The Same Dark
Short Fiction
Christmas morning, 1964.
I woke at six and ran to the window. Central Park was covered in snow. Perfect white. Nobody had walked on it yet.
Santa brought me a record player. RCA Victor. Mahogany cabinet with brass fixtures. I touched it seventeen times before breakfast to make sure it was real.
Two albums came with it. Peggy Lee. Doris Day. But I wanted Father’s Sinatra. I took “No One Cares” from his collection. The sleeve was worn soft at the corners. He’d played it so many times.
I put the record on. The scratch and pop. Then Sinatra.
I went to my rocks on the windowsill. I picked up a rock, held it to the light to watch it glitter shooting stars across black slate.
My hands got dirty. Mother says my rock collection is disgusting. Says I’m bringing the park inside. I told her rocks are older than disease. She made her face.
I went to wash my hands. Turned on the water. Hot as it would go. Steam rising.
I looked in the beveled mirror and flicked the light. Off. On. Off. On.
My eye moved. Black circle in my gray eye. Huge in the dark. Small in the light. Like it was breathing. Like a little mouth eating.
Miss Chen taught us about black holes. Said they eat light. Nothing escapes. You’d stretch like taffy. Time would stop. You’d watch the universe end while falling.
I asked if that meant you’d live forever. She said that wasn’t the point of the lesson, Alice.
But it seemed like the only point.
My eye does that. Eats light so pictures can get in. Except Miss Chen also said seeing isn’t real. Just light dying. Darkness consuming brightness. Which means nobody knows what anything actually looks like. We’re all guessing.
I washed my hands. Dried them on the monogrammed towel. A for Alice.
Flicked the light. Off. On. Off. On.
A knock at the door.
Mrs. Helen Aldrich stood in the hallway. Gray and gold brocade dress. Mink collar. She smelled like gin and perfume mixed. Like expensive flowers rotting. She looked like a giant grey cat.
“Your mother is looking for you. You look lovely, darling.”
The red velvet dress itched. The lace collar scratched my throat. The patent leather shoes were too big but I’d begged for them.
“Look at your eyes, Mrs. Aldrich.” I said. “In the mirror. The black circle changes.”
She leaned down. Wobbled. Gin splashed onto her dress. A slow smile grew across her tightened jaw skin. “That’s your pupil, darling.”
“They’re like black holes. They eat the light. That’s how we see. But the pictures aren’t real. Just what our brains think happened after the light died.”
Her pupils were huge. Two black holes looking at my black holes. Four black holes in one hallway eating light together.
“Well honey, eyes are how the picture gets into your head. It’s Christmas! Why are we talking about brains!”
“Come see my room. Come see my rocks.”
Odd child asking me about pupils and black holes on Christmas morning. But more interesting than the other room where Harrison’s discussing his mistress in code and Catherine’s drinking problem is the elephant everyone’s pretending not to see while nursing their own. The problem isn’t that there’s not enough gin. The problem is there’s never enough gin.
I follow her down the hallway, which is an odd choice since her room is connected to her bath. Her bath! Art Deco iridescent purple and black tile in geometric patterns. The kind that changes color when you move. Tiny black octagonal floor tiles. Two sinks. Whole vanity. Jack and Jill bathroom but there’s no Jack. Just this child. Alone with all that glamorous tile.
We pass oil paintings worth more than most people make in a year. Past the credenza. Photos of beautiful dead relatives who lived in European estates. Past ceilings with original crown molding. Plaster acanthus leaves and egg-and-dart. Old money buildings where even the baseboards are eight inches of solid wood.
Her room. Built-in bookshelves floor to fifteen-foot ceiling. First editions lined up like horses at the gates. The record player playing. Sinatra’s voice filling the room with expensive melancholy.
I reach for one of the rocks. Smooth. Cold. Older than anything in this apartment. Older than my money. Older than Manhattan.
“You’ll have to wash your hands after,” Alice says. Already policing the rules they’ve taught her. “My mom says they’re dirty. But I think they’re beautiful.”
I look at the rocks. Then at her. Those black pupils eating the light. Eating everything. This child in her red dress with Italian lace collar. In her too-big patent leather shoes. In her apartment that smells like gin and burning.