Full dark,no stars (39 page)

In early September of 2009, on a hot summer evening, Streeter and Janet rode out to the road that runs along the back end of Derrys airport. No one was doing business on the graveled square outside the Cyclone fence, so he parked his fine blue Pathfinder there and put his arm around his wife, whom he loved more deeply and completely than ever. The sun was going down in a red ball.

He turned to Janet and saw that she was crying. He tilted her chin toward him and solemnly kissed the tears away. That made her smile.

What is it, honey?

I was thinking about the Goodhughs. Ive never known a family to have such a run of bad luck. Bad luck? She laughed. Black luck is more like it.

I havent, either, he said, but it happens all the time. One of the women killed in the Mumbai attacks was pregnant, did you know that? Her two-year-old lived, but the kid was beaten within an inch of his life. And-

She put two fingers to her lips. Hush. No more. Lifes not fair. We know that.

But it is! Streeter spoke earnestly. In the sunset light his face was ruddy and healthy. Just look at me. There was a time when you never thought Id live to see 2009, isnt that true?

Yes, but-

And the marriage, still as strong as an oak door. Or am I wrong?

She shook her head. He wasnt wrong.

Youve started selling freelance pieces to The Derry News, Mays going great guns with the Globe, and our son the geek is a media mogul at twenty-five.

She began to smile again. Streeter was glad. He hated to see her blue.

Life is fair. We all get the same nine-month shake in the box, and then the dice roll. Some people get a run of sevens. Some people, unfortunately, get snake-eyes. Its just how the world is.

She put her arms around him. I love you, sweetie. You always look on the bright side.

Streeter shrugged modestly. The law of averages favors optimists, any banker would tell you that. Things have a way of balancing out in the end.

Venus came into view above the airport, glimmering against the darkening blue.

Wish! Streeter commanded.

Janet laughed and shook her head. What would I wish for? I have everything I want.

Me too, Streeter said, and then, with his eyes fixed firmly on Venus, he wished for more.

1 -

The one thing nobody asked in casual conversation, Darcy thought in the days after she found what she found in the garage, was this: Hows your marriage? They asked how was your weekend and how was your trip to Florida and hows your health and how are the kids; they even asked hows life been treatin you, hon? But nobody asked hows your marriage?

Good, she would have answered the question before that night. Everythings fine.

She had been born Darcellen Madsen (Darcellen, a name only parents besotted with a freshly purchased book of baby names could love), in the year John F. Kennedy was elected President. She was raised in Freeport, Maine, back when it was a town instead of an adjunct to L.L.Bean, Americas first superstore, and half a dozen other oversized retail operations of the sort that are called outlets (as if they were sewer drains rather than shopping locations). She went to Freeport High School, and then to Addison Business School, where she learned secretarial skills. She was hired by Joe Ransome Chevrolet, which by 1984, when she left the company, was the largest car dealership in Portland. She was plain, but with the help of two marginally more sophisticated girlfriends, learned enough makeup skills to make herself pretty on workdays and downright eye-catching on Friday and Saturday nights, when a bunch of them liked to go out for margaritas at The Lighthouse or Mexican Mikes (where there was live music).

In 1982, Joe Ransome hired a Portland accounting firm to help him figure out his tax situation, which had become complicated (The kind of problem you want to have, Darcy overheard him tell one of the senior salesmen). A pair of briefcase-toting men came out, one old and one young. Both wore glasses and conservative suits; both combed their short hair neatly away from their foreheads in a way that made Darcy think of the photographs in her mothers MEMORIES OF 54 senior yearbook, the one with the image of a boy cheerleader holding a megaphone to his mouth stamped on its faux-leather cover.

The younger accountant was Bob Anderson. She got talking with him on their second day at the dealership, and in the course of their conversation, asked him if he had any hobbies. Yes, he said, he was a numismatist.

He started to tell her what that was and she said, I know. My father collects Lady Liberty dimes and buffalo-head nickels. He says theyre his numismatical hobby-horse. Do you have a hobby-horse, Mr. Anderson?

He did: wheat pennies. His greatest hope was to some day come across a 1955 double-date, which was But she knew that, too. The 55 double-date was a mistake. A valuable mistake.

Young Mr. Anderson, he of the thick and carefully combed brown hair, was delighted with this answer. He asked her to call him Bob. Later, during their lunch-which they took on a bench in the sunshine behind the body shop, a tuna on rye for him and a Greek salad in a Tupperware bowl for her-he asked if she would like to go with him on Saturday to a street sale in Castle Rock. He had just rented a new apartment, he said, and was looking for an armchair. Also a TV, if someone was selling a good one at a fair price. A good one at a fair price was a phrase with which she would grow comfortably familiar in the years to come.

He was as plain as she was, just another guy youd pass on the street without noticing, and would never have makeup to make him prettier except that day on the bench, he did. His cheeks flushed when he asked her out, just enough to light him up a little and give him a glow.

No coin collections? she teased.

He smiled, revealing even teeth. Small teeth, nicely cared for, and white. It never occurred to her that the thought of those teeth could make her shudder-why would it?

If I saw a nice set of coins, of course Id look, he said.

Especially wheat pennies? Teasing, but just a little.

Especially those. Would you like to come, Darcy?

She came. And she came on their wedding night, too. Not terribly often after that, but now and then. Often enough to consider herself normal and fulfilled.

In 1986, Bob got a promotion. He also (with Darcys encouragement and help) started up a small mail-order business in collectible American coins. It was successful from the start, and in 1990, he added baseball trading cards and old movie memorabilia. He kept no stock of posters, one-sheets, or window cards, but when people queried him on such items, he could almost always find them. Actually it was Darcy who found them, using her overstuffed Rolodex in those pre-computer days to call collectors all over the country. The business never got big enough to become full-time, and that was all right. Neither of them wanted such a thing. They agreed on that as they did on the house they eventually bought in Pownal, and on the children when it came time to have them. They agreed. When they didnt agree, they compromised. But mostly they agreed. They saw eye-to-eye.

Hows your marriage?

It was good. A good marriage. Donnie was born in 1986-she quit her job to have him, and except for helping with Anderson Coins amp; Collectibles never held another one-and Petra was born in 1988. By then, Bob Andersons thick brown hair was thinning at the crown, and by 2002, the year Darcys Macintosh computer finally swallowed her Rolodex whole, he had a large shiny bald spot back there. He experimented with different ways of combing what was left, which only made the bald spot more conspicuous, in her opinion. And he irritated her by trying two of the magical grow-it-all-back formulas, the kind of stuff sold by shifty-looking hucksters on high cable late at night (Bob Anderson became something of a night owl as he slipped into middle age). He didnt tell her hed done it, but they shared a bedroom and although she wasnt tall enough to see the top shelf of the closet unaided, she sometimes used a stool to put away his Saturday shirts, the tees he wore for puttering in the garden. And there they were: a bottle of liquid in the fall of 2004, a bottle of little green gel capsules a year later. She looked the names up on the Internet, and they werent cheap. Of course magic never is, she remembered thinking.

But, irritated or not, she had held her peace about the magic potions, and also about the used Chevy Suburban he for some reason just had to buy in the same year that gas prices really started to climb. As he had held his, she supposed (as she knew, actually), when she had insisted on good summer camps for the kids, an electric guitar for Donnie (he had played for two years, long enough to get surprisingly good, and then had simply stopped), horse rentals for Petra. A successful marriage was a balancing act-that was a thing everyone knew. A successful marriage was also dependent on a high tolerance for irritation-this was a thing Darcy knew. As the Stevie Winwood song said, you had to roll widdit, baby.

She rolled with it. So did he.

In 2004, Donnie went off to college in Pennsylvania. In 2006, Petra went to Colby, just up the road in Waterville. By then, Darcy Madsen Anderson was forty-six years old. Bob was forty-nine, and still doing Cub Scouts with Stan Morin, a construction contractor who lived half a mile down the road. She thought her balding husband looked rather amusing in the khaki shorts and long brown socks he wore for the monthly Wildlife Hikes, but never said so. His bald spot had become well entrenched; his glasses had become bifocals; his weight had spun up from one-eighty into the two-twenty range. He had become a partner in the accounting firm-Benson and Bacon was now Benson, Bacon amp; Anderson. They had traded the starter home in Pownal for a more expensive one in Yarmouth. Her breasts, formerly small and firm and high (her best feature, shed always thought; shed never wanted to look like a Hooters waitress) were now larger, not so firm, and of course they dropped down when she took off her bra at night-what else could you expect when you were closing in on the half-century mark?-but every so often Bob would still come up behind her and cup them. Every so often there was the pleasant interlude in the upstairs bedroom overlooking their peaceful two-acre patch of land, and if he was a little quick on the draw and often left her unsatisfied, often was not always, and the satisfaction of holding him afterward, feeling his warm mans body as he drowsed away next to her that satisfaction never failed. It was, she supposed, the satisfaction of knowing they were still together when so many others were not; the satisfaction of knowing that as they approached their Silver Anniversary, the course was still steady as she goes.

In 2009, twenty-five years down the road from their I-dos in a small Baptist church that no longer existed (there was now a parking lot where it had stood), Donnie and Petra threw them a surprise party at The Birches on Castle View. There were over fifty guests, champagne (the good stuff), steak tips, a four-tier cake. The honorees danced to Kenny Logginss Footloose, just as they had at their wedding. The guests applauded Bobs breakaway move, one she had forgotten until she saw it again, and its still-airy execution gave her a pang. Well it should have; he had grown a paunch to go with the embarrassing bald spot (embarrassing to him, at least), but he was still extremely light on his feet for an accountant.

But all of that was just history, the stuff of obituaries, and they were still too young to be thinking of those. It ignored the minutiae of marriage, and such ordinary mysteries, she believed (firmly believed), were the stuff that validated the partnership. The time she had eaten bad shrimp and vomited all night long, sitting on the edge of the bed with her sweaty hair clinging to the nape of her neck and tears rolling down her flushed cheeks and Bob sitting beside her, patiently holding the basin and then taking it to the bathroom, where he emptied and rinsed it after each ejection-so the smell of it wouldnt make her even sicker, he said. He had been warming up the car to take her to the Emergency Room at six the next morning when the horrible nausea had finally begun to abate. He had called in sick at B, B hed also canceled a trip to White River so he could sit with her in case the sickness came back.

That kind of thing worked both ways; one years sauce for the goose was next years sauce for the gander. She had sat with him in the waiting room at St. Stephens-back in 94 or 95, this had been-waiting for the biopsy results after he had discovered (in the shower) a suspicious lump in his left armpit. The biopsy had been negative, the diagnosis an infected lymph node. The lump had lingered for another month or so, then went away on its own.

The sight of a crossword book on his knees glimpsed through the half-open bathroom door as he sat on the commode. The smell of cologne on his cheeks, which meant that the Suburban would be gone from the driveway for a day or two and his side of the bed would be empty for a night or two because he had to straighten out someones accounting in New Hampshire or Vermont (B, B amp; A now had clients in all the northern New England states). Sometimes the smell meant a trip to look at someones coin collection at an estate sale, because not all the numismatic buying and selling that went with their side-business could be accomplished by computer, they both understood that. The sight of his old black suitcase, the one he would never give up no matter how much she nagged, in the front hall. His slippers at the end of the bed, one always tucked into the other. The glass of water on his endtable, with the orange vitamin pill next to it, on that months issue of Coin amp; Currency Collecting. How he always said, More room out than there is in after belching and Look out, gas attack! after he farted. His coat on the first hook in the hall. The reflection of his toothbrush in the mirror (he would still be using the same one hed had when they got married, Darcy believed, if she didnt regularly replace it). The way he dabbed his lips with his napkin after every second or third bite of food. The careful arrangement of camping gear (always including an extra compass) before he and Stan set out with yet another bunch of nine-year-olds on the hike up Dead Mans Trail-a dangerous and terrifying trek that took them through the woods behind the Golden Grove Mall and came out at Weinbergs Used Car City. The look of his nails, always short and clean. The taste of Dentyne on his breath when they kissed. These things and ten thousand others comprised the secret history of the marriage.