Out of the Darkness

By Dolores Durando

From the author of Beyond The Bougainvillea

Even in the darkest hours he sought the light of love.

That he survived was a miracle. That he found happiness, a victory.

Meet Marty, a young boy born into a brutal family environment where not even a shred of dignity, hope and kindness can take root. Child protective services were a thing of the future in the 1950's, and so there was little help for Marty or others like him. He endured almost unbelievable cruelty, both from his family and at the California institution where the state placed him.

But every dark side has its opposite. Marty is rescued by the love of Joe, an old man who refuses to give up on him. Marty goes to live with Joe's wealthy friend, Benito, who owns a vineyard in the heart of the magical Napa Valley. Benito's large, loving family includes Rosita, a shy girl whose beauty is marred by a cleft palate.

Marty is soon absorbed into a wonderful new life; Rosita gives him unconditional love. His transformation is stunning.

For more than twenty-five years author Dolores Durando worked in the mental health field, primarily as a Licensed Psychiatric Technician. Out of the Darkness is based on events she witnessed during an era when many large mental institutions were no better than prisons run with a brutal lack of enlightenment or compassion.

Today, at 91, she is thankful to see the sweeping reforms in mental health and the positive results of publicity, education and modern technology. In addition to her writing, she is an award-winning sculptor and painter. Her previous title for Bell Bridge Books is Beyond the Bougainvillea, a historical based on the author's experiences working among the diverse men and women who built the great California dams of the early 1900's.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BelleBooks
• Release date: Aug 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781611941890

Dolores Durando

Dolores Durando, born in 1921, is the author of And Yesterday Is Gone, Beyond the Bougainvillea, and Out of the Darkness. She served on mental health advisory boards, both in California and Oregon, retiring at age seventy to write, paint watercolors, and sculpt. She lives independently in a cottage on the doorstep of Grayback Mountain in Williams, Oregon, with her corgi and two cats.

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Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Bell Bridge Books

PO BOX 300921

Memphis, TN 38130

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-189-0

Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-174-6

Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 by Dolores Durando

Beyond the Bougainvillea © 2011 by Dolores Durando

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.

Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.

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Cover design: Debra Dixon

Interior design: Hank Smith

Photo credits: Vineyard, C Ben Goode @ Dreamstime.com

Couple (manipulated) C Goodluz @ Dreamstime.com

:Edo:01:

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my children—who gave of themselves, who worked hands-on to improve the lives of those unfortunates cast off by society who gave the hopeless hope for the future and comfort for the present.

Acknowledgement

My appreciation to my editor, Barbara Holiday, whose expertise I deeply appreciate and whose friendship I treasure.

Chapter 1

SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

I heard the heavy door slam, the one that said Suite 606, then Clara’s ugly voice.

When I get my hands on that damn little retard, he’ll wish he’d never been born. Then Joe’s quick answer, Don’t you rough him up, Clara. You hear?

I wanted to sink to the bottom of wherever that sweet-smelling water came from and never, never come up.

I heard Joe’s voice call. Martin? Martin? Where are you?

In the bathroom, Joe.

There he was, with Clara right behind him. He bent over and put his hands under my arms and lifted me out of that tub just like a baby. I stood there, naked—well almost naked. I had my shoes on.

Put your pants on, Martin.

I tried to pull them up but my wet shoes got tangled in the leg. Joe knelt to help me and said, real quiet-like, Please tell me you’ve got some of that money left, Martin.

Oh, yes, Joe, I told you there was a twenty-dollar bill in the envelope, remember?

He made a face like he was going to cry. You are in deep, deep shit, little buddy. I looked over his shoulder and saw Clara standing by the dresser, the envelope in one hand, the twenty-dollar bill in the other. I knew I was in real trouble.

Why did you bring her, Joe? I thought we could run away together.

He didn’t answer. Then I thought about my car.

Hey, what about my Lincoln?

See Joe, I told you he was crazy, Clara shrieked.

Well, Joe said, how did he get here—walk? I’ll go down and see if I can find it.

Go ahead. Retard and I are going to have a discussion.

Don’t you hurt him, Clara. We can get this straightened out. I’ll be right back.

He started for the door, but then came back. You hear me, Clara?

I was putting on my new shirt when he closed the door. I just stood there, too scared to move. She seemed as big as a mountain. I didn’t even reach her shoulders. Her eyes were black slits in her face; words couldn’t seem to come out of the mouth that just opened and shut.

You little son of a bitch, you’ll wish you’d never been born.

Then her fist hit me so hard, so fast, I never seen it comin’. I just lay there on that cold, wet floor with all that blood smearin’ over my new white shirt. I seen that big shoe comin’ down and I couldn’t move. I heard the bones in my nose crack and felt my lips split, but it didn’t seem to hurt.

Clara grabbed me by the hair and jerked me spraddle-legged to my feet. I just stood swayin’ back and forth, lookin’ up at her, not hearin’ the water pumping in that big tub, only her ugly voice from far, far away.

Don’t bleed on me, you miserable retard.

I didn’t feel her slaps as the blood spattered between us. Then she shoved me backwards. I staggered but didn’t want to fall. I knew she’d kick me again.

My hands covered my ears as this sound in my head—this hurting, unbearable voice—was screamin’ at me louder and louder, tellin’ me to put my head down and ram her in that monstrous belly and make that mouth be quiet.

Her face froze in a look of disbelief the instant before the back of her knees hit the tub and she fell backwards—all three hundred and fifty pounds wedged in water that swirled over her face, splashed down the sides and pooled on the tile floor.

I was wipin’ my bloody nose on my sleeves and shakin’ real bad, lookin’ down.

She’s screamin’, I’m going to kill you when I get out of this tub, retard.

I felt a slow throbbin’ pain growin’ deeper, stronger as it thudded against the back of my eyes and pounded deeper into my brain. I pushed my knuckles hard against my eyes to crowd out the pain.

Maybe you ain’t goin’ to get out of that tub, Clara, the voice whispered so quiet I could hardly hear it. I looked to see who said it, but it was only Clara and me in that big bathroom I looked down at her, a helpless captive of her fat in that big tub. A burning rage crawled over my fear like a live thing—that fear that had owned me for seventeen years. And now, only the gray ashes were left.

Clara was strugglin’ to turn herself. The water washed over her face. She was yellin’ and tryin’ to get out.

I turned the TV up. I knew if she couldn’t get up, she could never hurt me again. Thought I could go live with Joe, he was always good to me.

I was watchin’ the bubbles float all the way to the ceiling. They seemed to be playin’ games as they chased each other around the tub. They turned every which way, and oh, they were so beautiful as the colors shined through them. I could watch forever. My mind, freed from that constant fear, seemed to float and play among them.

Clara was kickin’ around, yellin’ and makin’ such a racket I could hardly hear how pretty the water sounded as it flowed over the sides of that tub. I turned the handles on high, then the water just gushed out. She grabbed me but I twisted her fingers back and she let go mighty quick.

Martin, she said, please, please help me out of here, and her voice sounded so different.

Her fingers were clawin’ at the side of the tub.

Martin? Martin who? I asked. There ain’t no Martin here. Only retard and you, Clara.

I looked right into her face with a big smile.

The hand with the cigarette burns reached out and got a handful of her greasy hair that was floatin’ all around, and pulled her face under the swirly water for awhile. Boy, did she kick then—water went everywhere.

Big purple veins crawled like worms on her thick heavy legs—looked like they wanted to get away from Clara and all that water, too. They kicked as high as they could, but I told them they’d have to kick higher than that. I had to laugh at my own joke. Pretty soon they didn’t kick so much.

Her dress went way up and I saw her baggy old bloomers. Her shoes came off and went whirlin’ all around.

A steady throbbin’ in my head began like a thousand little feet stampin’ out a forever cadence. I got to shakin’ real hard. The edges of the room disappeared and only the movement in the tub mattered. The room blurred, but I could see real plain the little moustache hairs beneath her nose before the hands that fit so perfect over her face pushed it down and held it there. I couldn’t look any place but at the big bubbles that came out of her mouth and floated to the top.

Then the hands pulled her face up for awhile. She coughed and coughed, tried to pull the hands away, but the hands were so strong they pushed her face under again. I couldn’t take my eyes off them; it was like watching TV. I could see her eyes were open and bulging out. Her face was a funny color. The little bubbles at the corners of her mouth were almost gone and she wasn’t kickin’ and splashin’ water all over everything now. She was real quiet. Her eyes were lookin’ up but she didn’t see me lookin’ down. I never knew I hated her before, but now there was nuthin’ left to hate.

I sat down in my big chair in my wet, bloody clothes to wait for Joe. Guess I dozed off because I didn’t hear him come in.

Oh my God, Martin. What happened? Where’s Clara? Joe looked so scared.

In the bathroom.

I closed my eyes and leaned back. I was so terrible tired.

Joe was screamin’, Martin. Martin. Dial the operator. Hurry—tell them there’s been an accident. Northwood Inn, Room 606. Turn the water off—hurry. He was holding her head up and pulling the hair out of her face.

Before I could dial, I had to pull away the long gray hair that somehow got tangled up in my fingers. I looked at it and it seemed exactly the same color as the scum on the slop bucket at home.

Martin, for God’s sake, hurry. Joe was almost cryin’.

Joe was holding her face out of the water as it drained away. His face was almost the same color as hers. I didn’t know he thought so much of her.

Martin, tell me what happened. Hurry up—we don’t have much time.

So I told him she had hurt my face real bad and she said she was going to kill me and how she just kinda stepped back and fell into the water.

Yeah, I think she broke your nose all right. It’s all over your face. That bitch—I told her not to be rough on you.

I didn’t understand Joe. First he was upset because she was dead and now he was callin’ her names.

Martin, he said. He was lookin’ at me real funny. How did you get her in the tub? So I told him just like it was. I said, Honest, Joe, I didn’t do it. Them hands did it. They didn’t hold her under the water long, just ’til she stopped splashin’ that water all over and coughin’. Honest, Joe, I really didn’t do it. I never saw them hands before, although one had cigarette burns on the back, just like mine. Don’t you believe me, Joe?

I believe you, Martin. Now listen to me good. When these other guys come in, you tell them you were with me looking for your car, and when we came back, we found her just like this. Do you understand? Don’t say anything else, Martin. Promise?

Okay, Joe, if you want me to, I promise.

Well, some men came from the fire department. It took three of them, with Joe helpin’, to pull her out. They rolled her on her stomach and pushed real hard on her back for a long time and the water just ran out of her. Finally, one man said she had a real weak pulse and then they breathed their breath into her. She started to move a little.

Thank God, Joe said. I don’t know what God had to do with it—the firemen did all the pushin’.

After awhile, she sat up and started to cry. A fireman said, You sure are one lucky lady. You musta bumped your head when you fell in.

I didn’t fall in, her voice kinda croaked out the words like it was hard for her to talk. She pointed her finger at me. He tried to kill me—he pushed me in and held my head under the water. She had to cough some more but she kept pointin’ her finger at me. Don’t call me lucky. That crazy little retarded bastard tried to drown me. He pushed me into that tub and held my head under. He’s crazy as a loon and needs to be locked up forever.

Joe laughed real easy-like and said, He’s a hundred and twenty pounds and she’s pushing three-fifty—how far do you think he could push her? Anyhow, he’s been down at the garage with me looking for his car. Lucky for her we got back when we did—she’s been drinking all day and she’s unsteady on her feet, to say the least.

The men looked around the room and saw all the bottles, read the lipstick stuff on the cracked mirror that was hangin’ all crooked, and grinned at each other. Musta been some party. They left, shakin’ their heads and laughin’.

Joe, you are one lyin’ son of a bitch. You know damn well what went on here. Don’t you ever show your face at my house again. He’s goin’ straight to the state institute for the crazies.

Yeah, that’s the best place for him. I told you some day you’d push him over the edge. I don’t think you know how damn close you came to buying it today, Clara. Well, whaddaya know. Here’s a bottle of champagne, half full. Our lucky day, little buddy, let’s polish it off. Clara sat in my favorite leather chair wrapped up in that big white robe they found behind the bathroom door. She cussed us both and coughed a lot.

I guess the hotel manager saw the firemen and he came bangin’ at the door. Boy, did he have a fit.

What in hell happened here? He was so mad he couldn’t hardly talk. What’s all this blood? On the carpet? On the wall?

Then he saw me. I guess that answered his questions.

Water everywhere—the carpet is just ruined. We’ll have to repaint the walls. Those were good down pillows.

I faintly remembered somethin’ about a pillow fight.

Then he saw the broke mirror. He stepped closer to read what that girl had written in lipstick: Martin is a cute little devil but he can’t screw. His face got red but he didn’t finish. He just kinda stuttered, Damn degenerates.

Joe and I fell back on that big bed and just howled. We couldn’t stop laughin’.

Don’t think that Lincoln is going anywhere until every last penny is paid—and I can assure you it won’t be cheap. Eight bottles of the best champagne, steak and lobster for four last night, room service. I’ll own that fancy car, he ranted.

Kiss my ass, you cheap bastard, Clara screeched.

"Madam, that would take the rest of my life. You damn drunks get out now