Light the Hidden Things (13 page)

Older memories blinded him.

Too often she was one of a crowd watching us ship out. Masses of loved ones all filled with individual longings and fears and hopes. I searched for her, never saw anyone until I saw her. Never saw anyone else after I found her.

Then there was the morning she stood on the walkway leading up to the house in Vista. It would have looked like an ordinary day, except for the seabag on his shoulder. Crow and the other sergeant in the carpool boarded a helicopter at the base airfield that morning with twenty other Marines on their way to another overseas tour. Six months that time.

Patricia always said that after Joe was born seeing her husband leave was that much harder, but taking care of a miniature Crow kept her too busy to dwell on it. She’d laugh and add that she always knew God would bring Crow back.

There was so much love in her. Was there too much? Was that possible?

Joe, a squalling baby in Patricia’s arms. Then a little boy being brave about being left. Lastly, taller than his mother, arm around her, watching the father leave. No child’s wave from that one. A sloppy salute, but a man’s goodbye.

Full circle; once Patricia’s strength was unbreakable because the son she cradled in her arms needed her. Then came the time when the son was tall and strong; the child's burgeoning strength helping his mother.

On the longest nights Crow wondered if that departure was when his son began to hate him.

I never understood how alone she was. Or how hard he tried.

Perhaps Joe hated himself. The father leaves, the abandoned son feels he has to provide a center for the family. The youngster hasn’t the power or the wisdom to hold off troubles. They become disaster. Things break down. Guilt sets in.

A woman at the end of her emotional endurance is an utter distortion of life. Men survive because they’re determined to not die. Women survive because of a conquering sense of responsibility. In the end, their cause is the stronger. Still, sometimes that incredible interior gives way. When they can’t stand the loneliness or the disappointment or the pain any longer and they break it’s so contradictory that mere awareness of what happened can crush a man.

Maybe he should have told Lila about Patricia.

Probably wouldn't have done any good. If she was dumb enough to put up with Van she was too dumb to appreciate a good role model.

That was far too harsh. She'd have understood Patricia. And vice versa.

A look at the speedometer startled him. He let up on the gas.

Lila should sell; simple as that. Even the people who liked her had reservations. At least one thought she was crazy. Her banker was another bozo.

The whole community was a pretty little poison pill. They weren't bright enough to realize they really needed what Lila was trying to build. Sure, the town had grown far beyond what it used to be. Actually, there wasn't much land left for a developer like Vanderkirk to ruin. Lupine would always be a pocket of people plunked down among the mountains. They ought to capitalize on their quiet country isolation. Interest in the environment was so strong now there was a chance hunting and fishing in the area would actually improve. Hiking, camping, and ordinary vacationing activities were still great, always would be. A tackle shop with a decent inventory would get by. A couple of small cabins and cleaned-up campsites, plus a safe parking area for people who wanted to take off into the back country... She could make a living.

Her big problem would be being alone. She'd have to be able to show people where to go and how to catch fish when they got there. Like Bake. Hard to do that and run a store at the same time. No, the whole idea was impossible. She'd wind up marrying Vanderkirk. He'd obviously scared off any competition and she didn't act like she minded all that much. Mr. Just-Happened-To-Be-In-The-Neighborhood. It wouldn't take long for her to adjust to being wealthy. People always growled about making life changes; most recovered quick enough if a pay raise was involved. Money might not buy happiness, but it did a better job than hunger.

Crow’s thoughts reached out unexpectedly to Martha. There was someone who knew about hard times. A husband who died for no reason. Left her to support herself in what was then a broken-down town with little kids to raise.

He knew men who laughed and joked in worse conditions. Lightning rods, they drained off fear from others. The trouble was that a lot of the fear they absorbed didn't just go away. Humor was their armor, but sometimes the armor let things in - and wouldn't let them back out.

That was probably true of Martha, when she faced up to what life was going to be after her husband died. But with the kids gone she could sell her business, not have to make nice with people all the time. She never would, though. She was like all the rest; find a place and stick, no matter what. Barnacles.

Did she have dreams like I do? Did hers ever stop?

The thought was a body blow. A shudder jerked his torso back against the seat. The foul smell was back. When he tried to flex he found his hands gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles gleamed white, as if the bone would tear through.

His face felt dead, washed in cold sweat.

He turned onto the Interstate practically by instinct. The broad concrete surface took on a sheen that made him think of water. The shoulder was barely wide enough for him to pull over and stop. He yelled, tore free of the wheel, smashed his fists back down on it in fury and frustration.

And it was over. Ordinary concrete reached out ahead of him. Aching hands and tingling forearms were all he had left to assure him the moment ever took place.

Crow eased back into the slow lane.

I beat you. Again.

Checking the rearview mirrors, he was relieved that no one was close enough to notice the action. Major pawed at his shoulder.

It took two tries for Crow to speak past the dryness in his mouth. "It's okay. A cheap thrill, that's all." He flicked a sideways grin at the dog. Major met his gaze, solemn. "Okay, so it was maybe a bit more than that. You saw; I killed it. We've still got the high ground."

Major accepted a rough tousle without any sign of relaxing. Because the traffic was so light and his pace so slow, Crow continued to stroke the dog as they went on.

Crow knew what brought on a second attack so close to the first. It had happened before. He'd let down his guard, let himself get involved. It was how he found Major. If the man who owned the puppy who was now Major hadn't threatened to sic Major's sire on him, everything would have ended peacefully.

Well, maybe not. Probably not. A man who set dogs at each other, killed the losers, killed any that grew too old to fight, who let honest, loyal animals die in a pit because it was good training for the winner - a man like that was bound to get called out sooner or later.

Sometimes Crow worried he might have finished killing the man if others hadn't interfered.

No one to blame but himself, Crow acknowledged. He'd tried to avoid the man. He regretted he hadn't tried to hide his contempt. Everything about the dogfighter recalled the bad feeling that came of seeing good men die - friend and enemy alike. And there was this worthless piece of meat living, making threats. No matter what anyone said, it had nothing to do with the great bugaboo, stress disorder. It was simply justice for the unwarranted fate of all those other men. And the dogs.

Crow remembered the man reaching for the chain release. The redness came in a bright, demanding flash. That once Crow embraced it.

A very good lawyer kept him out of jail. He was sure a prosecuting attorney and a judge who owned dogs hadn't hurt.

He was proud he held everything together after they arrested him. All that lawyer-speak, the hassle to come up with bail money, telling everyone what happened over and over, making sure they didn't take away the rescued pup he'd already named Major - it was rough.

The dreams were a furnace that seared his mind night and day while it was all going on. As the philosopher promised, he grew stronger. Once on the road, he luxuriated in the knowledge that he hadn't lost control for one second - not in the squad car, the emergency room, the jail, the courtroom - never. Not even when the shrink said he had to ask for help because no one should handle PTSD alone.

Like Crow couldn't take care of himself. A man has a few troubles and the talking doctors are right there with a name for it and nothing better to do than poke around in your mind until they "cure" you. So he got through it. And in the end he was really sure of himself for the first time since he'd sobered up.

Now his mind shifted focus to a month before the dogfighter. A freezing, rain-drenched pre-dawn. Standing on a bridge. Way down - the Mississippi. A half-moon, crisp as ice, picked at the black, ready, water. Clean for almost a full year, he still couldn't stop the dreams. He'd stopped writing to Patricia three times a week. Sometimes he missed a week.

There was malice in the silent current. Crow inhaled deeply, mouth-breathing, and tasted escape. And yet he sensed a freedom that meant being nothing. It mocked honest death. The idea pushed him, stumbling, away from the railing. A tide of anger forced out the despair trying to claim him.

Reaching out - getting involved - that's what brought you to bridges and darkness.

Lila said she wanted a listener, someone who’d listen and leave. He played fair. She just played for sympathy. She deserved sympathy, of course. He had to be fair about it. But she was too bright not to know that everything she’d said and done made him remember.

How could she lure him back to that pain, remind him how we destroy those who love us?

That's what she and all the others in Lupine want. They want to embrace you. Smother you.

I know you, Lupine. You know the bare bones of my past and you think you know me, but it's me who knows you.

Those people infect every listener with the weight of their sorrow or disappointment. They tell themselves sharing diminishes the hurt. They water the soup so everybody gets a full bowl. Everybody starves together. They pretend to listen to you so you’ll pretend to listen to them.

The final nail is the Marthas. Loved by all because they see to it there’s no privacy; no hidden mourning, no secret joy. Nothing but fake togetherness.

A proud person keeps pain solitary. Deals with it.

A man whose rage and sorrow make him afraid of himself must always be moving. That’s not running away. It’s continuing to fight in the only way that’s left.

Major sat up and yawned. Crow suddenly realized they were into the farthest reaches of Seattle's eastern suburbs. The transition from forested mountains to built-up area was particularly quick. The lowlands drowned in construction. Streets laced the gentler slopes, homes clinging to them like beads on string. Where the mountains were too steep to bulldoze into domesticity, forest glowered down on its tormentors.

West-bound traffic started building at the first on-ramp. Crow checked his watch, determined to avoid the city streets when they were most crowded. There was no need to catch a specific ferry across the Sound to Bremerton. He had his cds in the pickup and plenty of books in the Airstream.

A little over an hour later he was parked on the ferry terminal dock. Beside him, a bored Major snoozed. A Rascal Flatts cd competed with the urban thunder of cars on the nearby double-deck viaduct and the street fronting the terminal. Gary LeVox sang of love and happiness. The harmonies of Joe Don Rooney and Jay DeMarcus amplified emotion and sound.

Like a fingernail picking at slate, a lone seagull screeched complaint from atop a piling.

Crow wondered what problem a bird might have that would make it so irritable. The day had turned perfect, ferries sharp white and green against a cloudless sky. Far to the west the Olympics flaunted snow shawls. There was enough haze off the blue-gray Sound to provide a touch of mystery.

Ahead of them, the first cars rolled toward the loading ramp. Hastily, Crow joined the procession. As soon as he was parked, Crow locked Major in the cab and walked aft. The powerful engines drummed. Crow leaned against the thrust of the screws sending a boiling turmoil to the surface. When he finally looked back shoreward, a faint movement near the outside tables of a waterfront restaurant caught his eye. He barely made out the standing woman. Her features were a pale blur, but her hair was long and dark. Her right arm was raised high. She waved, an arc as graceful as the wake. She wore a red sweater that laughed back at the sun.

Van nodded in Crow's direction as he maneuvered to leave and said, "There's something seriously wrong with him. I'm going to get rid of Edward, too. You coming?" He was already leaving.

Lila said, "I'll just watch till he's gone." She stretched her arm high and waved.

She wondered if Crow looked back. Ever.

If he does, what does he think about? Is he wishing he could stay here?

Then he was away. A distant man, she thought, always looking for more distance.

As she lowered her arm, she had the strangest feeling that someone was calling her name. The tone was apologetic. As she tried to make sense of it, lightheadedness forced her into eerie detachment.

What happened next was so quick, so total, there was no time to be frightened.