A DARKNESS PALE

BIRTHDAY

…Irie and Toula were talking about more loss of electricity and something called death quakes…

Birthday

Irie laid Toula down on their shaky Ikea bed and joined her. Toula was a giver. She channeled all of her nervous energy into pleasuring Irie. She didn’t like to receive. She liked to exhaust herself and to exhaust Irie. It didn’t come close to what Evie had done to her, but it was good. The orgasms Toula gave her were good. They were better than booze or watching TV.

When she was done, Toula always took a short nap. Irie put on her blue suit, shiny with wear, and shuffled into the kitchen to fry some eggs. The power cut out. Irie grabbed a battery powered lantern, pulled it open and the kitchen was frosted with icy green light. It would probably be a good idea to buy some oil lamps. There’d probably be a run on them if batteries were really checking out.

She was eating at their dining room table when Toula rushed in with her coat and backpack, off to one of her gay/hazer/community meetings. “Who’s it tonight?” Irie asked.

“Life Matters, the reginal round up at Footsies.” Toula selected one of the heavier flashlights that could also double as a baton.

“You walking?”

“Yeah.”

“You going to be alright? You want an escort?”

“That’s sweet. This neighborhood’s fine. You eat your dinner. I’m fine.” Toula patted her on the head and split, and almost immediately someone started knocking on the front door. Had Toula forgotten her keys? That never happened. It had to be Toula, or one of her activist friends. No one else came by. Irie retrieved her trusty Berretta anyway and tip toed down the stairs with the lantern dangling from her other hand.

“What’s up?” She called through the door.

“Irie.”

A wheezy and strained voice. An old voice. Irie slowly cracked the door. There was an old man in their courtyard. The gate was open behind him and she didn’t see anyone else. He was tall and hunched in the drizzle. He wore a duster and fedora. From what was visible of his face he looked as uncertain as she did.

“Who are you?” Irie asked.

“I’m Irie Baglavitti’s dad.”

Irie scanned the murk, feeling heat, feeling anger. Why would he say that? Why was he fucking with her?

“Me,” the old guy said.

Her dad was tall like this guy, but he was also extremely fat. Her dad ate donuts for dinner and ate them with butter. Or, at least he had thirty years ago. This guy, with those soulful eyes – could this be him, skinny and withered? If this was her dad why didn’t he recognize her?

Irie felt self-conscious. Her skin was crawling. “What’s your proof?”

“Source Orchard.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“Piglet, she’ll know what that means.”

Piglet was her nickname when she was little. She’d wander around in her diaper and bump into things and they’d call her piglet. Either this was her dad or this was someone close to her dad. Not Muscle. Irie squinted. Oh shit, this was her dad. “Dad? It’s me. This is Irie. Holy shit. I cut my hair. I’m old. You’re fucking old, I mean, what the fuck’s going on?”

He was studying her too.

“C’mon in. I mean, do you want to come in?”

Like all the rest of their building, her living room wasn’t much to celebrate. Irie stood with him, feeling electric. She’d thought about this moment for so long. Now that he was here she wasn’t sure how to proceed. Should she just tell him he was under arrest? Should she try to get information out of him that might help her find Muscle?

“Can I take your coat and hat? Can I get you water, or anything?”

“Water.”

On the kitchen landline she called the police and, keeping her voice low, identified herself and to let them know a known fugitive had entered her house and would need to be picked up. No indication that he would go ratsha. She kept the rest of it vague. She was told fifteen to twenty minutes.

Her dad had settled on the loveseat. The sludge dripping off on his duster was going to be hell to get out of the fabric and the rug. He took the glass of water from her dubiously, like he might have been expecting something else. If you kept someone talking you kept them occupied. Irie said, “Dad, I’m so glad to see you. But, uh how did you find me? What are you doing here?”

He looked up, but not at her. His face crumpled into a laugh, and then it seemed as though a cloud passed over him and he became somber again. “Message.”

“Are you okay? Do you need help?”

“Irie.” He was straining, like he was trying to lift a boulder. “Birthday… Key…”

“What?”

“Source Orchard.”

He put down the water and stood and looked around, like he didn’t know where he was. Was he super high? No, back in the day cannabis made him smooth and cool and all knowing. Nothing like this.

“What? You need to use the bathroom? You hungry? I could make you some eggs.”

 He regarded her kindly. “My daughter. I wasted my life not loving my daughter.”

 “Huh?”

“I was seeking immortality. Selfish. She was seeking love. Love is the destination. Love is the gift and the prize. I devote everything to giving my daughter love. The Source Orchard.”

Irie squeezed her eyes shut. This was supposed to be exciting. It suddenly felt like she was getting pounded in the face.

“Tell her I love her so much. I accept everything coming my way.”

With her eyes still closed, Irie found herself saying, “Dad, what’s coming?”

Very slowly and deliberately, he said, “Darkness. Nothing.”

…Irie rushes into the darkness…