Light the Hidden Things (2 page)

“My friend never mentioned knowing anyone here.” Crow started the engine. “Much obliged for the campsite tip. Is there a good place to eat back in town?”

“The Silver Dollar’s got okay pub grub. For a real dinner, try Martha’s.”

“I noticed Martha’s. Sign said home cooking.”

“Used to be. She’s got a cook now. Good as Martha, but no one’s got the guts to say that.”

Crow put the truck in gear as the woman walked away. Backing and filling, he took time to mark more details of the location. Beyond the broken parking sites and toward the lake were fire pits, squatting under leafy shade trees like an archeological find. Further down the slope a few firs towered, giants that knew the seasons of centuries. Rhododendrons grew at their bases. Unkempt and leggy, their vigor was careless splendor.

He watched the woman up the steps of the porch. She strode inside past a lopsided screen door hanging by one hinge. A breeze made it sway, uncertain as a drunken wink. The building itself apparently started life painted green. Then it was blue. The last time anyone bothered to spruce it up, they chose brown. Weathering had peeled off haphazard slabs of all three, giving the walls a mottled appearance that made Crow think of a very dead reptile. A few spots showed the original wood, gray with exposure but still sound, as if the old relic knew disrepair was temporary but pride was forever.

Turning away, Crow pictured a different time. People on the porch laughed, swapped stories, enjoyed. “Must have been special then,” he said toward the uncaring mountains.

Later, at the turnoff to the county campsite, he couldn’t decide to stay there or press on. Major dozed on his end of the bench seat. When the truck slowed he sat up to face Crow.

Crow said, “I know what you're thinking. No way in the world that lady will ever fix up that wreck. You see she’d been crying? A woman like that, crying.” He shook his head. “You hear her laugh?” His words fell to a whisper that had the rasp of dry rope. “Nice. Not as nice as Patricia, though. You never heard her. Not sad underneath, like that lady. Except later, when...” He stopped abruptly.

Fool. She didn’t sound like Patricia. No one ever laughed like her. No one ever will.

He shrugged, twisted neck muscles gone stiff. He ended up looking at Major. His smile for the dog was crooked. “See how people crowd into your life? You have to be on your toes: Keep them out. Even the nice ones.” He made a noise in his chest. Not a laugh, not a snarl - a thing that wanted to be both. “Especially the nice ones.”

Crow drove into the campsite. When he spoke, forced cheer mocked a voice still struggling to pull free of dark reminiscence. “And what’s it mean when you ask someone if they own something and they tell you ‘Somewhat?’ What kind of answer is that?”

Major lay back down and curled in a tight ball.

Crow pressed on. “That’s your problem, you know? You’re a fine listener. Gifted, you might say. Conversation-wise, though, you don’t hold up your end worth doodly. Frankly, if it wasn’t for stodgy, you wouldn’t have any personality at all.”

Major’s wet snuffle had all the earmarks of a rude canine retort.

*          *          *          *          *

It was just coming dusk when Crow came out of the Airstream and settled to the ground facing the lake. The water was a flat black infinity stretching away toward hulking, slowly disappearing mountains. Rough, runneled bark of a fir pressed against his Pendleton wool shirt.

He liked the night. In the past it had been the place of stalking, of being stalked. Fear waited for darkness, ticking off the seconds of the sun, licking its chops. Daylight had fear; no question about that. It was different, though. Night time fear slipped into a man like a knife, slick and chill, turning organs into grease.

Until a man learned to use the night and its fear. A man became darkness. Became fear.

Crow knew this like few others.

The time of such things was gone, dead as the dust of the places where he'd learned. He exulted in their going. He never spoke of his pride in his skills. He tried not to think of those who discovered their skills couldn't match his.

Some things refuse to leave the mind.

Still, for Crow, the night was true sanctuary. As he'd turned it to his benefit in a time of violence, so now he embraced it - and it him - when he needed peace. There was privacy. There was obscurity and, when things were best, invisibility. In the darkness he thought more clearly, sorted through the good and bad, threw out what he didn't want in his head.

Night was when he closed his eyes, making the darkness perfect. Intimate. Solitary. When he talked to Patricia.

She made me think of you. Not because she's alone. I like to think you never thought of yourself as alone. I want to believe you always knew I'd be back.

I'm not going to talk about that. I've said as much about all that as I'm able.

Remember how you always picked on me to tell you about my day when I came home from work? Graveled me at first, you asking about this, about that. Took a while for me to learn you really cared about what I did. Took even longer to learn I really cared what you did while I was gone, too. Even before Joe. When it was just us. You never believed I cared that much. You talked about doing the floors like it was a penalty. Can't really argue. But they were our floors, my Patricia taking care of our home.

I still remember your face when I told you I'd show you the right way to make a bed. Never knew until that moment such a soft-spoken lady could have such a rough side to her tongue. Very strong lesson.

Then you tore me up again next day when I came home with the truffles and flowers. Said I shouldn't ever try to bribe you. I did, though, didn't I? I liked doing it. I don't know why I never said how beautiful you were when I brought home something like that. You always sounded off, real sharp, but I never listened. I just watched what your face said, what your eyes told me. Did you ever know I'd buy one of those silly fancy candy boxes and just grin like a monkey all the way home because I couldn't wait to see how you'd smile and put your hands together under your chin?

No. I never said. I'm sorry, babe.

So many sorries.

There I go again, coloring outside the lines. I said I'd tell you about today.

There's a calamity up the road. I'm camped next to Lake Connelly. Old clown Major's just behind me in the Airstream, out cold. Anyhow, lady's trying to bring back an old store. Smitty told me about it. You remember Gunny Smith? His wife, Millie? Five boys? Yeah, them. The family that invented noise. He's gone. Falujah. Anyhow, he knew the place long ago. Great little store to take care of fishermen, hunters, campers, vacationers. Place is a wreck. She means to make it work again.

Not a chance. A dreamer. I see them all the time. Think hard work and good intentions is all you need.

We believed it, didn't we?

Anyhow, she told me about a place to eat tonight. I'm going. I don't feel much like cooking. Or anything else, truth be told. I don't know...

Aw, why don't I just say it? She made me think of you. I hope you don't mind. I mean, she's not really anything like you - you know that could never be - but you know how things went, there at the end? I never understood how you felt. I remember the things you said, though. You were so good to me. The words were always right. I just never heard the music. I swear I never knew what you were feeling. I'd give my soul to hear you tell me so.

If I still have one.

The thing is, that lady's got the same thing in her voice. I know that sound now.

Well, listen to Mr. Cheer. I don't know what's wrong with me this evening. Seems I can't break free of things you and I really don't want to talk about. Remember how you used to change a subject on me? I do. You ruined a lot of fine rants, woman. First thing I'd know, we were talking about something I never brought up or even thought about.

You still do it, thank God. Like when I sort of stumble and almost forget about who I am and all that. Or when the dreams come. You know you're all I've got to hold onto when that happens.

I really hate to bother you with that, Patricia. After everything else... I'm getting better, though. I am.

Sorry to be so dull tonight. The day wasn't that bad. Just me, missing you. I'll be better by morning, for sure. After I get me some dinner and a good night's sleep.

'Cause you're always there.

There was little difference between high noon and dusk inside the store section of Bake’s Bait. Windows that once admitted grand scenery were blocked by plywood panels that shut out the day as well as the weather. For Lila, scrubbing walls, work lights provided garish illumination that magnified dirt and stains. Fumes from the bucket of cleaner made her eyes smart. For perhaps the hundredth time she promised herself she'd put in new, bigger windows. When she got another loan.

A quick squint at her watch was an unnecessary move. Zasu’s fidgets made it clear it was time to quit and, most important, time to get dinner inside woman’s best friend. Her anxious whine rose like a human question.

With Zasu frisking beside her, Lila stepped through an open door from the store section into the living area. It was still under repair, but the improvement was obvious. For one thing, the western windows were glass. Fading sunshine buttered the opposite beige wall, heightening the sharper colors of the shelved books flanking a dark blue sofa. Between the windows loomed a ponderous fireplace of rounded river rocks. A pair of chocolate-brown leather chairs faced the hearth. The richness of their color and scent coaxed with promise of enfolding comfort, a warm fire, a good read. To that end, each chair had its own table and light.

Lila loved the chairs. She saw them as aging friends, easy in their present, content with their past.

She stopped abruptly. Suddenly she couldn’t face cooking the usual solitary meal. She thought of Martha’s restaurant longingly and, by association, the man who’d driven onto her property earlier. He had calm eyes but she had a feeling they missed nothing. Dismay tightened her throat; he must have noticed she’d been crying. Chagrin conjured up a most unwanted and wildly inappropriate mental image of Edward Lawson. Aloud, she mimicked pomposity. “Banking’s a business. Loans are based on cold, hard facts.” Bitterly, the voice her own, she went on. “Creep. I’ll show him. Everyone.”

Zasu continued to lead into the next room. It was clearly waiting its turn for improvement. Only the chandelier identified a former dining room. Lila’s disapproval swept across the chest of drawers, a truly ugly standing wardrobe, a cot with a sleeping bag, and a small dog bed.

Two doors in the far wall led out, the one on the left to two bedrooms and the bathroom.

The latter had been Lila’s first project. She shuddered, remembering.

The pair proceeded through the second door and into the kitchen. That was another work in progress, but operable, with its own dining nook.

Mixing a bit of canned food with some kibble in Zasu’s dish, Lila continued talking aloud. Defensiveness clanked in the words. “I’ll bet it’s been a month since I went into town except to buy groceries or hardware.
Hardware
. Could there be any greater curse than an actual requirement to go shopping - not an urge, mind, but a genuine requirement - and the goal is
hardware?
” She put the dish on the floor. Zasu practically dove in. Lila addressed the refrigerator. “I’m entitled to some time away. Fixing up this place is a goal, sure, but not the meaning of life.” Seeking affirmation, she told the stove, “I’m taking a bath and putting on something pretty and someone else is cooking tonight.” She looked at Zasu, whose attention remained firmly fixed on her own task at hand. Nevertheless, Lila said, “I’m having a glass of wine, too. Maybe even a couple. How d’you like them apples?”

Zasu finally raised her head. She wagged a fluffy tail and put an indicative paw on her dish. It was a nightly plea which Lila ignored with equal consistency, but this time she missed it entirely. She was on her way to the tub.

An hour later Lila, hair in order but still a bit damp, certainly felt better. Hot water didn’t just make her clean, it freed her of the insidious weariness that sometimes crept into her muscles and morale like a virus. Nice clothes and a dab of makeup didn’t hurt either. Especially for woman whose life had somehow reached a place where it had more to do with driving nails than polishing them.

She wondered if the bright yellow sweater over the dark green blouse might be too much.

She decided she liked it and if the
fashionistas
of Lupine wanted to take offense, the stimulation would do them good. The sweater went well with the brown tweedy skirt and way too expensive shoes and both brought out her own natural color. Anyhow, dinner in Lupine was no occasion for the little black dress and pearls.

There was the practical aspect of the thing, too; a sweater would be a near necessity later. It was only a few days until September and at Lupine’s altitude, winter was already claiming the night.

“I will not freeze because someone thinks I ought to dress fancier. That’s nuts.” In the near-empty space the words had a touch of echo.

She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “I’m rationalizing out loud at unpainted walls. I do impressions of people I don’t like for an audience of one dog. I explain myself to major appliances. Damned right I’m going out.”