knew she smiled, too.
“A torch against the darkness?”
“It’s all I can give you. I can’t come back. I can’t fight your battle. I can give you a torch against the dark.”
“A real torch?” he asked. It seemed to him a stupid question, but he could think of nothing else.
She pulled him close and she kissed his cheek. He cried again, but followed this time as she led him through the dark. He walked hunched, aware that the rafters were overhead. Cobwebs brushed and stuck to his face and hair. The ceiling groaned whenever he missed a beam and stepped on the plaster instead, but he wasn’t as heavy as he’d been a year ago.
“Here,” she said.
There, in front of him, a box. He touched it first with his foot, then bent down to pick it up. Cardboard, he judged. A little moldy and damp. Not very heavy, nor big. Just a box.
“This?” he asked.
She kissed him once more on the cheek, then pulled him to his feet. He held the box one-handed, and her delicate hand in his.
The kiss lingered. Washed away some of the doubt and fear.
“You’re going, aren’t you?”
“I have to,” she said. “You know why, don’t you?”
“Because you’re dead?”
“Yes, baby. I’m dead,” she said, and then she was just a voice in his head again. He carefully wended his way back toward the dimming light from the hatch, down the stairs, and took a look at the box.
The quality of the light through the windows was different. Duller.
He’d been in the attic most of the day.
33
It was a box full of shadows.
On the lid was a child’s drawing of a pirate’s treasure chest, complete with doubloons spilling forth. The doubloons had once been yellow, but the color had faded over the many years since this had been a child’s treasure box.
It was hers, and her shadow was in every little thing within the box.
There was a hairclip and a half-stub of a movie ticket. A tattered old doll with a missing eye, three smooth stones, a piece of Lego, a peacock feather folded in half to fit, some other pieces of brick-a-brac he didn’t really understand, a cassette tape (Prince) without the case, and two objects that were heavier than the rest combined, heavy because they were full of memories and memories are big fucking weights that sit on your mind and push down your shoulders.
A sleeve full of negatives, and a diary.
Shadows that weighed more than he’d imagined possible.
34
Pictures and words.
A torch against the night.
He held up the negatives to the window, and, outlined in the dimming springtime sunlight, saw what she’d wanted him to see.
Them.
Keane and Teresa, younger, before the accident that had robbed her of the ability to walk. The two of them laughing, holding hands, pictured with drinks and cigarettes on holidays and in bars. At parties and in the garden, with and without friends.
Negative images of the present. The positive images of the past.
Keane cried a little, looking through those old photos up against the light, backward in tone but perfect in their message.
Then he opened the diary and read until it became too dark to read. Closed the diary and pushed himself up. He hadn’t realized his legs had grown numb while he sat cross-legged looking at the old photographs and reading the diary of a schoolgirl who’d got lost somewhere between here and there.
“I got it, honey,” he said, even though she was silent the whole time.
He closed the door to the house with a soft snick , got in the car, and drove to the supermarket, finally, armed. Loaded.
He came back maybe an hour later, in the full, hard dark, though the orange streetlights still glowed.
He couldn’t feel her, or him—Brother Shadow. But he knew he’d come. He’d come for this.
The perfect shadow, the contrast, the light, the dark.
Keane entered his old house for the last time, armed with a torch against the dark.
VI. To Bind the
“A torch against the darkness?”
“It’s all I can give you. I can’t come back. I can’t fight your battle. I can give you a torch against the dark.”
“A real torch?” he asked. It seemed to him a stupid question, but he could think of nothing else.
She pulled him close and she kissed his cheek. He cried again, but followed this time as she led him through the dark. He walked hunched, aware that the rafters were overhead. Cobwebs brushed and stuck to his face and hair. The ceiling groaned whenever he missed a beam and stepped on the plaster instead, but he wasn’t as heavy as he’d been a year ago.
“Here,” she said.
There, in front of him, a box. He touched it first with his foot, then bent down to pick it up. Cardboard, he judged. A little moldy and damp. Not very heavy, nor big. Just a box.
“This?” he asked.
She kissed him once more on the cheek, then pulled him to his feet. He held the box one-handed, and her delicate hand in his.
The kiss lingered. Washed away some of the doubt and fear.
“You’re going, aren’t you?”
“I have to,” she said. “You know why, don’t you?”
“Because you’re dead?”
“Yes, baby. I’m dead,” she said, and then she was just a voice in his head again. He carefully wended his way back toward the dimming light from the hatch, down the stairs, and took a look at the box.
The quality of the light through the windows was different. Duller.
He’d been in the attic most of the day.
33
It was a box full of shadows.
On the lid was a child’s drawing of a pirate’s treasure chest, complete with doubloons spilling forth. The doubloons had once been yellow, but the color had faded over the many years since this had been a child’s treasure box.
It was hers, and her shadow was in every little thing within the box.
There was a hairclip and a half-stub of a movie ticket. A tattered old doll with a missing eye, three smooth stones, a piece of Lego, a peacock feather folded in half to fit, some other pieces of brick-a-brac he didn’t really understand, a cassette tape (Prince) without the case, and two objects that were heavier than the rest combined, heavy because they were full of memories and memories are big fucking weights that sit on your mind and push down your shoulders.
A sleeve full of negatives, and a diary.
Shadows that weighed more than he’d imagined possible.
34
Pictures and words.
A torch against the night.
He held up the negatives to the window, and, outlined in the dimming springtime sunlight, saw what she’d wanted him to see.
Them.
Keane and Teresa, younger, before the accident that had robbed her of the ability to walk. The two of them laughing, holding hands, pictured with drinks and cigarettes on holidays and in bars. At parties and in the garden, with and without friends.
Negative images of the present. The positive images of the past.
Keane cried a little, looking through those old photos up against the light, backward in tone but perfect in their message.
Then he opened the diary and read until it became too dark to read. Closed the diary and pushed himself up. He hadn’t realized his legs had grown numb while he sat cross-legged looking at the old photographs and reading the diary of a schoolgirl who’d got lost somewhere between here and there.
“I got it, honey,” he said, even though she was silent the whole time.
He closed the door to the house with a soft snick , got in the car, and drove to the supermarket, finally, armed. Loaded.
He came back maybe an hour later, in the full, hard dark, though the orange streetlights still glowed.
He couldn’t feel her, or him—Brother Shadow. But he knew he’d come. He’d come for this.
The perfect shadow, the contrast, the light, the dark.
Keane entered his old house for the last time, armed with a torch against the dark.
VI. To Bind the
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