Between the Darkness and the Light
"Nothing is so strong as gentleness;
nothing so gentle as real strength."
Native American Proverb
PROLOGUE
-Late June—
Allie sat on her couch in a pair of well-worn, softly-faded jeans and a red blouse, feet tucked under her, red flats on the floor. She eyed the man sitting beside her and wondered how she would broach the subject of her new job. He was reading the sports page on his iPad, his cropped blonde hair glinting in the early evening light that filtered through the lace curtains in her living room windows. She took a deep breath and decided to use the direct approach. "I got a job," she stated, but softly, trying to hide the pride and satisfaction she felt accomplishing this small feat on her own, without his help or his knowledge.
"Hmmm?" Stephen replied, distracted.
"I got a job," Allie repeated, "It's just part-time at a preschool in the Old Port."
Stephen looked up at her. "Yeah? You think you're ready for a step like that?"
Maybe this would go better than she'd expected. "I think so," she replied.
He stared at her a moment before saying, "I don't." He toyed with the light brown, almost blonde hair that fell over her shoulder. "Hey," he tilted her chin so she had to look him in the eye, "I don't want you to take on too much too soon."
"It's been over a year," she ventured, "It's time to get my life back on track." She was almost afraid to meet his gaze, but she did. And she could see it there in his eyes already, the beginnings of that change she feared and always tried desperately to prevent.
"What does that mean, 'back on track'?" he asked, air-quoting her phrase.
"I . . . I want to work. I need to be . . . I don't know, useful somehow."
Stephen stiffened. "Useful? What do you think you and I are about? Aren't we 'useful' to each other?" He air-quoted again.
Allie hated when he did that, throwing her words back at her but always with a twist she never intended. She blinked and took a deep breath, trying to prepare herself for what might come next.
"You want me gone, is what you really mean," he fingered a strand of her hair again.
"No, Stephen. I never said that,"
"You didn't have to," he twisted the strand around his finger, tugged gently.
She held her breath, and thought about the first time he'd shoved her. Her back had slammed against the bedroom wall. He'd knocked her into a moment of stopped time. She'd never forgotten the twisted look on his face as she'd slid to the floor. Stephen had stared at her a moment then, as if coming back to himself, fell to his knees, clutched her hands and begged her forgiveness. At the time, she'd assumed it was an anomaly, that she'd angered him so much he'd simply reacted without thinking. Though when she tried, she couldn't remember what she'd said or done to provoke him. But it hadn't been an anomaly. Since then, he'd done more than throw her against a wall.
"You want to get rid of me?" Stephen's voice held a slight whine, like a little boy not getting his way.
"No," Allie whispered, "no." He yanked her hair hard and she couldn't stifle a gasp.
"Does that hurt?" he sneered. A smile that did not reach his blue eyes spread across his face. "Does it hurt as much as getting dumped, do you think?"
"I'm not dumping you, Stephen. I just need—"
"You need? What about what I need? Haven't I made it all about you since your parents died?" He cupped her cheek with his other hand. "Maybe it's my turn."
Allie remained silent, unmoving. The gentle touch on her face became a tight grip around her chin and he pulled her face towards him, as if he would kiss her. Her hands rose instinctively and pressed against his broad chest. "Oh Alice," he murmured, "if you only understood how much I love you."
For as long as they'd known each other, he'd never called her "Allie" even though she preferred it. He'd said "Alice" was such a beautifully old-fashioned name—it made him think of a sweet young thing on the frontier hacking out a life beside the man she loved.
As he moved closer, his breath, laced with the scent of the drink he'd had as soon as he'd come home from work, caressed her cheek. The fingers in her hair entangled themselves deeper and pulled hard. The hand on her chin slapped her face. Allie couldn't keep a whimper from escaping or the tears from slipping out. "Aw, no, Alice, don't cry," he whispered, "you know I hate tears."
Allie sniffed, trying to check the flow, silently praying he wouldn't hurt her but knowing her prayers were futile.
Stephen pulled Allie off the couch by her hair. In her struggles to keep up with him, she stumbled and slammed a knee against the glass-topped coffee table. She yelped. He hauled her back against his muscled, perspiring body.
"Shhh," he breathed, "shhh. No tears. Let me see." He twirled her around by her hair to face him. Gently, he brushed the salty drops with his thumb. "I said, no tears," he repeated. He cupped her cheek then slapped it hard again. He yanked her hair and bent her back into a twisted Tango pose. She lost her footing and clutched his forearm to stay upright. It was a testament to his physical strength that he could support her weight while she floundered below him.
"Listen to me," he said between clenched teeth, then sucked in a deep breath. His voice softened and he pleaded, "I love you, Alice. I'm the only one. I know what's best for you."
She stared up at him, wide-eyed, mute, afraid to say anything else; afraid she'd only anger him further.
"Don't look at me like that. Let go," he said. He released her hair and jerked his arm to free himself from her hold. "I said, let go, Alice" he ground out as one by one, he peeled her fingers off his forearm and yanked it back.
Allie's grip slipped and her head, just above her right eye, slammed against a corner of the coffee table. The air rushed out of her lungs as she toppled to the floor. In a deadly calm part of her mind, she thought, "This is how I'll die. And I was so afraid I'd go like Mom and Dad, in a car accident."
"Get up."
When Allie didn't move except to lift a hand to her bleeding forehead, Stephen grabbed her arms and hauled her to her feet. He gazed at her. "Don't do this to me," he snarled. He shook her like a rag doll. She reached up to touch the cut above her eye again, but Stephen clamped his fingers around her arms and dragged her to the hall. She stumbled along after him, only half aware of what he was doing. The fingers of one hand wrapped around her neck, held her pressed to the wall. He curled his free hand into a fist and struck her stomach, once, twice, three times.
Absurdly, she thought of the lighthouse that stood just outside Portland in Cape Elizabeth. Through the fall and winter, she could see the flashing beacon from the second floor of her home. Once spring arrived and the trees blossomed, her view was obscured. When she was a little girl, almost every Sunday, in any kind of weather, she and her father would take a ride to the lighthouse. They'd walk around it, sometimes climb the stairs within or just find a comfortable spot and sit gazing at it, perched steady and strong on its rocky pedestal, a warning to sailors of treacherous waters. Her father never said much, and neither did she. They'd listen to the bay roar against the rocks, and on misty days, hear the foghorn's cry. Her father used to quiz her on the characteristic of the various lights that dotted the southern coast of Maine. She swore she'd never learn them all. "It's too many, Daddy!" she'd cried.
"As the captain of a ship, you'd have to know the color of each beacon and its pattern. If you were lost in a storm along the coast, navigational equipment not working, that's how you'd know your location," he'd said, a slight burr tingeing his words. Hailing from Scotland, with sailors and military men on his family tree, he'd been a huge fan of old sea tales and the sailors who'd navigated their ships at a time when they relied on their wits and skill to guide them.
They'd reached a compromise and Allie memorized the characteristics up through the tangle of lighthouses around Boothbay Harbor. She'd promised to learn the rest but never had. Maybe now, if she concentrated on those beacons of safety instead of what Stephen was doing to her, she could survive this. And so she began with the southernmost lighthouse in Maine: Whaleback—a white light flashing twice, every ten seconds.
Stephen finally dropped his hand from Allie's neck and stepped back. She fell against him, gasping before tumbling to the floor. Blood pooled by her head, seeped from her mouth.
"Pemaquid Point Light," she thought, "a white light flashing every six seconds." Blackness engulfed her.
CHAPTER 1
-Late August—
Chris' neighbor stood just inside his front door, her eyes wide.
"No problem," he said, "I'll pick her up at four."
"Are you sure you don't mind? I hate to ask you to do this, but I've got to make up the time I missed when she was sick last week."
"No worries. I'll drop her off at your mother's. I don't mind, eh."
Christopher Uncas Tobias ("Fox" to his teammates), Mohican and Inuit by blood, Canadian by birthplace, had been skating and playing hockey since he could walk. His stick-handling skills were slim, his skating ability adequate, his scoring virtually non-existent, but he could deliver a hard right. His strengths were toughness in the corners, a willingness to put his body on the line by "going to the net," and fighting if necessary. "Fearless" was a word often used by his teammates and coaches when describing his style of play, always willing to come to the defense of smaller, more talented players. The chances of his making it to the National Hockey League were gone. At 25, he was basically a career minor-leaguer, but it was a living. His team, the Portland Blades, usually qualified for the playoffs but rarely made it beyond the first round—at least they hadn't in the five years Chris has been playing for them.
"Thank you so much! I'll call the school and tell them you'll be picking up Jessica. Bring ID. They'll ask for it. Talk to Allie Munro. She's Jessica's teacher. Thanks again, Chris!"
The screen door slammed and Natalie ran across the small lawn to her own house. "What about the boys?" Chris called, referring to her twin sons.
Over her shoulder, Natalie yelled, "They're at a friend's. I'll pick them up tonight after work."
Natalie's husband had left her three months ago for a 23 year old woman. At 43, she was just beginning to pull the pieces of her life back together. She'd been working part-time while searching for a full-time job for a couple of months. Chris tried to help her when he could, like today by picking up 3-year old Jessica from preschool. Sometimes he'd play catch with the kids, or show them street hockey moves.
As he watched Natalie dash into her house, he shrugged and turned back into the small rented house he shared with his teammate and best friend, Evan McMurray.
Chris didn't know the details of Natalie's relationship with her husband, but he felt she deserved better. He'd never thought too much about getting married and having kids beyond assuming that someday he'd do both. Natalie's situation, however, made him think about the kind of husband and father he hoped to be. He never wanted to be the type who'd run off with someone half his age. His parents' marriage was good—they had problems, but were always able to work things out. They never fought in front of him or his sister and brother. He remembered, when he was a kid, occasionally hearing their raised voices after he'd gone to bed, but things always seemed OK in the morning.
His father sometimes had a hard time holding down a job. He was a framer and expected the work to be seasonal, but it seemed as if he was out of work more often than the other guys on the construction crews. Too many people believed that North American Indians were lazy, unreliable drunks. Once in a while, Chris' father had come home from work with bruises across his face. "It's no use trying to prove something someone doesn't want to believe," he'd told Chris, "just be who you are. Never forget your heritage, but be who you are."
And who was he? A minor league hockey player with no talent except for his fists. He'd learned to fight at a young age, like his father, defending himself.
Allie sat with Jessica in the play area reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar. As they ticked off the items of food the caterpillar ate—"one piece of chocolate cake . . . one ice cream cone . . ." Allie glanced at her watch. Already this guy was 20 minutes late.
When Allie told her that Chris Tobias would be picking her up, Jessica had gushed that he played hockey and was her very favorite player. Allie remained unimpressed. Stephen's favorite sport, after football, was ice hockey. She thought she'd heard the name "Chris Tobias" usually connected with a fight. Allie decided he was probably some big, obnoxious oaf who didn't know anything beyond his sport: "duh . . . yeah, I play hockey."
As Allie and Jessica reached the end of the story, a deep, resonant voice behind them said, "He sure was a very hungry caterpillar."
Allie stood up and whirled around. "May I help you?"
"Chris!" Jessica screeched and ran to the young man standing just beyond the play area. He bent down and caught her in his arms but did not embrace her.
"Wait a minute, Sweet Jess, I'm all dirty. I got a flat tire on the way over. Look," he said and pulled back to show her the dirt on the front of his loose-fitting, short-sleeved, grey t-shirt. Imprinted across the chest was "property of the Portland Blades/XXL."
Allie had not heard him come in. An alarm went off in her head, and as she watched Chris half hug Jessica, she noticed the bulk of his arms. Her face composed, she asked, "You're Chris Tobias? May I see some ID, please? It's our policy."
He stood up and with two fingers pulled a wallet from his back pocket. He flashed a Canadian driver's license. Allie arched one eyebrow and said, "Well, since Jessica vouches for you, I guess I can accept this."
"Hey, you rate around here, Sweet Jess," he joked. He released a dimpled smile, which Allie ignored.
Trying to maintain a formal air, she said, "If you could, please try to be on time when you pick up Jessica. As you can see," she gestured to the empty room, "everyone else has gone home for the day except our Director." She flicked a hand in the general direction of an office nestled in the back corner.
Chris' smile died on his lips. "I'm sorry," he said, "I really did get a flat on the way over. I was about halfway here. Good thing I have a regular tire and not a doughnut for a spare or I would've been even later." He stopped.
"Yeah, good thing," Allie replied. She had taken a close look at him during his brief monologue. He wore a baseball cap backwards. His black hair was tucked behind his ears; it was long enough to brush his shoulders. His brown eyes reminded Allie of rich, dark mahogany. A scar streaked above his left eyebrow and another cut diagonally across his chin. His skin was a shade of burnt sienna. He was tall and broad; the top of Allie's head barely reached his shoulder. And obviously, he could say more than "Duh—yeah, I play hockey." She noticed a grey smudge, like the ones on his shirt, across one prominent cheekbone.
"Are you Allie Munro?"
"This is Ms. Allie," Jessica said, tugging on Chris' finger. "She's my favorite teacher!"
"She'd be my favorite teacher if I was in preschool, too," he quipped, responding to Jessica but staring at Allie.
Allie turned away before he could see the dread that she was sure had crept into her eyes. He was too charming, she thought. She picked up the book she and Jessica had been reading but could not seem to find its place on the shelf.
"Can I wash up before I take Sweet Jess home?" he asked.
Allie looked up and pointed to her left. "Bathroom's down the hall, on the right" she replied.
Chris nodded then sauntered away with a smooth, easy gate that Allie found rather appealing. She mentally shook herself then turned to Jessica, "Let's go get your things, sweetheart."
"OK." They held hands and went over to a lineup of cubbies painted in primary colors.
When Chris returned, he stood at the threshold of the classroom and watched Ms Allie. She knelt in front of Jessica, keeping up a steady stream of conversation. Her short, dark blonde hair framed her face, emphasizing her large grey eyes. A scar cut through her right eyebrow giving her a slightly worried expression. It looked relatively recent with the pink coloring of new skin. It matched his own scar, though he didn't think his made him look worried—and his was a couple of years old. How had she gotten a cut that would leave such a deep mark? His excuse was hockey. What was hers? She was cute but different than the women he usually dated. Now why had that thought popped into his head? To distract himself, he looked around the room at the construction paper fishes taped to the pale blue walls. An octopus made of purple poster board dangled, eight arms waving, from the ceiling. Sea shells sat on shelves. Picture books with beach themes stood on a table in the center of the room.
As Allie gathered Jessica's things and dropped them into her backpack, Jessica ran up to Chris, grabbed one of his fingers and pulled him towards the wall where the paper fishes hung. "Look, I helped," she burst out and pointed to a yellow fish with "Jessica" printed across it in purple marker. "That's my name!"
Chris squatted, resting on his heels to examine the fish more closely. "It looks great, Sweet Jess."
"Ms Allie wrote my name. Then I hanged it up."
"Isn't yellow your favorite color?"
She nodded. "I can say my ABC's." As she proceeded to sing the alphabet song, Chris never took his eyes from her face.
"That was great! Did Ms. Allie teach you?"
Jessica nodded.
Chris stood up, turned and saw surprise mixed with skepticism on Allie's face. They stared at one another for a moment. "I play hockey," Chris said to break the silence.
Immediately, Allie's expression changed to what Chris thought might be wariness. "Jessica mentioned it."
"Ever watch the games?"
"No." Allie turned away.
The smile fled from Chris's face. That hockey line usually got a woman's attention; this woman didn't seem to give a damn. Was she that pissed because he'd been late or did she just not like him? Or maybe she had a boyfriend. He shook his head, again wondering why his thoughts were running along those lines. Suddenly, he needed to be away from her. "Ready to go, Sweet Jess? I'm sure Ms Allie wants to get home. Thanks for waiting with her," he tossed the words over his shoulder. Before Allie could reply, Chris and Jessica were out the door with Jessica calling, "Bye, Ms. Allie!"
"Bye, Sw . . . Jessica," Allie called back.
Allie wandered around the first floor of her house, straightening things up while singing "Sweet Jane . . ." in her loudest alto voice. She remembered her parents had a Lou Reed CD in their collection and dropped it into their old player.
Christopher Uncas Tobias popped into her head. She wasn't sure why, except that he was not what she had expected. Something about him, something Allie could not pin point, attracted her in a small way. Silly really. The guy probably had women falling all over him. But he had been so attentive to Jessica. She thought about that disarming smile of his, which almost forced one to smile in return. His voice was as deep and dark as his eyes. But she had learned to look beyond the superficial—beyond a pair of devastating eyes or a charming smile or even a promise to protect and take care of her—to what might be buried inside. She had sworn never to allow herself to be hurt—not in mind, nor in body—the way Stephen had hurt her.
Lately, whenever Chris saw Sweet Jess, usually dangling a book in her hand, he thought of Allie. When Jessica would ask Chris to read to her, he usually did, but if he didn't have time, she'd say, "But Ms. Allie always does."
"You like Ms. Allie a lot, don't you?" he asked one day.
"Yeah. She reads to me. But she's sad."
"Why is she sad?"
Jessica shrugged, "I don't know. She just is. Read to me, Chris."
So they sat on the steps in front of Natalie's house and read a story called, Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus. And Chris wondered why Ms. Allie was sad.
Author's Note: I started writing this story way back in the 90s. I let it go for several years and sort of gave up on it. But then I started reading LOTM FF. Made me realize that although the original characters were not based on Uncas and Alice they could have been. Thankfully, my writing has improved over the past 25 years or so! So while I am rewriting much of the original story it's not where I'd like it to be; I think I can do better. So I am asking for reviews/critiques from you wonderful LOTM readers—I think your input will really help me bring this story to where I think it should be.
I also have a song list that used to play in my head when I first started writing this. As you might guess, most of the songs are from the 90s, so I hope you don't mind traveling back in time a bit!
I don't own The Last of the Mohicans movie or any of its characters. I don't own The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle and Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus by Mo Willems—but they are wonderful books to share with children!
Playlist for Prologue and Chapter 1:
"Touch, Peel and Stand" by Days of the New – Stephen's theme (Prologue)
"Thanksgiving" by George Winston – Allie's theme
"Snow on High Ground" by Nightnoise – Chris' theme (especially as the story progresses)