Darkness

trellises twined with wisteria, a little girl was playing. Feeling eyes on her, the child looked up, then trotted across the lawn, coming to a stop a few yards from Kelly. Cocking her head, she stared quizzically at the older girl.

“I bet you’re looking for my brother, aren’t you?” she asked.

Kelly felt herself blushing. “Is your brother Michael Sheffield?”

Jenny nodded. “But he’s not here. He’s at work. My name’s Jenny.”

“My name’s Kelly.”

Jenny’s eyes widened. “Kelly Anderson? My daddy says—” But before she could finish, another voice called out from the house, and a woman stepped out onto the patio.

“Jenny? Where are you? Jenny …” Her words faded away as she saw her daughter, and then she, too, crossed the lawn. “Hello,” Barbara said, smiling at Kelly. “I hope Jenny isn’t bothering you. Sometimes she thinks the pathway belongs to us, too.”

“This is Kelly,” Jenny interrupted. “Michael’s girlfriend!”

“Jenny!” Barbara exclaimed. “She’s not Michael’s girlfriend. She’s just a friend of his, who happens to be a girl.” She smiled with embarrassment at Kelly. “I’m afraid she just blurts things out.”

“I do not!” Jenny protested. Turning back to Kelly, she started talking again. “Last night, Daddy said—”

“That’s enough, Jenny,” Barbara said sharply, and suddenly Kelly realized she had been correct; Michael’s parents had been fighting about her last night. She felt her blush deepen.

“I–I better be going,” she murmured, but Barbara shook her head, pulling Jenny close and clamping her hands firmly over the girl’s mouth.

“No, don’t. I just made some lemonade for Jenny, and there’s plenty for you, too. Come and visit with us for a while, and I promise I won’t let Jenny say anything terrible. Please?” she added, when Kelly still seemed on the verge of hurrying away.

Kelly hesitated. “I–I was just looking for Michael. If he’s not here—”

“Then we can get acquainted without him saying ‘Oh, Mom!’ every two seconds. Now come on. It’s hot and sticky, and I can’t think of anything better to do right now than sit in the shade and sip lemonade.” She looked down at Jenny. “And if I let go of you, you’ll keep your mouth closed, won’t you?” Jenny nodded vigorously, and as Barbara released her, Jenny clamped her own hands over her mouth, giggling happily. “See?” Barbara laughed. “She’s not really awful — she just seems like it when you first meet her.”

Chattering on, sensing that if she stopped talking Kelly might still dart away like a frightened rabbit, Barbara led her to the house, taking her inside while she poured the lemonade, then leading her back to the patio. “There,” she said as she sank into one of the cushioned chairs that sat around a glass-topped table, “isn’t this nice?”

Kelly gazed up at the wisteria that hung in bright blue clumps from the trellis. Around the patio’s edge a border of pink petunias were in full bloom, and the scent of honeysuckle wafted through the air from a vine growing up a wall a few feet away. “The flowers are nice,” she said shyly. “Especially the petunias. I like pink.”

“Is that why you dyed your hair that funny color?” Jenny asked.

Barbara glared exasperatedly at her daughter. “Jenny! You promised not to say things like that.”

“But it’s true!” Jenny wailed. “Her hair is a funny color.”

“You may think it’s a funny color, but that doesn’t mean everyone thinks it is,” Barbara told her daughter. She smiled apologetically at Kelly. “I’m sorry. I guess we’re a little backward around here. Jenny’s never seen hair like yours, except on television.”

Kelly’s eyes clouded. “There’s nothing wrong with my hair. Just because it’s different doesn’t make it bad. Why does everyone have to have the same color hair?”

Barbara held up her arms in an exaggerated gesture of defense. “Hey, wait a minute! I’m on your side! I think you should have your hair any color you want it. Who cares? It’s your hair, and you shouldn’t have to please anyone but yourself!”

Kelly felt her brief flash of angry defensiveness collapse in upon itself and studied Barbara carefully. Did Michael’s mother really not care what her hair looked like? But everyone’s parents cared. “Y-You don’t think it looks weird?” she asked, suddenly uncertain.

Barbara shrugged. “I wouldn’t pick it for myself, but the only question that matters is, do you like it?”

Kelly felt confused. She’d never really thought about whether she liked her hair or not — when all the kids she’d known in Atlanta had started dyeing their hair, she had, too. And none of them had ever talked about whether they liked it. All they’d ever talked about was how mad it seemed to make everyone. The whole idea was to watch the expressions on people’s faces when they walked down the street. “I–I don’t know,” she heard herself saying. “I guess I never really thought about it before.”

Barbara chuckled. “Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? It’s your hair, and you have a right to have it any color you want. And if people say you don’t, ignore them. They’re just plain wrong. Anyway,” Barbara said, fingering a strand of her own honey-blond hair and inspecting it with distaste, “I was thinking of changing mine. Maybe auburn? Don’t you think this color is kind of boring?”

Kelly hesitated. Did this woman really care what she thought? The way she was talking, it seemed as though she did. “Actually,” she finally said, “I like your hair the color it is. I always wished I had hair that color. And auburn wouldn’t be right with your eyes. They’re like mine — sort of blue, but not really, and with auburn hair they’d just sort of die away.”

Barbara sighed. “I guess maybe you’re right.” She tilted her head, eyeing Kelly thoughtfully. “If you like honey blond so much, why don’t we dye your hair?”

Now Kelly gaped openly at Barbara. “Are you kidding?”

Barbara shrugged. “I’ve got plenty of dye, and nothing better to do. Maybe we’ll dye Jenny’s, too. What do you think? Hair party? Just us girls?” She glanced from Kelly to Jenny, and Kelly found herself turning uncertainly to the six-year-old.

“She’s kidding, isn’t she?” she asked.

Jenny shook her head. “Mom’ll do anything.”

Kelly thought it over. Why not? The worst that could happen would be that her mother would be mad at her again, but it seemed like her mother was always mad at her anyway.

And Kelly knew why her mother was mad at her, too. It was because she wasn’t her mother’s real daughter. She was just someone whose real parents hadn’t wanted her or loved her, and had given her away. And the people who had taken her, and called themselves her parents, didn’t love her, either.

Maybe they’d wanted to, at first, but it hadn’t lasted very long. Now she was pretty sure they didn’t really want her at all anymore.

But if she could only find her real mother, everything would be all right.

Indeed, she’d often fantasized about what her real mother would be like.

It would be someone who understood her, and didn’t always find things to criticize about her.

Someone, she suddenly realized, like Barbara Sheffield. “Okay,” she said, grinning. “Let’s do it. Let’s make my hair look just like yours.”

• • •

Tim Kitteridge leaned back in his chair, studying Jonas Cox carefully. If he had to guess, he’d figure the boy’s IQ somewhere around eighty-five. Not real bright, but not quite retarded, either. Jonas, his worn overalls still damp from the time he’d spent lying in the water, was sitting on a straight-backed chair on the other side of the table, his eyes fixed dully on the police chief. They’d been talking for almost an hour now, and Tim was about ready to give up. Jonas had continually insisted he didn’t know anything about what had happened to the man whose body had been brought out of the swamp two nights before.

“Did you like George Coulton, Jonas?” Tim asked now, taking a new tack.

Jonas’s expression remained impassive. “Didn’t hardly know ’im,” he said. “ ’Sides, way I heard it, that were an old man you found in the swamp. George ain’t much older’n me.”

“You just said you hardly knew him,” Kitteridge reminded him.

“I know who he be,” Jonas growled. “Ain’t no reason I shouldn’t. There ain’t that many folk in the swamp.”

Kitteridge decided to take a shot in the dark. “But you and George were some kind of brothers, weren’t you? Amelie Coulton says you’re both the Dark Man’s kids.”

Jonas’s eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a sneer. “Amelie don’t know nothin’! Hell, I don’t hardly even