Coming Out Of The Dark

Coming Out of the Dark - Part 1
By Laura

Holly turns the corner down one of the narrow aisles in what appears to be a relic from the days of the "Mom and Pop" grocery store. Her gaze is arrested by a man critically examining the tin can in his hand. It is Roger, but a Roger she hardly recognizes. His face looks the same, but his clothes are worn and dirty from hard labor. His jeans are faded to a powder blue with speckles of multi-colored paint and patches of rubbed-in dirt. He wears an old denim shirt equally stained over a heavy turtleneck. His eyes drift further down the shelf in front of him. It is then that he first sees Holly.

Surprise and pain are mirrored in his eyes. He says nothing. Holly, remembering their last confrontation of many months ago, feels all the awkwardness and embarrassment of the situation. Gathering her composure she is the first to speak, but can only muster the usual prosaic greetings.

"Hello, Roger." she pauses. "How are you?"

"Hello Holly. I'm doing well. How are you?"

"Fine." A lengthy silence follows.

"I see you had the baby. How is she?" he asks stiffly.

"She's fine."

"I bet she's got you wrapped around her little finger." He smiles.

"Well, I know mothers love to boast, but in all honesty, I must say she is the most adorable child I've ever known....excepting, of course, Blake."

"How is Chrissy...and Hart?"

"They're fine. They're starting their own investigation business. They've become so close. You'd be proud of them."

Tears well in Roger's eyes and a dull ache settles in his chest. "I'm glad. I always thought Chrissy needed a sister or brother. Now she has both; she has a real family."

"Have you been out at the farm all this time?" Holly shifts to a less painful subject.

"Yes, it's looking livable now. It took awhile but the hard work paid off."

"I'm sure Hart would like to see it sometime."

Holly finds herself curious not only about the changes to the farm, but also this apparent transformation of Roger the one-time cut-throat businessman into Farmer Thorpe.

"Holly....I know I don't have a right to ask, but please don't tell anyone you've seen me. I can't see anyone, especially Chrissy or Hart, right now." Including you, Holly, Roger adds to himself.

Holly eyes the agitation and brittleness in Roger's stance. His hands work the shopping cart handle to release his nervous tension. She notices that chapped skin and hardened blisters have replaced his once perfectly manicured hands. Before her is a fragile man slowly trying to recover his emotional strength. She had been wrong about Roger, the last time she saw him at the farm; she and Blake. Compassion fills her being.

"Don't look at me like that, Holly." Roger says in low anger. "I don't need your pity. Just pretend we never met. That's all I ask."

"Roger..."

"Roger, I can't make out these darned labels without my magnifying glass." An aged, diminutive woman appears in the aisle. She leans heavily on a walking cane. Wrinkles fan from deep set, blue eyes and a firm, crabbed mouth. Everywhere, folds of skin sag. Her prodigious breasts hang low to her waist with the weight of many years. Her form appears to be slowly melting back to the earth from whence it came.

Her quick gaze rests on Holly. The thickness of her spectacles does not dim the fullness of life still beating in her delicate frame, nor the penetrating examination she subjects Holly to. She shifts her gaze enquiringly to Roger.

"Mrs. Monroe, this is Holly Lindsey...Lindsey-Reade. Holly, this is Mrs. Olivia Monroe. She's one of my neighbors," he says politely.

"Nice to meet you Mrs. Monroe."

Holly's curiosity becomes overpowering. What has Roger been doing these past months? Why is he shopping with this old woman? What has happened to him?

"You likewise, my dear." She turns to Roger for assistance. "Can you tell me if these are green beans or broccoli?" she holds the can under question before him.

"Green beans. Mrs. Monroe, did you want Ensure or the generic brand?"

"Generic. Did you get the other items on the list?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. I'll meet you at the counter. I want to go get some hard candy for the kids."

She makes her way slowly but determinedly down the aisle. Holly's attention is drawn back to Roger as he drops several cans of the generic Ensure into the shopping cart.

"Are you going to tell me who she is?" Holly can't restrain her curiosity.

"I told you, she's my neighbor." he states tersely.

Holly stares at him open-mouthed. "Since when do you take little old ladies shopping?"

His jaw hardens. "My life has changed, Holly. I want it to stay this way. It was nice to see you, but I have to go." He begins to move his cart away.

"Roger....." he turns impatiently. "Are you happy?"

He looks at her for several seconds. "I'm alive. Good-bye Holly." He wheels the cart out of her view.

Coming Out of the Dark - Part 2

The soft light from a table lamp encircles the small gathering at the kitchen table in its warm, intimate glow. Conversation is low and friendly; the occasional chuckle rising a little higher above the normal tone of the banter. Two older gentleman, sitting across from one another, smoke industrially on their pipes and stare intently at the cards they have been dealt. Roger and Olivia Monroe, their opponents, have victory within their grasp.

Roger throws a trump down on Mrs. Monroe's ace. "Roger, I've told you, never trump your partner's ace." She eyes him with impatient irritation.

"Oh ye of little faith." Roger responds with a triumphant smile. He follows the play by leading his opponents out of their trumps with his two bowers. His ace, takes the remaining trick.

Mrs. Monroe smiles at her gloating partner. "That's the game, boys." She throws her euchre counters over to Roger.
"How bout another game Ms. Monroe?" one of the white-haired gentlemen proposes.

"No, it's getting late. You boys need to get up early tomorrow and pick up that lumber down at Mac's."

"Then we'll say goodnight," the other man replies. "Goodnight, Roger. You're a quick study at cards."

"I had a proficient instructor." He looks affectionately into the thick lenses that cover his partner's eyes. The two shuffle out arguing amiably over how they should have played the last hand. Jack should have led a different ace. Bob should have trumped the first trick. The remaining retrospection is lost as the boys close the door behind them. A companionable silence fills the tiny room.

"Help me up, Roger." Mrs. Monroe enjoins.

"Do you want to go to bed?"

"No, let's read for awhile." the old lady suggests.

Roger leads her to one of the two rocking chairs facing a roaring fire place. He picks up a novel that by appearances has been much-read over its life-time. The binding is cracked and loose pages peek out of the edges. Roger turns to one of the dog-earred pages and begins to read. Mrs. Monroe rocks gently back and forth to the deep tones of Roger's voice. It is many minutes before she realizes the soothing sounds have ceased.

She looks quizzically over at her friend. He stares sadly into the hot embers. She repeats from memory the last words he has read, "'All the privilege I claim for my own sex (it is not a very enviable one: you need not covet it), is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone!' A heavy burden on the unfortunate bearer." she adds perceptively.

Roger rouses from his reverie. "Sorry, where was I?"

"You were with her."

"Who?" Roger pretends ignorance.

"A Mrs. Holly Lindsey-Reade."

"She's an old friend. We've known each other a long time."

"She's very beautiful."

"Yes...yes, she is." he admits.

"Yes, it is a terrible burden indeed," Mrs. Monroe repeats. "It can break even the stoutest of hearts."

"What can?"

"Loving longest when all hope is gone."

"Mrs. Monroe...." Roger begins to deny her assertion.

"Roger, how long are you going to hide from the world?" she interrupts.

"I'm not hiding, I'm surviving."

"You couldn't survive in your old world?"

"Mrs. Monroe, I'd prefer not to talk about this."

"Roger, you have imposed on my hospitality and friendship. When you came here looking for a job, I took you in. I mended your soul. I gave you back your life. I have even, on occasion, brought back your smile. I haven't asked for explanations because I don't believe in re-opening fresh wounds. But you've had your time to heal; it's time you went back."

"Back to what?" he asks sardonically.

"Back to your friends and family. Back to the life you had."

"What friends? What family? I had none when I left. I destroyed them all."

"How?"

"Mrs. Monroe, I appreciate all the things you have done for me, but I won't tolerate these questions about my past!" His raised voice contains a hint of panic. He gets up and moves restlessly over to the fire.

"Roger, you have to talk about it. You can't bury yourself in some small town for the rest of your life while you have family and friends out there."

"Mrs. Monroe, I've never thought of you as obtuse; I told you, I have no family left. And my friends are here, now."

"Insults won't put me off."

"Ok...you want to know what happened? You want to know the kind of man you've befriended? Well, I'll tell you. Yes, Holly and I are more than friends. We were married once. Then, I raped her."

Mrs. Monroe can't hide her horror.

"Yes, I raped her . It was a long time ago, but no one forgets something like that. We had a daughter who I alienated by trying to ruin her marriage in every way I could think of. I married her husband's spoiled daughter just to cause tension in their marriage. When I found I was running short of money, I tricked my young, gullible wife into giving me her power of attorney. Then, I robbed her blind. I falsely accused her best friend of a crime, to alienate her friends and force her to become more dependent on me. I lost my son's trust, by not trusting him. Holly gave me a second chance, but I blew it in a jealous rage. I've scammed and screwed every reputable businessman in Springfield. No, I have no friends, no family, Mrs. Monroe!"

"Why?" she asks dazedly.

"Why?? Freud couldn't answer that question. Because, no matter how successful I've been, it hasn't been enough. That's why. I've never been satisfied by what I've had. I call it the Citizen Kane Syndrome." He pauses to calm his emotions. "Here, I 've found peace. I am satisfied with my life. I don't want more, I want peace."

"Avoiding messes doesn't clean them up. You've left a lot of messes behind, Roger. It's your responsibility to clean them up."

"Even though it will kill me?" Roger says earnestly.

"You're stronger than that."

He laughs incredulously. "I guess I haven't told you the clincher. I almost committed suicide a couple months ago."

"Why?" she asks, dumbfounded.

"Isn't my earlier confession explanation enough? I'm obsessed, and my worst obsession is Holly. I think I could mend fences with my son and daughter. And I could control my need for power. But I can't control my feelings for Holly. For years we've both tried. I always fail."

"Has she learned to control her feelings for you?"

"Yes. She's moved on." Pain grips his broken heart as her contented face drifts through his mind. "She's happily married .... Loving longest is not enviable, no matter how romantic the poets portray it."

"Then you can learn to temper yours." she says convincingly.

"I can't. I've tried." He turns his back to her as tears run down his pale cheeks.

"You can. I'll teach you."

"I can't. I've tried everything from Zen to several ex-wives. She's always there." He impatiently wipes away the offending wetness, only to have it replaced by a fresh flow.

"I'm not saying you'll forget her. I'm saying you'll learn to live with your love for her, whether she returns it or not."

"Why? I'm happy here. I don't want to go back." Mrs. Monroe represses the urge to smile at his boyish plea.

"It's temporary, Roger. If you don't control it now, sooner or later, it will return, stronger than ever...and there will be nowhere to hide."

Her aged body struggles from the depths of the rocker. Slowly she walks over to the broken figure before her. She reaches up and tenderly cups his face in her hands. "You're not alone anymore, Roger. I'll help you." Wrenching sobs break from him. She puts her arms around his neck and gathers him close. "I'll help you."

Coming Out of the Dark - Part 3

The snow had ebbed from the lawns that surrounded the small farms just outside of Springfield. Mother Nature had ended her reign of terror known as the winter of 1995 with a kinder, gentler overture to Spring. That Sunday in early March of 1996 had dawned warm and promising. Olivia Monroe's 89th birthday celebration would be a bright and festive one.

Several old trucks and station wagons pulled into the long drive that led up to her cozy farm. Roger looked out the screen door at the procession of well-wishers that followed the elderly woman's own vehicle; an elderly woman who had come to mean so much to him. Family and friends would now intrude upon their solitude. He scowled at the invasion. The callers bounded from their vehicles much like the World War II D-day offensive. Instead of guns and ammunition, these invaders bore gifts, casseroles, fried chicken, and apple cobbler. Children scampered in their Sunday best on the lawn, while parents half-heartedly scolded them.

Mrs. Monroe led the onslaught to the door. She smiled as she recognized Roger through the steel mesh. He returned her grin with a weak imitation. She leaned heavily on a sturdy young man of about eleven. His arm gently and almost reverently supported the old lady's sagging weight up the porch stairs. Roger quickly opened the screen and took command of the old woman, leading her proprietarily into the small living room. He looked expectantly at Mrs. Monroe's face as she noticed the big bow placed prominently on the old upright piano in the far corner of the room. Mrs. Monroe turned questioningly towards Roger. With a big grin, he led her over to the bench and sat her down next to him. Removing the bow, he lifted the cover.

In a few moments, the first notes of Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" filled the tiny space. Conversation ceased as Roger's masterful fingers trickled hauntingly over the keys. He turned to her after the last note had drifted into silence. Tears of emotion and gratitude filled her eyes.

"Roger, that was beautiful. When did you fix my old friend?"

"The boys and I have been working for about a month. It just needed a few new parts and a good tuning. Now we can make beautiful music together every night," he added with a cheeky grin.

She put her bony arm around his sturdy frame and gave him a grateful hug. "Let me introduce you to the nneighborhood."

The house seemed to be bursting with curious on-lookers. Roger hid his anger at their intrusion and smoothly accepted their compliments as Mrs. Monroe paraded him around the room.

The party-goers began to return to their own concerns. The picnic tables needed to be set up outside; the food needed to be heated; plates and utensils must be set out. Roger was pressed into picnic table service. Mrs. Monroe managed the food preparation brigade. More people streamed in with gifts and more food, while children now dressed in jeans and sweatshirts romped through the large sugar maples that dotted the generous lawn.

At the sound of a loud gong, children and adults scampered into a long line in front of the buffet tables. Mrs. Monroe was the first to be seated but soon was surrounded by her well-wishers. By the time Roger had filled his plate and got something to drink, there was no room left for him at the head table. Sulking, he sat down away from the crowd under an old oak tree. The festivities continued as a large cake was drawn forward decorated with 89 glowing candles. With the help of her close friends and family, the candles were vanquished. A surly Roger dissappeared inside the house. He wandered over to the old upright and began to play one melancholy tune after another. The tenor of the melodies, however, did not appear to dampen the high spirits of Mrs. Monroe's family and friends. Raucous laughter and happy conversation drifted through the screen door.

Roger arrested his play upon hearing the approach of some tentative steps behind him. He turned to see Mrs. Monroe being escorted by the same eleven year-old boy. "Roger, I don't believe I introduced you to Jeremy. Jeremy is my eldest great-grandson. He was just telling me how much he enjoyed your music. Jeremy is a bit of a pianist himself."

"I'd sure like to be able to play like you one day, Mr. Thorpe." the young boy said reverently.

Roger remained silent. "Why don't you show Roger what you've learned," Mrs. Monroe added helpfully.

The shy boy moved quietly over to the bench. Nervously, he began to play "Für Elise." Here and there, he missed a note or two, but the expression in his technique was faultless. As he finished, Mrs. Monroe bent down to give him a hug of encouragement.

"Your fingering needs work, boy," was the extent of Roger's comments. Mrs. Monroe shot him an angry look.

Jeremy's face turned bright red and he mumbled an excuse as he hurried from the room.

"What is wrong with you today, Roger?" Mrs. Monroe challenged him angrily. "You've been grousing about like King Kong after he lost Faye Raye."

"I'm used to cold champagne and caviar, not a keg of luke-warm beer and Aunt Bee's potato salad." he replied coldly.

Mrs. Monroe studied him long and hard. "You're pouting, Roger. Pouting doesn't become a man of 50."

"I'm not 50."

"I agree. You're acting like a spoiled eight year old. Go home Roger, until you can pick that petulant lower lip of yours off the floor." An irritated Mrs. Monroe turned to leave him.

"Wait....I'm...I'm sorry I spoiled your day Mrs. Monroe." Roger gritted out.

"You're not sorry and you didn't spoil my day." Mrs. Monroe responded with her imperious best. "You spoiled your own day."

"I am truly sorry." he again stated more humbly. "Bring the kid back in here. I'll be more encouraging."

"No. You'll go home now and think about what you just did. Is this the way you treated Mrs. Lindsey-Reade's loved ones?" He recoiled at her question. "I thought so. When you come back tomorrow, you will start atoning for your rudeness of today by giving Jeremy piano lessons. You will be kind and supportive."

"Mrs. Monroe...."

"No, Roger. I told you I'd help you, but I'm damned if I'm going to let you substitute me for Mrs. Reade. Love is not something two people share to the exclusion of all others; that's obsession. Love is something that takes strong root and flourishes, sharing its abundance with others and welcoming sustenance from others. Obsession starves itself by selfishly refusing to give or accept. Now go home. I expect you at 9:00 AM sharp with some words of wisdom for young Jeremy." She turned her back on her stunned friend and joined the joyous celebration outside.

A repentant Roger looked longingly at the merry guests outside. He wanted to join them, to join life. Mrs. Monroe was right. He had been petty. He had ruined his own day by refusing to give and accept. But this would be the last time. He would learn to give. He walked slowly out the back door towards the barren fields of the Jessup farm.

Coming Out of the Dark: Part 4

Holly kicked the flat tire on her small car in frustrated helplessness. It was late afternoon and the sun was beginning to create long shadows across the remote road she found herself marooned on. The wind began to pick up driving dust from the dirt road into her unprotected eyes. She wrenched open the door and slumped sulkily into the driver's seat, hoping some Samaritan would be along soon. Quiet minutes stole by as her patience unraveled. With irritable resolve, Holly opened the door and began to retrace the path her car took earlier that afternoon. She remembered an old farm she had seen from the road. It had only been a few miles back and the walk would do her good.

Between work and feedings she had not had much time to exercise her muscles and they complained strenuously with every angry step she took. After what seemed like hours, the farm house appeared in easy repose several yards up from the rutted road she now traversed. Holly turned down the neat drive that led up to the equally well-kept home. As she neared the front porch, she heard the uncertain notes of an elusive air emanating from a piano hidden somewhere within. The music became louder and more confident as she made her way up the porch steps. She knocked on the front door and waited several seconds. No one appeared. She eyed the interior through the screen door. Worn, comfortable rugs covered equally worn, wooden floor panels. She could make out an old, faded Queen Anne chair at the entrance of what appeared to be the living room. The music issued from that direction.

Holly opened the door and stole in. She made her way quietly down the hall until the entire living room came into view. A fire crackled in the large, primitive fire place. Unmatched chairs of various sizes and shapes surrounded the hearth. The piano stood over in the corner. A young boy played intently at the bench, while a familiar peppered head listened with undivided concentration. Startled by his unexpected presence, Holly waited and watched the pair in silence. The final notes tapered off into restful silence. The boy turned eagerly towards his listener.

Roger smiled and lifted his hand to muss the boy's hair in easy affection. "That was beautiful, Jeremy. The first few parts are still a little stilted, but the ending was poetry."

"Thanks, Mr. Thorpe." the boy answered shyly.

"Now..." Roger began.

"Excuse me..." Holly interrupted him awkwardly.

Two dark-eyed, dark-haired faces turned toward the intruder. Holly met the shock visible in Roger eyes with hurried speech. "My...my car got a flat a few miles down the road and I was wondering if I could use the phone to call for a mechanic."

Roger continued to stare wordlessly at her. The heavy silence was shattered by the cheerful friendliness of Jeremy.

"No need for that ma'am. Mr. Thorpe and I can fix it for you. Right, Mr. Thorpe?" the boy looked up at Roger with undisguised admiration.

"What..." Roger responded distractedly.

"We can help the lady, can't we?" the boy continued.

Roger forced his eyes down to Jeremy's face. "Yes, I can help her. But, as for you, it's about time you got home. I've already let you stay a half an hour later than usual and it's getting dark outside; so scoot young man."

"Aw..do I have to? I'm real good at changin' tires. I help Dad all the time."

Roger shook his head and smiled. "Maybe next time a damsel in distress parks herself at our door you may help, but not today. Now get on home."

"Oh, all right. But, we're still gonna do Chopin tomorrow, right?"

"If you can smooth the roughness out of that last piece, you're on."

"Thanks, Mr. Thorpe. See you tomorrow. Goodbye, ma'am." Jeremy ran off in youthful exuberance, leaving awkward, nervous silence in his wake.

"How are you, Holly?" Roger asked politely.

"Oh just fine, except for a flat, a deadline, and a hungry baby waiting for me." she answered sarcastically.

"We'll fix the flat." Roger smiled. "Although, I thought you supermoms could handle a simple flat."

"That's only if you've got a spare."

"Where's your spare?" Roger quizzed.

"Flat."

"Well, we'll dig up a spare around here somewhere for you and get that tire changed."

"Roger, there's no need." Holly responded hastily. "Just point me to a phone and I'll call AAA."

"Mrs. Monroe would say 'that ain't neighborly.'"

"Who's Mrs. Monroe?"

"The old woman." Holly continued to look at him blankly. "The woman at the store."

"Oh...oh yes. She seemed like a nice woman," she answered lamely. Roger eyed the unusually uncomfortable Holly.

"Well, let's get that tire fixed."

He took her by the arm and led her to the barn out behind the house. He poked and prodded every nook and cranny until a suitable spare was found. "This should do until you get back to Springfield." he mused as he examined the dusty but otherwise sound tire.

"Roger, you really don't have to do this..." Holly began to protest.

"No, I don't, but I am. Let's get goin'. It's getting dark." He walked determinedly past her.

Given little choice, Holly followed behind. The short drive in a battered old pick-up was completed in silence. Business-like, Roger heaved the tire out and bent to the task. Holly watched him closely for some minutes before turning to gaze at the cherry trees that lined the road, just coming into bloom. The breeze had diminished to a gentle whisper and the purple of dusk had muted the harsh cares of the day. Peace enfolded her like a favorite old comforter.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Holly was startled from her hypnotic meanderings by a deep voice close to her ear.

She stepped away from him. "Yes, it is."

Roger noticed her nervous movements and frowned regretfully. "Your car's fixed. I'll let you go."

"No....Roger...." He looked at the conflicting emotions that fluttered in her dark eyes. "What have you been doing with yourself?" she asked primly.

"Getting my life back." he answered succinctly.

"And have you?"

"Yes. Yes, I have. And I'll never lose myself again," he responded with conviction.

Holly examined his expression carefully. Gone were the lines of strain, misery, and loneliness. The face was not joyous, but it was not sad. It was content.

"You look well," she continued, intrigued by this relaxed and happy Roger; a Roger she had never seen before. She had seen the power-hungry Roger, the brutal Roger, the desperate Roger, the obsessed Roger; but never the contented one.

"I am well." he answered, then added with concern, "Look, you'd better get going, Holly. I don't want you to get lost on these isolated roads by yourself. It's still pretty cold at night and I wouldn't like to hear the tale of the pretty, red-haired lady found frozen in her compact, even if it would create some excitement for the locals. My neighborly love doesn't extend that far," he ended with a smile.

"Well, thanks for all your help. I'll bring your tire back," she reluctantly slid into her car.

"No rush. But you're always welcome here, Holly." His eyes caressed her face as if it were still dearest to his heart.

"Goodbye, Roger," she answered hesitantly.

Shifting gears, she slowly pulled away from him. Glancing in her rear view mirror, she watched his long, steady figure fade from sight.