rainbow array of paints.

The man reached behind him and switched off the frantically thumping mixer; in the silence he looked at Luther and smiled wider. “This the lad?”

“This is him,” Milford said, and formally introduced them.

“I'm told you have some experience as a painter,” Wilde said. He had a soft, precise way of speaking, like a teacher.

“Some,” Luther told him. “Painting barns, some houses.”

“That oughta be good enough. Pay's every two weeks, minimum wage. That's about all I can afford.”

“That'd be fine.”

Nobody spoke for a while; then Milford said, “I'll leave you two to tell paint stories and get acquainted.” He looked at Wilde. “I might have to work late at the mine. Can you drop Luther off at the house after you're finished with him?”

“Won't be a problem.”

Luther and Wilde watched as Milford returned to the Ford. He glanced back and waved to them as he was lowering himself behind the steering wheel; then he drove away fast, making the car's wide back end dip.

“He sure seems to like his job,” Luther said.

Wilde laughed. “A kinda workaholic. And don't let his frail appearance fool you. He spent time in the military as a ranger, then some years at hard labor in the mine while he was getting his accounting degree. You never want to mix it up with him, Luther.” As if reminded of his interrupted task, he turned on the paint mixer again, then motioned with his head. He and Luther walked outside, where it wasn't so noisy and they could talk.

“We got a job today?” Luther asked, still trying to imagine Milford Sand as a hard ass tough guy. It was just possible.

“Sure do. You good at cutting in?”

“Cutting in?”

“Trimming with a brush.”

“I've done that,” Luther said. He had, a few times. Mostly for Norbert he'd lugged materials, scraped and sanded, or rolled paint onto large surfaces, doing the backbreaking work. Maybe painting where there were wasps or hornets nearby on hot days beneath the eaves of barns or farmhouses.

Wilde looked at him in a way that made Luther think he was taking his measure. “What you have to know, Luther, is I'm no ordinary painter. There are tricks to this trade. I can match colors perfectly, tell people what color schemes will work, tint and layer paint so things show their best, make rooms look larger or smaller, create light and shadow where none really exist. You understand what I'm saying?”

Luther nodded. “You're kinda like an artist.”

Wilde grinned. “Sometimes, Luther…sometimes. What I am all the time is a craftsman. That's why people hire me. That's what I need you to be working toward—craftsmanship. Use your God-given talent and don't abuse it, and it'll take care of you. You believe that?”

“Maybe.”

“An honest answer.” Wilde walked back inside and switched off the mixer, then came back out into the sunlight. “Craftsmanship. You interested?”