Darkness Comprehended Chapter 1 The Seaport food court had emptied—most lunch patrons finished by two. She took her seat a little after three, next to the window looking out at the Brooklyn Bridge as it arched across the East River. The clouds and the accompanying rain hazed the backdrop of Brooklyn’s skyline as well as the short stretch of Manhattan visible from where she sat, blending the stony grays with its overcast sky, jutting the bridge into her view. The Seaport was a mall on water. It had been built on a dock on the East River and was surrounded by old ships converted into museums. Although it had most of the shops considered standard in suburban malls, it was also filled with the kinds of stores most New Yorkers found obnoxious—shops that hoped tourists were suckers for magnets, mugs, key chains, postcards, T-shirts, and 9/11 paraphernalia. She had toured the mall once in an attempt to feel the illusion of power in consumerism—to feel human, to see if anything interested her as much as her past. Nothing ever kept her attention as long. That day, she sat alone. She always did. The cold food court ambience offered little amusement besides its view, and, because of its sterile and tinker-toy decor, it offered her even less privacy. Out of boredom, people stared at her while she ate her soup and scribbled in her notebook. After all, without her there, fellow patrons would only have the rain and the wind and the awareness that they ate cheap food with more grease than substance. But, mostly, they stared at her because she was too intense to ignore—scratching her pen on the lined paper, her fingertips white, her brow furrowed, her lips pinched—her usual lunchtime activity. No emotion—no pride, or satisfaction, or amusement, or hesitation in consideration—only her focused writing. No matter how little attention she granted her spectators, or possibly because of how little attention she paid to those around her, there were a few patrons who visited the Seaport food court everyday at three o’clock to watch her the same way they watched their televisions—unabashedly and with judgment. Everyday, she appeared and provided the same frenzied sight—the endless writing, writing, writing in the same thick blue notebook—nearly filled. No one from the office had invited her to lunch that afternoon. She never accepted when they did. Some of her coworkers were regulars at the Seaport because of her—they’d stare at her like everyone else. Coworkers whispered about whether she really wrote anything or if she just scrawled, but, unlike them, she never paused to consider or admire anything or anyone around her; she just kept writing. Her lips pinched so tightly, as if it took great strain. Her inky eyes darted across the lines and followed the tip of her pen as it swirled. Maybe the on-lookers at the Seaport weren’t so curious because of her intensity, but rather because of her beauty. Only a table away, a man and woman watched her, the man shaking his head. The woman only stared, mesmerized by the unidentifiable words on the distant page. But then the woman smiled, looking on Estelle with a strange compassion. "She really could be something. She really is beautiful." It was an accidental beauty, one she was unaware of, which made it almost impossible for her to deface. Although she tied her golden-strawberry hair to the base of her head in a bun and wore smudged makeup and dark clothes in hopes of obscuring any approachability, she looked more sophisticated than morbid. "Do you think she lives alone?" the woman asked. "Do you think that’s all she has?" "Looks like it," the man said, his voice even, almost bored. "Do you think that’s all she’s ever had?" she asked. The man looked over at the woman and said, "You won’t end up like that." "How do you know?" "Because you have people that want you. She obviously doesn’t." Estelle heard that. And it simply served as a reminder of something that she needed to write: at one time, she could remember, she knew someone who lived to see her smile—he had told her it left him breathless if it caught him off-guard. A glance at her watch and she packed up her things, cinched her coat around herself and again bowed her head against the wind. Those who sat around her watched her go with unblinking stares. The man and the woman seemed relieved as their gazes followed her form until it turned a corner and vanished. * Her desk remained the neatest in the department. Everything had a place. It wasn’t stacked with work or clutter. Her desk was gray, and the upholstery on the walls of her cubicle was gray, and the hardware of her computer was gray along with her phone. Nothing personalized it except her desk light and the screensaver, which displayed the time in shifting colors.
She worked in the Estates Department, where they composed settlement documents for class-action Asbestos suits. The plaintiffs were all dead from lung cancer, asbestosis, mesothelioma, or emphysema and so the settlements were for the next of kin. Most of the plaintiffs had died in their nineties after smoking four packs a day since 1950, and were diagnosed with an asbestos-related illness post-mortem, but they still received settlements from the companies responsible for exposing them—for all their suffering. And her law firm got a third of each settlement. Every document she read throughout the day mentioned death, the cause of it, and what price would compensate it. Every document mentioned a family left behind. Every document confirmed that the deceased lived twice as long, three times as long, as some people. But she proofread them—double-checking their names, addresses, ages, funeral expenses, and the names and addresses of their grieving nephews, twice removed. "Hi," someone said. She turned her chair to see Mark standing at the opening of her cubicle. He was a short, dark, furry guy who only worked at the firm while trying to make it big doing voiceovers. Sometimes he tried to make her laugh by talking in different accents. Sometimes it worked. But he worked hard to make other girls laugh, too. "Hi, Mark," she said, giving him a twitchy smile. She looked down at her desk and sorted through some papers. "Where’d you eat today?" he asked. He talked like he was from Scotland. She had told him that she wouldn’t mind going there someday. He asked her once if she was Irish, because of her hair. She answered that she was Greek. He didn’t know how to do a Greek accent, so he chose Scottish. She made the mistake of smiling once when he spoke to her quoting "Braveheart," and it had remained his fallback for every smile after that. "Seaport," she answered. "As usual," he added. "As usual," she repeated. "What did you write today?" "Nothing much," she answered. "As usual," he added. She smiled again, giving him a sideways glance. "Working late?" he asked. "No, not tonight." "Do you have plans?" he asked. "I do, yes." "With who? Your husband?" "No." "Your fiancé?" "No." "Your boyfriend?" "No." "None of them, huh? Are you mad at them?" She smiled again. "Well, have fun with your plans, Estelle. Maybe we can have lunch tomorrow?" "Probably not," she said. "But thanks, Mark. That was sweet." "Sure," he said, giving her a smile that was just as twitchy as hers. "Have a good night, Estelle, really." "Okay. Thanks. Take care." It was seven. She shut off her computer, turned off her desk light, slung her bag over her shoulder and walked out without bidding farewell to anyone. No one wished her well, either.
Chapter 2 She slouched against the cold, hurrying past the packing vendors on Wall Street until she could take cover down in the subway. Like all the others, she stared down at the black tracks, wondering at the snack bags and soda bottles that nestled in the filth. There were few flies in winter but plenty of rats and even more roaches. None of them had come out that evening. Her eyes wandered over the grimy tile that read "Wall St" and the sign that read "3 Express To Lexington Ave". The train came barreling into the station and squealed to a halt before the doors skidded open and everyone shuffled aboard. She didn’t get a seat that night. People around her pulled out books or iPods or cell phones to connect them to anything except their fellow passengers. Most were just like Estelle: they stared at whatever wouldn’t stare back—someone’s knee, an advertisement, the tag scraped into one of the plastic windows. The train was quite warm, and yet no one had room or trust enough to drop their bags and take off their coats. For fear of filth or robbery, the straps stayed in place and they endured the sweat. It would freeze on their foreheads once they climbed out of the tunnel. The train stopped at Fulton Street. Some people got off. Fewer got on. Estelle didn’t hold on to a bar. She leaned against the doors once they closed, despite what the signs said. The man next to her read the New York Post. Michael Jackson was on the cover again, looking a little less human than usual. When she looked around the car, she saw a few more Posts held by the men in suits who took up the benches. They were all fat. She and the women she stood with were thin, almost frail, but the fat men sat, reading their Posts, trying to change the world by thinking really hard about it and shaking their heads at bad news. The train stopped at Park Place. No one got off. More got on. She kept her balance with a wider stance, unable to get near the door. The men in suits kept their places and kept reading as if they hadn’t noticed the women and elderly men standing. Estelle slid her hand down into her bag, touching her notebook for comfort. She felt the wire spiral, following it around with her finger until it disappeared into the paper it bound. The train stopped at Chambers Street. Some got off. More got on. She held on to her notebook, fingering the wire, staring between the shoulder blades of a man standing near her. He read the Times. Bad things were happening in Iraq. The train stopped at 14th Street. Few got off. More got on. She gripped her notebook, stared at the man’s shoulder blades, and listened to the galloping of the train. The train stopped at 34th Street. The man she stared at sat down and she could then see his face. He wasn’t handsome. She could have sat—there was a narrow space available between two men in dark suits. She ignored it. Both of the men were reading. They were both pretending that no one else was on the train. But then one of them started pretending that Estelle wasn’t beautiful, although he glanced at her every time someone near her moved, hoping that the movement he saw was Estelle approaching him wantonly. He was handsome. He thought really hard about Estelle, but that’s all he did, and that didn’t change that she wasn’t sitting next to him. The train stopped at 42nd Street. Few got on. More got off. A short, middle-aged woman got on the train and squeezed into the seat between the two men, and, the opportunity lost, the one man stopped thinking so hard about Estelle and went back to reading the Post. The train stopped at 72nd Street. She strode off, into the cold, damp station and up onto the streets, where it was colder and wet. Bundles of snow withstood the rain and hunched in the nooks of the buildings, slowly turning into solid chunks of ice as the rain seeped in and froze. Tires hissed on the streets and pedestrians hopped-skipped-jumped their ways around puddles. Estelle walked through them, her boots sealing her feet in dryness. She stopped at a corner bakery and bought a cheesecake and a bottle of cheap scotch. The same corner held the entrance to her destination. She pushed the ringer and they buzzed her in without asking her to identify herself. The narrow staircase was dim and musty but clean. The superintendent swept the stairs as she stepped past him to the third floor. At one time, he had greeted her by name, but stopped abruptly one day. She had never questioned him about it. Apartment 3E. It was unlocked. She entered and locked the door behind her, saying nothing as she stepped into the kitchen and took the cheesecake out of the box. She left the scotch in the bag. A woman sauntered in, staring at the cheesecake and then at Estelle as if she had warped into something that was too ugly to insult. "What’s that for?" the woman asked. "Dad," she answered. But she paused, looking up as if she noticed something in the air. She then walked to the stove to see that her mother had left the gas on without remembering to push the knob and light it. With a sigh, Estelle opened the window and turned on the fan over the stove to air-out the room. She should have been used to it. She should have been in the habit of turning off the gas on the stove upon arrival, but she had fallen out of the habit of truly caring for someone since … a long time ago. The woman pulled the scotch out of the bag. The woman wore a housecoat that zipped up from the floor. One of those with stitching that made it look like a quilt—a solid fabric with swirls of string sewn throughout it to give it texture. It was teal. Her slippers were grungy mauve. She had three foam curlers in one side of her hair while the other side remained flattened from the previous night’s sleep. She’d had her nails recently manicured. "That’s for you. Drink up," Estelle mumbled as she strode past her and into the living room where her father dozed in front of the evening news. She kissed his cheek and crouched next to his chair. "Hello, sweetpea," he said hoarsely. He was hoarse because he was "tired, always tired," as he put it, and always shouting at work over the noise. Nights weren’t as bad—he drove a cab for a few hours and could stay off of his feet. But four hours of sleep a night wasn’t enough for him. "How was your day, Dad?" she asked. "Hard work," he said. "Always hard work." She nodded, expecting that answer. "How long do you have?" "An hour." "I’ll make you dinner." He caught her hand and she knelt beside him again. "Make something for her, too, Estelle. She needs you to take care of her, too." He said that from time to time. He’d sometimes tell her that if she had known her mother back when she was well, she’d work as hard as he did to make it possible for her to get better. But spoiling her wasn’t the way to do it. Estelle knew that. But Estelle’s solutions involved the woman’s suffering through withdrawal and accountability, and her father wouldn’t have her mother’s pain—not if he could prevent it. "She’s sick," he said. "We all have to take care of her. She needs you as much as she needs me. She’s lost as much as we have." Estelle shook her head. "She could do better," she said quietly. He squeezed her hand. "Then I need you to take care of her. I can’t do it all alone." She nodded and left him for the kitchen, where she pulled food from the cupboards to dump into pots or pans for cooking. She worked quickly, knowing that he had little time, trying to ignore the woman who sat at the kitchen table. "I went to the market today. Could hardly pay for the food. Had to put things back. Embarrassing as hell, putting things back. Paid with fifty cents’ worth of pennies, too. Good thing I pick those up every time I see them. Otherwise we’d starve." "C-Town is cheaper than the market. You know that," Estelle said. "Hell of a trip for some groceries! Besides, not much cheaper. An old woman like me hauling groceries for blocks." "You can take the subway and use your cart."
"Use my cart," she mumbled. "All for some groceries. Kill myself for some groceries. I’ll shop at the market, pay with my pennies if I have to. Can’t starve. Can’t starve your dad. Lucky you come over, or he’d never see cheesecake or scotch. Otherwise you’re useless." "The scotch is for you," Estelle reminded her. "He doesn’t drink. Don’t bother giving him any." "I’ll do what I please!" she shouted. "I don’t need a little girl telling me what to do, telling me where to shop, who to give my scotch to. I do what I please." "You sure do," Estelle said. "Don’t back-talk!" she shouted. "I take care of your dad. I took care of this family until you ruined it. Without me, he’d die all alone. I deserve some respect." Estelle said, "You deserve so many things," and continued to make dinner. "You still write in your notebook?" she asked. "That damned waste of time." "You still looking for a job?" Estelle asked. "I don’t need a job. We’re doing fine." Estelle held her breath, clenching her jaw and shaking her head. The woman stayed quiet for a long time. Estelle heard some rustling, but thought it was the paper bag around the Scotch, not her notebook. She couldn’t hear much with the oven fan running and the microwave humming. "If you got a part-time job, it would pay for food and Dad wouldn’t have to work nights." "It’s his job to work. That’s what men do. He knows that. Besides, you think I like your father working all the time? I have no one to talk to. Have to watch those trashy soaps all day. He comes home too tired to please me." "You know, I work to support you, too," Estelle told her, ignoring her last comment. "It would be a lot easier if I didn’t give half my paycheck to you. Do you think it’s right to be supported by me? Maybe you should move to a smaller apartment, maybe in Brooklyn." Under her breath, she added, "Or Australia." "This is what children do—take care of their parents when they get older. Do you think I raised you to be a freeloader? You’re already worthless enough, may as well do some good for your parents." "Drink your scotch," Estelle said. "I like you better when you insult yourself." She loaded up her father’s plate and carried it past the woman and into the living room, placing it on the fold-out table that she moved in front of his chair. He had a half-an-hour to eat. "Let me know when you want your cheesecake," she told him and started back to the kitchen. "You leaving money?" the woman asked, still skimming through the notebook as Estelle cleaned the counters and put the pots in the sink. "Payday’s not until Friday." "You don’t have any?" she asked. "Not for you, no," she answered. "Rent is due tomorrow." "Then maybe you should get a job." "Running a household is a full-time job." "Really?" Estelle said. "I run two. This one and mine. Is there one you run that I’m not aware of?" The woman only blinked at her for a moment. "Don’t talk to me like that!" she shouted. "What’s gotten into you?!" "Dad goes in for his second job in a half an hour, lady. He’s sixty-three years old and half-dead from working so hard so he can buy your booze and fix your nails and put you up. For what? For you to complain about bad television, bad food and no sex?" "Don’t call me ‘lady,’" she said. "I’m your mother." "No, I’m yours. That’s why you had me, remember? And I brought you that bottle so you’d have one less thing to bitch at me about." "You want me to die, don’t you?" she asked. "That’s why you always bring me liquor. Most children don’t want to see their mothers this way." "With you, you’re worse when you’re sober and it was more difficult for you to beat us when you were drunk, so that’s how we’ve always preferred you. It’s an old way of thinking and it’s a hard habit to break." "You spoiled little whore! How dare you! After all I’ve sacrificed!" "Can’t you ever just back off?" she asked. Her voice was quiet. It was always quiet. "Can’t you ever just say ‘thank you’ and let me come and go without any shit?" "You deserve more, Estelle?" she asked. "You’re a twenty-eight year-old widow who works at a law firm as a gopher. Do you think you’re so great? Do you think Connor would be proud of you?" Estelle remained quiet, leaning against the counter and staring at her mother as she droned. "Do you think you made something great out of your life after all he gave up for you?" "You don’t know what you’re talking about," Estelle said. Estelle cut into the cheesecake, putting a piece on a saucer and putting the rest in the refrigerator before leaving the kitchen. Her father hadn’t heard. Estelle hadn’t yelled and that’s all her mother ever did, so nothing was out of the ordinary. Just as Estelle stepped out of the kitchen, the intercom buzzed. She pushed the button and said, "Charlotte?" A woman’s voice rang through the speaker. "That’s me. How long?" "Three minutes," Estelle said, releasing the button and continuing into the living room, where her father sat. He was still unaware of any altercation between Estelle and her mother. At least, he was until her mother came sauntering out of the kitchen. "’Number two-thousand seven-hundred and three,’" her mother said. Estelle froze. Her insides shivered. She caught herself on the arm of her father’s chair when she dropped the saucer of cheesecake and her knees went weak. She watched the cheesecake topple off the plate and splat on the rug. Her mother held the notebook. She held it up so Estelle could see it, so she would not mistake whose it was. "’He liked to pull my hair to get my attention. Little tugs. It never hurt.’" Estelle stumbled toward her. "’Number two-thousand seven-hundred and four,’" she went on. "’He liked to take my shoes off for me. Two-thousand seven-hundred and five: he’d line them up next to his by the closet. Two-thousand seven-hundred and six: sometimes he’d rub my feet-‘" Estelle got to her. Her mother didn’t even cower when Estelle snatched the notebook away from her and closed it, cinching it shut within her fist. "Almost three-thousand, Estelle?" she asked. "Do you think it will bring him back to life if you get a million? Do you think the notebook will turn into him?" Estelle shook, her skin flushing red over every inch of her body. "Remember him, Estelle?" her mother yelled. "Remember all he did, all he was? Dead because of you. He wasted it on you!" Estelle slapped her. She slapped her swift and hard. Twice. One of her assaults ripped a curler loose and it dangled next to her mother’s jaw. Her mother gazed at her, holding her cheek and gasping. Her father got to them faster than Estelle expected and he yanked Estelle around to face him, one of his big fingers in her face. His lips were tight and his eyes remained steady and unblinking. Towering over her, he shook as badly as she did. He kept that finger there, just pointing at her, and his lips trembled like they bound his words inside him. All he said was, "Leave." She stepped back from him, twisting her arm free from his grip. She hurried to the kitchen to gather her things and then walked from the apartment, still clutching the notebook in her fist and stroking it as if consoling it. Once she stood in the elevator, she hugged it to her chest and rested her lips on the top of the wire spiral, pinching her eyes shut. But when the doors closed her in the elevator, she didn’t struggle against it and she cried. She hugged the notebook to her chest, letting her face twist up, and she cried. Her sobs weren’t vocal but they were audible—heaving, hoarse breaths that hiccupped out of her.