Bomber's Moon

Light and Dark

Light and Dark

Leslie was home in the flat he’d once shared with his love. He was attempting to eat dinner but could only manage to push the food around his plate. He’d had no appetite since Edward’s death. And he was exhausted. Was there any truth to the expression, bone tired? He felt there must be.

He heard a scratching sound and glanced up at Edward sitting across from him. Edward smiled then went back to doodling on a sketchpad. He told Leslie he had to eat to keep up his strength.

“For what?” Leslie said, really meaning for whom. He went back to staring at his plate then moving something green toward something yellow. When he looked up again there was an empty chair and place setting across from him. Leslie couldn’t control the sobs. It was the first he’d cried full out since…when? The funeral, maybe. He flung his arms out in a dramatic gesture and knocked his teacup to the floor—a piece of Caroline’s best china. Leslie heard Edward’s voice. “You need to use it, love, or else it goes to waste.” He bent down and picked up the cup. The handle broke off in his hand. In the end everything turned to s**t!

* * * *

Later, he sat in his pajamas and robe at the small desk in the front room. With the blackouts and drapes drawn and a small lamp providing the only light, Leslie ran his fingers over a large artist’s portfolio; he traced the initials, “E.O.B.” Edward O. Bridger. Leslie never knew what the “O” stood for, and now it was too late to ask. He unzipped the case and pulled out two sketches, one at a time and held them under the lamplight.

The first piece looked like one of Edward’s quick sketches—what he usually called the initial phase of a drawing. It wasn’t one of Edward’s best, but Leslie thought it had promise. The subject was the aftermath of a bombing raid and featured a young boy and a dog searching through the rubble. What were they looking for? Was this the boy’s home? His dog? Leslie wanted to know more. Had Edward spoken to the boy? Had he asked his name? Always the unanswered questions and never answers.

The second sketch was better realized and had more specific detail. Leslie tried to recall Edward’s words. “The final stage is the polishing, Les. I give that one more care.” Yes, this one seemed finished, clear and distinct the way the objects stood out from the background of light and dark shading. The subject was the same as in the first drawing: the aftermath of another bombing raid, a burned out chapel, bodies in the roadway and survivors picking through the debris. Was there a title? He flipped over the sketch and read what Edward had written in light pencil. “Displaced. So many unidentified bodies.”

Exhausted from work and the night’s raid, Leslie switched off the lamp and padded by some inner radar to the bedroom. He slipped beneath the covers and waited for the momentary respite of sleep, fully aware he was living his life in a world of alternating light and darkness and trapped somewhere in between.